‘Then we need him more than ever, don’t we?’
Doc stared daggers at him, shook his head in obvious disgust, and stormed out.
‘Make sure he brings his bag,’ Mal called after him.
So what if Doc was pissed. Let him be. Anger got things accomplished. If Doc failed – he couldn’t – but if he did … Mal looked down at the unconscious woman on his lap. He wasn’t going to bear this death alone.
One useless Nothos. One lying comarré madam. One list of hotel guests that Mikkel was checking through, but no real leads in the whole lot. Tatiana considered confronting Madame Rennata, but knew that would only get her more lies and misdirection. Not to mention the woman might warn the missing girl, if she was still alive. The other two Nothos awaited orders.
Once again, the real work was left to her.
The lights outside Algernon’s manor remained lit, despite Algernon’s demise. They cast half-moons over the mammoth stone house, illuminating the late hour. She’d had Octavian drive her, and right now he unlocked the manor’s massive front doors and held them open. She lifted her palm in his direction. He dropped the key into it. Good help was not impossible to find, just hard.
‘Wait in the car.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed deeply and returned to the Bentley parked in the center of the circular drive. Probably to dream of the day she’d turn him. As if that would ever happen.
She walked in and shut the door. How many times had she been here? How many balls had she attended? Too many. She stood for a moment in the foyer. It was twice as big as hers. This manor would go to the next Elder elected.
Unfortunately, correcting the horrible taste with which it had been decorated was going to take a considerable sum of money. Algernon’s legacy was his excess. If one crystal chandelier was good, ten must be excellent. If owning a comarré spoke of your wealth, a Primoris Domus comarré screamed the depth of your pockets to the world. Especially when the bidding price exceeded that of any other comarré in history. The fool. She hadn’t paid half as much for her comar, but then the males weren’t in such high demand.
She walked slowly, taking in the surroundings with new eyes. Things crammed every inch of the property. Granted, possessions were all well and good, but moderation was key. She’d have to study the floor plan. Find a suitable room for Nehebkau’s new enclosure. She wouldn’t move until he could move with her.
As she strolled through the great hall, she ran her finger over a tabletop. Dust. Had the house sat that long? Or perhaps Algernon’s staff lacked the necessary skills to keep a manor this size. They’d have to be fired.
The house needed a good airing as well. Death lingered in the air.
She continued to the comarré’s rooms. They sat in the wing opposite Algernon’s living quarters. The door was ajar. She went in. The familiar blood scent was fading, but still there. Without having personally drunk the comarré’s blood, she couldn’t distinguish the particulars of her scent over another’s. The only one that smelled different to her was her own.
The search her servants had performed had left the place a mess. Clothing and books strewn everywhere. She sifted through a few pieces. The comarré’s clothes were easy to spot. Silk, linen, wool, suede. All white. All meant to cover every bit of skin except for the hands, face, and feet. The more intimate signum were kept for the patron’s eyes only. Not that she’d ever cared to see her comar’s.
The books she flipped through held nothing but pages. No cutaway compartments or damning slips of paper.
The comarré’s sacre hung on the wall displayed by a thick red satin cord that matched the red leather-wrapped hilt. The gold-etched length mocked her with its bright shine. She leaned in toward the ceremonial sword, careful not to touch any part of it, and inhaled. The holy water used to quench the steel stung her nostrils, but there was no blood scent.
Nothing. Not a single tiny clue. Frustrated, she sat on the bed.
‘If I were a comarré, where would I hide my most personal things?’ Her eyes skimmed the room. The shelves were bare now that the books had been tossed to the floor. The drawers all dumped out. Where, where, where? How, in this mess, could she be expected to find anything?
She got up and walked through the dressing area to the bathroom. Another mess. Towels, toiletries, and brushes lay scattered about. Shampoo oozed from toppled containers. A cracked bottle of perfume leaked its contents onto the floor. She caught a whiff and sneezed. The whole apartment should be shoveled out. She grabbed a tissue to hold over her nose as she investigated, but nothing seemed pertinent here either. She wadded up the tissue and tossed it in the trash on her way out.
A metallic glimmer among the refuse caught her eye.
She backtracked, grabbed the wastebasket, and dumped it on the counter. She picked up the glossy white box that had stopped her. The gold-foil design on the front looked very much like the swirling sun signum every comarré received as the first marking. Beneath the sun were the words Lapointe Cosmetics Complete Coverage Foundation.
When was lazy staff not a bad thing? When their failure to do their job left evidence behind. Foundation. How very out of place. No self-respecting comarré would hide the markings they took such pride in. Unless they intended to disappear into the kine world.
And imagine, a cosmetic company using a design so close to comarré signum.
She laughed. ‘Stupid, stupid blood whore. I’m going to find you. And as soon as I claim what’s mine, I’m going to drink every last drop of you.’