Biting Nixie

by Mary Hughes

  Only God got spiral-cut ham.

  To top it all off, my mother had the silver flatware and the Bohemian crystal out. As I set the table, I felt like I was decorating for my own wake. St. Bart was coming, and he got ham and the best china. In her mind, my mother probably had us married already. I would be lucky if she wasn’t knitting little booties.

  Something about dread speeds up time. It seemed like only ten minutes had passed before the doorbell rang.

  Or maybe St. Bart was on Meiers Corners time.

  “There he is!” My mother tore through the dining room like a tornado. “Get the hors d’oeuvres, Dietlinde.”

  My mother had made hors d’oeuvres. Please. Just barbeque me. It’d be less painful.

  Dutifully I went to the kitchen and brought out the silver tray of mini-sandwiches and artistically decorated crackers. Not even cheezwhiz and Ritz. I said a quick prayer that we weren’t having champagne.

  I heard voices as I brought out the tray. My mother, cooing, for heaven’s sake. My father, actually saying “Hello”. And St. Bart…who had a very nice baritone.

  “Thank you for inviting me over, Mrs. Schmeling. I’ve been a little cooped up since moving to Meiers Corners.”

  “We must seem tiny after the Big City.” My mother, normally the staunchest defender of the Corners.

  Surprisingly St. Bart replied, “Not at all. But my apartment and the law office are a bit cramped. And I don’t get out much. Once it snows I can do some cross-country skiing, but until then it’s just cold.”

  “In the old days we would have had a foot of snow by now.” My mother again, apologizing for the weather. St. Bart must really be something. I took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

  And stopped, and stared. Hanging up his black wool overcoat was a slim, dark-haired young man in ivory cable sweater and jeans. His hair was thick and wavy, his butt nice and trim. His shoulders were good and solid. Not as broad as Julian’s. Then again Julian had a supernatural advantage…or so I guessed.

  The young man turned. His face was open and boyish, with a light dusting of freckles. His blue eyes lit when he saw me and his generous mouth turned up in a smile. “You must be Dietlinde. Hi. I’m Bart.” He stuck out his hand.

  Bart had the slim, artistic fingers I’d expected Julian to have. I met his handshake, appreciatingly firm but not tight. “Call me Nixie.”

  “Nixie?” Bart kept smiling, looking questioningly between my mother and me.

  I took pity on him. “Nixie’s my middle name.”

  “Ach, that dumm name,” my mother said. “I don’t know why you use it when Dietlinde is so much prettier.”

  “I kind of like it. Nixie,” Bart said again, getting a smile out of me. “Has an impish sort of ring. Like pixie.”

  “Exactly my point,” my mother said.

  Taking a cracker off the tray, Bart gave me a wink. “If you don’t like it, Mrs. Schmeling, why’d you give it to your daughter?”

  “The aunts.” My mother’s mouth set as if tasting a twist of lemon. “We named Dietlinde after my two sisters. Older and younger.”

  “That’s a nice tradition. My sister’s named after my grandmothers.”

  That dropped into a sudden silence. Bart munched cracker. Sucked some creamed chicken liver off one finger. He pretended there was no awkward gap, but I knew he’d noticed it because he shot me a questioning look.

  My grandmothers were named Eva…and Giselle.

  I shrugged and gave Bart an eye-roll. Signaling no biggie, although, of course, it was.

  We all sat in the front room. My dad spoke. “Beer?” He looked at Bart.

  “Yes, please, Mr. Schmeling. Just one.”

  That earned a look of approval from my father and my mother, although for different reasons. “So, Bart,” my mother said as my father escaped…er, left for the kitchen. “You are a lawyer? How do you like that?”

  “Very much, Mrs. Schmeling. I’m learning a lot from Mr. Crane. My goal is to practice in Chicago some day. Become a partner in a high-powered firm.”

  “And that pays well?” My mother is nothing if not transparent.

  But Bart didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, yes. Even in Meiers Corners it’s quite profitable. But in Chicago, well, the sky’s the limit.”

  The Saint had passed number one, Gainfully Employed, with disgusting ease. I plucked a small sandwich off the tray and chomped.

  “And you grew up in Chicago? I know some people in Chicago. The Schwartzes. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

  Trying to ascertain how he scored on number two, Good Family.

  “Mother, there are three million people living in Chicago. Almost ten million in the metro area! It’s highly unlikely that Bart has met—”

  “You mean Hans and Gretel Schwartz?” Bart’s face lit with pleasure. “They were our neighbors for ten years. Their oldest daughter Caroline babysat me when I was a kid.”

  My mother actually clapped her hands in delight. “You heard Caroline has had her first baby, yes?”

  “Heard? I’m the godfather!”

  After that it was old home week. The baby had been baptized at Good Shepherd Lutheran church, which put Bart over the top on three, Good Lutheran. I got bored within ten seconds. They yakked so enthusiastically I thought my mother totally forgot four—Enthralled by My Daughter. Or maybe she replaced it with Form 4EZ—Enchanted by Mom.

  Finally she moved on. “So is lawyering hard work, Bart?” Looking for five, Has a Brain.

  “I’d say fascinating.” Bart spread his artistic fingers in a gesture of eye-opening delight. “The intricacies of the law, the research and the fire of discovery…it has a sort of poetry, Mrs. Schmeling.”

  Well, wasn’t that guaranteed to make my mother swoon.

  My dad returned with the beers, apparently hiding out in the kitchen until all the tests had been administered and the results tabulated. We hadn’t done number six, Helps with the Housework, but I got the impression with St. Bart, my mother would cut a little slack.

  At dinner, talk turned to music. Bart played a little trumpet in junior high but hadn’t touched it in years, which was frankly somewhat refreshing. And he was cute, in an open and boyish sort of way.

  Maybe cute, open, and boyish was just the thing I needed to forget about dark, dangerous, and bitey. “Hey, Bart,” I said as we gathered up the dessert dishes. (He passed six, too.) “My band is playing tonight. Want to come?”

  “Sure!” Bart smiled his Opie smile.

  I smiled back and waited. A little quiver of interest fluttered in my tummy. Okay, not the hot rush of lust Julian inspired, but I was willing to work with it. “We’re at the Alpine Retreat and Bar. On the edge of town. First set’s at nine.”

  “Great! I’ll be there.”

  That night I dressed with care. My mother liked Bart, my father liked Bart, and even I liked Bart some. After all, he called me Nixie. I owed him a decent chance.

  And Julian, while the best sex I’d ever had (without even screwing), wasn’t going to stick around forever. He’d come to Meiers Corners to deal with the Chicago thing. When that was done, he’d go back. And he was hardly likely to ask me to come with him and meet his holy Boston Brahmin friends.

  Besides, where did a vampire score on the Mother Test?

  So I dressed in something that would be sexy without scaring Bart off. Something interesting and provocative, not too far off my punk personality, but with the sharp edges filed down a little.

  Which meant trying on every combination of underwear and clothes I owned.

  I finally opted for stretchy pink lace boy-cut panties and pink lace bra. Over that went a pink camisole—and black leather pants and boots. I mean, fun’s fun and all, but girly was just not me. Then I pinched up my curls in tiny butterfly clips and slicked on strawberry lip gloss.

  Okay, maybe I’m a little girly.

  I half-expected Julian to show up all the time I was dressing. After all, we had been apartmentus-interruptus last night.
Weren’t staid suitguys taught to always finish what they started?

  Oscar was lying on my bed where he’d been since the incident at the warehouse. I opened the case and checked him over. As I started to put him away, I was caught by the bent tuning machine.

  It got bent when Oscar was practically brand-new. He was my first purchase with my own money. I made the mistake of laying him on the floor during practice. My sister Giselle ran in, not looking where she was going as usual. A force of nature, Giselle was.

  She stepped on baby Oscar. Bent the tuning machine. I was angry about it at the time, yelled things I don’t like to remember. She promised to get it repaired, but Giselle never had money. Too generous, with her own cash and everyone else’s.

  Two weeks later she was dead.

  I never got that tuning key repaired. It reminded me of Giselle. That life was short, sometimes way too short.

  It reminded me to always, always seize the day.

  I wanted to seize Julian. Where the hell was he? Maybe he thought I was still reeling from the trauma of seeing hordes of guys dismembered. Maybe he was waiting for me to call him.

  Or maybe he had more meetings. His fucking job. His fucking responsibility. That made me angry, until I remembered his other job. The one where he had to worry about dismembered guys rising again. Hordes of dismembered guys, thirsty for blood.

  What if Elena hadn’t found any blood for them? What if she hadn’t found enough?

  Maybe Julian wasn’t ignoring me. Maybe Julian was out finishing—the job.

  As I picked up Oscar I put that gruesome little thought firmly out of mind. Tonight, I wasn’t going to think about supernatural beings. I was definitely not going to think about supernaturally erotic beings whose bites were orgasmic—no. Not thinking about that at all.

  Which of course made me think about only that. It was worse than an earworm, that little tune that gets stuck in your head and eats out your brains. With great deliberation I put Julian and his dark sizzling sex firmly out of my mind. As I backed out of the garage I was so not thinking about orgasmic bites that I nearly sheared the mirror off the side of the car.

  We started our first set at nine fifteen. Bart showed up about half an hour later. He bought himself a single beer at the bar and found a table. Tipped his beer toward me and smiled. I had to admit he was very cute. His smile warmed my belly and tickled my twinkle lips. And this lawyer didn’t saunter in with any hookers on his arm.

  Although wouldn’t that give my mother a fit?

  After we finished the set, Bart wandered over. I put Oscar in his case and rose to meet him—Bart, I mean. Standing on tip-toes, I brushed my lips across his. He waited a split second before returning the favor, lingering a little longer than I had. He had nice technique. We kissed once more before I dropped off my toes.

  “Buy you another?” I indicated his almost-empty glass.

  “Oh, no. Thanks, but I never have more than one an hour. That’s how long it takes to metabolize one drink, you know. One hour.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” Well, now was the hard part. Making conversation. What to say, what to say? With Julian it was easy. We were always fighting. When he wasn’t comforting me. Or arousing me. Or biting…no, not thinking about that. Shuddering about that, but not thinking about it. “So. Um, did you have any trouble finding the place?”

  “Nope. Your mom gave me directions after you left.”

  “My mom? She knew directions to the Alpine?” Whoa. My mother—in a bar?

  “Caroline Schwartz got married here. Isn’t that amazing? You and I could have met two years ago.”

  “I didn’t come,” I said. “I had a gig that night. A paying gig.”

  “Oh.” Bart shrugged. “Well, I suppose you have your priorities.”

  “Yeah. Paying my bills has always been kind of important to me.”

  Bart appeared to think that over. “Did you ever think of getting married, Nixie? That would help pay the bills.”

  “Oh, su-ure. That’s the only reason I’d get married. To pay the bills. Sex and love wouldn’t enter into it at all.”

  There was a pause. Bart’s eyes glazed over, sort of like Julian’s when he needed a translation. “I’m just saying. Two incomes and all.” Okay, so he was like Julian, but not. Julian knew sarcasm when he heard it. And he at least looked for a translation. Bart apparently didn’t.

  That topic exhausted, I moved on. “So, what did you think of the band?”

  Bart came back from coma land. “Great electric bass. Real driving force.”

  “Rob’s got chops,” I agreed.

  “And I liked your clarinet work. I’ve never heard the “Beer Barrel Polka” in a sixteen beat before.”

  Bart knew something about music. Bruno hadn’t worked out, but maybe Bart could. Time to implement Phase II, bone-bamming. “Thanks. Hey—I get done at two. Want to come over?” I didn’t have any etchings, but I could play Oscar to impress him.

  Bart’s smile faltered. “Oh, wow, I’d like to, but…I can’t. I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

  He had to go to work on a Sunday? Weird, but I minded my manners. “Oh, well. Doesn’t break my crayons. I was just going to floss my Strat.” Subtitled, it meant I wasn’t upset, that I was only going to show off on my guitar.

  But Bart didn’t even seem to notice I’d said anything. Without a hitch he went on. “Love to come by, but I have a bunch of meetings, first thing in the morning. Can’t get out of them. So I have to get a good night’s sleep. I have to be alert for work!”

  Apparently what Bart didn’t understand, Bart ignored. That time he didn’t even try to process what I said. “Alert for work! Absolutely essential!” I agreed heartily. My tone was so jolly Julian would have heard the acid in an instant. I was laying it on so thick even my mother might have noticed.

  Not a ping on the Bart meter. “Absolutely, Nixie. A good night’s sleep is vital.”

  It was sort of sad. Still, sex didn’t require understanding—just friction. “If not tonight, maybe tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’ll walk you home after dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Had Bart asked me out and I missed it?

  “Sauerbraten. I gave your mother my family’s recipe. She’s going to try it out. Six o’clock.”

  “Um, Bart? I don’t go to my parents every night—”

  “Maybe you’d better make it five forty. Your mother was a little upset you were late today.”

  “I wasn’t late—”

  “I’m just saying.” He gave me a quick kiss. Nice, but hurried. “See you!”

  And, polishing off his one beer, Bart left.

  I got Oscar out of the case, tuned for the next set. Well, that was certainly anticlimactic—in more ways than one. That night I went home alone, and slept with Oscar.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I didn’t see either Julian or Bart the next day. No way I was going to martyr myself on the maternal stake (or steak, knowing my mother) for St. Bart. And Julian had to work. I spent Sunday with Oscar and a couple music mags, neither of which cared I was grumpy. I turned in early, to be awake for auditions. I tossed and turned for two hours before falling asleep at the regular time.

  The next morning was band auditions for the festival. Monday morning’s not the best for musicians of any kind, but I figured at least they’d had the whole weekend to warm up.

  Besides, this was the third time auditions had been scheduled. More importantly, there was less than one week until show time. And too many things had interfered already.

  I had to hear the bands this morning. Or else.

  I commandeered the council chambers for the auditions. The room had been restored to its 1872 glory (after The Fire). All around me head-high wainscoting and hardwood floors gleamed. Since there was nothing but bare wood and chairs, the reverberation alone would break eardrums. I’m used to it, though.

  As the first band set up, I settled into a chair in the back of the room. Dirk Ruffles rushed in a few moments
later, prattling breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late, Nixie. Have I missed anything? Or have I missed everything? Am I too late, or only Meiers Corners late?”

  “Don’t stress. We’re just starting.”

  The first band was three high school kids who’d obviously never played anywhere but their parents’ basements. The singer was screaming but I could barely hear him because he’d forgotten to turn on the mic. The guitar solo was punctuated by squeals of feedback.

  Since it was probably their first public appearance, I let the kids jump and jangle for almost ten minutes before I stopped them. “Thank you.”

  They came slouching back, trying not to look too eager. The singer said, “So, like, can we play?”

  “I’m scheduling you for two a.m.” By then the beer tent should have done its work.

  “All right!” Echoes of congratulations and body slams escorted them out. As the next band set up Dirk leaned over to me. “That was nice of you, Nixie.”

  “Yeah. I’m a softie. Don’t let it get around.”

  “Too late.” The deep, cultured voice came from behind me.

  “Julian?” I spun. Sure enough, there he stood, tall, dark, and luscious. Instant bootie burn. I shot up from my seat. Almost fanned my crotch.

  He smiled slightly. “We’re glad to see you, too.”

  We? Him and who…oh. I glanced down at his hips. But if Mr. Big Gavel was waving hi, I couldn’t see it under the worsted. Stupid suit.

  Julian took the chair on the other side of me. “How are things going?” Said with obvious concern, he was asking if I had recovered from the up-chuck and run from Friday night.

  “Fine.” Dirk was listening in and I didn’t want any awkward questions, so I added, “I finished locking down all the committee chairs and backups, and yesterday I confirmed the venues. Today Dirk and I are auditioning bands.”

  “Ah.” Julian flashed a look at Dirk. Message received. “How long will that take?”