Lara phone call

I had Lara’s number on the speed dial on my cell phone. I gave her a ring.
“Brother-mine,” purred my eldest sister, her voice pure honey. It was the kind of voice that would give men ideas —really bad ideas, though they’d never realize that part. “You hardly ever call me anymore.”
“I’ve hardly ever called you, Lara. Period.” I ignored the lure she was sliding into her voice. She’d fed very recently—or was doing so at the moment. “What do you want?”
“You received my e-mail?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a project I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Why?”
“Take a look at it,” she said. “You’ll understand.”
The line was supposedly secure, but we both knew how much that was worth. Neither of us would mention any details over the phone— and we certainly would not use the word oblivion. Too many Venatori had discovered, too late, that the enemy had very sharp ears, and that they would swiftly carry the war into the homes of those careless enough not to guard their tongues.
It had been nearly eight years since I had been involved in the Oblivion War. I suppose I had known I couldn’t avoid being drawn back into the fight forever. Lara, the only other Venator in the White Court, was largely occupied with her current responsibilities—namely, spending her days manipulating our father like a puppet on her psychic strings and ruling the White Court from the shadows behind his throne. Naturally, if something came up, she would pass it along to me to deal with.
“I’m busy,” I told her.
“Grooming pets?” she said. “Trimming their fur? Checking for fleas? Priorities, brother-mine.”
Lara is most annoying when she has a point. “Where do you want to meet?”
She laughed, a warm little sound. “Tommy, Tommy, I’m flattered you want to be with me, but no. I’ve no time to spend playing games with you. I’ve sent a courier with everything you need and . . . Mmmmmm.” Her voice turned into a sensual little purr of pleasure. “You know the stakes. Don’t ask too many questions, brother-mine,” she murmured. “Don’t start using that pretty little head for anything taxing. Go back to your apartment. Talk to the courier. Take the job. Or you and I are going to have a very . . . ahhhhh . . .” Her breathing sped up. “A very serious falling-out.”
I could hear other soft sounds in the background, and another voice. A woman. Maybe two. Most of my family isn’t what you’d call particular, when it comes to feeding on mortals.


Side Jobs, Backup, Page 176-177