Biting Nixie

by Mary Hughes

  He gave me that “where’s the subtitles” look again. But he answered readily enough, “Chicago suburbs surround Meiers Corners. It would follow that some attempt at annexation would be inevitable.”

  “Shit. Give me a second to parse that, would you?” Typical suit. Why use one word when fifty would do? I picked out the main—idea, not vein. “Inevitable, right. But who’s fault is that? We didn’t velveeta-melt into Chicago’s territory.” The Corners began as a tiny independent settlement of 1800’s German immigrants, a healthy distance west of Chicago. Acres and acres of farms and fields lay between us and the Big City. By 1900 Meiers Corners had grown to three miles and three thousand people.

  During that same time Chicago grew to one million.

  The giant metropolis oozed around the Corners like a middle-age spread. Without realizing it, we were soon surrounded. Seven thousand of us. Three million of them. The jeans were getting awfully tight.

  Unless the East Coast wonder-shark could spring us free.

  What a choice. Pay Chicago or pay Mr. Four-K-A-Day. I trust lawyers about as much as I do vice-principals. I like them even less. I wasn’t sure we were picking the right option.

  I grunted. “It’s inevitable—unless we crank out enough mad skrilla so our shyster can fap on their shyster.” Suitglish translation: Takeover is inevitable unless we raise enough money for our lawyer to screw their lawyer.

  Suitguy blinked. “Fap?”

  Of course he had to pick that word. He couldn’t have known what it meant. But with his deep, sexy voice, he made it sound pornographic. Which, of course, it was.

  Fap was a word used in manga and anime porn for the sound of sex. Think “Bam!” and “Zowie!” with naked pictures.

  Before I could explain (if I even wanted to try), a bray like a cheap trumpet snapped both our heads around. “You there! One minute!”

  A baseball in a bow tie swept toward us, all broad toothy smile. Lew Kaufman. Lew was the mayor’s campaign manager, PR whiz, and cheese ball salesman all rolled into one. Twyla called him Lightning Lew because he zapped anyone in his path. He was Salesman on steroids. Probably had a big “$” tattooed on his chest.

  Lew’s eyes lit on Suitguy and went ka-ching! He grabbed Suitguy’s hand and pumped. “Kaufman’s the name, welcome’s my game. First time visiting Our Fair City? Let me take you on a tour of Our Fair City Hall. Ha-ha!”

  Gently, Suitguy tried to extract his hand. But nothing short of a jaws of life was going to make Lightning Lew let go. Lew simply grabbed on with both hands and continued to piston away, like Suitguy was the only water pump in the Mojave Desert.

  “Over there’s the mayor’s office.” Lew pointed back toward Twyla’s. “You know he’s mayor ’cause he uses two secretaries. Of course, the secretaries really run the place, ha-ha!”

  “Ha-ha,” Suitguy agreed in a dry tone.

  Lew stopped shaking long enough to clap Suitguy’s broad back. The resulting boom (and the slightly pained look on Lew’s face) clued me that Suitguy was even harder-muscled than he appeared. Lew drew back his injured hand and cleared his throat. “Well. You’ll want to see the Department of Records, down the hall. You and your lovely wife. This way.”

  I almost didn’t catch it. Lovely—wife? Looking between Suitguy and me, I didn’t get it. He was a gorgeous, tall, powerful, tall, obviously rich, tall, conservatively dressed male. And did I mention he was tall?

  And here I was, a punk moppet with tattoos.

  How did Lew get man-and-wife out of that?

  Suitguy and I exchanged a look. For a split second, we shared perfect understanding. Lew had gone psycho.

  “Can I carry your papers, little lady?” Lew reached a hand toward me.

  Well, at least he didn’t think I was a child. “I can carry them. And anything’s better than having to read them.” I stuck the envelope under my arm and popped up brightly from the bench. “Lead away, Gungho-din.”

  “Huh?” Lew’s eyes crossed.

  “That’s Gunga Din,” Suitguy said.

  “Whatever.” I turned to Lew, looped my arm through his. “I’d love a tour with my”—I fluttered my eyes at Suitguy—“little hubby.”

  Suitguy shot me a black look in response. What a surprise, no sense of humor.

  “Right this way!” Lew latched his other arm to Suitguy and dragged us both toward the stairs. “This here’s the Fire Door. Installed in 1872, after The Fire burned the first Town Hall to the ground. It’s Real Steel, solid as a rock.” He opened the door and shut it with a clang several times. “Hear it? That’s Real Steel.”

  “Real Steel, honey,” I said, beaming at Suitguy.

  Suitguy only grimaced. “I’ve just remembered a pressing engagement. Sorry.” He twisted away from Lew and lit out.

  Lightning Lew made a grab for him. “But you gotta see this!”

  Suitguy was fast. Lew barely caught the flappy back vent of Suitguy’s suit coat. But it was enough. When Lew yanked, Suitguy allowed himself to be recaptured. Probably didn’t want to risk a rip to his eight-hundred-dollar Armani.

  “Now look at these stairs.” Lew dragged us through the Fire Door (Real Steel). “These stairs are tiled with gen-yoo-wine imitation marble. Recovered from the original Town Hall after it burned to the ground. Reused in the 1872 rebuilding.”

  Suitguy looked pained. “Thank you. But really. I must go.”

  “And the railings! Forged steel. Painted red, see? Now there’s an interesting story about the paint.”

  “How delightful,” Suitguy said. A trapped animal could have chewed his arm off. He didn’t have that option.

  I reached over Lew and patted Suitguy gently on the biceps. “Don’t bump the jams, honey.” Under the fine wool I felt hard muscle and sinew. And a hum of something. Something that said power, and heat, and…blood.

  Blood?

  I yanked my hand back. Where the hell did that thought come from?

  Suitguy slewed me a look. I pretended not to see the question in his gaze.

  Lew grabbed us both and urged us up the stairs. “This is the second floor. Now over here’s the Second Floor Closet.” Lew released us to fling open the closet door. “Can you believe the space? The organizers were put in in 1988 by Thorvald Heinemann.”

  Suitguy wasn’t listening. He touched my shoulder, lightly, like a butterfly. Incredible how light, considering how strong he seemed. “Are you all right?” he asked under Lew’s spiel.

  I couldn’t help looking up, into his eyes. Framed by those black lashes, the intense blue of his irises stunned me. My whole body clenched, like he’d hit me with lightning.

  I shook myself. Blood, and now lightning? What had gotten into me, anyway? “Yeah. Perfectly hawt.”

  He blinked. “Haute?”

  Lew came back, clapped one arm around each of us. “What do you think of Meiers Corners so far, Mr. and Mrs.…?” He looked at Suitguy expectantly. Prompted again. “Mr. and Mrs.…?”

  Lew was trying to coerce Suitguy’s name out of him. Names have power, as I well knew. I watched Suitguy’s stunning eyes shift from me to Lew, and I could see the electric intelligence behind that gaze. Suitguy was well aware of what Lew was trying to pull.

  His intense gaze drilled into Lew’s head like an auger. Lew’s smile lost some of its toothy arrogance. “I told you my name.” His tone went pouty, like a little boy.

  Taking pity on Lew, I said, “I’m Nixie.”

  After a slight pause, Suitguy responded. “Emerson. Julian Emerson. But this isn’t my wif—”

  “Julian Emerson! Well, no wonder!” Manhood restored, Lew grabbed Suitguy’s hands and pumped like an air riff. Like he’d only been practicing before. “Nice ta meetcha, Mr. Emerson. And little Nixie! I knew you looked familiar. I didn’t know you got married.”

  Neither had I, but it was kind of fun. Though Suitguy…Julian was clearly annoyed. His face was stern and his body was all clenched up. Muscles tightened and bunched, straining against the fabric of his shirt,
his coat, his pants…yum. Even under all that conservative cover, Julian’s body was hot. In what I imagined to be a wifely gesture, I tucked my hip into his thigh. Hard, thick muscle met my touch. Double-yum. “It was a whirlwind romance.” I smiled up into his stern, beautiful face.

  Something flared in Julian’s eyes. Something that said he was suddenly aware I wasn’t the child I seemed.

  Lew beamed at us both. “Well, congrats, Nixie. You got yourself one of the hottest catches of the century, if People magazine is right.”

  I tore my gaze away from Julian’s bright eyes. “Huh?”

  “Yes sirree,” Lew enthused. “Now I see why you came to help us out, Mr. Emerson. Don’t usually get such heavy-hitters in Meiers Corners. But if little Nixie here is your wife, well, ’nuf said!”

  Julian’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Kaufman. ‘Little’ Nixie is not, nor has ever been—”

  “—happier!” I wrapped my hands around Julian’s arm, batting my eyes at him. Willing him to go along with the ruse just a little longer. “But we haven’t been married long, almost newlyweds, in fact. And I want to spend every spare moment with my hubby—”

  “Great! I’ll show both of you the mayor’s beer can collection. Right this way—”

  “Alone! So if you’ll just excuse us…”

  Lew pouted. “I was going to show you the Records Department.” He added coaxingly, “The file cabinets are Real Steel.”

  “Next time,” I hurried to reassure him. “But now Suitg—Julian and I want to be alone.” Tugging on Julian’s arm, I edged away from Lew. “Right, honey?”

  Julian, bless him, was quick. He came, even going so far as to put a possessive hand over mine. We escaped into the stairwell.

  Once out of sight though, I was in trouble. I felt it before I saw it. Waves of displeasure rolled off Julian like tides of doctor bills.

  The man had no sense of humor.

  “Look, I had to say something,” I said desperately. “Lew’s like a freight train. Once he gets an idea between his teeth, he’s a tornado in a china shop.”

  “Your metaphors are execrable.”

  I didn’t understand that, but it didn’t sound good. I put fists on hips, stuck out my chest. “Yeah? Well, same to you, buster.”

  For some reason that made him smile. Not a full-out smile, just a kind of lifting of one corner of his mouth. Julian had a spectacular mouth. Bronze lips, not too full. Sleek. Built for kissing.

  Seeing my expression, which probably looked like I wanted to eat him, his eyes darkened.

  Whoa. So not going there. Not with Suitguy, Defender of the Stodgy. “Well, thanks. For, uh, rescuing me from vice-principal Schleck. And coming out after and, uh, being nice. But, gotta go.”

  He let me escape. I ran down the steps and out into the night. My heart was pounding way faster than the exercise merited.

  On the sidewalk, I paused a moment to catch my breath. The cold November air swirled around me, cooling my strangely aroused body. What had almost happened there?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. And it was going to stay that way. I was absolutely, positively, not turned on by Julian Emerson. By Suitguy. Suitguy, I rationalized, was probably as seductive as the moan-track of a grade-Z porno flick.

  It wasn’t working. I started picturing those to-die-for lips shaped around a good moan. Damp thong rapidly became soaked and steamy thong. WTF!

  Since a cold shower wasn’t handy, I decided to walk my squishy off. I struck out, headed west. Walking was a national pastime in Meiers Corners. You could get anywhere by foot. For example, I lived about a mile from City Hall. Nine blocks west, seven blocks north. Elena O’Rourke’s old place, actually, before she married Bo Strongwell. Elena was a cop, but that didn’t stop us from being friends.

  Of course, Elena and I were friends like an Irish wolfhound and the Taco Bell dog, but looks weren’t everything.

  A strong hand grabbed me by the arm, yanked me to a stop. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  I reacted without thinking. Pivot. Cock back an arm. Strike with the heel of the hand. Smash the nose. Done at the right angle, it drives bone shards into the brain.

  Except my hand never got past my shoulder. Vise-like fingers spun me. Arms stronger than bands of steel wrapped around me. I was yanked back against a chest as solid as a concrete wall. Hot breath stirred the hair on top of my head.

  I struggled uselessly, until recognition broke through. That deep, cultured voice. Those haughty vowels.

  Julian Emerson.

  I jerked against him, trying to pull loose. “Emerson! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I asked you first, little girl.” Julian released me suddenly and I stumbled. His strong hand on my arm steadied me briefly.

  I glared up at him. My glare hit his old-school tie. Thirty seconds since I’d seen him and I’d forgotten how tall he was. My breasts would rub against that flat belly. My nipples would harden… I readjusted my eyes one foot up and glared fiercely. “I am not a little girl.”

  “I know.” He sounded resentful. “But you’re not very big, either. You shouldn’t be out alone.”

  “Oh, please! This is Meiers Corners. The worst crime we have is shoplifting.”

  He glowered at me. “You have gangs.”

  “A gang. One gang. East of here, in the bad part of town.” As if Meiers Corners had a bad part of town, compared to any other city.

  “Nowhere in town is safe any more. Especially not for a hu…female.” Julian blew a frustrated-sounding breath. “This issue with the Chicago Coterie has upset the balance.”

  “Upset the balance? Well don’t you sound all crunchy.”

  His glower morphed into puzzled annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “All feng shui guru-ey. Thanks for the warning, Emerson.” I lifted my chin. “But I can protect myself.” On that line I swept away, a perfect haughty-yet-dignified exit.

  Only to be grabbed and spun back. “You can defend yourself against normal adversaries. But not against evil.” Julian’s blue eyes glowed, burning almost red violet in the yellow street lamp.

  “Evil?” I glared back, but it bounced off a stare hard as rubies. So I redirected my glare to Julian’s hand, wrapped securely around my arm. And was exceedingly surprised.

  Given his long, lithe build I expected long, slim fingers. An ele-gaunt, artsy-fartsy hand.

  But Julian’s fingers were square, his hand strong. The same bronze as his face, dusted by small black hairs.

  His hand would be powerful and sure between my thighs.

  Appalled with myself, I shook Julian’s square hand off. “Evil?” I repeated. “That’s pretty extreme, Emerson. Hitler was evil. Pol Pot was evil. Gangs are bad, yes. But evil? As far as I know no gang has wiped out millions of human beings as if it were their right.”

  “‘Wiped out millions of humans as their right.’” Julian’s lean jaw worked, as if he were fighting for restraint. “Yes, evil is exactly the word I want.”

  He really needed to lighten up. “And this Coterie is evil. Uh-huh. Are you always wired so tight, Emerson?”

  He blew a frustrated breath. “I fail to see what’s wrong with being careful. The Coterie is extremely dangerous—”

  “An evil and dangerous bunch of suits. You’re feening, Emerson. I don’t like lawyers and bureaucrats either, but I’d hardly call them evil. Well—maybe the lawyers.”

  Whatever Julian had been about to say in retort died. He gave me a strange look. “Nixie. I should tell you—” A loud pop cut him off. The street light in front of us died.

  Chapter Three

  As the light died, Julian’s jaw kicked up. His eyes narrowed to slits. His nostrils flared like a beast scenting prey.

  Suddenly Julian Emerson looked nothing like a suit. He looked like—a hunter. A dangerous, deadly hunter.

  “Get behind me.” Not waiting for me to obey, he pushed me behind him with sure hands. My fingers wrapped automatically around h
is waist.

  Beyond him I caught the impression of movement. Blurs, three of them, coming in fast. I couldn’t see much, sequestered behind Julian. He was lean, yes. But big. His chest was solid and his shoulders broad. His waist was easily as big as my hips. That lean, flat waist.

  “Get him!” someone shouted.

  In front of me, Julian’s arms jerked. Cut through the air, hard. His hands almost whistled with the force he used. If he’d held knives, whatever he hit was now sliced, diced, and julienned. I smiled at the image.

  Until twin arcs of dark liquid sprayed out on either side of him.

  It all happened so fast. I couldn’t be sure what I really saw. But the sounds sent ice through my veins. The liquid spattered onto the sidewalk like unnaturally thick rain. Plop-plop-plop. Like the sick crunch of car metal, it’s a sound I will never forget.

  In front of me, Julian’s arm went forward, then pulled abruptly back. Digging something out. The image was so strong I even heard a sucking, as if whatever it was had resisted coming out. My fingers fumbled under his suit coat, found his belt. I clutched that belt as if it were a lifesaver.

  With a sharp motion, Julian threw—something. I cringed, listening for a crunch, or a splat. A sound to tell me what he’d thrown. A sound to confirm he’d…killed…something. Or…someone.

  Nothing.

  I found my voice. “What…what just happened?” The words were shaky. Under my hands, his belt felt fuzzy.

  Not only my voice was shaking, I realized. My vision was going wonky. Julian’s broad back blurred, almost as if I could see through him. I blinked.

  An instant later he was reassuringly solid. The belt felt fine in my hands, smooth and normal.

  He reached behind him, found my fingers. Gently he worked them open. I seized his hand. I must have squeezed his fingers white but he did not protest. Holding my hand securely, Julian turned.

  I expected to see dark spray on his shirt. But it was pristine. I looked beyond him, to the sidewalk on either side. Dark dots of thick liquid glistened like oily rain. Nope, I hadn’t imagined it. “Emerson. Why is there blood—”

  Julian seized me by the shoulders. Skewered me with a stare so intense, I could feel the hairs on my nape rise. “Nixie. I want you to promise not to go outside after dark. Not alone. It’s not safe any more.”