by Amy Sumida
That door led to Sam's office where, in addition to his mammoth desk, the Baron had a herd of monitors showing him all the areas of his shop and club. He'd doubtless watched us walk in. In fact, I was pretty sure he had some cameras outside the shop as well. Which meant he probably saw us walk up and had taken the time to make a dramatic entrance. Baron Samedi loved making an entrance.
“Elaria Tanager,” Sam drawled as he swaggered around the counter. “I didn't expect to see you again so soon, cherie.”
“Hey, Sam.”
The Baron had on his idea of the height of male fashion; a deep purple shirt, open to the waist to show off his trim abs, black trousers, a tailcoat, polished wingtips, and a top hat. A silver skull ring glinted from his pinky finger as he took a puff on his fat cigar. He looked like the Voodoo-stripper version of Fred Astaire. And yes, Sam wore the hat indoors. He probably wore the damn thing in the shower. It made his tall, slim frame look even taller, almost skeletal, and when he smiled, his gleaming white teeth added to the illusion, appearing even whiter against his deep umber skin. He hugged me with one arm as his other politely held his cigar away from me. Then he turned his ten-thousand-kilowatt grin on Slate.
“Mr. Devon, it's an honor to have you in my establishment. Would you care for a cigar? On the house, of course.”
“No, thank you. I don't smoke,” Slate said as he shook Sam's hand.
The Baron looked as if he'd been punched in the gut. “You don't smoke? Why not?”
“Never developed a taste for it.”
“Then we need to start that development immediately!” Sam exclaimed. “Let's see, something light to begin with.” He turned to head into the humidor.
“Sam, we're not here for the cigars. We need to talk to you,” I called after him.
Samedi froze, one foot hovering above the ground. He carefully placed it down then shifted back in our direction with a graceful pivot.
“You're here for a visit?” His grin widened. “In that case, come with me.”
Sam led us through a door on the right side of the room; the entrance to his club. I cringed but followed. Slate's hand slipped into mine and when I glanced up at him, he drew me into his side protectively.
“I'm fine,” I whispered to him. “I'm just not thrilled about you seeing what I used to do for a living.”
“Nothing here will change my opinion... of...” Slate trailed off as he got a good look at Samedi's gentlemen's club.
The décor was Victorian Voodoo. Velvet couches and armchairs congregated over plush Persian rugs, ringed by bookshelves and curio cabinets full of strange objects; tribal masks, libation bottles, and assorted items covered in mystical symbols. Tasseled lamps shed warm halos of light and ashtrays perched on tiny tables all around the room. A haze of smoke hovered near the ceiling like a gathering storm.
The patrons were dressed similar to Samedi in semi-suits with flashy watches and thick gold chains to show off their wealth. Not even nouveau riche, these were Bazaar business owners putting on airs. They sucked on their expensive cigars, sipped their rare beneather liquor, and congratulated each other on minor victories as they mentally counted their money and ogled the girls who lit their smokes and brought them drinks. None of that fazed Slate; it was the waitresses who had thrown him.
Loosely keeping with the Victorian theme, Samedi's girls were dressed as if they worked at the Moulin Rouge. Corsets on top and ruched skirts below, accented by fishnet stockings, red lipstick, and very high heels. Their hair was done in fat curls, dangling over bare shoulders, and they sashayed through the room holding their trays at a height perfect for drawing attention to their ample cleavage. I knew about the tray trick because Samedi himself had taught it to me.
“You did this?” Slate looked at me with wide eyes.
“It was a long time ago,” I muttered as I started dragging him through the room.
“Do you still have the outfit?”
I stopped and stared at Slate over my shoulder, blinking in surprise. “No. Of course, not.”
“Would you wear it if I bought you one?” Slate smirked lopsidedly.
I turned on my heel and pressed up against Slate's chest, giving him a naughty look from beneath my lashes. “When has the Zone Lord ever asked his Spellsinger if she would wear something for him?” I purred. “He just points and tells her to put it on.”
Slate inhaled sharply and let it out slowly, his eyes molten and glowing. “I'm buying you a tray too.”
I laughed low in my throat. My gargoyle loved it when I let him pretend that he was still in control of me; the Zone Lord and his captive Spellsinger. Ironic, now that I think about it. He'd been so vocal about not wanting to control me. But then again, the type of control Slate craved was more about sex than ego. It was just a game to him, which was what made it fun instead of demeaning.
“Hey! You two coming?” Samedi called back to us.
“I'll need a bit longer for that,” Slate murmured to me.
My laughter deepened as I pushed away from the Zone Lord then started pulling him along again. We followed Samedi into a private back room; antique wallpaper, wood wainscoting, and a single, round table in the center. A decanter waited on a tray in the middle of the table with four brandy snifters huddled around it. They glowed beneath the light of a stained glass chandelier.
“Please.” Samedi waved toward the seats. “Would you like some Beneather brandy? You do drink, don't you?”
“That I do,” Slate confirmed. “And yes, I'd love a brandy.”
“Wonderful!” Samedi started pouring. “Elaria, would you care for a glass?”
“Sure. Why not? Is it Urlan?”
“Only the finest for my guests,” Samedi confirmed as he passed out the glasses and then sat back to enjoy his. “The Loups make a damn good brandy.”
“We were recently on Urla,” I tossed out the tidbit because I knew Sam expected a certain amount of socializing before we got down to business.
“You were?” Sam asked with genuine interest.
“We put their god, Osander, to sleep.” I nodded.
Sam whistled. “So, you really did sing the Gods back to sleep? I'd heard the rumors but—” He shrugged.
“It was a team effort,” I insisted. “Osander was one of the most difficult to deal with.”
“I'll bet.” Samedi chuckled. “His children aren't exactly easy-going.”
“You have a very nice club,” Slate said diplomatically.
Samedi's dark eyes lit up. “I appreciate you saying that. Coming from a zone lord, that's something special indeed.” His grin warmed, and he glanced from me back to Slate. “Now, what did you wish to discuss with me? I assume this about the favor I owe you?”
Samedi may behave foolishly sometimes, but he was no fool. He winked as if to say that he'd known all along what we were there for.
“That it is,” Slate admitted. “It's come to my attention that you are acquainted with some people I wish to meet.”
“You want an introduction?” Samedi asked in shock. “That's all?”
“Not exactly.” Slate smiled his zone lord grin; the one that made people start bowing or begging to do whatever he wanted. “I want an invitation to a party.”
“An invitation?” Samedi frowned.
I could practically see the gears turning in that sharp mind; the thoughts tumbling over what invitation he could possibly acquire for Slate that the powerful gargoyle couldn't get for himself. I saw the exact moment when Sam pounced on the answer. His eyes widened and a shrewd grin spread across his face.
“It wouldn't happen to be the Demos party that you wish to attend?”
“That would be the one,” Slate confirmed.
“What are you up to, Slate Devon?” Samedi leaned forward and peered at my gargoyle intensely. “You're not the type of man to consort with known criminals. At least, not in a social manner.”
“Philip Demos is harboring some particularly nasty beneathers,” Slate said smoothly. “I won
't endanger you by giving you the particulars, but I will say that the men I'm after are just as diabolical as Kimiko.”
Samedi's expression hardened. “That fucking kitsune bitch is evil incarnate. She did things to my friends that no sane person would even have nightmares about. You telling me that Demos has people like that in his crew?”
“That's exactly what I'm telling you.”
I pressed my lips together to keep my expression blank. I was damn impressed by the slick story Slate wove and his perfect delivery. It wasn't exactly a lie but it wasn't the whole truth either.
Samedi let out a long breath. “I appreciate you not involving me.” He shook his head and whistled. “Philip Demos isn't a man I want to make an enemy of.”
“I understand,” Slate said grimly. “You can tell him the truth; that you owed me a favor, and I asked for an introduction. Tell him that you figured the party would be a good place for us to meet.”
“Hell, Devon, I don't have to bother with all that.” Samedi grinned. “I'll just bring you two as my guests then wander off as soon as we're aboard. No one will even know it was me who got you there.”
“I don't want to look like a party crasher,” Slate protested. “I need to be there legitimately.”
Sam pursed his lips and then nodded. “You don't want to set off alarm bells. Okay, I get it. I'll go with your story. The best lies have a foundation of truth.”
I nearly choked on my brandy; it was too close to what I'd been thinking about Slate.
“Thank you.” Slate leaned forward to shake Sam's hand.
“Nonsense. This is nothing. I'm happy to help if it means putting another psychopath in your arena.”
“Baron Samedi, justice fighter,” I teased.
“That has a nice ring to it.” Sam lifted his glass. “To justice.”
“To justice,” Slate and I repeated and clicked our glasses to his.
Chapter Nine
“That was impressive,” I said to Slate on our way back to Cerberus' office.
“I run a zone, Elaria.” Slate slid an amused grin my way. “Are you really surprised that I can handle my own in a business deal?”
“No, but it was still impressive. You've got a silver tongue to match your eyes.”
“Which do you prefer?” His voice dropped into a sexy rumble as he pulled me against his side.
I stared up into that bright stare, gleaming metallic in the moonlight, and shook my head. “I honestly can't decide. At the moment, your eyes are taking the lead.”
Slate's gaze heated and softened all at once, sliding over my face as if he were trying to decide on what he liked best about me as well.
“Stop that,” I chided breathlessly. “Or I'll end up pulling you down a dark alley to take advantage of you like a bazaar broad.”
“A bazaar broad?” He lifted a dark brow.
“A prostitute who works the streets instead of in a whorehouse,” I explained.
“Hmm,” Slate made an interested sound as he ducked his head to nuzzle my neck. “How exactly would a bazaar broad take advantage of me?”
“I'll show you later... after we've left the bazaar,” I promised as I pulled out of his embrace and drew him down the street.
“Tease.” Slate chuckled as he stepped up beside me. “What's the rush? They're not expecting us back right away. Show me around your old stomping grounds.”
We had stayed awhile at Samedi's, celebrating our new association with brandy and then dinner. I had asked Kyanite to let Darc know what was up so I didn't have to interrupt the festivities with a call on my contact charm. Ky reported back that the men were sorting through information that had been pouring in from Cer's contacts and his security teams so they were good with Slate and me taking our time. We had lingered so long that the moon was out and the wrought-iron street lamps had come on.
The sound of revelry filtered out of several Lwa bars, punching up every time patrons stumbled out into the street. Vendors lined the lanes, offering their greasy fare to the appreciative club crowd. There in the Lwa Stretch, the food tended toward the heavily-spiced fare of the Lwa's native planet, Lavilokan, in the Ginea Realm. Sam had served us a similar meal, though a bit more refined than the dripping meat wrapped in soft pieces of bread that the vendors offered. I was close to being painfully full, but I still couldn't resist the lure of a coffee stall. The vendor was selling the good stuff; dark and sweetened with sugar and the Lavilokan spice mix they called agafu.
“If you want a tour, I'm going to need some caffeine,” I declared as I veered toward the cart.
I bought one for us to share but laced it with too much cream for Slate's taste so he ended up buying his own. Coffees in hand, we strolled through the Bazaar as I pointed out my favorite places and nodded to the people who called out greetings to me. It was fun to reminisce with Slate and share some of my past with him. So fun that when we passed out of the Lwa Stretch and into a neutral portion of the Bazaar, I took Slate to the right instead of turning left to head toward Cerberus Security.
I wove us across the Bazaar's width, past the Kitsune Stretch and down a more quiet lane. The thump of the Loup clubs a couple of streets over could be faintly heard but other than that, the area had the peaceful hush of a suburban neighborhood at midnight. The shops in the lane had closed for the night and foot traffic thinned down to just a few beneathers, all intent on getting home.
“That's where I lived with Cerberus.” I stopped and pointed up to the top floor of one of the buildings.
All of the architecture in the Bazaar was made of stone, with buildings pressed tightly against their neighbors so that it seemed to be one continuous construction. With the web of bridges and balconies connecting them overhead, it was impossible to find a building that stood on its own. The Bazaar had been built on solidarity, several beneather races had banded together to create it, and it showed.
The apartment I'd shared with Cerberus wasn't anything special, just one of the numerous tiny homes in the Bazaar. But it had been special to us. We found freedom there together. We learned to live without our family taking care of us, and we created a new family. Staring up at the dark window brought back all of those memories. The nights when homesickness had been a sharp ache in my chest; an ache that Cerberus shared. We eased it with laughter and friends and adventures. We ran wild here; sowed our beneather oats. I lost my virginity in that little apartment, on my swan-down mattress set right on the floor. Cerberus had come home shortly after the act had been completed and gave the guy hell but then he'd celebrated with me after my date left. Tadeo. I couldn't remember his last name, but he was a kitsune, and he'd made my first time worth celebrating.
“What's that smile about?” Slate slid his arm around my waist.
“Just remembering what it was like to be young and wild here.” I grinned up at him.
“You and Cerberus never...”
I lifted a brow and smirked.
“You never had sex with him?” He managed to get it out. “Sometimes he says things that make me wonder.”
“No; never. Cer and I have known from the start that we'd be better friends than lovers. He's family. It really would be like sleeping with my brother.”
“I understand.” Slate grinned. “And, to be honest, I'm relieved.”
“Come on, I'll show you our favorite bar.”
I sipped my coffee as I led the way through the labyrinthine lanes, my feet automatically taking a path they'd taken thousands of times before even though those times were over two centuries ago. The Bazaar never changed. The world outside it did but not the Beneather Bazaar.
We were within sight of the Cauldron, my favorite bar in the Witch Stretch, when a pebble of golems—“pebble” being the common term for a small group of the stony folk—stepped into our path. There were six of them, all with craggy faces and menacing grins. Their skin had a sepia tone to it, a clear indication that they were from Vicaris, the desert region of the Golem home planet of Shalan.
; The brute in front dusted off his hands gleefully, a cloud of dried clay puffing around him; remnants of his last meal. You know how the human body is mostly made of water? Golems are mostly made of stone, and they need to consume minerals found in rocks, clay, and mud to survive. When they first settled in the Middle East, they made an alliance with the Jews, who had helped them find the best places to mine their meals and had given the Golems a home. In return for this hospitality, the Golems allowed the Jews to spread a story about secret spells that they used to bring clay to life. Everyone believed that the Jews had mystical power to create invincible soldiers. Golems fought for the Jews for many years before one of their princes ran off with a Jewish girl and caused a rift in Golem-Jew relations that never recovered.
