I tugged at the neckline of my glitter tee and reached for the ice water sitting in front of me. A huge gulp, and the glass was empty. I signaled the waitress for a refill.
“You sure I can’t get you anything else?” She paused when she finished topping me off.
Melba Donelli. Mid-forties. Married. No kids. She wore a bright pink uniform and white Keds. Her bright red hair was teased and sprayed within an inch of its life and she wore an even brighter red lipstick. A Jersey native, she’d been born and raised just a few blocks over. She knew everybody in the neighborhood. She also knew every piece of gossip.
“A piece of pie?” she went on. “A burger? Tonight’s special is meatloaf.” She wiggled her carefully painted-on brows. “How’s about I cut you a nice big slice?”
“No, thanks. Could you tell me what time it is?”
“Five minutes since you asked the last time.” She shook her head. “Can I give you a piece of advice, sugar?” I nodded and she added, “If he ain’t here by now, he ain’t coming. You ought to just cut your losses, have some pie, and start fresh again tomorrow. Life is one great big cookie and you can bet there are plenty of chocolate chips where that one came from.”
Her meaning hit and I shook my head. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not waiting on a date—”
“A date,” she cut in, “a friend, an acquaintance, a sex buddy—whatever you kids call it these days—you’re much too pretty to let some guy string you along. You ought to be out living it up instead of warming the vinyl in a place like this. Bowling. Now there’s a fun pastime for you, and a surefire way to meet a man.”
“Bowling, you say?” Hey, I’m always looking for new hook-up venues.
She nodded. “Met my husband Don when I joined the Rock ’n Bowlers over at Fairbridge Alleys. Watched him bowl that first strike and bam, I fell hard and fast. I showed him my curve technique and we’ve been together ever since. Just celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. He got us matching balls.”
I smiled. “He sounds like a keeper.”
“You’re telling me.” A wicked gleam lit her eyes. “And lemme tell ya, the man knows how to bowl a strike, if you know what I mean. Say, my Don has a younger brother. Been divorced a couple of times, but only because he has a bad habit of mistaking sex for love. I swear the boy’s a nympho—but then what man isn’t, right? Forget the tramps, I tell him. Find yourself a nice girl.” She eyed me. “You look like a nice girl.”
“Thanks, but I’m already seeing someone.”
Or I would be just as soon as I saved Evie from the bowels of Hell and called Remy.
Lil Tremaine. Lilliana Tremaine. Princess Lilliana Tremaine.
It had a ring to it.
Sort of.
“It figures,” Melba went on. “The good ones are always taken.”
“Not necessarily.” I thought about Mia and the crappy time she was undoubtedly having with Word at that very moment. “I just might be able to help him out.” I pulled a DED card from my wallet. “Tell him to give me a call and I’ll find him the perfect woman.”
She eyed me again. “You sure you’re spoken for?”
“Yes.” The word came out as more of a croak than the confident reply of a born vampire eager and excited to take the next step in her life.
Princess Lilliana Marchette-Tremaine.
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t happen to have a chocolate martini, would you?”
“I’ve got chocolate meringue pie?”
“That’ll work.” Hey, if I couldn’t drink it, I could at least smell it.
Just as Melba walked away, the bell on the front door jingled and the youngest priest I’d ever seen walked in. His hair was mussed and he had a zit on his chin.
No, seriously. A zit.
“Father Duke?”
He shook his head. “I’m Father Bryce.”
No, seriously. Bryce.
“Father Duke’s assistant,” he added. His gaze collided with mine and his stats ticked off one by one.
Father Bryce McGhee. Twenty-one. His two best friends had gone into the police academy and he’d joined the church. While most boys had spent their childhoods fantasizing about becoming a firefighter or a Power Ranger or Brett Favre, Bryce had envisioned himself as the Pope or Gandhi or Mr. Rogers.
No, seriously—never mind.
“So how long have you been a priest?”
“About six months. How about you?” He arched an eyebrow. “How long have you been a vampire?”
“My entire—wait a second.” I stared into his eyes, which glimmered with a knowing light. “I’m, uh, there’s no such thing,” I blurted. Vampires DO NOT exist. I sent the silent thought and he smiled.
“Forget it. It doesn’t work.”
I’d never heard of priests being immune to born-vamp charisma, but hey, what do I know? I wasn’t exactly the worldliest born vamp in existence. “Religious immunity?”
He shook his head. “Drugs. One tiny pill and bam, we’re vampire-proof.”
“Really?”
“No.” He started laughing. “Just a little secular humor. Actually, we’re vamp-proof because we’re celibate. Vampires are, in their most basic form, extremely sexual creatures. They draw power from their sexuality and influence others with the unspoken promise of pleasure of the flesh. Since I’m not interested in fleshly pleasures, I’m not susceptible. Of course, I’m not made of stone either, so I can still hear you. So how long?” he persisted.
“I…” I caught my bottom lip and debated my options. I could stay incognito, forget the exorcism, and head for the door, or I could shove him up against the nearest wall and pat him down for concealed weapons.
“Don’t worry,” he assurred me. “I’m in the demon department. The church, for the most part, leaves the vamps to the SOBs. We deal strictly with evil spirits.”
I stared deep into his eyes for a little confirmation. No, no stakes. But he did have a handheld cassette recorder in his coat pocket, a cellphone and a travel-sized toothbrush and floss because, while his mother had been a religious zealot, his father had been a dentist.
“I’ve been fanged and fabulous my entire life,” I finally said. “Five hundred years old.” And holding. “You couldn’t tell?”
“We’ve been trained to sniff out a vamp, but it’s impossible to know if they’re born or made. I’ve met my share of made ones, but you’re my first born vampire.” He whipped out the cellphone. “Do you mind if I get a picture?” He slid into the booth beside me, held out the phone to arm’s length, and snapped. The camera flashed and I blinked.
“Is that standard procedure? To take a picture of any vampire you meet?”
“Just the ones on TV. So far I’ve got you and Angelina Jolie.”
“Angelina?” I wasn’t an expert when it came to Others, but I knew my own kind. “She’s not a born vampire.”
“Made.” When I looked surprised, he added, “You didn’t think an actual human could be that hot, did you?”
The man had a point.
He slid off the vinyl and folded himself back in the seat opposite me. Excitement lit his gaze as he proofed the pic. “I can’t wait to show the monks over at Lady of the Blessed Virgin. They’re going to die—”
My ringtone cut off the rest of his sentence and I reached for my phone. “Could you excuse me one sec? I just need to get this. Don’t tell me you’re waiting until after the presents?” I asked Vinnie once I’d hit TALK.
“Communion.”
“At your mother’s birthday party?”
“I told you she’s very religious. Goes to Mass as often as I go to the crapper. Father Paul is even here—he’s the head priest from St. Anthony’s and he doesn’t come out for just anyone. The last time he attended a social event, he was at Madison Square Garden with Tyson. Anyhow, he’s going to say a few words and give my mother a special blessing before she starts opening her gifts.”
“And then you’re going to pop the question?”
“Damn straight. Just as soon as I do communion. And maybe pop a few more Rolaids. And definitely have a couple more drinks.” His voice took on a desperate note and my heart clinched. “Maybe I ought to forget the whole thing and just dedicate myself to killing vampires and Others.”
“Nonsense. You need someone to have fun with and make babies with and grow old with.” And, more important, someone to distract him from killing vampires and Others.
In particular, a certain fabulously dressed blond matchmaker in desperate need of an exorcism.
“Getting married is the right thing to do,” I went on. “You owe it to yourself. You owe it to your mother.”
“She did go through seventeen hours of labor.”
“Band-Aid,” I reminded him. “Don’t think about it,” I told him. “Just rip the sucker.”
“Right. Bye.”
“So what about the exorcism?” I asked after I slid the phone into my purse. “Can you do it?”
“That depends. While we take on cases that don’t meet the specific documentation requirements of the church, we still require proof of the possession. Father Duke will have to meet with the person to determine authentic possession.”
“And then?”
“If the person is truly possessed, he’ll do the exorcism immediately. So”—he pulled out a small black day planner—“let’s just take a look and see when he can meet with you. How about next Friday?”
“How about tomorrow?” When he shook his head, I added, “This is urgent. This isn’t just some nasty demon.”
“He’s wanted by the Prince brothers?”
“You know about Ash?”
“Of course we’ve heard of Ash Prince. He’s completely at odds with everything we stand for. We’re into preserving human life and salvaging souls, while his main goal is to maintain law and order. Satan’s law. If he wants this demon, your friend is as good as dead.”
“Which is why you have to schedule something sooner. My friend,” I started, and he flashed me a strange look. “That is, my assistant doesn’t have much time.”
“Let’s see.” He eyed the planner. “We’ve got a eulogy tomorrow evening, but I suppose I could set it up after that.”
“I’ll take it.”
He scribbled frantically. “There. It’s all set. We’ll meet here at the diner and you can follow me to Father Duke’s home. He’ll do the exorcism there if warranted.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of instructions to follow prior to the ritual and a consent-and-release form.”
“I thought this was unofficial.”
“Officially unofficial,” he corrected. “Father Duke has to protect his interests.”
I scribbled my name and was just handing the form back to Father Bryce when Fergie started singing again. I pulled out my phone while Father Bryce added his signature to the form as a witness.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Vinnie said. “I’ve got the ring and I tried to pull it out of my pocket, but then I got sidetracked with a meatball sub and now everyone’s busy talking and, well, I’d hate to butt in.”
“I’ll be there in five.” When Father Bryce arched an eyebrow, I covered the phone and whispered, “My blood slave.”
“Really?”
I grinned. “No. Just a little vamp humor.”
I know, I know, but I couldn’t resist.
“A friend of mine is having a birthday party for his mother and I promised to stop by,” I told the young priest after I hung up with Vinnie and stuffed the instructions into my purse.
“Teresa Balducci?” Father Bryce asked.
“You know her?”
“She’s one of our most devout members at St. Anthony’s. She helps out with the weekly bake sale and heads a clothing donation for a nearby women’s shelter, and she even organizes the monthly spaghetti dinner for the clergy. The woman’s a saint. Please give her my best and tell her Father Duke was planning on attending tonight with Father Paul. Until the throw-up incident.”
“I’ll relay the message.” I gathered up my purse and pushed to my feet. “So we’re on for tomorrow night?”
He gave me a solemn nod. “We’re on.”
Twenty-four
Since I didn’t make it a habit of partying with the local clergy (forget popping a few Xanax—my mother would down the whole freakin’ bottle), I bypassed the front walkway of the two-story colonial and headed around the side of the house.
It was a nice house in one of the better Newark neighborhoods, with several feet of carefully manicured lawn and a six-foot-plus fence separating one lot from the next. The moon hid behind the clouds and so the shadows were thick alongside the house. Definitely a prime opportunity to do my best Peeping Vamp impersonation.
I thought so until I felt a prickle of awareness ripple down my spine. I turned and caught a flash of red light peeking through the slats between the fence.
The light disappeared in a blur of blue polyester.
“Who are you?” demanded an old, crackly voice.
“A friend of Vinnie’s,” I blurted. “And Mama Balducci. I thought I’d slip around the back and surprise everyone,” I rushed on, explaining why I was skulking in the dark instead of waltzing up the front walkway. “It’s her birthday.”
“Birthday my ass,” the voice muttered. I heard the squeak of rubber soles and the creak of wood and a silver white updo peeked over the top of the fence.
The hair was teased and coiffed and a good twelve inches tall.
I watched as the hair grew higher and higher.
Okay, make that a good fourteen.
Finally a creased forehead appeared, followed by a pair of night-vision goggles sitting on brightly rouged cheeks.
No, really.
A red light beamed in the center between two mirrored round lenses, which made her look like an ancient fly and blocked my BV view into her thoughts.
“That party is just an excuse,” the woman went on, “to get the whole neighborhood together to make a bunch of racket and disturb my sleep. Why, the whole thing’s been keeping me up all evening. I couldn’t even watch Wheel of Fortune.”
I could barely catch the occasional sound of laughter and a very faint “Moon River” playing softly in the background, and I’ve got preternatural hearing.
No way was this geriatric fly—whose wrinkled face looked even more ancient than her hair—hearing a thing.
“You would think the police would have shut it down when they came out the first time,” she went on. “Or even the second. But nooooo. They stayed for pasta first, the bastards, and then came back around for dessert.” The silver updo bopped in confirmation. “You can bet your hind end I’m filing a complaint with Internal Affairs just as soon as they open tomorrow morning. In the meantime, it’s up to me to keep things on the straight and narrow. Fifty years,” she muttered. “I’ve been putting up with this crap for fifty years.”
“The Balduccis have a lot of parties, do they?”
The forehead wrinkled even more. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Actually, I didn’t say. But it’s Lil. Lil Marchette. I own a dating service in Manhattan. You might have heard of it. Dead End Dating?”
“I don’t get to the city much.”
Ya don’t say?
“Well, if you ever do.” I slipped her a DED card along with my standard bribe when I needed to get out of a sticky situation and my vamp charm wasn’t enough. “Call me. I’ll give you a free profile and set you up with three prospective matches.”
“For free? Why on earth would you do that?”
Because you’re annoying the hell out of me and sucking up my time when I’m in a hurry and I’d do anything—anything—to shut you up. I smiled. “Our senior citizen special.”
“Are you trying to say I’m old?”
And sort of scary.
Not that I was scared, mind you. Vampire equaled superior shitkicker. But if I hadn’t been a BV…We�
�re talking night-vision goggles. I could only imagine what she used those for when she wasn’t spying. Maybe burying bodies in the backyard or something.
I swallowed and gave her my most charming smile. “Did I say senior?” I tried for a convincing laugh. “I mean single discount. You are single, right?”
“For the past twenty years since Merv kicked the bucket, the bastard.”
“Perfect. Then you’re totally available for the special. As personable as you are, I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding you the perfect man. And speaking of personable, why aren’t you partying it up with the rest of the neighbors?”
“I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Like lurking around the bushes?”
“You want me to climb this fence and kick your ass fifty ways til Sunday? I can do it. These new orthopedic shoes have aluminum toe reinforcements on account of my grip ain’t what it used to be and I drop things a lot. One kick in the shin and you’re old news, just like that dress you’re wearing.”
Wait a second. Did she just…Did I hear…Oh, no, she didn’t.
“Where’d you get that?” she went on, the goggles bobbing. “A garage sale?”
I…She…It…My mind raced for something to say that didn’t involve a four-letter word or several big fat tears.
Easy. She’s old and severely fashion-challenged (we’re talking powder blue and polyester). It couldn’t be easy.
I bit back several choice replies and considered sending her a nice, persuasive You’re not a mean, cranky, nosy bee-yotch. You’re nice and sweet and you think I’m the hottest, most well-dressed hottie you’ve ever seen. But she was wearing the goggles. On top of that, she was female and could probably barely remember sex, much less lust after it. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m just here to have a little fun.”
“Make sure you tell Teresa she’d better keep all that fun to a respectable level or I’ll head over there and stick my foot up her—”
“It’ll be the first thing out of my mouth,” I cut in. “Seriously,” I added when she stared me in the eye with that stupid red beam. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Just One Bite Page 18
