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Authors: Lauren M. Roy
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close he had to either press his chin to his chest to stare down at her or back off. “We can do this, if you’ve got a real pressing need to prove something,” she said, letting her voice carry. “But all that’s gonna happen is I’ll knock out some of your teeth, then Katya will pull out the rest and add them to that bracelet of hers.” The
Stregoi
woman wore her enemies’ fangs as jewelry. Elly held up her wrist and shook an imaginary charm bracelet.
Maybe the kid imagined the click of his own teeth amongst Katya’s morbid collection. He gave Elly her space and, with a glare toward his compatriots, beckoned her to follow him down the hallway.
Katya’s lackey didn’t even get to finish announcing Elly properly. From inside the office, Katya snapped, “Send her in,” and the kid got the hell out of the way.
Ivanov’s office was just big enough for himself, his massive desk, and two guest chairs. Both of those were occupied, and Katya had claimed the only empty corner of the desk to perch on. The
Stregoi
leader could have been at home in a boardroom on Wall Street: a young up-and-comer, the sharp angles of his face set for dealing, his dark eyes shrewd and calculating. Katya’s eyes flicked among all of them. Though she sat casually, twirling a lock of chestnut-colored hair around her finger, Elly recognized the tensed muscles of a bodyguard on alert. The fangs adorning her bracelet—taken from the mouths of those she’d defeated—rattled softly.
Elly edged her way into a corner, between a bookshelf and a thin bar cabinet whose contents, she suspected, didn’t actually include liquor.
“Good,” said Ivanov. “We’ve only just started. Theo, would you be so kind?”
Where Ivanov wore one of his signature tailored suits, and Katya an even more upscale version of what the Renfields outside wore, this Theo actually looked like he belonged bellied up to the bar. He had a few days’ growth of beard and dark hair that was about a quarter inch shy of being comically fluffy if he didn’t get it cut soon. His jeans were covered in paint splatters, likewise his tan construction worker’s boots. His Red Sox sweatshirt might have been a crisp navy when he bought it, but the color had faded with years of washing. An equally aged ball cap sat on his knee, removed respectfully in Ivanov’s presence.
Like the older gentleman out front, Theo was one of the rarities—a
Stregoi
not only turned here in the New World, but turned within the last ten years.
And
he’d been raised from the ranks of the bootlickers. Elly wondered what he’d done to be granted such a privilege.
“They say they just want to talk, but they’re up to something,” Theo said. “They asked for a meeting on neutral ground, over at Babe Ruth Park.” Yet another jarring thing about Theo—most of the
Stregoi
, even if they tried to dampen it, held a hint of Russia in their accents. Theo’s was pure Boston:
for
became
fawr
,
Babe Ruth Park
became
Babe Root Pahk
.
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Elly.
“The Irish,” said the woman beside Theo. She didn’t bother turning around to address Elly directly. The most Elly could make out was the pointed tip of her nose past a fall of straight blond hair. “They’re
organizing
.” The way she’d said it, the Irish might have been walking around pantsless.
“Against you?” Elly noticed the fleeting frown that turned down Katya’s already pouty lips at her choice of
you
. It might have made Ivanov and Katya happy if she amended it to
us
, but the minions’ earlier demonstration had made it quite clear she wasn’t part of the club yet. Elly wasn’t going to pretend.
The blonde still didn’t turn around. “Because they want what we have. They’ve made a passel of greenlings, and they think that makes them deserving. Proles,” she said, the word dripping with contempt.
A shadow flickered across Ivanov’s handsome features, there and gone so fast Elly wondered if she’d imagined
Stregoi
woman wore her enemies’ fangs as jewelry. Elly held up her wrist and shook an imaginary charm bracelet.
Maybe the kid imagined the click of his own teeth amongst Katya’s morbid collection. He gave Elly her space and, with a glare toward his compatriots, beckoned her to follow him down the hallway.
Katya’s lackey didn’t even get to finish announcing Elly properly. From inside the office, Katya snapped, “Send her in,” and the kid got the hell out of the way.
Ivanov’s office was just big enough for himself, his massive desk, and two guest chairs. Both of those were occupied, and Katya had claimed the only empty corner of the desk to perch on. The
Stregoi
leader could have been at home in a boardroom on Wall Street: a young up-and-comer, the sharp angles of his face set for dealing, his dark eyes shrewd and calculating. Katya’s eyes flicked among all of them. Though she sat casually, twirling a lock of chestnut-colored hair around her finger, Elly recognized the tensed muscles of a bodyguard on alert. The fangs adorning her bracelet—taken from the mouths of those she’d defeated—rattled softly.
Elly edged her way into a corner, between a bookshelf and a thin bar cabinet whose contents, she suspected, didn’t actually include liquor.
“Good,” said Ivanov. “We’ve only just started. Theo, would you be so kind?”
Where Ivanov wore one of his signature tailored suits, and Katya an even more upscale version of what the Renfields outside wore, this Theo actually looked like he belonged bellied up to the bar. He had a few days’ growth of beard and dark hair that was about a quarter inch shy of being comically fluffy if he didn’t get it cut soon. His jeans were covered in paint splatters, likewise his tan construction worker’s boots. His Red Sox sweatshirt might have been a crisp navy when he bought it, but the color had faded with years of washing. An equally aged ball cap sat on his knee, removed respectfully in Ivanov’s presence.
Like the older gentleman out front, Theo was one of the rarities—a
Stregoi
not only turned here in the New World, but turned within the last ten years.
And
he’d been raised from the ranks of the bootlickers. Elly wondered what he’d done to be granted such a privilege.
“They say they just want to talk, but they’re up to something,” Theo said. “They asked for a meeting on neutral ground, over at Babe Ruth Park.” Yet another jarring thing about Theo—most of the
Stregoi
, even if they tried to dampen it, held a hint of Russia in their accents. Theo’s was pure Boston:
for
became
fawr
,
Babe Ruth Park
became
Babe Root Pahk
.
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Elly.
“The Irish,” said the woman beside Theo. She didn’t bother turning around to address Elly directly. The most Elly could make out was the pointed tip of her nose past a fall of straight blond hair. “They’re
organizing
.” The way she’d said it, the Irish might have been walking around pantsless.
“Against you?” Elly noticed the fleeting frown that turned down Katya’s already pouty lips at her choice of
you
. It might have made Ivanov and Katya happy if she amended it to
us
, but the minions’ earlier demonstration had made it quite clear she wasn’t part of the club yet. Elly wasn’t going to pretend.
The blonde still didn’t turn around. “Because they want what we have. They’ve made a passel of greenlings, and they think that makes them deserving. Proles,” she said, the word dripping with contempt.
A shadow flickered across Ivanov’s handsome features, there and gone so fast Elly wondered if she’d imagined
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