Hex Life

by Rachel Deering

The banner had just gone up in the window: a standard graphic of a coffee cup with steam coming off it. What wasn’t normal was that the steam formed a skull and crossbones. Not a bad image for a Morganville shop, but as he snapped a quick cell-phone picture of it, Shane knew it meant real trouble.

  “Yep, it’s definitely a coffee shop,” his wife Claire confirmed as she sipped her mocha from Common Grounds, which sat directly on the opposite side of the street.

  They were sitting near the window. Outside, an awning stretched over the sidewalk to block out the blazing noon sunlight; heat shimmered off the road between the two stores, and it had the effect of animating the skull and crossbones. Weird and not okay. None of this was okay, Shane thought.

  “Who are the owners? Do you know?” asked Claire.

  “Nope,” he said. “But I’d better find out fast. Picking a spot like that is just asking for a fight. I guess my next stop is City Hall. Somebody has to have something, right?”

  “I’ll check with Oliver, if you like.”

  “Check about what?” asked an antique English accent, and Oliver was suddenly standing right there at their table, staring out the window as he wiped down a freshly washed mug with a hand towel.

  He broke the mug by squeezing it too hard. From this angle, Shane couldn’t tell if the vampire’s eyes had gone blood-red, but he didn’t doubt it. Oliver was old, for a vamp, both in years and in general appearance; he’d been frozen in late middle age, sharp features and graying hair, and he didn’t suffer fools. He never suffered anything, really. He just transferred that to somebody else, usually the person standing next to him.

  He knew better than to try it with Shane or Claire. That was some comfort.

  “Way to waste your blood donations,” Shane said, and nodded at the cuts that had opened up in Oliver’s hand. Thick, dark-red blood was dripping from the palm: darker than regular human blood, and slower to trickle out. Oliver cursed under his breath and wrapped the towel around his hand, then went back to glaring at the competition. The competition did not burst into flames or run in terror. It didn’t seem to notice. Oliver wasn’t used to that.

  From the counter, Eve Rosser (she’d kept her last name after marriage, to which Claire had given a big thumbs up) said, “Boss, I’m not cleaning that blood up. Just so you know.” She was a tall, gorgeous lady, and lately she’d been working out and building muscle on those arms; it looked good on her. “What the hell is going on? Trouble?”

  Oliver made a low sound in his throat, like a purr that built to a growl. Kind of confusing, that sound. Claire met Shane’s eyes and raised her brows. Took another sip.

  Oliver’s temper wasn’t unusual. But that weird sound definitely was.

  Eve came over and handed Oliver another mug. This one was full of blood. “Drink,” she said. “You sound hungry.”

  “I sound angry,” he shot back, but he took the mug and downed it in two gulps. Thrust it back at her. “I have to go.”

  “Go where? It’s the middle of the day,” Eve said. Vampires like Oliver—even as old as Oliver was—didn’t generally go out for noon strolls… but that question was already moot, because Oliver had yanked open the door of Common Grounds and was striding across the street, in full sun, without even a hat. “Jesus. Somebody better go after him. But not me because I deeply don’t want to lose this job.”

  Oliver’s skin started crisping and smoking halfway across the street, but he didn’t speed up or slow down. There was something relentless about his pace. And Shane sighed and got up.

  “Fine,” he said. “Guess this is my problem now.” He put on his white Stetson. It was a good one, fitted to his head, but the gold police emblem on it made it heavier than he liked.

  Claire stood up too, watching Oliver, and gave him a quick kiss. “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  He bent to give their baby girl—asleep in her carrier—a kiss on her chubby little cheek, drew in the clean, sweet smell of her skin, and kept that with him as a talisman as he walked after Oliver across the street. It was a baking hell of a day, typical for summer in this part of Texas; humidity close to zero, but temps that threatened to flatten you in minutes anyway. But it’s a dry heat, he told himself with the proper degree of sarcasm.

  Being chief of police in this isolated, insular town was bad enough without the vampires; it was still a dead-end town for humans, even though things were better now than they’d ever been. The vamps lived in their own enclaves for the most part, and though they’d given up some of the businesses in town to human ownership, they certainly hadn’t ceded all of them. Two hundred vamps, twelve hundred human souls, and most of the wealth still concentrated among the undead.

  One of those human souls belonged to his precious infant daughter, and that had shifted Shane’s perspective quite a bit. He’d never been a fan of vamps; he’d just learned to live with them. Now, it was different. He had a family to protect, not just from the random hunger pangs of some nightstalker, but from the things even the vampires feared.

  Having some pop-up coffee store across from Common Grounds? That was a clear, obvious challenge to the powers-that-be of this town. The Founder, Amelie. Oliver, her lieutenant and enforcer, especially. Having the balls to do that meant someone had come to town who was either desperately stupid… or had serious power. Neither was good.

  Oliver had already opened the door to the shop on the far side of the street. Shane lengthened his stride—long legs for the win—and got there just a few steps behind.

  Coming out of the fierce sun felt like walking face-first into a black velvet curtain, and he blinked fast and hard to try to adjust his eyes. The smell hit him next. What was that? Cookies? His mouth started to water. Oliver’s shop never smelled this good.

  “Hey there, my very first customers,” said a cheerful voice. Not a Texas accent, not even East Texas; more of a Deep South thing. Georgia, maybe, mint juleps and sweet tea from syrup. “Welcome, both of you, to Dark Brews. Sorry about the lights. Can I fix you something, boys?”

  Her voice was bigger than she was. The woman was even smaller than Claire, though lush in her curves. Shane’s first thought was that she was about thirty, but then sunlight from the window hit her a different way and he revised the estimate up to fifty. Long blond hair worn straight. Clear blue eyes. Skin the color of gold dust that she must have gotten out of a pretty expensive tanning bed.

  Oliver stopped halfway to the counter. The woman stood on the other side. It didn’t protect her a bit, but she didn’t seem to even notice his stillness or the threat that came with it. She smiled and set out Texas-sized cookies on plates, and if she realized who Oliver was she damn sure didn’t show it.

  “I don’t want whatever swill you think to serve here,” Oliver said. “I want you gone, Jane.”

  Jane? Shane drew in a breath, then let it out without speaking. The hope that all this was some kind of innocent mistake was gone. Jane, whoever she was, intended to be here, across from Oliver’s shop. And she wasn’t here to make cookies.

  “Oh, stop,” Jane said, and smiled. It was an objectively adorable smile, with dimples, and almost flirty. Was that a wink? Shane couldn’t be sure. “You old sweet talker, you. Sit yourself down. What’s your poison these days, Oliver? AB? Or are you off the red stuff now?”

  “Jane.” Oliver’s tone was a stone wall, a locked gate, and a moat on fire. “You aren’t welcome here. You need to leave Morganville. Now.”

  “Well, I can’t do that, now can I? I just got this place open! Why, I haven’t even made my first sale yet. Would you like to be the first?” She stood there, hands on her hips. She looked utterly unthreatening, open, and friendly. She turned to Shane. “How about you, sweet thing? You can have you a nice cup of coffee, not that nasty old stuff they serve across the street, and take a pastry to go. On the house.”

  He wasn’t sure what was going on here, and he certainly didn’t like being stuck in the middle of it. “Sorry?”

  “He’s n
ot quick, is he?” Jane asked Oliver.

  “Leave him alone. He’s not meat for your table.”

  She stopped smiling, and everything changed. Oh, she was still little and rounded and dressed in hot pink and frills; she still had big blue eyes and the same skin. But she looked old. And incredibly dangerous.

  Shane put a hand on the butt of his gun.

  “If you draw that stupid thing, I’m going to have to refuse service,” Jane said. “And cook that arm for my dinner. Oh, who am I kidding, I’ll feed it to the cat.”

  “Who the hell is she?” Shane asked Oliver. “Jane who?”

  “You wouldn’t know her,” Oliver said. “She’s nothing. No one.”

  “Unlike you,” Jane said, and crossed her arms. “You continue being someone, don’t you, old man? You always end up on your feet, never your knees.”

  “You’re a vampire,” Shane said. It was the only thing that made sense to him.

  “Oh lordy no. Can’t stand the sight of blood.” She nodded slowly at Oliver. “Go on. Tell him who I am.”

  “What do you want from me, Jane?”

  Her accent shifted effortlessly from honeyed Southern USA to something rougher, older, and… English. Like Oliver’s. “What I always wanted. Justice.”

  “Jane. Stop this.”

  “You remember me now? Well, I’m surprised. I was so insignificant that you didn’t even write down my name when you ordered my death.”

  Oliver went very quiet again. Shane forced himself to walk up all the way to the counter. He leaned on the wood and looked at the very small woman with the very old eyes. She didn’t blink. “Look, I get it,” he said. “Oliver’s a son of a bitch. But the thing is, he’s our son of a bitch. I don’t know you, lady. So why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  “Revenge,” she said. “Toil. Trouble. Dire and murderous things. And to teach this town how to make a really good cup of coffee.” She popped that smile again, and years melted away from her. “Here, sugar. You take it black, I suppose? Most cops do.”

  Shane looked down to find a huge, chunky mug sitting on the counter between them filled with what looked and smelled like fresh coffee. Best coffee he’d ever smelled, if he was honest. And one of those cookies sat next to it.

  “Go on,” Jane said. “Free. I always support our brave officers.”

  Oliver said, “Shane. Don’t.” There was real urgency in his voice. And Shane intended to follow that advice. But there was something about that smell, that delicious, incredible smell that made his fingers wrap around the handle and lift it and take one sip. Just one.

  The taste was foul, but only for a flash of an instant, and then it was the best damn thing he’d ever tasted. It exploded in spirals through his whole body, a kiss of earth and bliss, and he was drinking more before he could stop himself.

  It only got better.

  Then the cup was empty, and he felt sick and shaky. He set it down with a rattle on the counter and realized he was breathing too fast. He braced himself on the wood and looked up.

  Jane smiled. Perfect, even teeth. “Why, Officer, you’d think you saw the devil himself,” that sweet Southern voice said. “Another round?”

  The worst thing was that he wanted to say yes. His brain was screaming at him that he’d just done something stupid, incredibly stupid, but it was also telling him that it wasn’t his fault. And that felt wrong, and also very, very familiar. He’d been here before. A vampire had scrambled his brains and led him around as her pet for a while, and this felt horribly the same.

  Shane stumbled backward, and felt a strong pair of hands grip and hold him upright when his knees threatened to buckle. “Jane, leave the boy,” Oliver said. “What do you want?”

  “You,” she replied. “I want blood. I will have justice before the sun rises, or this town will burn.”

  Shane didn’t remember leaving. His head didn’t seem right anymore, not until he was back across the street and Claire was pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. “What just happened?” he asked her. She looked grim.

  “Feel like going to a meeting?” she asked. “Because I think we’d better find out.”

  Eve, who was standing next to his chair, rolled her eyes. It was such a familiar gesture that he felt instantly better. “God, you’d think he’d be less faint-y after growing up in this town,” she said. “Hey, Shane? Don’t you dare die on me.” She paused. “Uh… how good was their coffee? Asking for a friend.”

  He sighed. “Honestly? It was great.”

  “Shit.”

  * * *

  The meeting, not surprisingly, was held in the vampire stronghold, in Amelie’s meeting room, and it was a war council. Amelie sat at the head of the table, looking as cool as ever; she was an elegant woman, agelessly beautiful, with soft blond hair swept into a gravity-defying style from the 1960s. Her pale gray silk suit matched her eyes. At her right hand sat Oliver, who’d changed from his tie-dyed Common Grounds t-shirt and jeans into a pair of black trousers, severe white shirt, and black velvet coat. The only touch of color to him was a flare of red in the jacket lining.

  Claire held baby Carrie in her arms on Amelie’s left hand, and Shane had claimed the chair beside them even if it wasn’t technically his spot. Mayor Hannah Moses sat next to him; she hadn’t dressed up for the occasion, but somehow her simple jeans and worn denim shirt looked like battle armor to him.

  Michael arrived a minute later. Michael Glass, Shane’s best friend. Vampire, after a brief shift back to human that hadn’t quite lasted. He liked being a vampire. He was comfortable with it.

  And he was by himself. “Where’s Eve?” Shane asked. Michael looked the same as he had at eighteen, which was becoming a little weird; Shane, twenty-five, could feel the difference. Eve had aged along with the rest of them, thank God. She’d backed off the Goth makeup lately, though she still liked dramatic eye treatments and dyed-black hair.

  Michael slid into the seat beside Oliver, probably because he was one of the few Oliver wouldn’t backhand for taking the liberty. Amelie made a point of checking her watch and raising her eyebrows; it would have shattered most people, but Michael just raised his brows back and said, “Eve closed up and went home to look after the kid. Seemed like a good day to be off the streets.”

  Amelie didn’t quite roll her eyes, but she came damn close. “Excellent. One child at the table is quite enough.”

  “Hey, Carrie’s being good,” Claire said, without the slightest bit of defensiveness. “Besides, you know she likes you.”

  The baby did love Amelie. She was fascinated right now, staring at the vampire’s ageless face, the sparkling diamond necklace at her throat. Amelie stared at the kid like she was viewing an odd specimen, then smiled. It was an unexpectedly sweet expression, and Carrie burbled and kicked and smiled back. Don’t do that, Shane wanted to tell his daughter. Don’t think they’re your friends. He felt his hands ache with the urge to grab Carrie and take her out of here, somewhere safe.

  “Oliver,” Amelie said, still smiling. “I’m waiting to hear why this meeting is necessary.”

  “Aren’t we still waiting for the idiot to arrive?” Oliver asked sourly. Amelie kept smiling with her attention on the baby.

  “The idiot’s here,” said a voice from the door, as it opened and slammed shut. Myrnin stepped in with a dramatic flair, and twirled. He was wearing some eighteenth-century frock coat in stained, tattered silk over fleece pajamas with fluffy sheep on them. Shane couldn’t see his feet over the table, but he guessed Myrnin would have found himself a new pair of fluffy vampire bunny slippers. They were his favorites. “Did you miss me, dear Ollie?”

  “Shut up,” Oliver said. “Sit down.”

  “I can’t,” Myrnin said. “I made a vow to an Elder God that I’ll never sit down again and—”

  “Sit,” Amelie said, and Myrnin instantly took a chair, put folded hands on the table, and looked attentive. She gave him a tiny shake of her head, but she never lost her smile. It was
getting unsettling. “Go on, Oliver.”

  “Jane Penwell’s come to town,” he said. “She’s come for me.”

  Amelie stood up. It was an instant thing, not a motion—the way vampires moved when they were startled. One blink she was relaxed and smiling at Carrie; the next she was on her feet, rigid and cold, staring at Oliver. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her do that. She’d relaxed quite a bit over the past few years.

  But she damn sure wasn’t complacent. “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Who turned her?”

  “No one,” Oliver said. “She isn’t one of us. She’s… different.”

  “The witch can’t be alive. How did you not know of this the instant she came to town?”

  “Ask him,” Oliver said, and gestured toward Myrnin. Amelie transferred her pale, sharp gaze to Morganville’s resident mad scientist vampire, who seemed not to really notice. He was bending over and staring at the wood of the table.

  “Myrnin,” Amelie snapped.

  “There’s a ghost in there,” he said, as if that made any damn sense, and straightened up. “Sorry, what’s the question?”

  “There’s a witch running a new coffee shop across the street from Common Grounds, and we don’t know how she got there,” Michael said. “Keep up, man.”

  “But… none of the usual alarms went off,” Myrnin said. “My my my. Perhaps there’s a problem with the…” He didn’t finish the thought. He bent over and sniffed the table instead. “Definitely a ghost. I thought you should know, dear lady. You might want to have an exorcist in. Or a carpenter. Whichever.”

  “Myrnin.”

  “You’re quite sure the woman’s a witch?” Myrnin asked. “Well, I suppose you are. You being the expert on such things, I mean. Didn’t you burn quite a few of them in your day? Understandable, it’s so cold in Scotland in the winter…”

  “Generally they were strangled,” Oliver said coolly. “Do get it right.”

  “And you made her acquaintance while you were gadding about slaying clansmen and enforcing your particular brand of puritan zeal all over the bodies of suspected witches.”