Page 5 of Grim’s Delight (The New Protectorate Syndicate #1)

TWO

It was in her best interest to tune out everything the important guests said. If it wasn’t a drink order, a request for directions to the bathroom, or a shitty compliment that might result in a fat tip, Dahlia let it wash over her in waves.

Anything she learned about the vampire underworld, crime, and politics was strictly involuntary.

She’d never admit that she knew the Vance brothers had been dealing in unlisted firearms or that over half the regulars were smugglers, mercenaries, or money launderers — each of them a gristle in the meat grinder known as the vampiric syndicate.

It was important to rinse all that from her brain, or at least appear to have done so, just like she’d been doing since she was a little girl listening to her mother’s friends talk about stealing cars and scamming casinos.

She’d perfected the art of the serene, subdued server.

Her eyes stayed down and her expression neutral no matter what was said or done around her.

Mostly no one noticed her beyond the passing hungry glance, and the really bad guys weren’t stupid enough to talk about the top tier confidential stuff in front of waitstaff.

Usually.

There’d been one extremely notable exception, but she tried not to think about that night from three years ago too hard.

Unease tightened that knot in her gut again. Not because she vividly recalled the body bag on the floor and the stench of sour blood that rose from its parted zipper, but for a far more foolish reason. The itch to check her phone made her gloved fingers curl around the edge of her tray.

What’s he doing tonight?

Trying to focus without appearing like she was listening, Dahlia locked her gaze on the back of Devon’s head.

A warm breeze ruffled his hair. He was several cups of alcoholic synthblood deep and it showed.

He kept trying to make toasts every few minutes, despite the fact that no one else around the table seemed to be in a particularly celebratory mood.

If anything, the atmosphere in the luxurious rooftop lounge was all business.

There were three distinct groups of vampires spread out across the roof. One was headed by a stern-looking old man she’d heard called Mr. Bowan. The other was the security — Devon’s goons and the much more professional-looking people who came with Mr. Bowan.

And of course, there was Devon.

They were waiting on someone, and with every passing minute, Mr. Bowan’s severe expression got darker while Devon got drunker.

She’d been ordered to stand behind Devon and be his personal server. Whenever he snapped his fingers, she ran to get him a new bottle of expensive synth. He always offered one to Mr. Bowan, but the old man hadn’t touched the elegant glass bottle she’d served him when he came in.

“…so many opportunities here,” Devon crowed, waving his bottle in the air. Every once in a while, between his sales pitches and his gulps of synth, he’d absently reach back as if he expected her to be there, ready to be grabbed, but she was always just half a step out of his reach.

Vampires were handsy with their companions.

They liked to keep them as close as possible — preferably in their laps — and Devon was drunk enough to no longer care how many bottles she could sell if she reeked of him.

It wasn’t unusual for him, but every time it happened, she had to remind herself that it wasn’t right to sentence a man to death. Even if he was a gross prick.

“The elves don’t look down from their towers. There’s nothing but money to be made out here if you— if you have the right…” Devon reached back mindlessly again, pawing the air like an animal. “…connections.”

Dahlia tried to hide her grimace, but she suspected she failed when she accidentally caught Mr. Bowan’s eye.

The old man was handsome in a sharp, old money kind of way. His skin was a deep gold, his silver hair artfully styled around his ears and nape. He wore a pinstripe suit that probably cost more than every penny she’d ever earned.

And he looked completely fed up.

“Girl,” he snapped, striking the floor with his cane, “come here.”

Happy to have an excuse to no longer be in Devon’s range, she stood beside his chair and asked, “Can I get you something, sir?”

“No. Stay there,” he grunted. He pulled out a cigar from a silver case that was also probably worth more than her entire life. Clipping the end with his claws, he muttered, “I just couldn’t watch that whelp grab at you any longer. If my anchor were here, he’d tell me to shoot him.”

Dahlia had to work very hard to keep her expression neutral. Devon was busy with his drink, but she could never be too careful. Only the gods knew what he’d do if he thought she was gossiping about him. Or worse: laughing at his expense.

Mustering a perfectly inoffensive compliment, she replied, “Your anchor sounds very interesting, sir.”

Mr. Bowan shot her a look from under his heavy brows as one of his men leaned over to light his cigar. She was pretty sure it was an insult that he didn’t offer one to Devon, his host, but the man was too drunk to pick up on it.

Blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke, he said, “Interesting is a word for it. Pain in my ass is what I’d call it.” He leaned back in his chair. “What’s your name?”

“Dahlia, sir.”

“Like the flower?”

“Yes,” she replied, surprised.

“Don’t look so shocked.” He didn’t smile, exactly, but something in his hard eyes softened. “My anchor keeps fresh flowers in our house. He says it makes it feel less like a tomb. Dahlias—” Mr. Bowan tipped his head in her direction. “—are his favorites.”

She had no idea why he was talking to her. Most of the VIPs ignored the servers or treated them like meat. Mr. Bowan wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but he spoke to her like she was a person, which was more than she could say for Devon.

Casting a cautious glance at her boss, who seemed to only just realize that his guest wasn’t paying any attention to him, she asked, “Have you been to the flower market here, sir?”

Mr. Bowan took a long draw from his cigar before he shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“If your anchor likes flowers so much, I’d recommend it. There’s a morning and night market. It’s where all the florists in the city get their flowers every day and it’s just stunning to walk through. Your anchor might have fun?—”

Devon’s grating voice rose above the music piped in through the speakers hidden in the awning. “Dahlia, unless you’re offering Mr. Bowan a drink, shut the fuck up.”

Her jaw clenched. Anger was a tiny burning coal in her belly, hot and useless.

Averting her gaze, she couldn’t quite get her shoulders to slump in the way they probably should’ve. Head down, tray up. That was the rule. It helped to look meek and cowed. Normally she could fake it better, but something about tonight made it more difficult.

“Miss…” Mr. Bowan cast her an expectant look.

She tried not to move her lips too much. “McKnight, sir.”

Turning his flinty gaze on his host, the old vampire sneered, “Miss McKnight was giving me some useful advice — unlike yourself. You haven’t stopped spewing bullshit since I walked in here.”

Devon slammed his mostly empty bottle onto the table. “What? It’s not bullshit! San Francisco is the new?—”

In a blatantly dismissive gesture, Mr. Bowan angled his body toward her. “What do you think, Miss McKnight? You seem smart. Do you think there’s room for new commerce in the Elvish Protectorate?”

Cold sweat covered the back of her neck. Fuck.

She knew better than to get comfortable. Even the nice vampires could get her into trouble.

Feeling Devon’s furious gaze on her, she carefully answered, “I… have no knowledge on the subject, sir. I’m just a server.”

Mr. Bowan knocked the ash from his cigar onto the table, deliberately ignoring the ashtray only a few inches away. “How long have you been a server here?”

“Five years, sir.”

“And how long have you lived in this city?”

“Ten years, sir.”

“Ten years in the capital and five years working for vampires,” he mused. “I’m impressed you lasted so long here. Shows grit. I bet you’ve got more than enough knowledge to at least have an opinion. So tell me honestly, Miss McKnight: do you think it’s wise to move syndicate business into the EVP?”

Her stomach curdled. It was lucky she didn’t have time to eat any breakfast before she started her shift. If she had, she probably would’ve thrown it up on Mr. Bowan’s extremely expensive shoes.

“I…” Dahlia gripped her tray hard, fighting the urge to run. She was always so careful not to offend, not to over-step. How had she ended up stuck between two predators, being used as a tool to humiliate her boss?

Devon’s going to kill me, she thought, shifting in her heels. A weak man was never more dangerous than when he’d been embarrassed.

As if reading her mind, Mr. Bowan held her stare and calmly assured her, “Don’t worry about the whelp. I’m the wolf in the room, not him. So answer me, Miss McKnight.”

Resignation crept over her in a slow, dreadful wave.

Letting out a breath, she answered, “I… I think that the elves pay more attention than it seems. They know they can’t stamp out crime altogether, so they allow what’s useful to them.

But they would never allow any organization to take actual power.

They’re so few of them. They can’t risk it.

If there was even a hint that the— the syndicate was actually building something here, they’d crush it. ”

Mr. Bowan’s dark eyes gleamed through a cloud of cigar smoke. “So what would you suggest?”

“Suggest, sir?”

“Let’s say I was foolish enough to want to expand my business here. How would you suggest I do so?”

He was toying with her. Or rather, with Devon, who looked like he was a few seconds from popping a blood vessel somewhere in his soft little brain.

Not answering wasn’t an option. Mr. Bowan was right. He was the bigger predator in the room. And either way, she was screwed.