The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

the torn-up throat. They tended to be precise in their blood draws. Unless it was…

“A blood slave,” I mumbled.

“A blood what?” Vega said.

“Sorry.” I blinked up at her. “I’ve told you about the vampires in the city, right?”

“You mean Wall Street?” Though Vega’s acceptance of the supernatural had come around in a big way, it seemed she still carried a reserve of skepticism sometimes. Like now.

“Well, the heads of the big investment banks,” I said. “Arnaud Thorne at Chillington Capital is the oldest and most powerful. He and his fellow vampires control a lot of things in the city, including small armies of blood slaves. Humans who were vampire-bitten.”

“I thought they became vampires, too,” Vega said.

“Not always. That process involves the vampire giving some of its own essence back to the victim, but in the case of blood slaves, the vampire mostly takes—blood, emotions, identity. The vampire hollows the person out, essentially.”

“And then controls him,” Vega said.

“Exactly. As long as the blood slave remains under the vampire’s control.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Hoffman complained. “Vampires? Blood slaves?” He waved a hand at the whole idea and left the crime scene, his heavy shoes pounding up the steps. “Load of crap.”

Vega rolled her eyes. “He’ll come around.”

“I’m not holding my breath.”

“What did you mean by as long as the blood slave remains under control?” she asked.

“Well, history is dotted with legends of blood slaves breaking their masters’ hold. Without a mind of their own, and deprived of their own blood—for centuries, in some cases—the blood slaves go on a bit of a rampage. Tearing open throats, drinking down all they can.”

“What about the size of the wound?” Vega’s gaze had shifted to the covered victims.

“A slave’s jaw can unhinge. Combine that with their superhuman strength…”

“But how can we be sure?”

“We find him,” I said.

“Super. How?”

I pulled a folded kerchief from my pocket and opened it beneath a steady drip of water falling from one of the pipes.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Preparing a spell.” I returned to the first victim and, wincing, exposed his torn-open neck again. With a finger tenting the kerchief’s damp center, I ran it along an area of intact skin where the creature had licked. “A hunting spell. With the saliva, I should be able to lock onto the creature’s location. Would it be a problem if I set up a casting circle down here?”

“If you promise not to shove me inside.” She was referring to the night I’d placed her in a protective circle to protect her from a shrieker attack while I went after the demon lord Sathanas.

“Heh. Special circumstances, Detective. Won’t happen again.”

Vega backed up a safe distance anyway as I hunkered down and began to sprinkle out a circle of copper filings.

“I have a question,” I said, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but when did the NYPD start caring about drug addicts? I mean, some would say the killer did the city a favor. And with all the homicides out there… I guess what I’m asking is why do you care?”

“I’m trying to prevent a war.”

I stopped and looked up at her. “A war?”

At that moment, a riot of angry shouts sounded from upstairs. Vega drew her sidearm and broke into a run. I left my copper circle half finished and followed, cane pulled into sword and staff.

6

We arrived upstairs to find Hoffman and four NYPD officers shouting down their aimed firearms at three men across the lobby, two of whom were aiming assault rifles and shouting back. The third, a shaven-headed black man, stood between his armed associates in a pair of aviator sunglasses, arms crossed. Between his lips, a toothpick slid back and forth.

In the confusion and close acoustics, I couldn’t make out a word being shouted, but something told me the lobby was one slammed door from becoming a shooting gallery. I readied my staff for a shield spell.

Before I realized she’d left my side, Vega was marching into the middle of the mayhem. My heart leapt into my throat. She was putting herself right in the potential crossfire.

Vega waved her arms overhead. “Everyone shut the fuck up!”

Within seconds, the shouts wound down, giving way to ringing echoes.

Vega looked sharply from one side to the other. “Now lower your weapons.” She holstered her own pistol, which seemed either incredibly bold or stupid. When no one complied, Vega stepped up to the man with the shades and toothpick. His lean leather coat rippled around his boots.

“Stiles,” she said sternly.

It was the man Hoffman had mentioned, the one in charge of the east towers. The toothpick between Stiles’s lips stopped moving, and he said something over a shoulder. His men eased back and lowered their assault rifles.

After another tense moment, the police responded in kind. My own shoulders let out as I sheathed my sword into my staff.

“Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?” Vega demanded.

Hoffman jutted his chin toward Stiles. “Scumbag put a gag order on the towers. No one’s talking, meaning we can’t do our jobs.”

Vega turned to Stiles. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Maintenance shouldn’t have called you,” he replied, his voice deep and even. “We manage our own affairs.”

“Oh yeah?” Hoffman challenged. “So what are two stiffs doing down in your boiler room?”

“We’ll take care of that,” Stiles said.

“I bet you will,” Hoffman muttered.

“Let me guess,” Vega said. “Revenge hits?” When Stiles remained silent, Vega nodded. “One of Kahn’s dealers showed up at Manhattan General last week with a stump for a right hand. Which means he was caught selling in your towers, right? And now you think what happened downstairs is Kahn’s retribution—taking out two of your clients, sending a message. Well, I’ve got a news flash for you. You’re not as smart as you think.”

The toothpick paused for a moment before resuming its back-and-forth slide. My gaze moved to Stiles’s henchmen. The one to his left had the lumped-up face of an NFL lineman, while his partner looked like