Брайан Макклеллан - Blood Tally

Maggie remained silent. She could sense my moods and tell that I was talking through my own nerves rather than looking for an answer.

I have a … complicated relationship with Ada. The short of it is that she owns me illegally due to some good timing and a missing contract. She works me to the bone, pays me barely enough to live on, and is generally an asshole for ninety percent of the time.

The long of it is that she also raised me. I moved in with her when she bought me from the imps at the age of eight – a slave boy and a widow in a giant house, mostly avoiding each other but still together through circumstance. She took me to school every day, came to my baseball games, then drove me to the Valkyrie Collections HQ where we’d put in a solid four hours of work each evening and most Saturdays. She had no problem working me like a slave even as a child, but in most other ways she treated me like an adopted grandson; real education, meals together daily, even the odd work trip with vacation-like activities.

We never did have proper holidays or birthdays, though. No gifts. No celebrations. That still burns to this day.

I was early, so I let myself in through the garage. I kicked off my shoes in the mud room and hung my baseball cap on the hook, padding down the immaculate tile hallway to the kitchen. I could smell fresh-made lavender tea and hear classical music coming from Ada’s office. I looked that direction for a moment, hesitating against the urge to walk in and make my report like a kid getting off the bus from school.

Instead, I found a new tin of fancy chai mix in the cupboard and made myself some tea. The kettle soon whistled, and I poured the cup, lost in my own thoughts, waiting for it to steep. I found myself thinking about Olivia. Well, thinking about her legs, to be more accurate. They’d been very nice legs, and they were attached to someone competent enough to handle being a witch without a coven. I liked that, even if she had called me stupid.

Tell me something I don’t know about Ada, Maggie suddenly said.

I pulled my thoughts away from Olivia’s legs, surprised by the request. Though we’d become more open and honest with each other the last couple months, Ada still felt like a closed-off subject to me. Maggie had respected that so far. I’m not sure there’s much to say, I said.

Oh, come on. She’s an insufferable old broad, but there’s got to be something endearing about her. Or interesting, at least.

I snorted. Not much.

Maggie was trying to cheer me up. Trying to distract me. She knew how much I didn’t like coming back here. She said, If you tell me something fun about Ada, I’ll tell you how I know Sting.

Sting?

You know, the rock star?

You’re joking. You know Sting?

Kind of.

My curiosity was genuinely piqued. Okay, I’ll bite . I considered again, trying to think of some fun tidbit I could share about my owner. Ada loves strip clubs.

What? The word came out as half a giggle and half a snort.

Yup. Once a month she takes her laptop down to Broadfellow’s downtown on a Saturday night, sets herself up in the corner, and spends six hours reviewing the company funds while the girls dance.

Ada’s gay?

Not as far as I know. She’s talked about her dead husband maybe three times in our entire time together. I’ve never seen her on a date. In fact, I try not to think about it. She’s old, gross, and she owns me. I’m just glad she never tried to give me the birds and the bees talk.

What a weird lady.

You’re telling me. Okay, spill the beans on Sting.

Before Maggie could answer, I heard the sound of slippered feet on tile and Ada appeared from around the corner. Ada was in her late sixties, above average height – a little under six feet – thin and proper, with lips always pursed and eyes always judging. To my surprise she was still wearing a sharp pantsuit and a blouse, big hooped earrings swinging and her hair done up. Ada had always been a “silk pajamas and robe the moment she walks in the door” sort of lady. But she was still dressed for work, which meant this meeting was serious.

“Are you drinking the new chai I brought back from Kolkata?” she demanded in her croaking voice.

I poured several spoonfuls of sugar, then a quarter cup of cream into my cup, stirred it, and took a long sip before answering her. “Yup.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That was four hundred dollars for that little tin.”

I sipped again. “It’s good, but I think you got ripped off.” I waited for another rebuke, but it didn’t come. Another sign Ada was on edge. “Boris Novak is a prick, by the way,” I told her. “Not that you care, but I don’t think he’s worth the trouble he’s going to be. I’m not just saying that because I don’t want to track down a thrall. This is my honest opinion.”

“Hmm.” She made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

I waited for a few moments, hoping she’d engage on some level. “Are you going to tell me what this meeting is about?” I asked, changing tactics. “I can’t remember the last time we had a meeting here instead of the office.”

She made the same noncommittal noise. “Do you have anything constructive to say about Boris?”

“He’s an arrogant old shithead,” I shrugged. I’d used a lot worse words in my head, but my initial anger had burned out after filling my stomach with a couple pounds of wings on the company credit card. “Tagged me as a troll-blood right away. Called me a rockskin – that’s a new one for me. You know the type – believes the Rules are a slight on his very existence. Thinks he’s the top dog and everyone else is food.”

“Vampires.” Ada croaked it like a swearword.

“Exactly. I know we have some good vampire clients, but why the hell would you take this guy on? He’s …” I was interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway. I frowned at Ada. For some reason the idea that this meeting was between me, her, and a third party hadn’t even entered my mind. I’d thought that she wanted to talk about Boris. I opened my mouth to ask her about it, but she cut me off.

“Show our guest into the dining room.”

Feeling no small amount of discomfort, I headed to the front of the house, using the few moments alone to try and figure out what exactly was going on. Maggie remained quiet, deep in her own thoughts. I managed to glean nothing in those precious seconds. The doorbell rang a moment before I reached it, and when I opened the door I found a middle-aged man standing on the front step and wearing designer sunglasses with loudly yellow frames, a ball cap without a logo, and a black suit and tie. He was at least eight inches shorter than me, but he made up for it in shoulder size. He looked like an MMA fighter crammed into a suit for a press conference. His nonchalant, jockish body language did nothing to dispel the impression.

He took off his sunglasses and sized me up. “You’re Alek Fitz?”

“I am,” I replied warily.

“Good. I’m Jacques Williams. Ada should be expecting me.”

I shook his hand and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t try to give me the tough-guy squeeze. I showed him to the dining room, where Ada was already sitting on the far side of the table, a cup of lavender tea in front of her. I rounded the table to sit down beside her, allowing Jacques to take his seat. Ada looked grumpier than usual, a clear sign that she was covering up more telling feelings. There were a few moments of silence while Jacques settled in. I took the chance to examine him closely. There was something off about his face – slightly reddened eyes, skin just a little too pale. It wasn’t until Maggie spoke up that I was able to place it.