Table for Three
Ken and I talked this one out with the recorder and I transcribed it. Thanks, Ken!--Maer
Saturday, 06 Aug 2011
Motel 6 on Broadway
Natchez MS
1400hrs, local time
Room 132 was on the ground floor and Irina pulled her Honda into the empty spot right in front of the door. She’d swept the parking lot when she pulled in—deserted, with only a few cars parked here and there—and spent a second behind the wheel eyeing the motel. Curtains on all but two rooms were drawn closed against the afternoon sun. A maid walked the breezeway above, getting her rooms cleared for the day. No one else was about and the maid was already heading toward the service elevator, her back turned to Room 132 and the detective in the shiny red car. Irina cut the engine and hauled out.
She stifled the urge to use her cop-knock and instead applied her knuckles a touch less forcefully on the door. She stepped back so she was visible through the peep-hole and stood sideways, her far hand on her hip under her jacket near her gun should she need to draw it. Renny’s note aside, she was still walking into an unknown situation and there was no telling if she’d gotten to the women first. The curtain twitched in the window.
Showtime. Smile, DiSanti. You’re here to help them.
A woman’s voice in a Russian accent called through the door.
“We don’t need room service.”
“I’m not housekeeping,” Irina said loud enough to carry through the door but low enough to be discreet. “Renny sent me.”
“Oh. Oy,” came the reply. “All right. I guess I let you in.” The door opened a crack. A blue eye, flecked with green, peered through it. “Hm. Are you little ex-cop Renny referred to as ‘38’?”
“Yes.” It was the first time Irina had heard the sobriquet and she suppressed a grin. Cute, Renny. Real cute, but NYPD hasn’t issued a .38 since ’94. Still, cute. The other woman considered Irina’s answer and Irina sensed another person lurking behind the door. Likely holding something heavy. Irina kept her expression as unthreatening as possible.
“Okay,” the blue eyed woman said, emphasizing the second syllable, such that it sounded more like “o-Keh.”
The door closed and Irina’s ear caught the distinctive squeak and thunk of the security hinge swinging back. A spate of murmured Russian carried through the door. Irina strained to follow along, picking out a ripe curse or two as she maintained a bland face through it all. The door opened then and Irina found herself getting a hard-once over by the woman behind it. Irina swept her from head to toe in a glance. Blonde on blue, 5’-9”, 125, Caucasian, could stand to put on a few pounds.
“Ah,” Blonde on Blue said. “You take us somewhere?”
“Yes,” Irina said. “Renny has a house.”
“Oh. So he has house now? Very extravagant of him. Alona,” she added, speaking over her shoulder to someone unseen. “Call up the bellman and bring our bags.” She turned back to Irina. “You are to take us to breakfast, yes?”
This is Anastasia, Irina thought, pulling the details from memory. She’s a take-charge kinda gal. Renny’s right. She’s the one to watch. Aloud, Irina merely said, “Sure. You’re not going to get a bell man. How many bags do you have?”
“Is okay.” Anastasia said slyly as she walked past Irina into the parking lot. “We don’t have bags,. So we don’t need bell man.”
“This way, ladies.” Huh. Walked right into that one. Definitely the one to watch. Irina waved them to her car. Anastasia marched right over to the red Honda and immediately claimed the front passenger seat for herself. Alona followed a little more slowly, giving Irina time to size her up. Hmm. 5’-11”, 165. Caucasian, built like a gymnast or butterfly champ. Quiet. Looks a little scared. Anastasia paid little attention to Alona’s disquiet, instead taking everything in like a grand adventure with herself as the heroine.
“Come along Alona. Don’t make our new friend wait”
Irina paused with her hand on the driver’s door, watching Alona sliding into the back. Make that a little traumatized. Thousand yard stare. The dichotomy between the two sisters couldn’t have been more pronounced and against type. The twiggy one was the more aggressive and the one built like a bruiser the meeker. Irina gave Alona an encouraging smile and slid behind the wheel. She reflected that it would be easy to mistake Alona as the dangerous one, but her gut agreed with Renny’s assessment: Anastasia was the one most likely to cause trouble. Irina suppressed a smile. I used to be like that. God, was I really that pushy? I must have given Larry bleeding ulcers.
Anastasia, of course, took charge the moment she sat down, the Grand Duchess of her own private carriage.
“So, driver has arrived, you are to take us to lunch. Yes,” the blonde added. “By this point it will be lunch. Or brunch. You do that brunch in America, right?”
“Yes.” Anastasia’s accent was infectious. It reminded Irina of her mother and she resisted slipping into it. She turned over the engine and got them moving, already thinking on where to take them. “Before noon, yes. It’s two-thirty.”
“Well, obviously, breakfast is out,” Anastasia waved it off airily. “Brunch is also. Yes, lunch. We should go to lunch. Someplace nice. I have money.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Irina sensed a punchline coming. Anastasia didn’t disappoint.
“But you’re paying.”
“Of course,” Irina grinned, having already worked it out. She’d bill it to the Franklin Agency and file it under client expenses. She hadn’t been lying when she told Sheriff Mayfield she’d hoped to recruit Renny as a prospective client for the Agency. So … Lunch is in the bag. The Eola should suffice. Café LaSalle is open this time of day. So she drove on without further comment, knowing the blonde would fill the silence for her.
“So, why are you working with Renny? He is talker. You are police officer, no?”
“No,” Irina said pleasantly and turned east onto Main.
“No? You act like cop,” Anastasia pressed on undeterred.
“Nothing here is as it seems,” Irina continued and flicked a glance at Alona in the rear view. Still quiet, still a little big-eyed. Poor kid. Probably listening to everything we’re saying. She relented and threw Anastasia a hint. “The point is ‘used to be’. Not anymore.”
“Oh. Used to be cop.” Anastasia caught it. “Huh. Well. Yes, well, he likes to talk and talk and talk. And talk and talk. Right, Alona? Talk and talk and talk and talk. But I do not understand all of this … stuff,” the blonde added with an annoyed flick of her wrist. “That he talk about. So. You know. His English is … well, I guess his English is okay but his Russian? His Russian is—.” Anastasia tossed her head and sniffed. “Yego russkiĭ pohozh dorozhnye raboty.”
His Russian is like roadwork, Irina translated silently. Full of holes and broken patches. From the backseat, Irina caught Alona’s snicker. Irina decided to mix it up a little bit, asking Anastasia in Russian, “So, Anastasia, where are you from?”
“I am from Ukraine,” Anastasia replied, unfazed at the change. “I am from Kiev.”
“Ah, Kiev,” Irina continued in Russian. “I understand it is a nice city.”
“Well, it is nice if you have money.” Anastasia shrugged. “If you do not have money, it is crappy as any other place.”
“That’s true no matter where you live,” Irina said, watching the traffic.
“Of course, there is crime and such, but—well, I am from University but I have had some difficulties with money.”
“University is expensive. What did you study?”
“What did I study?” Anastasia paused and her tone went thoughtful. “Finance. I study finance.”
Irina’s ear caught the pause and thought ‘finance’ could mean any number of things. Graft? Mafiya? No, don’t jump the gun.
“So you go to University?” Anastasia asked.
“Once upon a time, yes,” Irina pulled into the side lot of the Eola and parked the Honda.
“Ahh.” Anastasia nodded. “You study …?”
“Political science.” Among other things. Like psychology, criminal justice ….
“Ah.”
This time Anastasia’s tone was guarded and Irina didn’t have to read her mind to know what ran through it. Oh, political science. Apparatchik. Party Member. Collaborator.
“Well, ladies.” Irina turned off the engine and pulled the key. “We’re here.”
“This is hotel.” Anastasia frowned at the façade as they gained the sidewalk.
“Yes,” Irina said smoothly. “It has a very nice restaurant. No greasy spoon for you.”
“Well, good.” Anastasia seemed relieved. “I like my spoons clean.”
Irina held the door for the women and they entered the main lobby. Show them a decent time at a nice restaurant. Make Renny look good. They might be inclined to give him less trouble later. Tastefully decorated in soft peach, deep green and cream and sporting green marble columns and a Graeco-Roman mezzanine, the Eola never failed to impress. Irina covertly watched the sisters’ reaction as she led them through it and heard Anastasia mutter under her breath in Russian.
“Is virtual palace. Renny seemed more the type for run-down tea shop.”
Wait til they see the house, Irina thought but didn’t say. She was familiar with the address, passing by it every morning on her way to the Agency. 588 N. Union Street was only two blocks south of the B&B, the second door down from Madison, but despite its proximity to other well-kept vintage homes, Renny’s three-story Victorian needed some TLC. The location was sweet and the size of the lot decent. But I can hear Anastasia now: you bring us to nice restaurant and then you make us live in … in hovel?
But all that would come later. Irina led the women to the hostess stand for Café LaSalle and asked for a table for three. The hostess only paused a second before recovering with a smile and Irina could guess what she was thinking: White trash. Tee-shirted and blue jeaned blondes out at the elbows, the sisters definitely had that vibe. Irina herself was the anomaly, being attired in a professional-looking linen jacket and slacks, blending right in with the rest of the patrons. The hostess gave them a table at the back. Irina didn’t protest. It gave them more privacy if their conversation required it. Anastasia blithely followed the hostess like a Russian movie starlet—moneyed, entitled, and confident. Alona went along silently in her wake and Irina cast her as the starlet’s bodyguard. Alona was broad shouldered like a hired thug but her demeanor, however, was more timid than intimidating. Irina cast herself as the starlet’s agent, taking her client out for lunch and negotiations. For certain, we’re here to make a deal. If Anastasia doesn’t start angling for advantage before desert is served, I will be very highly surprised. She’s got that look in her eye.
They were seated and given menus and Irina made ready to answer any questions about southern cuisine. The fish, potatoes and turnips would be familiar to the sisters, but grits, collards, and crayfish would not. At least Southern sweet tea won’t be a shock, even if a little one-dimensional. Russians took their tea sweet by tradition, often stirring in a spoonful of jam to supplement the sweetener. It was a taste Irina had failed to acquire from her mother and it was a perennial inside joke between them.
“A Cobb salad would be good,” Irina suggested when the waiter arrived.
“What is Cobb salad?” As usual, it was Anastasia who spoke. “What is collard greens?”
“They’re leafy greens similar to mustard and turnip greens.”
“You sound like you read out of book. I’ll have the salmon. A whole salmon.”
“I’m afraid you won’t get a whole one here,” Irina advised with genuine regret, flicking a glance at the waiter and seeing it confirmed in his expression.
“Well, as much as a salmon as I can get.”
“I would suggest getting the poached salmon,” Irina said. “It’s very good here.”
“Okay, I get poached salmon. Alona,” Anastasia added, annoyance creeping into her tone. “Order something. Free food and we haven’t eaten like this in … in months.”
Alona silently applied her eyes to the menu again but Irina could tell she just wasn’t into it. Unlike her obviously unflappable sister, Irina could tell Alona was still trying to come to grips with what had happened. If Pitney’s operation was like the ones Irina had seen during her stint as a cop, the Morenko sisters would have had a rather hard time until they’d come into Renny’s hands. Trickery, extortion, abuse … After the gruesome process of being ghouled, it would take a very strong-willed person indeed not to be thrown by the entire experience. Or it would take a psychopath. I wonder which Anastasia is? Either? Both?
“Stop looking at yourself in mirror, Alona. You’re fine,” Anastasia was saying. She turned to the waiter and thrust the menu at him. “She’ll have the salmon, too. Poached salmon with greens, the … collard greens. You’ll like them, I’m sure,” she added as Alona gave her a dubious look. When the waiter made to suggest another side, Anastasia interrupted with, “And appetizers. Da. You have blintzes?”
“No, but they do have crepes,” Irina said quickly.
“Crepes. That is good. Okay, crepes with, ahhhh …”
“Crepes Suzette, please,” Irina suggested, heading off what she suspected would be a long and tortuous order for the waiter. She saw the sisters both recognized the dish and suppressed another smile. On no account did she want either to think she was laughing at them. She gave the waiter the menu. “Thank you.” Another glance at Alona prompted Irina to ask, “Alona would you like something stiffer to drink?” Because that poor kid’s practically vibrating in her chair.
“Yes. Drinks,” Anastasia jumped in as Alona paused over her reply. “You got Stolichnaya?”
They did.
“Good. Four … four Stolis.” Anastasia looked at Irina. “You. Are you going to order something?”
“No. I’m on the job.”
“’On the job’?” Anastasia leaned in conspiratorially and switched back to Russian. “What sort of job has you … if I may ask … has you picking up sleazy women in hotels and taking them to fancy restaurant?”
“Well, not to be judgmental,” Irina replied in the same language. “I am doing this as a favor for a friend.”
“For Renny, yes. He seems to have some plan for us. Or has ... He goes on and on about how he is saving us from something. Fate worse than death, that we are at risk and—.”
The crepes arrived and though she ate them eagerly, Anastasia kept on talking, gesticulating and rattling on about details that made Irina glad the woman had switched to Russian. Irina doubted anyone beyond their table would be able to follow much less comprehend the conversation but Irina wasn’t willing to risk a Breach. She tapped Anastasia’s foot firmly with hers under the tablecloth and when she had the woman’s attention, said, “Anastasia. There are some things you cannot discuss in public, even in Russian. It’s sensitive information.”
“Sensitive information,” Anastasia sniffed. “We are now, what? We are now members of Comintern or something?”
“Not exactly,” Irina said, sticking to Russian to be safe. “I will explain later.”
“So we have nice lunch, I guess.” Anastasia sighed in annoyance. She’d been on a roll and the wet blanket at the party had spoiled her fun.
“Yes,” Irina said pleasantly in English.
“So … I must ask. You say you are not cop. May I ask why you cease to be cop?” Anastasia asked in the same language, apparently not above seeking a little payback. “Once a cop, always a cop. Is my understanding of things, unless you cease to be altogether.”
“You’d be right.” Irina kept her expression bland even though the Russian’s jab hurt. Damned if she’d ever reveal why. “But no, I am no longer legally a cop.”
“Oh, so now you are illegally cop?” Anastasia leaned forward. “Oh, now that’s interesting. So you shoot someone?”
“No, I am a private investigator now.”
“Oh,” Anastasia flopped back in her chair. “Boring. No, no, no. You must say, ‘I was involved in illegal interrogation of terrorists’. Or I was … you know, like that guy.” She made a fist and gestured sharply downward. “With plunger handle?”
“No,” Irina said calmly, even though she wanted to slap the woman for bringing up the infamous case. There wasn’t a rookie who’d come up afterward that hadn’t heard of the incident. Not when so many had felt that their honor and their profession had been damaged by it. Though only sixteen at the time, Irina had gotten an insider’s view of the entire sordid business from her father and later as member of a close-knit and often beleaguered fraternity, she refused to discuss in front of outsiders. Anastasia had, Irina decided, a rather ghoulish sense of humor and at times it was a bit hard to take. Suck it up and move on, DiSanti. Now’s not the time or place.
“Oh, but it makes good story,” Anastasia persisted. When Irina said nothing, the blonde shrugged and went on. “So, other stuff. Renny said you’d take us out and get us clothes next. Well, after lunch, obviously.” The tea and the four shots of Stoli arrived and Anastasia put one in front of her sister and knocked back the other three in quick succession.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Done.
“Alona,” Anastasia said, pushing the remaining vodka closer to her sister’s hand. “Quit looking at mirror and drink up. Is medicine. Drink it.”
“Мы монстров. Он сделал нас в Монстры,”Alona whispered.
In one swift gesture Anastasia grabbed the mirror from her sister’s hand quickly making it disappear. “Nothing of the sort”, she retorted with a quiet menace. “Now drink your drink before I feed it to you like a baby.”
So . . . ,” Anastasia said switching back to English and a deliberately calm tone. “Clothes shopping. Somewhere nice, but not too nice.”
“Certainly. I understand you might need it,” Irina said. She didn’t bat an eye over the shots but noted the amount. Let’s see how well she holds it. Probably has a constitution like a horse. As for the shopping, it’ll be interesting to see if she has any restraint. She started drafting a formal apology to Marcus for the anticipated dent in the Agency’s operations fund.
“Mm,” Anastasia nodded. “Clothes and make-up. And … well, I don’t know what else. You say we’re moving into house. Well, that will be nice. I—do we know what house looks like?”
“It is a Victorian with Queen Anne touches.” Anastasia actually looked flummoxed and Irina gave her an encouraging smile, even as she herself wondered how ready the house would be when they got there. “I would say it dates from eighteen-ninety, nineteen-hundred, earliest.”
“Victorian with Queen Anne touches. It sounds like it is wearing lace.”
“No. There’s very little gingerbread on it, actually,” Irina said. Anastasia’s tone held a note of disapproval and Irina couldn’t resist poking it a bit. “It is quite nice and should be quite large enough for just the three of you.” Reviewing her memories of it from her morning commute, Irina reckoned it was deceptively huge and its basement was the equivalent of a separate house, certainly roomy enough for a vampire to sleep in comfort. Given its state of repair, Irina also reckoned it was the best Renny could come up with on such short notice, on his available funds. That check of Cotton’s that she’d deposited for him would have been enough for a sizeable down payment but not enough to avoid a mortgage.
The blonde looked back up at Irina and switched to Russian again, her voice discreet. A surprise. “Gun store? I hear much of gun store in America.”
Thinking of Renny’s note, Irina nodded and made no promises.
“I’ll see what I can do along those lines,” she replied in Russian. “But that is not quite on the agenda for today.”
“Alona would be much happier if she could have gun,” Anastasia said, still discreet and even subdued. Whatever else Irina thought of her, she had to give the blonde credit—she cared about her sister. Flicking a glance at Alona picking at her food, Irina privately gauged that it would take more than a gun to make the woman feel happier, but it was a start. I know the feeling, girl, Irina thought, aware of the gun she wore concealed under her jacket.
“Yes,” Anastasia was saying. “She was not able to take her favorite Makarov from Ukraine.”
“Well, Ma’am. If you want a Makarov, it might take a little hunting but I’m sure we can find you something suitable in due time.”
Alona nods at the words, still looking a bit poleaxed by her introduction to the vampire world, and again Irina empathized. The same thing happened to me six days ago. Irina wondered just what Eliza Beauchamps had done to ‘condition’ the sisters. Renny had been frustratingly short on the details in his note.
Alona came out of her shell a little after the vodka took effect, but was still quiet. Anastasia talked a mile a minute. Oh, yeah. She’s got her grand American entrance all planned out. And on someone else’s dime? Even better. Irina silently signaled for a refill on her tea and let the blonde talk on.
“Yes, and computer. We will need computer,” Anastasia said. “And internet access.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” Irina replied, knowing the neighborhood was already wired for it.
“Yes, something high speed. At least 1.2 megabytes per second.”
Which in the Ukraine was something to write home about, but in the US, not so much. Irina refrained from commenting. Why spoil the surprise? Luckily, their entrees arrived at that point and conversation was put aside. Irina sat back, sipped her tea, and watched the two women eat. Anastasia inhaled her food. Alona picked at hers. Halfway through the meal, however, Alona finally knocked back her drink and put the shot glass down a touch more forcefully than expected, shearing the thick base of the glass in two. Everyone at the table blinked in surprise. Irina recovered first. She’s picked up that Potence trait Renny told me about. Look lively. The waiter’s coming.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” she asked Alona quietly in Russian, gently uncurling the woman’s fingers from the glass. She didn’t have a scratch on her. As the waiter cleaned up the debris, Irina said, “It happens sometimes. Cold vodka in a hot glass straight from the washer. Makes them crack right in two.”
“Da,” Alona said as the waiter moved away. “Yahv poreeyahdkyeh.” Yes, I’m fine. Ten minutes later, she was still picking at her food while Anastasia was mopping up the last of the salmon juice with her roll.
“Eat. You are not on diet. Eat.” Anastasia took the fork from Alona, speared a hefty chuck of fish, and held it to her sister’s face. “Come on. Choo-choo train.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Anastasia.” Irina interjected, taking the fork and putting it on the far side of the plate from the pushy blonde. God, Alona must be mortified. She gave Alona’s hand an encouraging squeeze and said softly, “Alona, you should eat. It would look strange if you did not. You need to keep your strength up.”
“Strength?” Alona’s eyes darted to Irina’s and the detective saw the woman’s eyes were an ice blue, almost white. There was a flicker of indignation in them and it was echoed in her voice. “I don’t know if I need to keep strength up. Strength already up.”
There you are, girl. Welcome back. “Health, then,” Irina amended, relieved, and released Alona’s hand. “Trust me. The salmon tastes a whole lot better than liver.”
“They have liver?” Anastasia pounced. “And onions?”
“Yes, they do. This is a good restaurant. I’m sure they can prepare it for you even if it isn’t on the menu.” Irina signaled the waiter over, anticipating another order. Again, Anastasia did not disappoint. She had liver fried in onions delivered to their table and inhaled it much the same way she did the salmon and the crepes—with gusto. Alona continued to pick at her salad and eventually ate some of her fish. Irina tired of her tea and ordered coffee. I probably shouldn’t be drinking it this soon after a migraine, but I’m going to need it. Anastasia kept up a constant patter throughout. Irina sipped her coffee and interjected questions periodically to keep the woman distracted from badgering her sister to eat.
“So, are you a model?” Irina asked, switching back to English. “You’re pretty enough to be a model.” Hell, more than pretty. Gorgeous, actually. Blonde hair, blue eyes flecked with green. Skinny figure. Why isn’t she a model already? Why come here through the back door?
“Oh, yes, I was model!” Anastasia gesticulated with her fork, threatening to send the tidbit on the tines flying. “I was very big in Kiev. Last year I have portfolio. I did a spread for a—,” she named something Irina didn’t recognize. A Ukrainian magazine, probably. It had that feel. Not that it slowed Irina’s response down one bit.
“Did you get your portfolio set up so you could show it around to the agencies here? Is this something I need to ask around to arrange for you?”
“This year? Hmm. After last year, I think I should keep a lower profile.”
“Yes, I think that would be wise.” It wasn’t false modesty on Anastasia’s part—not that Irina believed the woman was even remotely capable of it. No, Irina recognized the response as the sort the guilty used to deflect attention from something they wanted to keep hidden. And if she had to guess, she doubted it was over any nude photos for that magazine spread. Aloud, she merely said, “So, how long have you been here?”
“Well, as you say, things aren’t necessarily meant to be said… We have been here about, three weeks? four weeks? We get hired by agency. They send us over. And …yes.”
“It’s very hard work,” Irina said, her tone encouraging more confidences.
“Yes, yes. I hear Mr. Pitney come to a very awful end.” Anastasia leaned in. “Burned in fire. Yes, yes. Horrible horrible thing.”
“It took us quite by surprise.”
“Da,” Anastasia said, switching back to Russian. “I was hoping there would be disemboweling involved.”
Irina sipped her coffee to buy time to frame her reply and checked Alona for any reaction to what was being said. Alona was quiet and diffident as ever but Irina got the sense she was listening closely. Irina answered quietly in Russian, “Let us just say he got what he deserved.”
“Good,” Anastasia said.
Is that vengeance coloring her tone? Let’s find out. Irina added, “And it was not pretty.”
“Very good. Let us drink to people getting their just desserts. Speaking of which …”
“Yes.” And yes, it was. “They are very good here.”
“Good. They’ve got … ah, well the crepes were good, but something a bit more … substantial. They have paskha?”
“They don’t have paskha, but they have something called New York style cheesecake. I highly recommend it. With the cherries on top.”
“I would prefer black currant but … okay. In America, we will eat as Americans.”
“Although I am sure if you asked very nicely, they could get the bartender to pour Crème de Cassis over it.”
“Yes, indeed.” Anastasia seemed genuinely delighted.
“All right.” Irina gestured again for the waiter and ordered the dessert as described, one for each of them.
The liquor and the good food had the reassuring affect Irina had hoped it would and the rest of the afternoon passed a bit more pleasantly for everyone. Irina paid for their meal and drove the two women to the mall just south of town, where they spent a fast hour and a half in an orgy of clothes shopping. Well, Anastasia did most of the shopping and spending and Irina noted what each woman chose and bought. As she suspected, Anastasia’s purchases followed her personality and Alona’s followed hers, after some prompting from her sister. The trunk of the Honda was crammed full by the time they pulled up to 588 N. Union Street and again, Anastasia did not disappoint Irina’s expectations. She took one look at the Victorian and declared it a dump.
Irina eyed the workmen hustling on the property and reckoned whoever Eliza or Renny had hired, they’d done a remarkable job in a painfully short amount of time. The lawn had been properly mowed and furniture was getting moved in as the women watched. One section of the house was already getting painted in shades of dark green and muted dark blue. Suitably masculine but nothing oppressively so. They’ll have to scrape some of the old paint job off before they slap a new coat on it, Irina judged. Furniture’s Rent-A-Center, but even so, more than serviceable. Stepping inside, she saw that beds had already been set up in two of the rooms upstairs and Anastasia deftly commandeered two of the workmen to empty the car of her purchases and have them carried inside. Alona still looked a little uneasy but seemed more comfortable in the homier surroundings. They’d just started poking through the kitchen cabinets and found plates and cookware and utensils had been provided, along with a stocked refrigerator and pantry when Irina’s phone alerted her of an unread text message. Pulling it up, she saw it was from Caroline and reading it, she knew she had to leave.
She called Anastasia and Alona away from the wonders of the garbage disposal and recalling the conditioning Renny had mentioned she issued an order to insure they stayed at the house and did not stray from it until Renny returned. Watching the words sink in and the conditioning take effect was a touch unnerving and it played all sorts of merry hob with her conscience. Irina ruthlessly put a lid on her disquiet and having done all she could for the two women, she bid them goodbye and drove for Caroline’s. Getting Anastasia and Alona installed at the house reminded Irina that she would need to find a place of her own soon. The time was fast approaching when she could no longer stay at the bed and breakfast, lest the vampire world endanger it. Midnight had already paid her a visit there, wraiths had been sent after her, and with Cotton on the way out, there was no telling who would show up next.
One thing at a time, DiSanti. One day—and night—at a time.
With luck, she’ll survive whatever the night had in store for her and she’d live to see another sunrise. Irina pulled up in front of Caroline’s Brownstone and hauled out.
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