“I’m not going to let her hurt you,” he said, rubbing his throat. There would be a bruise there in the morning, he was sure of it. To the vampire, he snapped, “What’s the meaning of all this?”

“We need to talk. Get rid of her for a minute.” The vampire gestured to the table. “It won’t take long.”

“Go ahead. Go,” he urged Mouse, giving her a push toward the other half of the apartment. He followed her, his eyes never leaving the vampire. What he would do if she tried to attack, he had no clue, but he hoped his warning gaze would make her behave.

Mouse went cautiously to the bed and sat down stiffly, watching. The vampire kicked out the chair Cyrus had been seated in and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her leather vest, tapping them on the table. “Simon Seymour. At last we meet.”

“We haven’t really met. You haven’t told me who you are.” He grimaced at the realization he’d answered to his old name. “And it’s Cyrus now.”

“I’ve heard.” She extended her hand. Her grip was powerful. “Call me Angie. I hear you throw a mean New Year’s party. Sit down.”

“Some are meaner than others.” He nursed his crushed hand discreetly as he sat opposite her. “What’s going on?”

She pulled a cigarette from the pack and offered it to him. Though he’d given up smoking before his death—finding tables in restaurants had been an annoying affair in the health-conscious nineties—he accepted it gratefully. His nerves were painfully raw from the ordeal of the last few days. He’d try anything to take the edge off.

Angie leaned back and regarded him a moment, before admitting, “I just came down to make sure you survived this long. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to tell you.”

“Start with who put you up to this.” He mimicked her casual pose and inhaled a lungful of the acrid smoke. Centuries of indulgence hadn’t been wiped away by death. He didn’t cough or falter, and even produced a perfect smoke ring on the exhale. “Was it my father?”

“Does anyone else have the kind of connections required to bring someone back from the dead?” She raised an eyebrow.

He’d suspected the Soul Eater had done this. Still, icy cold crept up his spine now that his suspicions had been confirmed. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Didn’t say. He gave me two-hundred thousand to get the job done. I would have asked for more if I’d known how much work goes into it. But you don’t break a promise to the big S.E.”

“Address him properly,” Cyrus snapped, out of habit more than respect. How could his father have done this to him?