by Anne Malcom
Of course I knew who he was talking about, but if he wanted a monster, I was happy to play along.
“The priest,” he gritted out. “Went to mass, he wasn’t there. The new pastor said he’s on vacation.”
“Well even priests deserve a break. What are you, a sadist? Let the poor man have his blowout in Cancun. What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico. You know, he may never come back.” I winked conspiratorially.
He stepped forward, engulfing me in his scent and making it hard to focus on anything but the roaring rumble of his heartbeat. I struggled with my composure.
“You see, I did some digging. Turns out there’re some failed charges against the priest.” His eyes changed, advancing beyond hatred. “From young boys.”
His emotions swirled with something else cutting through the anger. Something that was difficult to taste because it was decidedly different than the rage and hatred that had become characteristic to the slayer’s aura. When he was around me, at least.
I shrugged. “Well, I guess sometimes the stereotypes are true. Catholic priests and little boys. Vampires and slayers.” I paused, narrowing my eyes. “That being the vampire will kill the slayer if he doesn’t stop following her around,” I threatened, my voice hoarse.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You were at the police station. Lewis was the officer in charge of those complaints.”
I tilted my head. “I’d stop my digging if I were you. You might just find out you’re digging your own grave.”
I stepped out of his orbit and sauntered off, feeling the heat of his gaze on my back the entire journey.
I wasn’t lying. I would have to kill him if he unveiled any more of my life. Slayers couldn’t be trusted.
But the question remained: why hadn’t I killed him already?
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, barkeep. And a shot of O-Neg, if you’ve got any fresh from the vein.” I winked at the demon leaning on the weathered wooden bar.
He quirked a brow at me.
I grinned back.
“You sure you want to be in here, Isla?” he asked, setting a glass on the bar and reaching for ice. “The last time you damned me with your presence, it cost me ten thousand dollars in damages after you were attacked by two werewolves.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re already damned, number one.” I put a single, blood-red fingernail up. “This entire establishment isn’t even worth ten K. Two at a stretch,” I continued, holding up a second finger. “And if you don’t recall, both of those werewolves are still growing their fur back. The publicity for that little incident had this place the most frequented bar in all of the under and overworld. The way I see it, you owe me a drink. Or twenty.” I tilted the freshly poured drink in his direction before draining it.
He shook his head. He was attractive—you know, for a demon. Obviously he didn’t have pointy horns or anything like that; demons looked like humans, on this side of the earth’s core anyway. I’d heard the ones downstairs were like a beauty queen without her makeup—in other words, downright terrifying. I was not hip on finding out any time soon.
Which was why I was there. I’d chewed on Rick’s proposal for a couple of days and begrudgingly decided he was right. I’d never tell him that, mind you. I’d let him believe I was doing this under the influence of blackmail. But it was in my best interests to find out who was behind this little rebellion. And the promise of punishing my family once I got concrete proof against them was a mitigating factor. Their shadow was getting a little too suffocating since the conversation at the Majestic.
I needed to be rid of it, and them, for good if I hoped to remained undead for the foreseeable future.
“Yeah, well it’s not stupid dog brains I’d be worrying about if I were you,” he said, laying his tattooed forearms down in front of me.
My gaze went to the sinewy corded flesh, remembering the need for my little itch to be scratched.
I must have been mad to be considering going back in Dante’s direction again. I’d gone there, once. Having been on the earth for as long as I had, it was hard to find someone I hadn’t slept with. Especially in the supernatural community, with all the politics and shit. I also had a scorched-earth policy: one rumble in the hay, then out.
So even though Dante’s inky black hair framed his modelesque face perfectly, and the 666 tattoo under his left eye was weirdly erotic, as well as the tongue ring and muscled body covered in flames and hellfire was totally swoonworthy—if I swooned—I was not that desperate.
Yet.
It would have been smarter to work out my frustration with a not-so-harmless demon instead of risking something with the king of all vampires or the human who was born to kill the vampire race, but I wasn’t exactly known for my smart decisions.
Hence the werewolf fight in there ten years back.
Dante’s bar, Inferno—yes, he was that much of an arrogant ass—was situated at the nexus of all five sectors of New York, the place at which werewolf, vampire, witch and demon territory converged, where Murray Hill straddled the Garment district. It sat at the end of a dirty alleyway, spelled so no humans could stumble in. It was nothing special—rusting paint and Metallica and Grateful Dead posters littered the walls, and the tables were rickety, but he had good booze and it was one of the only places in New York were all supernaturals could share a brew and not a body bag. Dante had a strict ‘no murder in his bar’ policy. Not for humans, of course, he didn’t care about that, but no supernaturals. Brawls weren’t uncommon but were usually broken up quickly enough, by Dante himself. He was one of the strongest demons in the world; why he chose to tend a bar was anyone’s guess. After thousands of years on earth, maybe he just needed the simplicity of pouring beers.
I pushed my glass back for a refill. “And who do I have to be scared of? Little men from the hottest place on earth with a boss who has daddy issues?” I asked sweetly.
His eyes glowed, bright red flames flickering in his irises. Demons were literally born in firestorms, so they had this pesky habit of bursting into flames when they got pissed. Or horny.
I’d experienced both.
Only one was fun.
Who was I kidding? They were both fun.
He pushed the drink my way and I didn’t even flinch when my hands fastened around scorching hot glass. The ice completely melted, and the glass had softened slightly under the pressure of intense heat. And that was him on low. He could technically flatten New York if someone pissed him off enough.
It didn’t stop me from annoying him whenever I came in, though. I lived on the edge.
“You gotta be careful, Isla. Half a millennium of arrogance without retaliation has made you complacent,” he threatened.
I threw back my warmed-up whiskey, then leaned forward, baring my elongated fangs in such a way that Dante reared back, just a bit. They weren’t just the most well-formed biters this side of the underworld; they were deadly. Despite my avoidance of killing innocent humans, I wasn’t averse to doing the same to anyone else. I had a reputation. Of course, there were those who didn’t heed that reputation and reasoned my diet made me weak, and they tried, and failed, to challenge that. I was glad; death matches were my cardio. What was five hundred years on the planet with exceptional strength and great bone structure without a good old duel every decade or so?
“You forget yourself, Dante. I don’t blame you, since chauvinism is hard to kick and the males of your species still think you’ve got the upper hand.” I grinned at him. “Problem is you’ve never actually had it. The fairer sex has always been stronger, more cunning and a fuck of a lot more dangerous. We’ll rip out your spleen when you’re too busy checking out our fabulous racks.”
Dante’s gaze flickered up from my chesticle area. I leaned over, brushing his washboard abs just for kicks and snatched the bottle from behind the bar.
“It’s quicker this way,” I said, pouring my own glass. “And as much as it’s a nice change to have whiskey at one hundred degrees C
elsius, I prefer it chilled, like my heart.” I winked.
He shook his head and looked around the bar. It was quiet. Ten o’clock on a Friday was early morning for most creatures that crawled to this establishment. Most were having breakfast, dining on virgins and such.
Dante’s bar was one of the most infamous in Manhattan. It was close enough to the trendy nightclubs and Times Square that all kinds of supernatural assholes could snatch a drunken human off her Manolos and feast on her Chanel-laden body.
I didn’t frequent the place because they didn’t serve cocktails, and because I almost always left with blood on my clothes after saving a drunken damsel in distress from being someone’s snack.
“Now, you were implying about my life being in mortal danger, but that’s far too boring.” I waved my hand. “I’, here to talk to you about other, much more entertaining things.”
His gaze darkened. “I knew you’d be back for another taste,” he growled. The arm warmed up once more, kissing me with its heat.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here to ask if you’ve heard any whispers about the rebel vampire faction vying for world domination.”
I guessed spies were meant to be more subtle about obtaining information, but you could only be so subtle while wearing a blood-red pencil skirt and six-inch heels.
“Shh,” he hissed, waving his hands while he glanced around the mostly empty bar.
The only patron, apart from me, was a shaggy-haired, muscled werewolf, hunched over a glass at the edge of the bar.
He was kind of hot, if you liked that tortured hero kind of thing. And didn’t mind the smell of wet dog.
“Chill out. You’ll give yourself an ulcer,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. “No one’s here. Wolverine over there is too busy dreaming about chasing tennis balls to even know what’s going on.”
I grinned at the growl that got me.
Dante glared at me. “Your overconfidence is going to get you killed.”
“Or get me a date with Johnny Depp.”
He stared at me. I stared back.
“I don’t have time for a Mexican standoff,” I exclaimed. “I’ve got a date with a murderer in about”—I glanced at my watch—“half an hour, and that’s all the way on the Upper East Side. Stockbroker who doubles as a prostitute killer. Dude took American Psycho way too literally.”
Lewis had texted me the address and the link to the news story about the Manhattan Slasher. I was tempted to stop by the reporter’s place who coined that train wreck and have an entrée.
His text had told me the man had been brought in for questioning, though he’d had the best defense lawyer in the city get him off without charges, and what little evidence they had against the guy had conveniently disappeared. Deep pockets could buy innocence in this world. He’d also mentioned being careful with something called thorne.
Me: Don’t worry, I don’t prick easy. Also, you added an E where there isn’t one. I know cops aren’t meant to be literate, but that’s a little worrying.
Every rose has its thorne.
He hadn’t written back.
“I don’t know anything. And if you want that shiny hair to stay on that obnoxious head, you’d stop asking questions,” he bit out.
I touched my hair. “Shiny? Really? I was worried my new shampoo was drying it out.”
“Seriously, Isla. Even you have to have a little self-preservation.” His grave expression was starting to freak me out. Dante was either joking, murderous, or horny. He was never… scared.
“I have a lot of self-preservation, hence me asking questions.”
He narrowed his brow. “You in some kind of trouble?”
I was surprised at the concern in his voice. We’d bumped uglies two hundred years back and had been friendly acquaintances since. I’d even shared Jack the Ripper with him when he just happened to be in London.
“I’m always in a little trouble,” I said breezily. “Thing is, I’m not in enough. I need the lowdown on the vamps looking to enslave humankind. Because their first target would be moi if they somehow succeed in this little coup. So I’ve got an investment in them failing.”
He tilted his head at me, not buying my words for a minute. Which wasn’t a surprise, as Dante hadn’t stayed alive on this earth for thousands of years by being stupid. First rule of immortality: never trust anyone else who has unlimited time on this hunk of rock.
Some creatures lied only to keep things interesting.
I, of course, was much better than that.
But Dante was my best bet for information. He may have been a bartender, but nothing happened in the supernatural world without him knowing about it. You could either buy information from him, if you had a few human souls in your pocketbook, or you could flutter your eyelids and embellish the truth, like I did.
“Plus, I have it on good authority that they’re planning on taking over Lucifer’s hood as soon as they’re done with Planet Earth,” I lied. “So it’s in your best interests to stop the innocent act and tell me what you’ve heard.”
You want to learn about a species? Go to its bartenders. No need for comprehensive ethnographies. The ones who poured the booze always had the goods.
He sighed and took a swig of my bottle. I hadn’t paid for it, but I’d stolen it which was pretty much the same thing.
“I didn’t tell you any of this,” he said gruffly.
“Of course not. A generous leprechaun popped out of a subway grate and blessed me with the information.”
He ignored this. “All I know is that they’re gaining numbers, and quickly. Not just with vampires.” His eyes flickered to the dog in the corner. “Since the king’s alliance with King Filtiaran and the elders of the Raven witch coven, there’s been a lot of pissed-off people coming in and rumbling about a revolution. Immortals don’t like quotas on kills. Witches don’t like caps on black magic. Werewolves certainly don’t like having fences around their doggy parks.”
I grinned as the stench of wolfy anger filled the air.
“Down boy. I’ll give you a belly rub if you’re quiet,” I murmured with a grin. I had my own itch that needed scratching too.
We didn’t have a huge beef with werewolves like history liked to exaggerate. The handful of fights that were just a result of stolen prey or general disagreements could have happened between any two beings, but because it was a vampire and a werewolf, it started some terrible myth. I didn’t particularly like them because they were too brooding and serious about things. Bureaucratic too—“we must obey the alpha,” blah blah blah, yawn.
Vampires only had one natural enemy.
Humans.
Or more specifically, a slight variation on the normal model.
Slayers.
“Anyway,” Dante said, jerking me into the present before a certain slayer could hold my mind hostage like he had been lately. “There’s something coming. Something big. Factions between species are unheard of, at least in this century.” His eyes flickered, probably to the wars that immortals had waged every couple of hundred years. The last one had been particularly nasty. Or so I’d heard.
I’d been sunning myself on a little island in the South Pacific. I didn’t get involved in epic wars. Not good for the complexion.
“Okay, so we’ve got a few pissed of sociopaths who want to suck, spell and sprint on their paws without restriction,” I surmised.
“It’s worse than that, Isla. I don’t know specifics, but I heard a vamp in here a couple of nights ago talking about a ‘game changer.’ One that would seal the fate of the monarchy and….”
I perked up. “And?”
He gave me an uncertain look.
“Spit it out, Dante. You’re like a teenager asking the cheerleader to the prom hoping he’ll pop her cherry. Newsflash, my cherry was popped four hundred years ago. I’m a sure thing.”
“And that Rominskitoff slut, race traitor will become our own private blood slave before we dismember her,” he parrot
ed, his voice flat.
I gave him a hurt look. “You didn’t even think to call and warn me about such a threat?” I asked with a fake pout.
He narrowed his brows. “I was considering warning them about you if they would try something as stupid as attacking you,” he answered.
I gave him a blinding smile. “These vamps, you got names?”
He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You know I can’t give out that kind of shit. Even for you, Isla. I don’t get involved.”
I rolled my eyes. “This goes the way you think it will, you’ll have no choice, Dante. Business could seriously dry up if we’re in the midst of a war.”
He scoffed. “Seriously? I’ll do my best business. There’s nothing more than the prospect of a fight to get people in the door. Looking for booze, blood and sex.” He grinned at me, a blinding smile that I was sure had lost plenty of dull-witted humans their souls. “The three most natural things on this planet.”
“So you’re not all cut up about this war?” I asked. “Maybe you even support those in this little rebellion? Demons do seem to get left out of all the little alliances and summits. Maybe you’re looking for a place at the table.”
The temperature increased rapidly, like we were inside a furnace instead of a bar. I stared at the condensation on the beer taps turning into steam before focusing on Dante’s attractive and vaguely pissed-off face, if the red irises were anything to go by.
“We don’t need a seat at the table because if we so desired, we could burn the table and this whole fucking world down,” he rasped, his voice deeper, more dangerous. Not entirely human. I’d heard it before, but we were more horizontal and had fewer clothes on.
The temperature dropped rapidly, as did his fury. Though the air stayed brisk, like we were in the middle of a California heat wave, not November in New York.
“Touché.” Demons could technically wreak hell on earth if they were feeling bored with the current status quo. I didn’t think it was as easy as all that. Lucifer didn’t stay downstairs for the weather; he’d been banished. Getting him topside would be a challenge.
