“We’ve been over this before,” Morana said, shaking her head. “Too much centralized magic would call the angels’ attention. We cannot risk bringing them down on us again. Not now.”
Velimir snorted, leaned forward. “They’re not as strong as they once were. The time is now!” He turned to Sokach, his eyes burning with intensity, beseeching him to throw in with him.
“Enough!” Morana slammed a fist on the table, ending the debate, relieving Sokach of the need to join it.
The image of Anton’s pale, emotionless face rose up in Sokach’s mind. He’d been too calm.
What did he know?
“The Russian bears watching,” he said after several minutes of heated silence.
Velimir turned to him, eyes suspicious. “Why?”
Sokach shrugged. “Instinct.”
“I didn’t see or hear anything to support that.”
“It wasn’t so much what he did as what he didn’t do. Little things.”
“That’s not much to go on,” Velimir said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
Sokach gave up trying to explain. He didn’t care if Velimir bought in. It was Morana’s call.
She drummed fingers on the table, looking between them. “Put extra eyes on him,” Morana finally ordered with a nod to Velimir. “But just watch. I don’t want him knowing we suspect anything. Not yet. If he is our very own Judas, I want the advantage of surprise.”
“Our resources would be better utilized—”
Morana cut him off with a look.
“As you wish. I’ll see to it tonight.” Velimir disappeared.
Morana left her chair, walked to the small side table with a crystal decanter, and poured herself a hefty drink. “You think Anton might be in league with Dragić.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Sokach struggled to put words to the feeling in his gut. “Only wolves run that thin,” he said finally.
“Ah, yes.” She held the cut crystal glass up, admiring the clear liquid dancing in the light. “Hunting, scavenging, baying after a moon they can never have.”
“Yes.” That described Anton Pushkin exactly.
She downed the drab in a quick swallow and set the glass back on its tray. “Do you think I’m a coward? For not trying to take back my kingdom from the angels?”
“Don’t let him get into your head,” Sokach said, referring to his little brother.
Her head wagged side to side. “I promised you revenge.”
“And I want it. More than anything.” He leaned forward in his chair. Fury burned in his core, radiating to his fingertips. Blue flame appeared there. He closed his fist, extinguishing the fire. “But we ran to live, so we could fight another day. That day will be of our own choosing. The Judean is just beginning to feel the pinch of indifference, of irrelevance. Give it another century and he will be kitten-weak. Like we were. And then, only then, do we strike.” He sat back. “Until then, we stay quiet and grow stronger.”
Her chest rose and fell, and she rewarded him with a smile. “You did well tonight. Not just with the Heads. The food was exquisite. Especially those cherry turnovers and caramel brownies.”
Sokach ground his teeth. “Those weren’t mine.”
“Oh?” She poured another drink and carried it back to the table. “The food truck woman again?”
He frowned at the little smile playing about her lips.
“I want you to hire her to cater special events. Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said when he growled. “She’s a complement, not a replacement. Sugar to your…salt.”
“She’s human.” He spat the word out.
“You deal with humans all the time in the restaurant.”
“Most of those are contracted to you. And they’re there to eat, not get in my way. The kitchen is too close to operations. And with Dragić, things are going to get worse before they get better—”
“Then have her drop off the orders. Really, I don’t know why you’re making a big deal about this.”
Because humans tended not to live long when they got that close to their kind, and the thought of Bluebell dying—
With a merciless strike, he killed off the thought.
He was the shadow guardian of the queen, created to protect her.
All his loyalty and love belonged to her. He never allowed anything or anyone to interfere with his duties.
Whatever became of Bluebell MacKaig didn’t matter.
“As you wish, my queen.”
Chapter Four
Blue closed th e oven and wiped her sweating brow with a forearm. She cranked the little counter-top fan to its fastest speed and joined Ricky at the open counter where she stuck her head out of the window. If only there was a breeze, even a little one. But the air outside was as stale and still as it was inside the truck.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a door swing open up the street. She went on tiptoes to peer over the crowd. She sighed. Just an elderly couple walking out of the Penn Insurance Company. The door to The Adriatic remained closed.
“Ju going to put a crick in your neck if you keep doing that,” Ricky said.
She turned around, leaning her back against the counter. “Doing what?”
“Trying to catch a glimpse of Mr. Super-Sexy-Strong-and-Silent.” He mimicked her moves but slathered on the giddy teenage girl and added a little squeal for good measure.
She gave his chest a slap with the back of her hand. “I was not doing that. He paid too much last night. I want to give him the money back.”
“How much?”
“Thirty bucks.”
Ricky shrugged as he picked up his Big Sip cola cup. He jabbed at the ice in it with the straw. “Sounds like a nice tip. I’d keep it.” He slurped up the last drops, loud and long.
“Never ever trust a big tip,” she said, moving her head left then right along with each word. “Because it’s not a tip. It’s a down payment on some future obligation.”
Ricky cackled. “Ju do know how loco paranoid that sounds, right?”
“Hardly. A man like that doesn’t tip a girl like me.” She pointed at her scar. “Not without wanting something in return.”
But it hadn’t been the extra cash in her ledger keeping her up most of the night.
Mr. Strawberry had.
Perhaps it had been the fluorescent lights, or the way his mouth had formed her name, the way his voice spoke its sounds – but something about him she couldn’t quite identify had resurrected an emotion she’d banished long ago, suffocating her with it.
Desire.
A part of her, a teeny tiny speck hiding in the dark attic of her femininity, hoped for an ulterior motive, wanted this dangerous man to want her.
And that terrified her more than he ever could.
“Well, there he is.” Ricky tilted his head to look past her and jutted his chin in the direction of The Adriatic.
She turned to see Mr. Strawberry walking down the sidewalk. Butterflies tickled her belly.
Glory halleluiah, he was beautiful.
He belonged in the Roman pantheon, not here among mere mortals.
Pulling her apron over her head, she glanced down at her cut-offs and ancient Namaste t-shirt. She was a barnyard yokel compared to him. With a mental shake of her head, she tossed the balled apron on the counter.
“Go get ‘em tiger,” Ricky mocked at her back as she left the truck.
Blue squared her shoulders and beelined to the man, causing him to come to an abrupt stop, the people around them shuffling to keep from running into them. She thrust out the three ten-dollar bills. “I was thirty dollars over last night.”
He didn’t even glance at the money. “I was coming to see you. I have a business proposit—”
“I said , you over paid for the left-overs last night.” She shook the bills, the move somewhere between enticing a dog to take a bone and a grandmother reprimanding a young whippersnapper.
His mouth stayed open for a moment,
whatever he’d been about to say dangling from his lower lip, then closed. One eyebrow arched with – God damn it, was that amusement? Who did this guy think he was?
“I don’t think so,” he said with the tiniest of head shakes, as if he wouldn’t deign to stoop so low.
“Yeah, you did. Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I’m not interested.”
He said nothing. He did nothing. Just stared at her with a patient expression. No embarrassment, no anger. No shuffling of shoes or red face. None of the reactions of a guilty man.
And into that yawing awkward space, doubt crept in. Had she miscalculated somewhere during the day, forgotten to capture a sale or maybe one of Ricky’s? Was she really berating this guy for a come-on that didn’t exist? Of course one wouldn’t exist; perfection like his sought out its like, didn’t shop the refurbished bins.
Shutting her eyes against his handsome face, she watched the next act of this pathetic comedy play out in her head – him going back to his buddies, laughing – You’ll never guess what just happened. Her pride issued a sad whimper as it died a slow, humiliating death. If only that crack in the sidewalk would swell open and suck her down into its dark depths.
She crinkled the money into her fist and with absurd focus, shoved it into her front pocket. Since there were no words that could ever resuscitate her ego or adequately apologize, she cleared her throat, assumed a jutting stance, and moved on. “So, you were saying?”
Thank the lord, he moved on too. “The Adriatic,” he said with a thumb jerk over his shoulder. “My boss wants to offer you a job. Catering events for the restaurant.”
Her mouth dropped open. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but that was not it. “What?”
“It would be on an as-needed basis, very off-the-cuff. Evenings only. We call in the order; you deliver.”
“When has your boss ever…” Blue started to ask, confused. And then it struck her. “Oohhh. The strawberry tort!”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Yes.”
Blue’s mind took off, a greyhound chasing a rabbit. This could be the first step toward a real place. A legit gig. She could hire someone to help Ricky with the truck… “What size orders?”
“No set number. Could be a private party of five or a featured dessert for the weekend menu. You’d be paid for your flexibility.”
She mocked his stance, setting her own arms akimbo. This was business. “I’d need to make up any time lost from The Bean.”
“Money’s not an issue. Name the price.”
With some extra cash, she’d be able to move out of the studio apartment she rented above Julius’s garage, maybe even get a new car. Her heart raced with the possibilities. But then that infuriating sweet-faced angel sitting on her right shoulder added her two cents.
Of course, money wasn’t an issue. They were the mob. She’d be working for the mob!
“This is all,” she bit her lip, struggling to find the least insulting words, “above board, right?”
Confusion dented his eyebrow for a moment until understanding straightened it. He managed to not look offended as he nodded.
Could he be trusted? What did she really know about these people? About him?
“I don’t even know your name.” It came out more challenging than she meant.
For a breath, she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then his lips twitched – was that his version of a smile? – and he said, “Sokach.”
She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He took her hand in his and a tingle slithered up her arm, zapping into her chest cavity. She looked into his eyes, more sparkling blue than grey at the moment, mesmerizing. What would it be like if he were to pull her into his –
A car horn honked on the street, and Blue came to with a jerk, still holding his hand. She dropped it like a hot pan, tucked her burning palm into her back pocket.
His closed into a fist and dropped to his side where it unfurled, one lean finger at a time. Without another word, he turned away, starting back up the street.
“Is there a contract to sign?” she called after him.
He said something over his shoulder, and she couldn’t be sure what with all the traffic and people about, but it sounded like, “Count yourself lucky there isn’t one.”
Well, that was not a confidence builder. But Blue shook it off.
She deserved a break, didn’t she? She’d worked really hard, pulled herself from the darkest pits of Hell to make something of the mess Jimmy left behind.
Put this in the blessings column and get on with it.
She returned to The Sugar Bean humming a tune from her childhood, some song about a bushel and a peck.
“Ju got yourself a date?” Ricky asked.
“Nope,” she answered, not able to hold back the grin bursting onto her face. “A job.”
Chapter Five
After seeing Moran a into her house and checking in with the security detail that patrolled the nine thousand post-modern square foot structure, Sokach climbed back into the limousine and pulled the door closed behind him. He settled into the leather bench, yanking his suit jacket free when it caught and twisted between him and the seat. Ensconced on the opposite seat, Velimir handed him a crystal glass two fingers full. He inclined his head and lifted the drink in mock toast – “Živio.” – and downed the clear liquid. A satisfied “Ahh” rose like smoke as the plum whiskey burned a path down his throat.
“I need to let off some steam,” Velimir said pouring himself a hefty drab before refilling Sokach’s glass. “Let’s go out.” His eyebrows danced up and down and one side of his mouth lifted in a devilish grin. “Like the old days.”
Out the window, silhouettes of trees blurred together as the limo picked up speed.
The old days.
When it was just the three of them. When Velimir was so young, Sokach had felt more like a father than a brother, reigning in the daemon’s brash, almost frenzied, impulses, bailing him out of one compromising situation after another. And all the while running for their lives, stealing souls on the sly.
He sighed. Not the best of times. Still, there had been some laughs. “Maybe tomorrow,” he offered.
“What are you going to do? Go home and make a casserole?” The last was said with half sneer, half mockery. “If you’re not careful, you’ll wake up one morning, an old man in a rocking chair, crocheted blanket and a cat in your lap. Come on, one drink.”
Sokach swallowed the second shot, feeling his tight muscles relax with its warmth. He could use the night as an opportunity to do a little reconnaissance on Dragić, see if any of the other daemons or low-lifes had heard anything. Besides, he had a little steam to blow off as well. “Sure. Why not.”
Velimir rapped a knuckle on the window dividing driver from passengers. It lowered a crack. “Head to 71.”
Club 71 wa s an old slaughter house turned trendy nightclub. Amazing what some artsy lighting, well-placed mirrors, and top-shelf alcohol could do for a place with such a grisly history. No one gyrating to the techno rhythms would ever dream that the floor on which they danced had once been covered in bits of flesh and muscle floating in pools of blood.
They entered through the front, the bouncer pulling aside the purple velvet ropes that kept the customers penned in a line down the sidewalk. Colored lasers and strobing white light assaulted Sokach’s eyes, and thumping beats and electronic keyboard pounded on his ears. And though the ribbons tied to the vents fluttered and snapped like flags on a speeding diplomat’s car, the A.C. did nothing to cut the thick air caused by too many bodies too closely confined.
Velimir lead the way, heading for a horseshoe of couches tucked in a cubby at the far end. Over the sea of heads, Sokach spotted a familiar face at the bar – Vic Malone. The decision to come out might have just paid off.
Sokach broke off from Velimir, letting him go on alone while he made his way to the bar. More than one woman slid up against him as he cut
through the crowd – a curve pressed here, a caress there. Nothing accidental or inconspicuous. Several required a push to disengage. Tonight was business.
He slid into the space beside Vic. The short man straightened, pulling ever so slightly away before casting a quick look around as though hoping to see an excuse to leave or maybe the quickest escape.
“Don’t rush off on my account,” Sokach said. He could use magic to make him stay but waved two fingers at the bartender then pointed at Vic’s glass instead.
With a groan, Vic downed his drink, then hunched over his empty glass, spinning it round and round.
“You look nervous, Victor.”
“Yeah,” he barked a laughed, “Maybe I am.”
The drinks came, and he gulped his before it even had time to think about leaving a ring on the bar.
“Relax. I just to want talk.”
“That’s what that bastard, Velimir, told Hammy. And next time I saw Hammy, there weren’t much left of him to bury.”
Damn it. Hammer was a good snitch. Quiet. Resourceful.
“That limping fucker here?” Vic straightened and threw a nervous look around.
“Yes, but I’m sure he’s occupied at the moment.” Sokach pushed his own drink over to Vic. “This is just you and me. Talking. Tell me about Dragić.”
“Ain’t nobody knows nothin’.”
“But you run courier between four of the big houses. You always know something.”
“Man,” his voice warbled with panic. He pushed his straw fedora hat back and wiped at his forehead. “Velimir’s been smokin’ souls, your kind and mine, like he was going for a world record. If I knew something, don’t you think I’d have said it by now?”
The third shot went the way of the other two, and he hunched deeper into the collar of his peach and yellow Hawaiian shirt.
He was holding something back.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know .” He spoke the denial slow, each word harsh.
Sokach waited.
Vic heaved a surrendering sigh. “But it’s almost like he’s askin’ the wrong people.”
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