Chapter Thirty-One Amelia

THIRTY-ONE

Excerpt from security log at 131 N. LaSalle, Chicago, Illinois, recovered the following day

10:12 a.m.: Group of four oddly dressed individuals approached desk, asked to be buzzed upstairs. When I asked for some identification, leader of group waved hand and said You don’t need to see our identification . Group was informed I saw that in a movie once and that it wouldn’t work on me, but then a very peaceful feeling came over me and I realized I didn’t need to see their identification. Buzzed group in building with no further incident.—JSP

Amelia

Frederick had been wrong. Finding John Richardson was not easy. After spending over an hour wandering the halls of the thirty-second and thirty-first floors of my building, carefully checking each cubicle and poking our heads inside every office that wasn’t locked, there was still no sign of either him or anyone else from The Collective.

“Maybe he left,” I suggested, as we waited for the elevator to take us down to the thirtieth floor. “Why are we so certain he’s still here?”

“Because I can’t imagine he’d leave after finally finding me.” Reggie’s lips were pressed together in a hard, determined line. “He’s here, somewhere. We just need to find him.”

The firm’s mail room took up the majority of the thirtieth floor. The lack of offices with doors that closed made searching this floor faster work than searching the others had been. We walked as quickly as we could, turning our heads to peer inside each cubicle as we passed.

“There’s no one here,” Reggie said. The anxiety in his voice was palpable.

“Let’s check the mail room,” I said. “That’s probably where everyone is.” I hoped that was true.

It wasn’t until we heard cheerful voices coming from the break room at the far end of the floor that we realized where the people who worked here were.

“Happy birthday, Janice!”

“Forty looks great on you!”

“Oh my god, you got red velvet cake. That’s my favorite!”

We paused when we were about twenty feet away. “Should we go in?” I whispered to Reggie and Frederick. “I don’t want to be the accountant who crashes a mail room party, but maybe we could just quickly ask if they’ve seen anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be here?”

“That would only alarm them,” Frederick said. A moment later he asked, “What is red velvet cake, exactly?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Reggie admitted.

“Is it made with actual red velvet?”

“I’ll explain later,” I muttered under my breath. We didn’t have time for this. “We have to keep looking for—”

“Looking for me?” John Richardson asked, from behind me.

My blood turned to ice in my veins. Holding my breath, and with my heart pounding a rapid staccato in my chest, I slowly turned until I was facing him.

Gone was every trace of the polite, bumbling CFO I’d been dealing with for the past month. In his place was someone much more ruthless. Someone determined not to leave until he got exactly what he wanted.

He snarled at me. And his fangs, hidden in plain sight when we were all in the conference room, were clearly visible now.

Which meant—if what I’d read in The Annals about a vampire’s fangs was correct—that he was about to feed.

“I see you laid a trap for me, Ms. Collins,” he hissed, his words cold puffs of air against my skin. He leaned in close, until his fangs were less than an inch away from my throat. He tsked at me, as though I were a misbehaving child. “Not very nice of you to lie to me, and not disclose you were in cahoots with our quarry this entire time.”

“You can’t do this here!” I blurted, my thoughts unspooling “This is an accounting firm!” As if that mattered in the slightest. But I was beyond reason, barely in control of what I was saying.

Reggie shoved Richardson away from me and jumped between us. “If you bite her,” he growled, his face a mask of fury. “No—if you so much as breathe on her, I will stake you where you stand.”

On some level at least, I knew I shouldn’t find Reggie’s fierce protectiveness as hot as I did. But I was too stunned and terrified by what was happening to care.

John Richardson chuckled darkly, raising an eyebrow at Reggie and Frederick in turn. He shot a pointed look at their empty hands. “And with what will you stake me, naughty brother? Your fingers?”

Crap.

Crap.

We’d been so busy planning what we would say to John Richardson that we’d never stopped to think about how we might fight him if it came to that.

“We didn’t think this through,” Frederick muttered under his breath, echoing my sentiments. “I brought no weapons.”

“I won’t stake you with my fingers,” Reggie said, his voice ice-cold and smooth as silk. “I’ll stake you with this . ” To my astonishment, he withdrew a two-foot-long piece of wood that looked like it might have once been part of a broom handle from within the folds of his gingham skirt. Whatever it used to be, it had since been whittled at one end to a very sharp point. “Feeling lucky, friend ?”

John Richardson’s eyes widened as he took a step away from us. A moment later, he withdrew a small stake of his own, glaring at Reggie and Frederick in turn. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Oh, no.

“Our other siblings will be disappointed to miss this,” John Richardson continued, oblivious to my growing horror. His eyes were sharp as steel and focused only on Reggie as he spun the stake in his hand like a miniature baton.

“Don’t call me your sibling,” Reggie growled.

“But it’s what you are.”

“ Fuck that.”

Richardson continued as if Reggie hadn’t spoken. “Our siblings and I have been waiting for this retribution for a very long time, Reginald. We had hoped we’d all be together when it happened, but you know how it goes.” He sighed theatrically. “Beggars, choosers, et cetera. I messaged them before you caught up to me, but they won’t be here for at least another twenty minutes due to downtown traffic.” His eyes drifted to the clock hanging on the wall above my head as if to check the time. “Pity they’re going to miss this. But while they’ll be disappointed that I killed you when they’re not here to watch, they’d be downright furious with me if I lost this opportunity because I waited to do it until they found parking.”

Reggie threw up his hands. “Okay, seriously. Why the fuck do you think I was the one who set that fire?” He sounded stretched completely beyond his limit. “Yes, I admit I left that stupid note all those years ago. But there were so many people at that party who hated those assholes. Why aren’t you out there harassing them?”

“You know what you were like back then,” Richardson said, the only answer he seemed inclined to give. He moved closer to Reggie, his stake firmly in hand. He jerked his chin towards me and Frederick. “You can leave,” he said. “This doesn’t involve either of you.”

Frederick scoffed. “You’re mad if you think I’m leaving.”

I needed to implement the next phase of our plan, right now, before John Richardson and Reggie staked each other into piles of vampire dust.

“Mr. Richardson,” I began, far more loudly than was necessary. “You will leave Reginald Cleaves alone, effective immediately, or else face dire consequences with the IRS!” Even as the words left my mouth, I cringed. Suddenly this seemed like the stupidest plan in the history of the world. As threats went, it was at best about a two on the likely to defuse an escalating vampire fight scale. But I didn’t have a wooden stake handy, and I had a very bitable neck. Tax threats were all I had.

To my shock and relief, it seemed to work. Or at least, it seemed to distract Richardson from his interest in killing Reggie. He blinked a few times, then took a step back as he turned to face me. The murderous look on his face from only moments ago was replaced with one of abject confusion.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“You heard her,” Reggie spat.

“I did,” he conceded. “I just don’t think I understood her. Dire consequences from the IRS?” He sounded genuinely confused. Good . Hopefully catching him off guard would increase the odds that our ridiculous plan would work. “You’re our accountant, are you not? We’re paying you to represent us and keep us out of trouble. Can’t you just fix whatever it is we’ve done wrong?”

Was he joking? “No,” I said, incredulous. “The firm is closing your file.”

Richardson had the audacity to look surprised. His eyes shot to Reggie, who still looked so menacing with that stake in his hand, I would have been terrified if I didn’t know him like I did.

“Does this decision have anything to do with my organization’s history vis-à-vis your paramour?” Richardson asked.

Unbelievable. “No,” I said, stumbling a little over his use of the term paramour. This guy was clearly older than dirt. “Even if threatening to bite your accountant’s neck the way you just did wasn’t sufficient grounds by itself for a firm to close a file—which it totally is, by the way—your organization is a mess. You’ve consistently refused to provide us with any of the information we need to do our jobs. We don’t have the capacity to work with organizations that waste our time.”

“But I sent you everything you asked for,” Richardson protested, sounding hurt.

“No, you didn’t,” I countered. “Everything you sent was so bizarre and so not what I needed. I honestly judge myself for not realizing you weren’t human right off the bat.”

“Oh.” For someone who had flashed his fangs at me mere moments ago with what seemed like every intention of tearing out my throat, Richardson was being remarkably contrite. “I apologize. It was never my intention to waste your time.”

Reggie snorted. Apparently, he couldn’t believe what John Richardson was saying, either.

“But it’s not just that you wasted our time,” I continued. “Your group is decades out of compliance with IRS requirements for nonprofits. Everything I’ve seen from you suggests your nonprofit is a sham. And Butyl and Dowidge doesn’t represent sham organizations.” I paused, letting this sink in. “Even if you hadn’t been trying to kill Reggie from the moment you first contacted my firm, you’re still the worst client I’ve ever had.”

As I spoke, Richardson simply stood there, processing everything. “How much trouble are we in with the IRS, exactly?”

“A lot,” I said. “Though it’s hard to say exactly how much. Best-case scenario, they’ll dissolve your nonprofit.” I shrugged. “When that happens, you’ll be getting a bill for back taxes you won’t be able to pay, given your nonprofit’s annual budget. And the worst-case scenario…”

John Richardson leaned forward, hanging on my every word. Excellent. “What is the worst-case scenario?”

I waited a beat before answering so my next words would have maximum impact. “Worst-case scenario is the IRS finds that you intentionally withheld taxes you owed. You could face time in jail.” There. The closest thing to a mic drop any accountant ever got . I leaned in closer, readying myself for the kill. “Unless, of course, you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

Richardson narrowed his eyes at me. “And what might that be?”

Bingo. This was the part I’d been looking forward to the most. The part I’d practiced in a mirror the night before until I’d gotten the ferocity of my expression just right.

“What happens next is you are going to leave Reginald Cleaves alone, forever. If you do that, we will pretend we’ve never heard of you if the IRS ever comes knocking.” I trailed off, letting my words hang in the air for dramatic effect. In the entirety of my time as an accountant, I had never once had the opportunity to do anything for dramatic effect. I could all but feel Reggie looking on, beaming with pride. “If you continue to harass Reggie, however, I tell the IRS everything I know.”

At my threat, John Richardson’s polite demeanor melted away again. “Ah. I see what you’re doing.” He skewered me with his glare. “This is a conspiracy. You’ve concocted this…this…this blackmail scheme to save Reginald fucking Cleaves.”

“It’s not a conspiracy,” I said. “I’ll send you the relevant code provisions that clearly demonstrate your organization sucks as soon as we’re done here. If you still don’t believe me after you’ve read them, ask Evelyn Anderson.” I grinned at him. “She has no idea who you really are and would happily confirm that the IRS is going to hate you once it finds out about you.”

By this point, the break room partygoers had begun drifting back to their workstations. Among them was Janice, the woman who delivered mail to the thirty-second floor. She peered at us curiously as she made her way to her cubicle, a party hat that said Forty Is the New Thirty! on her head.

“Should we continue this discussion somewhere more private?” Frederick suggested, echoing my own thoughts. “I don’t think we want these people to overhear us.”

“We’re nearly done here,” John Richardson snapped. But he leaned in closer to me before speaking again, apparently thinking better of continuing this conversation at full volume. “You can’t report us to the IRS if I kill you first,” he threatened.

Reggie scoffed. “You’re going to attack a human in front of dozens of other people?” He shook his head . “You’re letting your feelings get in the way of making good decisions, Johnny boy. Besides, if you kill her, you’ll be dead before you draw your next breath.”

Reggie said this all so cheerfully it sent chills down my spine. For the first time, I saw a hint of darkness in his expression that made me wonder just what sort of man he’d been before I met him.

“Evelyn Anderson will just report you if I’m too dead to do it,” I said, trying my best to stay calm. “Also, Reggie’s right. If you kill me here, people will see. If you don’t go to jail for tax evasion, you’ll go to jail for murder.”

“While I’d personally find you lot dying painfully of starvation in a human prison hilarious,” Reggie added, “I suspect you wouldn’t feel the same way.”

“I’ve heard they even require daily direct exposure to sunlight in prisons,” Frederick added, shuddering. “Painful.”

John Richardson said nothing for a long moment as he processed our offer. After what felt like an hour, he cleared his throat. “And if we agree to leave Reginald Cleaves alone, you won’t talk to the IRS if they come calling?”

I let out a huge internal sigh of relief. “If you back off, yes.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear it on the vows I took when I became a CPA.” There were, of course, no vows you had to take when you became a CPA. But he didn’t need to know that. And either way, I was telling the truth.

As I spoke, John Richardson shrank further and further into himself. “What are we going to do?” he asked, so quietly it was clear he was asking himself this question, not us. “We have devoted ourselves to revenge for so long.”

“You could always move on from something that happened over a hundred years ago and find a different obsession to occupy the rest of your immortal lives,” Frederick suggested. “Your sires wouldn’t want you to spend forever bent on revenge.”

“How dare you presume to know what they would want?” John Richardson snarled.

“How dare you presume to know?” Frederick countered.

“Or,” Reggie offered, “if you don’t want to diversify your interests like normal people, you could always branch out into conducting a real investigation and finding the person who actually set that castle ablaze. In fact—” Reggie snapped his fingers. “I could help you.”

John Richardson stared at him. “You would do that?”

“Why not?” Reggie shrugged. “Sounds fun.”

“If you aren’t the person responsible, why didn’t you offer to help us before?”

Reggie snorted. “It wasn’t until you started sending me death threats that I realized anyone still connected me with The Incident. You’ll have to excuse me for not being eager to reach out to you once I realized you wanted me dead.” He shook his head. “My instinct, whenever someone wants me dead, is to hide.”

John Richardson cracked a weak smile at that. “Fair enough.” He then turned to me. “My siblings will be here momentarily. Could we perhaps have some time to discuss the situation before making our decision?” He shook his head. “This is blackmail,” he said again, frostily. “But I will impress upon the others that you have put us in a position where we have little choice but to accept your terms. Spending any amount of time in a human prison, locked up and unable to feed, would be—”

He trailed off, shuddering.

For the first time all day, it felt like I could breathe again. This was going to work. “I’ll go back to my office and send you the code provisions I just referred to. Talk to your associates about what they want to do, then let me know whether I should close your file or report you to the IRS.”

John Richardson consulted his phone. “They’re waiting outside the building.” He glanced at me. “I will leave and go speak with them right away.”

“I’ll go with you,” Frederick said.

“That won’t be necessary,” John Richardson said, hastily.

Frederick placed a hand on his arm. “Your group hasn’t exactly inspired much confidence in your decision-making since the nineteenth century. We need to make certain you don’t double back and return to the building to do something stupid.” He turned his attention to me. “I realize this wasn’t part of the original plan, but I’d feel better if I saw Mr. Richardson off myself. It’s time I got going, anyway. I need to check on Cassie.”

I didn’t miss the note of concern in his voice when he mentioned Cassie. “Of course,” I said. “See him off. And then go check on your fiancée.”

Frederick gave Reggie a small nod. “I’ll see you back at the apartment.”

Reggie and I stared at each other in silence for a long moment after they left. There was still a chance those idiots would come after him, and I didn’t think I’d be able to fully relax until we’d gotten their final decision.

“Want to see if they have any red velvet cake left in the break room?” Reggie asked, surprising me. Of all the things I’d thought he might say in this moment, that wasn’t even in the top hundred.

“Why?” I asked, confused. “You can’t eat it.”

“True,” he agreed. “But I still don’t understand what red velvet cake is. And…” He trailed off, grinning at me. “I like hearing you explaining things.”

And then he kissed me on the cheek so sweetly I couldn’t help but agree.

From: John Richardson ([email protected])

To: Amelia Collins ([email protected])

Subject: your demands

Dear Ms. Collins,

Regarding our discussion earlier today, we agree to your demands (mostly because we realize we have no choice). Effective immediately we will be redirecting our efforts away from our brother Reginald and towards other parties.

For now, however, we agree it best we keep a low profile for a while, on the chance the IRS tries to find us.

All best,

John Richardson

“That went about as well as it could have.”

Reggie and I sat together on my living room couch, my head resting on his shoulder. An hour earlier, after depositing a very subdued John Richardson back in the conference room with Evelyn so she could finish up with him, I’d told her I would be taking the rest of the day off. The person I’d been a few weeks ago wouldn’t have dreamed of even asking for an afternoon off during tax season. And yet there I had been, setting a firm boundary, and telling a partner I wouldn’t be reachable until the next day. All because I needed a bit of time off to rest and recuperate from what I’d just accomplished.

I hadn’t even needed to look at Reggie’s face on the elevator ride down to the lobby to know he’d been beaming with pride.

“It did go pretty well,” I agreed. “The Collective is off your back for now, maybe forever. And I got to save the day with tax law.” I grinned up at him. “That never happens.”

Reggie chuckled and pulled me closer. “You were fantastic,” he murmured. “You might be the smartest, most determined person I’ve known in all my more than three hundred years of living.” His voice was so soft, his lips gentle against the crown of my head. “The idea that you’d use your talents to help someone like me…”

He trailed off, sounding too overcome to finish the thought. He buried his face in my hair on a quiet sigh.

“I don’t deserve you,” he finally said.

It had started raining at some point after we’d arrived at my apartment. We sat in silence, the sound of raindrops pattering against the windowpanes a soothing backdrop to my swirling thoughts. It was so pleasant, just cuddling with him on my living room sofa, with no plans for the rest of the day and no idea what, if anything, would happen next.

Honestly? I could get used to this.

“You deserve me,” I said. “You buy me terrible vegetarian snacks because you don’t understand what humans eat but you also don’t want me going hungry during a snowstorm. You force me to take time for myself, reminding me in a way I can never seem to remember that I’m worth it. You make me laugh.” I grinned at him. “And you think the way I talk about taxes is sexy.”

“It is sexy.”

I laughed. “To you, maybe. No one else thinks so.”

He looked horrified. “That cannot possibly be true.”

“Oh, but it is.” I leaned in close again and rested my forehead against his. “You like me for who, and what, I am. I may not know the specifics of what will come next if we stay together after the wedding, but for the first time in my life, I welcome some happy uncertainty.”

Without warning, he tackled me, pressing me back against the couch cushions until I was lying prone beneath him. I yelped in surprise, then sighed a moment later when he settled more comfortably on top of me. His forearms came to rest on either side of my head, bracketing me, his lips less than an inch away from mine.

The look on his face was full of such unbridled joy it took my breath away.

“I meant what I said the other day, Amelia. I will never ask you to change anything about yourself just for me,” he murmured. “You are perfect and brilliant, just as you are. Every day you let me be near you will be perfect, too. No matter how many days there are, in the end.”

As he kissed me, my mind drifted back to the night we first met. How wild he’d seemed to me then, with his trench coat and impossible questions. How ridiculous a request it had seemed to pretend to laugh with him.

I don’t know how to pretend , I’d explained.

Maybe I’d gotten a little better at pretending since then. How fittingly ironic it was that now, at Gretchen’s wedding, there would be no more pretending between us at all.