by Mary Hughes
Nostrils flared at that. Bludgeon Leathercoat’s eyes got even redder. Like I was super-delectable now. Apparently having an old guy in the vampire world was a good thing.
Give me a B, give me an I, give me an N!
Cutter was the first to get his er, fangs under control. “What has bakery got to do with this?”
“Baka,” said Bludgeon Leathercoat under his breath. “Means stupid, stupid.” He winked at me, a sign we were on the same wavelength. I gave him a conspiratorial smile and blew him a kiss. He knew what baka meant! Either he kept up with his slang, or he’d died quite recently. Which meant he wasn’t that powerful.
So it was one pint-sized punk against three vampires, a human, and a fledgling.
Not much better odds, but hey. I’d taken on Ruthass and won. How hard could it be?
I studied my naked hips. “You wouldn’t think such a fusty old lawyer dude would be any good,” I said thoughtfully. “But apparently they teach more than legal briefs at the old Paper Chase. They must teach bikini briefs.” I released my belt loops and slowly unbuttoned the top button of my jeans. “Boy-cut briefs. French-cut briefs.” I pulled out my waistband and took a look in. Gave my panting audience a naughty smile. “No briefs.”
If vampire eyes were stove burners, those boys would have been set on Inferno. Even Bart looked like he was smoking a little out the ears. B-I-N-G.
“And Emerson certainly knows how to handle all those briefs. Especially the no-briefs. Mmm. What he can do with a fang”—I touched one finger to my neck—“a finger”—I flicked my butt—“and a cock.” I made a riding gesture with two fingers. “Well. He’s a real stallion.”
The vampires were actually drooling blood out the corners of their mouths.
And the big hand of the clock behind Cutter was on the three.
I polished more fingernails. “So you boys were here to disrupt the mayor’s speech?”
Cutter sucked his tongue back into his mouth. With a vestige of bluster he said, “We’re here to scare your rich donors, donor. Ha-ha.”
“Good idea.” I polished the other hand. “Too bad you’re too late.”
Cutter flashed a look at his Rolex. “What are you talking about? It’s only quarter after four. Fifteen minutes yet.”
“Right. Sure. Good timing.” I paused, looked him straight in the eye. “If Meiers Corners were on Standard Time.”
He laughed. “I adjusted for that, blood-bitch. Daylight savings, central time-zone. It’s four fifteen.”
“Uh-huh. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Wha…?”
“Meiers Corners time, Nimrod. Everything’s twenty minutes early. The mayor’s speech ended five minutes ago.”
Cutter looked shocked. Bart swore. All four vampires plus semi-human ran from the hall toward the council room. Going to check it out, but I knew it’d be empty.
“BINGO!” I crowed after them.
“Very nice,” a deep, cultured voice said from behind me. “You know they’ll just go on to the next venue.”
“And we’ll deal with it,” I said without turning. “But at least the VIPs aren’t RIPs. Speaking of Meiers Corners time, aren’t you a little late, Emerson?”
“You didn’t seem to need the cavalry.” He came up behind me and slid his arms around me. “And I so enjoyed hearing about my exploits. Am I really a stallion?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I rubbed back against his leather-clad hips. “If I thought you were really hot, I’d have compared you to a Maserati or Quattroporte.”
He leaned down, flicked his tongue across my earlobe. “I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I.”
Whoo-boy. Rev my engine up. “Yeah,” I breathed. “After.”
“After what?”
“After we check out the sheepshead tourney.”
His tongue took an interesting detour. “That doesn’t start until four thirty. It’s only four-seventeen.”
“Weren’t you listening, Emerson? Meiers Corners time!” I turned in his arms and tapped his nose.
Julian released me with a sigh. “Since when are you the responsible one?”
“Alien body snatchers!”
We emerged from City Hall into wisps of smoke. The tail end of a limo streaked down Main. Apparently the Nosy Gang hadn’t used umbrellas to get to their ride.
Daniel Butler opened the back door of our limo. “Sir? Miss?”
As we ran for cover, I asked Julian, “How come they’re all smoking and you’re Ice Cube?”
“An advantage of age.” He smiled, revealing gorgeous long and sleeks. Much better than Bludgeon-Leathercoat’s. Coolness was not the only advantage of age, I thought. As Butler shut the door, I said, “We have about three minutes.”
Julian’s smile widened. “What I have in mind takes only two.”
He underestimated. When Butler popped open the limo door exactly two minutes, twenty seconds later, I was still pulling up my pants. But in his defense, Julian had gotten rather creative.
Just outside Nieman’s door a very red-looking Steve Johnson blocked Cutter and his trio backup. They’d apparently lost St. Barty along the way.
Steve, who’d died a year ago, was…has been…had been Gretchen O’Rourke Johnson’s husband. Damn, this living-dead thing was hard to conjugate. Was Julian was, or was he had been?
Anyway, it became evident to me that Julian was right—age did make a difference. Cutter looked normal but the leathercoats were starting to smolder. And looking closer, Steve’s red face might have been because he was about to burst into flames. “Better get those canvas gloves,” I murmured to Butler.
Before Towering Inferno III could happen, Julian took over. “Inside,” he said, muscling all five vampires into the bar.
“What?” Steve exclaimed. “Letting in this gang of hoodlums is suicide!”
“A scene involving spontaneous combustion is worse.” Julian pushed them all the way through the bar into the back room. More of an expanded hallway, really, but tables had been set up for the tournament here as well as in the bar area. Some were already occupied.
Julian glared at the half-dozen players, eyes flashing violet. “Scram.”
They took one look at him and ran.
“Scram?” I echoed. “Scram? How trite is that? Why not—‘Begone!’? Or ‘Off with you!’?”
“Nixie,” Julian said warningly.
“Or even, ‘Out of my way, peasant!’ Really, Julian, what’s happened to you?” I cocked my head at him. “Where’s the ‘I believe you’re out of line, sir’ Julian I fell in love with?”
He stared at me, his eyes suddenly bright blue. “Why, Nixie. I didn’t know you cared.”
I could have cut my lips off. “Yeah. Well.” ATTITUDE deflated to attitude, which slunk away, whimpering.
“Aw, isn’t that cute,” Cutter sneered. “Little chew toy’s in lo-ove.”
I swatted Cutter’s mohair-clad arm. “Fuck you, fang-boy.”
“Ooh. Witty.”
“That’s enough.” Julian’s low growl was annoyed enough to make even me shut up. “You are here to disrupt the Sheepshead Tournament, correct?”
“Yeah,” Cutter said, sounding kind of sulky. “And don’t think you can stop us by yakking. This event goes all night.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Julian crossed his leather-clad arms over his magnificent naked chest. His earring winked in the half-light coming in low through the smoked-glass window. The guy looked good enough to eat. And we’d just done that in the limo ride over. Whoo boy. Julian continued coolly, “But you should know the Ancient One has sent us six of his best. They’re due to arrive shortly. Including—Logan.”
“Logan?” Cutter went suddenly pale. “Logan…Steel?” he repeated, as if numb.
“Who’s Logan?” I mouthed to Julian.
Julian just gave me a quick “no” with his eyes. He’d tell me later, I guessed. He’d better.
“Not Logan,” Cutter said. “Aw, shit.” He sta
rted pacing the confined area. Stopped. Demanded, “When will they be here?”
Julian shrugged. “Around sunset. Which is just about…now.”
“Fuck!” Cutter whirled. “We’ve gotta go!”
“But boss,” the lead leathercoat said. Bludgeon, I remembered. “Nosferatu said to disrupt the festival. He’s not going to like it if we don’t even try!”
Cutter stopped hard. He stood there, quivering, as if caught between a rock and a wrecking ball. “Shit. Oh, shit.”
Suddenly he lifted his head and his nostrils flared. “Fuck. He’s here. I’m doomed.” He went from quivering to full tremble, his eyes riveted on the doorway.
A man sauntered in. Tall, movie-star gorgeous, the man had gold-flecked hazel eyes and a mane of bright blond hair that shimmered down his back like a river of sunshine.
With a nod for Julian, the blond glided up to Cutter and patted his cheek. Cutter took it, simply standing there, shaking like a leaf. “Hello, Cutter,” the man said. “How nice to see you.” His voice was deep, and lazy. “How very nice. Because I seem to recall you owe me money.”
“Ye…yes, sir. Yes, Mr. Logan, sir. I just don’t have…much with me. That’s it, I don’t carry cash…”
“That’s all right, Cutter.” The blond man smiled gently. “I’ll let you have another chance.” He extended a strong hand toward the other room. “Sheepshead? Double or nothing?”
Cutter groaned. Like a man walking the green mile, he trudged through the doorway.
“Nicely done, Logan,” Julian said, holding out his hand.
The blond man shook it, grinned. “Can’t stay long, Emerson. Got a fish to fillet.” He nodded in the direction of Cutter.
“Of course. Just wondering if you brought anybody with you who could take care of three yearlings.” Julian flicked his eyes toward the three coats, who had begun shivering.
Logan’s smile broadened. “Oh, I don’t think anyone else will be necessary.” He crooked a single finger at the three coats. “Come with me, little minnows. Let me teach you a man’s game.”
Steve made a choked sound. “Five-handed sheepshead with four players against you? Begging your pardon, lord Logan, but are you insane?”
“Why don’t you come and see?” Logan’s eyes glittered rose-gold, and just the tips of his fangs showed as he spoke. When Steve hesitated, he said, “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I’ll buy the first round of drinks. How about a Red Special?”
“Well…”
Bludgeon, the one who seemed to like me, who knew what baka meant, clapped his hands. “All right! Red Specials are the best! Let’s go!”
Everyone stared at him for a moment, including Logan and Julian. Bludgeon shrugged. “He knows how to play sheepshead and he’s buying a round of Specials. He can’t be all bad.”
Logan laughed. Clapped Bludgeon on the back. “How right you are, fledgling. Come along now. Let me show you how to win on three jacks and an ace—without a partner.”
“All right!” Bludgeon said again as they disappeared into the bar.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“And no one’s tried to get in?” Julian paced the back of the Fudgy Delight, speaking low on his cell phone. “All right. It’ll be some time tonight. Call me the instant you hear or smell anything.”
“Nothing?” I asked as he flipped his clamshell shut.
“Not even a mist.”
“Maybe I’m wrong.” I watched the audience fill up. It was seven thirty-five, past time for the beauty pageant to start—and really late according to MC standards. But Kurt had just dashed in with the maillots. It would take at least ten more minutes for the contestants to squeeze into costume.
“You’re not wrong.” Julian slipped the phone inside his jacket. “The blood is there now. It ships out tomorrow morning. Ruthven has to steal it sometime tonight.”
“Which could be a minute from now or ten hours from now.”
“Don’t worry. The Ancient trains his lieutenants very thoroughly. If anyone can protect the Blood Center, they can.” He continued pacing, belying his own words.
“We could go there ourselves,” I said. “The band doesn’t play until nine. You wouldn’t worry as much if you were there, onsite.”
“No.” Julian stopped pacing, turned his slightly violet eyes toward Bo. “Then I’d worry about him.”
Elena’s husband was near the stage, pacing even more frantically than Julian. His eyes were shading toward red, and his jaw worked continually, like he was fighting to repress his fangs and not succeeding very well.
“What’s he so amped about?”
“Amped…oh, worked up.” Julian breathed deep, nostrils distending. “We—my kind—we’re rather possessive of our mates.”
“But he’s the one who suggested Elena do this!”
“To serve a bigger purpose.” Julian shrugged, a jerk of one shoulder. “Doesn’t mean he likes it.”
“So you’re staying here to make sure he doesn’t go all red-eyed fangy?”
“Something like that.” He tensed. “Here they come.”
I scanned the stage. “I don’t see anyone.”
“I smell them. Come on, let’s go prop up the Viking.”
That must have been one hell of a sniffer, because a full minute passed before the first of the contestants came onstage. Anna Versnobt, who had no doubt insisted on going first. I’d gone to school with her, and she delighted in making my life hell. Picked on my size, my weight, and my way of talking. She looked sicker than all the rest combined. Of course, I could hope she simply hadn’t aged well.
Before half the audience could leave, I signaled to the first of my ringers. Drusilla glided into view. She wore a bikini that was more painted-on than worn. From the audience, I could practically hear the drool hitting the floor, men and women both.
Another spotty, fudged-out contestant came on behind her. Still stunned from Dru, the audience didn’t even notice.
I watched very carefully. Each ringer had to offset at least three contagious-looking contestants. I’d led with Dru, my heavy hitter. Heavy hitter, ha-ha. Watching her DD’s bounce, I realized how apropos that was, if not entirely tasteful.
But as the second fudgy followed the first, the audience started coming out of their stupor. Anxiety attacked me with a stick. Two contestants. Only two, and Dru was the most distractingly gorgeous of the ringers. I signaled frantically.
Josephine Schrimpf sauntered out. Jaws hit the floor.
The Widow Schrimpf wore nothing but hair. She was utterly, totally naked. Like Lady Godiva without the horse. Elena told me later Josephine had a peach-colored bikini, but from here, I couldn’t see it. And fortunately, neither could the audience.
That was good for another two. But no more. As the second polka-dotted lady came downstage, a couple people even got up to leave. Desperately, I signaled.
Elena herself came out. She had gone with Dirk’s suggestion, her gun belt strapped low over her hips. Normally Dirkenstein’s suggestions are like gonorrhea—recurring, and to be avoided. But in this case…wow. The people leaving fell back into their seats. Even I stared at Elena’s tight, muscular body, limned by steel and an air of violence.
That was good for another three.
But there were still four contestants left. Four, and only Rocky to distract the audience. Rocky Hrbek, who in high school was overweight and acne-prone. Who dressed in muumuus because they were comfortable. Whose body-image was even more fucked up than most of us double-Xers.
The curtain parted. A gold tube slid out from between. Rocky followed, gliding onstage like a nymph. She put flute to lip, started playing.
Besides auditions, I’d heard Rocky play before, in orchestra. Blending with three so-so violins, a flat tuba, and a punk rock clarinet, she was pretty good.
Playing solo in a bikini, she was breath-taking.
She was playing something exotic, her body swaying to the beat of the music. And what a body! Even Dru stopped for a look, and I caught a
glimpse of fang. Fang, dripping with drool.
Totally unselfconscious, Rocky played. She was one with her music. The flute was a living extension of her, as only the best musicians can make it. The sound, blended with her very soul, spread out in waves over the audience. Captivating them. Capturing their attention, their imaginations—their hearts.
The final four contestants, looking like refugees from an isolation ward, slunk out without even a whimper from the audience. We were all far too enthralled by Rocky and her music.
When Rocky finished playing she folded in on herself, all the poise of a scared bunny. But it didn’t matter. The magic had wrapped up the entire room.
The pageant was going to be fine.
Julian and I stayed the whole hour. Rocky won. Even with the Widow Schrimpf, Elena, and Drusilla to choose from, the judges picked Rocky. For her beauty, for her talent, but also for her innocence, that sense that she truly had no idea how beautiful and talented she was. That sweet naivety just enhanced her appeal. The emcee took the sparkling crystal crown and set it on Rocky’s chestnut head.
And you know what she did?
She took the crown off. Walked over to Elena. Said, “There must be some mistake. This is obviously yours.” Reached up and put the crown on Elena’s corkscrew curls.
But that was Rocky for you. And I couldn’t complain. She had saved the pageant.
The festival was in full swing, going fine. A competent fangy guy guarded each event, and though I kept checking my voicemail, not one problem was called in. I was actually starting to relax.
I should learn not to do that.
Because when we got to the Roller-Blayd factory, the Ruthiettes were setting up. On the main stage.
Where we were supposed to open.
Lob ran from Billy the Kid to each of his posse, yelling. BTK et al ignored him, plugging in equipment and generally taking over the stage.
I waved impatiently to Lob. Thanks to a suggestion from Julian, Lob was fully recovered from his brush with fangy weirdness. He saw me, came over. “You’ve got to do something,” he yelled. “Moss and I both tried, but…these guys are a disaster!”
