Dixon nodded curtly.
It should have been a victory, but it didn’t feel like one. But whether it was Will’s near-death experience, Dixon’s blood-tinged, conciliatory smile, or being charged with finding the Underworld killer and saving my friends, I wasn’t sure.
Dixon turned to leave; in a moment of confident solidarity, I stopped him.
“May I ask you something?”
Dixon nodded and took a seat at the conference table. I fished the silver bullets from my shoulder bag and laid them in front of him.
“Do you know anything about these?”
For a beat Dixon didn’t make any motion that he had heard me; did nothing to acknowledge the bullets glinting on the table.
“Silver bullets,” he said, sucking air in through his teeth. “Where did you get these?”
“From the wrong end of a gun.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
I shook my head and Dixon picked up one of the bullets, fingering it gingerly. Something in his eyes registered.
“You know something about these bullets?”
“Well, silver bullets are routinely used to kill—”
“No,” I said, feeling the frustration roil through me, “these bullets. These particular bullets. You know where they came from.”
Dixon tapped the bullet on the table, then cut his eyes to me. His smile was icy smooth, the entire visage glacial. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. Lawson.” He stood up and sauntered out of the room; the door slammed behind him with an ominous thud.
I gathered up my things and plodded to my office, where I dumped my papers and a donut box onto my now-naked bookshelf. Finally I lowered myself into my desk chair on a desperate, whooshing sigh.
“Exaggerating a bit?”
Vlad appeared behind my door and pushed it shut with a gentle kick. I clawed at my chest and willed myself not to pee. “My God, Vlad, can’t you announce your presence like a normal person? Or is that against the Vampire Empowerment bylaws?”
He grinned, showing a toothy mouth of fangs and imperfect teenaged teeth, and sat down across from me in my visitor’s chair. “It’s not against the bylaws, but it’s a lot of fun to surprise you. Should I get you a glass of water or something?”
I got my heartbeat—and bladder—under control and glared at him. “And to what do I owe this terrifying intrusion?”
Vlad paused. His tongue darted across his lips, just touching the fanged edge of one tooth. He drummed the fingers of his left hand against his knee. “I was listening to what you said today.”
My ears perked, but I remained wary. “And?”
“And I think you’re right to worry. I think we’re all right to worry.”
I sat up a little straighter. “But nothing has happened to any vampires yet. So far it seems your”—I cleared my throat—“kind is pretty safe.”
“If any demons of the Underworld aren’t safe, then none of us are.”
“So? Do you want to help me investigate?”
Vlad looked over his shoulder at my closed door; a millisecond later I heard the clatter of footsteps down the hall. Once they had passed, he leaned into me. “I can’t do that.” He reached across his chest, one hand sliding under his jacket. My breath hitched.
Is he pulling out a gun? No! This is Vlad! He could kill me in his sleep if he wanted to!
“Are you going to be sick?”
I shook my head. “No, no, sorry.”
Vlad retrieved his hand, and a thin file folder. He slid it across my desk. From the official Underworld Detection Agency crest, I knew it belonged to upper management. From the scrolled writing across the top, I knew that “upper management” was Dixon.
“The UDA keeps tabs on breathers and demons who produce weapons that could be used against our communities.”
“Where did you ... ?” But when I looked up, Vlad was gone, door shutting softly behind him. The trailing scent of his earthy cologne was dissipating slowly.
I slid the file onto my lap and opened it slowly, feeling my pulse speed up. Several pages were clipped together under the heading “werewolf.” The top page was a photograph of a newspaper clipping covered in thick Chinese characters. I didn’t need to read the language to know that the article oozed with rage and invectives; the hashes in the characters were deep and sharp. There was a name and address scrawled in red ink on the bottom of the paper. I was surprised to see that it was local, and was more surprised to see a tiny plastic bag with a silver bullet locked inside, taped to the back of the page.
Once I got home, I was pacing a bald spot in my carpet, rolling the bullet between my fingers when Will let himself in.
“Do you ever knock?” I asked, jitters going all the way up to my scalp.
“How’s that for a Guardian’s welcome?” Will smiled, unfazed, and shook his tea mug. He set the kettle on the stove and motioned to me with his empty mug. “So what’s that about, then?”
“What?”
“The pacing, the brooding”—he straightened—“the bullet.”