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I shrugged. “Knowing them, it’s probably a nonemergency. I know they’re vamps but they still remind me of overgrown frat boys. ”
She shook her head. “Not frat boys—they aren’t hip enough for that. Overgrown vidiots?”
Stifling a snicker, I tried not to laugh but I couldn’t help it. “Roz and Vanzir would be just like them, if they’d been human to begin with. ”
Camille groaned. “No . . . Roz and Vanzir would be the frat boys who beat them up. ” And with that, she focused on navigating the slick roads, while I put in a call to Carter to let him know we were dropping by later.
Chapter 3
The Wayfarer was crowded, as usual. The early focus of the inn and bar had been on OW Fae, when Menolly had been set up as an undercover agent for the OIA. But two factors had shifted the demographics.
First, Menolly now owned the Wayfarer. And second, the minute she’d been chosen by Roman to be his consort, bloodsuckers galore began to hang out at the bar. Menolly wasn’t altogether thrilled with the change, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. She did, however, insist on reserving the rooms in the B&B part exclusively for Otherworld Fae coming in to visit the area.
We threaded our way through the throng, up to the bar. Camille whispered something to me, but even with our heightened hearing, the noise of the crowd overwhelmed anything she was saying. I shook my head.
Menolly was on the phone, and she looked worried. By her side, Derrick Means, chief bartender and werebadger, was going at it full throttle, serving drinks right and left. Digger, another bartender—a vampire sent by Roman to help—was also working up a sweat. Figuratively, of course.
The barstools were all taken, but I spied a booth that had just been vacated and made a beeline for it. Camille followed, motioning for Menolly to join us. As soon as she hung up, she hopped over the bar and joined us.
“Is something wrong?” By her expression, I had the feeling something was going on. “Did you get another letter?”
She shook her head. Two weeks ago, Menolly had received a letter from some law firm by the name of Vistar-Tashdey, offering a large sum of money from an unnamed client. Whoever it was wanted to buy the Wayfarer and the language had seemed semithreatening. Menolly had tossed the letter aside, but from the few times since then that she’d mentioned it, I’d gotten the impression that it had