Biting Nixie

by Mary Hughes

  “And maybe you’re a necrophile.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m fully aware of your adult status, Nixie.” After a significant pause Julian added, “At least physically.”

  I gasped outrage. “Implying I’m being childish?”

  “Not implying.” His tone was more grouchy than angry. “Why do you have to taste so good?”

  “Why do I…huh? I taste good?” A compliment? Backhanded, but it was the last thing I expected. Especially from Julian Emerson.

  “Too damned good.” He muttered it through barely open lips. Stopped, adjusted his pants. “Go in, Nixie.”

  For a moment I thought he meant his pants. But no, somehow we were in front of my townhouse. “This isn’t over, Emerson.” I meant the treating-me-like-a-kid thing. But my body shuddered—it meant the sex thing. The inexplicable, über-hot response my body had for his. I could only hope he didn’t notice.

  His eyes darkened.

  He’d noticed. Fuck.

  Which was what I still wanted to do.

  “Go in,” he repeated. He jammed his hands into his pockets like he wanted to do something else with them. Like maybe grab me again. His eyes were almost black, his nostrils were flared, and his lips were so tight I thought they’d snap.

  I wondered what those lips would feel like between my legs.

  And then, cursing my own imbecility, I turned and fled into my townhouse.

  Chapter Seven

  Julian thought I was a kid. He didn’t want me out alone at night. And to top things off, I was dangerously attracted to him. There was only one solution.

  Find a guy, take him on a hot date, and bam his bones.

  There weren’t a lot of single guys in Meiers Corners. There were even fewer that I’d want to date, much less go to bed with. Most were either too old or too young. They were all way too hidebound.

  Except for Bruno.

  At first glance you’d think Bruno Braun buried the needle on the ultra-conservative meter. He was a big ex-SEAL dripping hair, tattoos, and conspiracy theories. A redneck bear with an X-Files fetish. Bruno ran the city’s survivalist store, Armageddon 3.

  But he was also Meiers Corners’s only cross-dresser.

  Bruno was just as out of place in Meiers Corners as me. Which was why we got on so well. And which was why, when I wanted to forget Julian Emerson, I called Bruno.

  I keyed in Bruno’s home phone number. At least I think it’s his home phone. Bruno had a land line. Didn’t want cell phone satellites GPSing his position. But no one really knew where Bruno lived, not even me. I counted three rings, hung up. After waiting two seconds I hit redial, counted three rings and hung up again. When I redialed another two seconds later, Bruno answered. “Have to make this fast, Nixie.” His voice was sort of a low growl. “Can’t tie up the line.”

  “Hey, Bear. What’s so urgent?”

  “I’m expecting a call. Information about The Coterie.” He lowered his voice. “They’re trying to take over Meiers Corners, you know.”

  “So I heard. Annex us to big daddy Chicago.”

  “If only that was all there was to it.”

  “Yeah, I heard about the gang problem, too.”

  There was a short silence. “You know about…the gang?”

  I was about to pitch out some flip answer when it struck me. The music in his voice when he said gang. It was the same music as when Bo said gang. Like gang…was unnatural. “I know some. Not everything. Maybe you could tell me more.”

  “Not over the phone.” He whispered it, a tight rasp very unlike the Bear’s usual booming roar.

  Discussing conspiracies in Meiers Corners. Some hot date. But I was on a mission. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I thought maybe we could get together tonight. For dinner or a movie or something. And something…after.”

  “Dinner?” Bruno sounded confused. I forgot he didn’t hit the social scene much.

  “Yeah, or even just for drinks.” Which might help with the after. Wrestling in bed with heavy and hairy suddenly didn’t seem near as appealing. At least, not as appealing as lean and legal.

  I slapped myself. Brawny and bearish was exactly what I needed. “You could give me the 411 on”—I lowered my voice—“the gang.” I put the same strange emphasis on the word.

  “Um, okay. Drinks. Nieman’s Bar?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Four?”

  “In the morning?!” The only time I was up at four was when I had a gig and was still up from the night before.

  “This afternoon.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Why so early?”

  “Before the sun sets,” Bruno whispered, and hung up.

  I cradled my own handset more slowly. Things weren’t adding up. Yeah, okay, Bruno had more conspiracy theories than The Home Shopping Network had “Wait! There’s more!” But it wasn’t just Bruno who put that odd, unnatural emphasis on gang. Bo Strongwell, typically the most normal of men, had, too. And I’d been attacked by unnaturally fast growly guys, not once but twice.

  And Julian Emerson had bitten me. Really sank his sharp teeth into my skin.

  But when I looked, there were no holes.

  If I didn’t know better—

  My phone rang and I snatched up the handset. “Bruno, can you at least give me a hint about this gang?”

  “I would, Dietlinde,” a booming, jovial voice answered. “But then I’d have to kill you ha-ha!”

  “Mayor Meier?” The mayor of the city, calling me? Mayor Meier never called me. Oh, not because he’s too full of himself. Mayor Meier was the epitome of jolly Deutsche friendliness. He’s Lawrence Welk in a Santa Claus suit. Throw the cow over the fence some hay, and let’s go down by the lake, ain’a. “Call me Nixie, Mayor. If I may ask…why are you phoning?”

  “Ach, Dietlinde! It is warming to my heart to know you are doing the running of the First Annual Meiers Corners International Fun Fair, Sheepshead Tournament, and Polka Festival. Just what we need to bring a little gemütlichkeit to our wonderful festival.” He pronounced it “just vat ve need” and “vondehful”. “Ach ja, our own little Dietlinde Schmeling—who I have known since diapers you were wearing!”

  The diaper ploy. Emotional blackmail. “Please, Mayor. I prefer Nixie. And thanks, but it’s not like I had a choice—”

  “Ja, ja. There was no one else—no one, you understand? Then, when Twyla Tafel suggested your name, I said, ‘Of course! Our kleine Dietlinde is perfect, nicht wahr?’ And then I said—”

  “It’s nice of you to pick me,” I interrupted brightly. Twyla set the dogs of doom on me? I was going to kill her.

  No, I wasn’t. Killing was too good for the haas. I was going to get revenge. “But you know who would really be perfect to run the festival? Someone who runs things for a living. Someone like Twyla!” Revenge this, Twyla.

  “Of course, that is who I thought of at first! Ach, ja, great minds think alike, little Dietlinde.”

  And if he said Dietlinde one more time I was going to string him up by his ja’s and beat him about the genitals with his ach’s. “Mayor—call me Nixie, please. So why not go with Twyla now? I’ll just return the packet”—of Doom—“and we’ll be all set.”

  “Ach, but Dietlinde! You know why Twyla can’t do the running of the First Annual Meiers Corners International—”

  I took a nano-nap. Tuned back in on “—pregnant.”

  “Twyla’s pregnant?” I screeched.

  “Nein, nein,” Mayor Meier chuckled. “Twyla’s sister is having the little liebchen. But of course mein gut Twyla will be out of town to attend the birth.”

  Mein gut Twyla? My good Twyla, my ass. My friend had not only pointed the finger at me, she’d turned it up in salute! “I thought Twyla was running the beauty pageant!”

  “Only the pre-pageant organization, little Diet—”

  “Nixie, please!” Sheesh. “What about Heidi? She runs your office…practically runs the city!”

  “Nein
, nein, Dietlinde. The festival must be jolly! Heidi would snap her whip and command merriment. While that is fun in the office, for the tourists—”

  I did not want to hear about the mayor and Heidi’s merry whip. “I get it. It’s me or nothing.” And my pride would see that I did the job right. I sucked in a resigned breath, let it out on a sigh of acceptance. “Will anyone from your office be around to help me?”

  “Ja, of course. We are not out in the cold leaving you. The alderpersons have all been pressed…er, have volunteered their services.”

  A bunch of bureaucrats? Oh, great. I knew from experience they’d be no help running things. They’d just argue, table the motion, and go to Nieman’s Bar for a couple of drinks.

  “Now, I know what you are thinking, Dietlinde. But we have gotten a little new blood on the Common Council since you were the student representative.”

  “Shh! Don’t say that so loud.” I flushed. I can’t believe I was actually a part of student government. Talk about bad for my hard-ass reputation! Added to the diaper ploy…yeesh.

  “Ja, well I was just wanting to reassure you. We have that nice young Josiah Moss of the Stark and Moss Mortuary. And Kurt Weiss, manager of the Allrighty-Allnighty. Both are very energetic. Oh, and Detective O’Rourke’s sister. Gretchen Johnson. I remember when she was in diapers.” He laughed, all jolly Santa. “I remember when you were in diapers.”

  Sheesh. Did this man have a diaper fetish? “Are Donner and Blitz still on the Board?” Donner and Blitz were two old drunks, perpetuees of Nieman’s Bar. I actually kind of liked Donner and Blitz. After the council meetings they were the ones who took me to Nieman’s with them. And gave me beers. Don’t tell Mom and Dad.

  “Ach, ja. And bartender Buddy, and the lovely Brunhilde Butt, as well.”

  I groaned. Lovely was definitely in the eye of the beholder where Brunhilde was concerned. Affectionately known as Granny Butt, Brunhilde moonlighted as an exotic dancer at Nieman’s Bar. If you could classify stripping out of a girdle and orthopedic hose as exotic.

  “Oh, goodie,” I said. “Sounds like a lot of help.”

  The mayor didn’t catch sarcasm quite as well as certain overpriced attorneys (with great hands). No, I didn’t think great hands. I was not thinking about competent square hands and what they could do sure and strong between my legs. Not…thinking…shit.

  “Ja, great help. So I just want to thank you. And remind you of the Summerfest playing for the Guns and Roses if we make our target of the five hundred t’ousand dollars. That is vunderful, nein?”

  Council blackmail, diapers, and the threat of murder by every member of my band if I screwed up this gig op. “Oh yeah. Vunderful.”

  “Well, that is all, little Dietlinde. Oh, except make sure you have the twenty tickets set aside, bitte.”

  “Twenty tickets?”

  “Ja, to the bands. You know my sister is the teacher, ja? In Wauwatosa?” He pronounced it Va-va-tosa. “Well, she also does the advising for the Wauwatosa Applied Mathematics Organization.”

  Great. Now I had to babysit twenty little geeks, on top of everything else.

  But the mayor was continuing. “They are interested in the acoustics, nicht wahr? So they looking forward to hearing the bands are.”

  Shit. That reminded me—I had forgotten to reschedule auditions. And this was Thursday night. Unless I set auditions up for tonight, most bands would be unavailable, playing their weekend gigs.

  “Twenty tickets. I’ll get them to you, Mayor.” I hung up and sighed. Then I caught a look at the clock and jumped up. Only two hours to get ready for my date—and worse, to clean my bedroom.

  I ended up calling the bands with my cell as I walked to Nieman’s. I had just finished when I reached the bar. Swiveling the phone and stowing it, I pushed open the door to the old-style corner tap—and immediately went blind.

  Oh, yeah. Nieman’s keeps its lights way low, for when Granny Butt is wiggling on the bar. I mean, how many dewlaps can you see flapping and not lose your fifth boilermaker?

  “Psst—Nixie. Over here.”

  Hunkered down—if you could call a mountain trying to crouch hunkering—in the back corner of the bar was Bruno.

  I slid onto the barstool next to him, raised two fingers to the barkeep. “Hey, Bear. Come across any good field artillery lately?”

  Bruno brightened. “Last week. I sold Elena a replacement for her bazooka. Nice SMAW. Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon.”

  I blinked. “Elena has a bazooka?”

  “Had. For disabling you-know-whats.”

  “I-know-whats?”

  “Yeah. Like the gang of you-know-whats.”

  “Oh! The gang of I-know-whats. Uh-huh.” Okay, usually I was quicker than this. But we were speaking a language that had no known alphabet. I felt a flash of sympathy for Julian Emerson. “Bruno, what the hell are you feening about?”

  He straightened, looking offended. “I don’t obsess, Nixie. I’m not like those conspiracy nuts, you know. I only deal with truth. Cold hard facts.”

  The bartender came over with two glasses and a pitcher of bock. I traded him an Abe, which included the tip. If there’s one thing I love about Meiers Corners, it’s the cheap beer. “I’m sorry Bear.” I poured beer for both of us, slid his over to him. “I didn’t mean to insult you. So you have cold hard facts about the…gang?”

  “Yeah. Here’s what I found out. There’s an organization called the Cook County Indemnity Corporation. They’re really a front group for a bunch of fucking operators. They’re the ones pushing the Chicago government to annex Meiers Corners.”

  “Okay.” This might be the Coterie Julian referred to. “But what about the gang?”

  “Well, it’s like this. These CCIC guys are not just your usual business fartzecutives. They also run one of the most powerful and most secret gangs in the Midwest.”

  “Uh-huh.” Suddenly I was way less convinced. Gosh, Batman. One of the most powerful and secretest of gangs. Run by a bunch of suits. Really and truly.

  Some of my disbelief must have shown on my face because Bruno scowled at me, his bushy eyebrows going low over his brown eyes. “Don’t laugh, Nixie. This gang is dangerous—and they’re supernatural.”

  “Superna—come on, Bruno. You can’t expect me to believe that.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “There’s proof. Strange things going on in Meiers Corners.”

  Suuure there were. “Like?”

  “Like lions and wolves growling in the night. Despite no zoo in Meiers Corners. Like people turning to mist.” He lowered his voice. “Like blood spatter mysteriously appearing, and just as mysteriously disappearing.”

  Okay, that rang an alarm too close to home. “All right. Say I believe your ‘proof’. The CCIC runs a gang. Does this gang have a name?”

  Bruno looked one way, then the other. Then, lowering his face right next to mine, he whispered, “The Lestats.”

  “The States?” It wasn’t unheard of for a gang to name itself after a nation or people. But why states? And why French?

  “Not l’état,” Bruno said. “Lestat, one word. Or rather, a name.”

  Lestat. And I remembered Julian saying the leader of the Coterie was a man called Nosferatu. “Vampires?”

  “Keep your voice down!” Bruno hissed. “They have ears everywhere.”

  “This is why you wanted to meet before sunset,” I said in amazement. “You really think these guys are vamp—”

  “Shh.” Bruno clapped a paw over my mouth. “They may be in their graves during the day. But their human minions are everywhere.”

  “Everywhere,” I said, only it came out “ebbywhir” because his meaty palm sealed my lips pretty well. Bruno removed his hand, looking abashed. “Uh-huh. Human minions everywhere.” My tone didn’t exactly drip sarcasm, but it was moist.

  “They are vulnerable during the day. Which is why I’ve got this.” Bruno whipped a huge tube out of the darkness behind him. “This here bazoo
ka used to be Elena’s. She took out Dracula with this.”

  “Of course she did,” I said, all the time thinking Bruno had not only broken all his crayons, but had remelted them into one gray blob. “And you’ll use that for…?”

  He lowered his voice. “Hunting them, of course. But only during the day.”

  “Uh-huh. In their graves.”

  “Well…yes.”

  “And you know which graves they occupy?”

  “Well…no.”

  “Hmm. Well, if you do happen to find an occupied grave, you’ve at least figured out how you’re going to shoot through six feet of soil, right?”

  “There do seem to be a few problems with my plan.”

  “One or two.” I was beginning to wonder about my own plan to forget Julian Emerson. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But obviously talking wasn’t going to do it. “Put that bazooka down.” I wiggled my butt across the stool toward him.

  “What?”

  “Put that down” was probably not the most seductive line in the world. Pitching my voice like a mellow sax, I said, “Bruno. Let’s not talk any more.” I touched his shoulder. He had very nice, very broad shoulders. A little beefy, though. Not lean and powerful, like…fuck. “Why don’t you put down the bazooka for a moment and we can get…better acquainted.”

  “What’s wrong with you, Nixie?” Bruno eyed me like I had a goldfish stuck between my teeth and it was still whacking its tail.

  And I felt…nothing. No connection. No instant fire. Damn.

  Still, I persevered. “I’m going to kiss you, Bear. Put down the fucking bazooka.”

  “Oh.” Slowly, he set aside the gargantuan tube. Leaned forward. Puckered up. His lips looked like a red cauliflower planted in a nest of rusty old guitar strings.

  There was an image guaranteed to make me hot.

  Placing both palms gingerly against his flannel shirt, I leaned forward. Under the shirt Bruno’s chest was hard, covered by a mat of springy hair. Nice. My engine started, enough so that I put my mouth naturally against his. He tasted like…beer. Like beer and…hair.

  Mentally gritting my teeth, I kissed him. The hair from his mustache poked at my nose. I suppressed a sneeze.