Morana’s nostrils were flared, her lips peeled back. She smelled it too.
With a tilt of her head, she beckoned him, and he drifted to her side, causing the six he passed to shudder and huddle a little deeper into their clothes as though a ghost had caressed them with a chilled hand. They looked around them, searching for the specter.
She heaved a sigh and fished around between incisor and canine with the tip of a claw. “No one’s talking.”
Even though Morana’s magic removed all language barriers, the group sat silent. Not that they were a gregarious group to begin with, but the few times Morana had brought them all together in the past there had been at least some murmured chatter of weather, the latest yacht acquisition, or hassles with the law.
But it was just a matter of time. That was the way it was with humans. Give them enough time, and rope, and they’d hang themselves.
The door opened and Velimir entered, followed by Maja and Damir carrying in tureens, which they placed on the sideboard. The succulent scent of bouillabaisse filled the room, and one by one, the tension eased out of each set of shoulders.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Velimir addressed the guests while Maja retrieved bowls from place settings and Damir filled each with a hefty ladle of seafood stew. “The Lady Morana will join you shortly. Until then, she requests that you enjoy,” he sneered, “her generosity.”
When each person had been served, he turned and walked out, Maja and Damir trailing behind.
The door closed, and silence descended again, but only for a moment. Two seats down on the left, Stanpinski, head of the Northeast families, leaned as far forward as his mountainous rolls of fat would allow, and took a deep, nasally breath. The inhale ended in a loud, wet lip smack.
Sokach agreed with the sentiment. The soup smelled of perfection.
With a hand like a ham hock, Stanpkinski shook out his linen napkin and tucked it into his collar, kick starting the others to move.
A freckled face topped by a flash of orange hair appeared from behind Stanpinski’s gargantuan belly, then disappeared.
Michael O’Neal.
The squirrely little man from County Cork leaned forward again, looked around at those seated at the table, an eyebrow cocked in consternation. “Ain’t this how the Greeks or Romans used to wipe out their enemies? Invite ‘em over for a dinner and then poison ‘em?”
Stanpinski’s spoon froze an inch from his wormy lips. Fearful glances leap-frogged from Head to Head.
Sokach growled through clenched teeth. He’d spent hours in the kitchen. If the soup went uneaten—
At his elbow, Morana snorted. “As if.”
Across the table from Stanpinsku, Ushi Han, the wide-face Chinese woman, made a show of filling her spoon. She held it up for all to see, pining them with a steely glare. “If she wanted you dead, you would be already. The Lady doesn’t play.”
“I always knew Mother Han was the smartest of the bunch,” Morana said with a smug smile.
The others watched the ancient woman chew, breaths held, waiting for her to swallow.
When spoonful number two didn’t drop her dead, Stanpinski slurped his first bite; others followed suit. O’Neal waited another minute, his eyes darting around, before he too dipped his spoon, and bent forward to meet it.
“Of course,” Ushi Han said, never looking anywhere but at the space in front of her, “I haven’t lost ten souls in two months.”
The Irishman’s spoon clanked against china. “’En just how the hell do you know about that?”
“The Irish are a talkative breed.”
“Oh, and you haven’t lost any? Not one?”
Ushi lifted one thin shoulder in an elegant dismissive shrug, neither admitting nor denying the accusation.
O’Neal craned his neck forward to encompass the entire table in a sweeping gaze, his cheeks bright red. “None of you lost a soul?”
No one answered him, but guilt dropped a number of chins.
“Aye, I didn’t think so,” he continued. “It’s to be expected, I say. We cull what? Over a thousand souls a month combined? We canna be expected to safe guard them all. How can we be expected to stop this Dragić when even her own people can’t? If ‘er ladyship wants that, she ought to give us power. And I mean real power. Magic.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it if she did give it you.” At the far end of the table, Barsosio’s coal black face wore a sneer.
“I’d replace you for one thing,” O’Neal threw back.
“I ain’t afraid of your army of leprechauns.”
One by one, others joined in the verbal fray, and soon the whole table erupted into yelling and shouting.
Only Anton Pushkin, seated next to Velimir’s empty chair to Morana’s right, abstained. Stern-lipped and uninterested, he sat silent, letting the others tear at one another like dogs in the ring.
Morana let the arguing go for several minutes, her head cocked, listening. But nothing of value rose to the surface. Just idle threats and whining. With a roll of her eyes, she revealed herself, dropping the magic that hid her from her guests.
Sokach didn’t follow suite. He stayed in his shadow form. No need to play all their cards at once.
Intent on their argument, no one noticed Morana at first. Except Anton, who nodded a greeting as bland as unsalted soup.
An odd reaction to a woman appearing out of nothing with no warning. Grant it, the Russian wasn’t exactly the expressive type, but not even a flinch or a blink?
O’Neal’s voice rose above the din and Sokach filed the thought away for later.
“I’ve got over four thousand people in my employ. She can’t expect me to know what each one is doing. It’s impossible —”
Morana’s exasperated expression soured even more. She lifted a hand, curling the fingers into a tight fist. Down the table, the Irishman’s brogue cut short with a sharp gurgle. The voices of the others trailed off as the little man clawed at the unseen stranglehold cutting off his air supply.
“Are you telling me, Mr. O’Neal,” Morana said, and ten heads swiveled to her, each face drained of color, a few eyes wide, some mouths hanging opened. “That with all the money and resources I’ve put at your disposal, you are incapable of controlling the territory you run by my good graces alone?”
Blue-lipped, O’Neal continued to spit and choke, though he did manage to eek out a “No,” but whether that was in response to her question or to beg for his life, was hard to tell.
Morana loosened her fist. Color flooded back into the Irishman’s face and he collapsed forward onto the table. No one moved to help him, most didn’t even look in his direction.
Ignoring his gasping pants, she passed a scathing look around the assembled group. Her eyes blazed icy blue and her fangs grew down long and pointed. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the discrepancies with your payments.” She snapped her fingers and Velimir appeared in the chair to her right. “Read the numbers,” she demanded.
Velimir went around the table, reciting their names and their total losses. Like good children, most dropped their heads in shame.
“You’ve let this Dragić steal from me !” Morana slapped her open hand on the table.
The twelve jumped like pebbles in an earthquake.
“If you want to let your people steal money, drugs, I don’t care. But never, ever short change me on my due.” Her voice dropped low and steely as she said the last. “Each of you signed a contract. With your own blood. I can and will cancel that agreement. Shall I remind you of what happens then?”
Sweeping around the table, Sokach wound his shadow around each of the twelve unsuspecting guests.
And squeezed.
They shook with cold death in his grasp, their eyes rolling backward. On the table, the bowls of stew froze over with ice.
When spittle foamed at the corners of Stanpinksi’s mouth, Morana flicked a finger. “Enough.”
In a blink, Sokach loosened his hold on them, let them wilt bac
k into their chairs but did not release them entirely. Let them shiver with death a little longer. No sense in letting them get their confidence back too quickly.
“I don’t want excuses. I want this Dragić’s head. Do whatever you have to. And if I haven’t made myself clear, let me be even more blunt. The next person to show up at my door with a ledger that does not balance will answer with their life. There will be no second chances, no warning. Tonight is your warning.”
Sokach gave the Heads a little pinch, and they jumped in answer, acknowledging her with quick “yeses” and “ayes.”
Drawing in her fangs and claws, Morana leaned back, relaxed and gracious once again. “Now, please, do not let it be said I am an ill-mannered hostess who does not feed her guests.” With a sweep of her hand, the bowls of bouillabaisse thawed and returned to steaming.
Sokach released his shadow’s hold on the Heads, drawing off to stand by her side again.
The Heads sat still, unmoving, save for the rapid rise and fall of a few chests. Slowly, one by one, they dipped spoons into broth. With a bony hand, Anton Pushkin pushed his place setting away.
By the tim e the dishes had been cleared and the finest šljivovica and bourbons poured, the tension in the air had settled to a dull howl. Midway through the main course, Ushi Han had suggested they form an alliance, pointing out that as individuals they had failed, but as a united team, they might have a better chance. From there, the conversation, led by Velimir, turned to debating the best plan of attack.
Nothing calmed nerves more than focus and action.
Sokach sniffed the air. Smoke.
At Morana’s silent commend to investigate, he slipped from the room.
Rising up on the other side of the door, he looked around. The hallway stood empty.
Where was Tonći?
The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.
Raised voices drifted down the wooden-paneled corridor.
He glanced back at the closed door. Things were under control. But should they escalate, Morana had Velimir to bring them back to heel.
Sokach took off, following the sounds and smells. In the dining room, he paused, looked around. They had closed the restaurant down for the evening. Illuminated by dimmed lights, the empty tables and chairs gave the room a haunted air, but nothing appeared out of place. Save for the grey cloud billowing out from the kitchen door.
Inside the kitchen, chaos reigned. Water rained down from the two ceiling sprinklers. Maja waved a dishtowel at the black smoke filling the room; Damir pulled a tray of charred tort shells from the oven.
So much for dessert.
Sokach reformed, shedding the shadow for his human frame, causing Damir to jump and drop the tray. The torts disintegrated into ash on the floor.
“I was washing dishes. Damir was in charge of the torts,” Maja said, taking a step backwards, positioning Damir between herself and Sokach.
Damir’s eyes went wide, realizing he was in the crosshairs. “I swear, I set the temperature at 350, but the next thing I know, it’s at 550. It must have malfunctioned. I swear it was an accident.”
Sokach growled, low and deep. Energy fizzed in the palm of his hands. If only killing these two idiots was an option. Sadly, Morana needed every daemon they had right now. But once the Dragić threat was dealt with—
With a sweep of his hand, he sent the two flying. They crashed into the wall and dropped like rag dolls to the floor. Sokach stepped over them and opened the stockroom door. He stood in the entrance way, surveying the shelves of ingredients, scanning his mind for accompanying recipes. Nothing caught his liking. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty.
There might be time.
Sokach shimmered t o The Sugar Bean, coming to land behind the truck where it sat in the parking lot of a ball yard. In the sky, the last of the sun gave way to evening. Parents and children made their way to their cars, carrying bats and mitts, chairs and coolers. The back door to the food truck hung open so he peered inside. Fluorescent bulbs lit the empty interior.
The woman came around the corner of the truck, struggling to roll the OPEN flag around its pole. She glanced up, saw him and jumped a step back.
“Shit!” she barked.
The metal pole dropped from her hands and clanged against the pavement.
Sokach bent and retrieved it. He held it out to her.
He saw the barest hesitation before she took it from him.
“Thanks.”
He hadn’t remembered that husky depth to her voice, but the eyes were the same – wary, intense, the charcoal iris indistinguishable from the pupil. Standing on the same level, the top of her head came up to his chest. He hadn’t realized how tiny and delicate she was, bird-like in her frailty.
“I need desserts for a party at The Adriatic. Now.”
An elegant eyebrow went up at the demand, and he half expected her to tell him to bugger off, but instead, she turned and stepped up into the truck.
“It’s the end of day, so I don’t have much of any one thing left.” She pulled out a tray from a rack tower and surveyed its contents, then another.
“I’ll take whatever you have,” he said, climbing the first step into the truck for a better look.
“That’s far enough.”
Sokach froze at the flat threat in her voice. His gaze slide from her tight face down her arm to the hand resting on the handle of a baseball bat he hadn’t noticed leaning against the counter.
The back of that hand sported an array of welts he’d missed before, each about the diameter of a pencil eraser.
Or a cigarette.
He looked back at her face. The scar running the length of her cheek flared a bright pink against her pale skin.
A girl who learned from her mistakes. He respected that.
He raised both hands, palms facing out.
They stood like that for several seconds, her obviously debating if he was trustworthy, and him waiting for her decide he wasn’t. With a snap of his fingers, he could take her out, or at a minimum, knock her unconscious, but for some reason he didn’t want to. He wanted…
What did he want?
Her eyes narrowed, her breath easing out long and low. Then her hand lifted from the bat, and the strained moment was over.
“How many did you say you needed?” she asked.
“I’ll take as much as you have left.”
While she worked, he studied the truck’s interior. The space she had to work in was about the size of his own pantry. Yet it was neat and organized. And surprisingly clean. For some reason, he’d expected it to be a mess. The kind of workspace a person who cooked, or baked in this case, for a living rather than for the love of it maintained.
She pushed a shoulder bag over to make room for a tray on the counter. A white envelope dropped out of the open bag onto the floor. He retrieved it, reading the name through the clear plastic over the address as he straightened.
Bluebell MacKaig.
“Your name is Bluebell?” he asked and felt as surprised as she looked. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
She snatched the envelope out if his hand, crumpling it as she stuffed it back into the satchel. “Yeah, what of it?”
He shrugged. “Not exactly a name you hear these days. Or ever.” And yet, with her scar and bravado, it fit her perfectly. She was as delicate as her namesake. But for all their fragile beauty, flowers were resilient. One could trample through a field of them, but they didn’t stay down long. A little sunshine, a bit of rain, and they rose back up.
She went back to wrapping the baked goods. He thought the conversation over, but after several long minutes of nothing but crinkling parchment paper she spoke again. “My mom. She had a thing for fairies.”
“Fairies?”
“Yeah, she used to say you can call the fairies by ringing a bluebell flower.” She shrugged, made a face. “Mom also dropped a lot of acid when she was a teenager, from all accounts. I go by Blue for short.” She turned,
holding out four bags to him, two in each hand. “That’ll be thirty dollars.”
Sokach did the math in his head. “That’s short.”
“End of day discount. These aren’t exactly fresh.”
He pulled his money clip from his front pocket and rubbed a thumb over the top bill, a twenty, changing it and the others beneath into tens. The magic was temporary. They’d turn back later.
An artist should be paid for their work, day-old or not.
“You know my name now, what’s yours?” she asked, her voice lower, the strain gone from it, replaced by a hint of a smile.
He met her gaze over the bags. Names were not to be given lightly. Doing so held power, bound one person to another. He’d never been tied to anyone, save Morana. And especially not a mortal.
But something about this woman sparked a curiosity in him.
“Found an empty dumpster, jefe, so we don’t have to make no extra stop…” Her assistant’s singsong voice broke the reverie.
Sokach glanced back. The saucy little Mexican was at the door behind him, thick black brows raised clear to his wavy hairline. “Ooo, I see I’m interrupting something,” he said, stepping back and putting his hands on his hips, he cha-cha’ed side to side in time to some unheard music.
Nothing subtle about the mockery in his voice.
Sokach wanted to rip that trilling tongue out, but instead he set the money on the counter and took the bags from Blue. “Thanks for the help.”
He stepped out of the trailer, threw the smirking kid one last scalding look, and walked to where the shadows of the now dark night would allow him to shimmer without being seen.
Bluebells, he reminded himself, might be beautiful flowers, but they were also poisonous.
Sokach joined Morana and Velimir at the empty table.
The Heads had all been returned to their respective homes hours ago, but their stench still lingered. With a wave, he conjured a metal bowl filled with dry sage. He blew softly on the stiff stalks and papery leaves. A tiny flame appeared and caught. Tendrils of smoke spiraled up, carrying with them the tangy scent of burning herb.
“I think you put too much hope in these pathetic creatures,” Velimir said. “Wipe them out, let us take whatever souls we want—”
Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters Page 23
