by Ким Харрисон
"What," Kist said flatly. I'd never heard his voice carry anything but sultry petulance before, and the power in it sent a jolt through me, its unexpectedness making it all the more demanding.
"Sir, the party of Weres upstairs? They're starting to pack."
Oh? I thought. That was not what I had expected.
Kist straightened his elbow and pushed away from the post, irritation flickering across him. I took a clean breath, my unhealthy disappointment mixing with a distressingly small waft of self-preserving relief.
"I told you to tell them we were out of bane," Kist said. "They came in reeking of it."
"We did, sir," the waiter protested, taking a step back as Kist pulled entirely away from me. "But they coerced Tarra into admitting there was some in the back, and she gave it to them."
Kist's annoyance turned into anger. "Who gave Tarra the upstairs? I told her to work the lower floor until that Were bite healed over."
Kist worked at Piscary's? Surprise, surprise. I hadn't thought the vamp had the presence of mind to do anything useful.
"She convinced Samuel to let her up there, saying she'd get better tips," the waiter said.
"Sam…" Kist said from between closed teeth. Emotion crossed him, the first hints of coherent thoughts that didn't revolve around sex and blood surprising me. Full lips pressed together, he scanned the floor. "All right. Pull everyone as if for a birthday and get her out of there before she sets them off. Cut off the bane. Complimentary desert for any who want it."
Blond stubble catching the light, he glanced up as if able to see through the ceiling to the noise upstairs. The music was high again, and Jeff Beck filtered down. "Loser." Somehow, it seemed to fit as they all slurred the lyrics together. The wealthier patrons in the lower floor didn't seem to mind.
"Piscary will have my hide if we lose our A rating over a Were bite," Kist said. "And as exciting as that might be, I want to be able to walk tomorrow."
Kist's easy admission of his relationship with Piscary took me aback, but it shouldn't have. Though I always equated the giving and taking of blood with sex, it wasn't, especially if the exchange was between a living and an undead vampire. The two held vastly different views, probably because one had a soul and the other didn't.
The "bottle the blood came in" mattered to most living vamps. They picked their partners with care, usually—but not always—following their sexual gender preferences on the happy chance that sex might be included in the mix. Even when driven by hunger, the giving and taking of blood often fulfilled an emotional need, a physical affirmation of an emotional bond in much the same way that sex could—but didn't always have to.
Undead vampires were even more meticulous, choosing their companions with the care of a serial killer. Seeking domination and emotional manipulation rather than commitment, gender didn't enter into the equation—though the undead wouldn't turn down the addition of sex, since it imparted an even more intense feeling of domination, akin to rape even with a willing partner. Any relationship that grew from such an arrangement was utterly one-sided, though the bitee usually didn't accept it, thinking their master was the exception to the rule. It gave me pause that Kist seemed eager for another encounter with Piscary, and I wondered, as I glanced at the young vampire beside me, if it was because Kist received a large measure of strength and status by being his scion.
Unaware of my thoughts, Kist furrowed his brow in anger. "Where's Sam?" he asked.
"The kitchen, sir."
His eye twitched. Kist looked at the waiter as if to say, "What are you waiting for?" and the man hurried away.
Bottled water in hand, Ivy snuck up behind Kist, pulling him farther from me. "And you thought I was stupid for majoring in security instead of business management?" she said. "You sound almost responsible, Kisten. Be careful, or you'll ruin your reputation."
Kist smiled to show his sharp canines, the air of harried restaurant manager falling from him. "The perks are great, Ivy, love," he said, curving a hand around her backside with a familiarity she tolerated for an instant before hitting him. "You ever need a job, come see me."
"Shove it up your ass, Kist."
He laughed, dropping his head for an instant before bringing his sly gaze back to mine. A group of waiters and waitresses were headed up the wide stairway, clapping in time and singing some asinine song. It looked annoying and innocuous, nothing like the rescue mission it really was. My eyebrows rose. Kist was good at this.
Almost as if reading my mind, he leaned close. "I'm even better in bed, love," he whispered, his breath sending a delicious dart of sensation down to the pit of my being.
He shifted out of my reach before I could push him away, and still smiling, walked off. Halfway to the kitchen he turned to see if I was watching. Which I was. Hell, everything female in the place—alive, dead, or in between—was watching.
I pulled my attention from him to find a curiously closed look on Ivy. "You aren't afraid of him anymore," she said flatly.
"No," I said, surprised to find I wasn't. "I think it's because he can do something other than flirt."
She looked away. "Kist can do a lot of things. He gets off on being dominated, but when it comes to business, he'll slam you to the ground soon as look at you. Piscary wouldn't have a fool for a scion, no matter how good he is to bleed." Her lips pressed together until they went white. "Table's ready."
I followed her gaze to the single empty table against the far wall away from the windows. Glenn and Jenks had joined us when Kist left, and as a group we wove through the tables, settling on the half-circle bench with all our backs to the wall—Inderlander, human, Inderlander—and waited for the waiter to find us.
Jenks had perched himself on the low chandelier, and the light coming through his wings made green and gold spots on the table. Glenn silently took everything in, clearly trying not to look nonplussed at the sight of the scarred, well-put-together waiters and waitresses. Whether male or female, they were all young with smiling, eager faces that had me on edge.
Ivy didn't say anything more about Kist, for which I was grateful. It was embarrassing how quickly vamp pheromones acted on me, turning "get lost" to "get over here." Thanks to the excessive amount of vamp saliva the demon pumped into me while trying to kill me, my resistance to vamp pheromones was almost nil.
Glenn carefully put his elbows on the table. "You haven't told me how class went."
Jenks laughed. "It was hell on earth. Two hours of non-stop nitpicking and putdowns."
My mouth dropped open. "How do you know that?"
"I snuck back in. What did you do to that woman, Rachel? Kill her cat?"
My face burned. Knowing Jenks had witnessed it made it worse. "The woman is a hag," I said. "Glenn, if you want to string her up for killing those people, you go right ahead. She already knows she's a suspect. The I.S. was there stirring her into a tizzy. I didn't find anything that remotely resembled possible motive or guilt."
Glenn pulled his arms from the table and sat back. "Nothing?"
I shook my head. "Just that Dan had an interview after Friday's class. I'm thinking that was the big news he was going to spring on Sara Jane."
"He dropped all his classes Friday night," Jenks said. "Just made the add/drop with a full refund. Must have done it by e-mail."
I squinted up at the pixy sitting by the lightbulbs to stay warm. "How do you know?"
His wings blurred to nothing and he grinned. "I checked out the registrar's office during class break. You think the only reason I went was to look pretty on your shoulder?"
Ivy drummed her fingernails. "You three aren't going to talk shop all night, are you?"
"Ivy girl!" came a strong voice, and we all looked up. A short, spare man in a cook's apron was making a beeline for us from across the restaurant, weaving gracefully through the tables. "My Ivy girl!" he called over the noise. "Back already. And with friends!"
I glanced at Ivy, surprised to see a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks. Ivy gi
rl?
"Ivy girl?" Jenks said from on high. "What the hell is that?"
Ivy rose to give him an embarrassed-looking hug as he halted before us, making an odd picture since he was nearly six inches smaller than she was. He returned it with a fatherly pat on the back. My eyebrows rose. She hugged him?
The cook's black eyes glittered in what looked like pleasure. The scent of tomato paste and blood drifted to me. He was clearly a practicing vamp. I couldn't tell yet if he was dead.
"Hi, Piscary," Ivy said as she sat, and Jenks and I exchanged looks. This was Piscary? One of Cincinnati's most powerful vamps? I'd never seen such an innocuous looking vampire.
Piscary was actually an inch or two shorter than I was, and he carried his slight, well-proportioned build with a comfortable ease. His nose was narrow, and his wide-spaced, almond-shaped eyes and thin lips added to his exotic appearance. His eyes were very dark, and they shone as he took his chef's hat off and tucked it behind his apron ties. He kept his skull clean-shaven, and his honey-amber skin glinted in the light from over our table. The lightweight, pale shirt and pants he wore might have been off-the-rack, but I doubted it. They gave him the air of comfortable middle class, his eager smile enforcing the picture in my mind. Piscary ran much of the darker side of Cincinnati, but looking at him, I wondered how.
My usual healthy distrust of undead vamps sank to a wary caution. "Piscary?" I asked. "As in Pizza Piscary's?"
The vampire smiled, showing his teeth. They were longer than Ivy's—he was a true undead—and looked very white next to his dusky completion. "Yes, Pizza Piscary's is mine." His voice was deep for such a small frame, and it seemed to carry the strength of sand and wind. The faint remnants of an accent made me wonder how long he had been speaking English.
Ivy cleared her throat, jerking my attention away from his quick, dark eyes. Somehow the sight of his teeth hadn't instilled my usual knee-jerk alarm. "Piscary," Ivy said, "this is Rachel Morgan and Jenks, my business associates."
Jenks had flitted down to the hot-pepper shakers, and Piscary gave him a nod before turning to me. "Rachel Morgan," he said slowly and with care. "I've been waiting for my Ivy girl to bring you to see me. I think she's afraid I'll tell her she can't play with you anymore." His lips curved into a smile. "I'm charmed."
I held my breath as he took my hand with a high gentility that stood in sharp contrast to his looks. He lifted my fingers, bringing them close to his lips. His dark eyes were fixed on mine. My pulse quickened, but I felt as if my heart were somewhere else. He inhaled over my hand, as if scenting the blood humming within them. I stifled a shiver by clenching my jaw.
Piscary's eyes were the color of black ice. I boldly returned his gaze, intrigued at the hints beyond their depths. It was Piscary who looked away first, and I quickly pulled my hand from him. He was good. Really good. He had used his aura to charm rather than frighten. Only the old ones could do that. And there hadn't been even a twinge from my demon scar. I didn't know whether to take that as a good sign or bad.
Laughing good-naturedly at my sudden, obvious suspicion, Piscary sat down on the bench beside Ivy as three waiters struggled to get by with round platters. Glenn didn't seem at all upset Ivy hadn't introduced him, and Jenks kept his mouth shut. My shoulder pressed into Glenn as he shoved me down until I was nearly hanging off the edge to make room for Piscary.
"You should have told me you were coming," Piscary said. "I'd have saved you a table."
Ivy shrugged. "We got one okay."
Half turning, Piscary looked to the bar and shouted, "Bring up a bottle of red from the Tamwood cellar!" A sly grin came over him. "Your mother won't miss one."
Glenn and I exchanged a worried look. A bottle of red? "Uh, Ivy?" I questioned.
"Oh, good God," she said. "It's wine. Relax."
Relax, I thought. Easier said than done with my rear hanging half off the seat and surrounded by vampires.
"Have you ordered?" Piscary asked Ivy, but his gaze was on me, suffocating. "I have a new cheese that uses a just-discovered species of mold to age. All the way from the Alps."
"Yes," Ivy said. "An extra large—"
"With everything but onions and peppers," he finished, showing his teeth in a wide smile as he turned from me to her.
My shoulders slumped as his gaze left me. He looked like nothing more than a friendly pizza chef, and it was setting off more alarm bells than if he had been tall, thin, and slunk about seductively in lace and silk.
"Ha!" he barked, and I stifled my jump. "I'm going to make you dinner, Ivy girl."
Ivy smiled to look like a ten-year-old. "Thank you, Piscary. I'd like that."
" 'Course you would. Something special. Something new. On the house. It will be my finest creation!" he said boldly. "I will name it after you and your shadow."
"I'm not her shadow," Glenn said tightly, shoulders hunched and his eyes on the table.
"I wasn't talking about you," Piscary said, and my eyes widened.
Ivy stirred uneasily. "Rachel… isn't my shadow …either."
She sounded guilty, and an instant of confusion crossed the old vamp's face. "Really?" he said, and Ivy visibly tensed. "Then what are you doing with her, Ivy girl?"
She wouldn't look up from the table. Piscary caught my eye again. My heart pounded as a faint tingle rippled across my neck at my demon bite. Suddenly the table was too crowded. I felt pressed upon at all sides, and the claustrophobic feeling beat at me. Shocked at the change, my breath left me and I held the next one. Damn.
"That's an interesting scar on your neck," Piscary said, his voice seeming to scour my soul. It hurt and felt good all at the same time. "Is it vamp?"
My hand rose unbidden to hide it. Jenks's wife had sewn me up, and the tiny stitches were almost invisible. I didn't like that he had noticed them. "It's demon," I said, not caring if Glenn told his dad. I didn't want Piscary thinking I'd been bitten by a vamp, Ivy or otherwise.
Piscary arched his eyebrows in a mild surprise. "It looks vampiric."
"So did the demon at the time," I said, my stomach tightening in the memory.
The old vamp nodded. "Ah, that would explain it." He smiled, chilling me. "A ravaged virgin whose blood has been left unclaimed. What a delectable combination you are, Ms. Morgan. No wonder my Ivy girl has been hiding you from me."
My mouth opened, but I could think of nothing to say.
He stood with no warning. "I'll have your dinner out in a moment." Leaning to Ivy, he murmured, "Talk to your mother. She misses you."
Ivy dropped her eyes. With a casual grace, Piscary snagged a stack of plates and breadsticks from a passing tray. "Enjoy your evening," he said as he set them on our table. He made his way back to the kitchen, stopping several times to greet the more well-dressed patrons.
I stared at Ivy, waiting for an explanation. "Well?" I said bitingly. "You want to explain why Piscary thinks I'm your shadow?"
Jenks snickered, taking his hands-on-hips Peter Pan poseatop the pepper shaker. Ivy shrugged in obvious guilt. "He knows we live under the same roof. He just assumed—"
"Yeah, I got it." Annoyed, I chose a breadstick and slumped against the wall. Ivy's and my arrangement was odd no matter what angle you looked at it. She was trying to abstain from blood, the lure to break her fast almost irresistible. As a witch, I could fend her off with my magic when her instincts got the better of her. I had dropped her once with a charm, and it was that memory that helped her master her cravings and keep her on her side of the hallway.
But what bothered me was that it was shame that made her let Piscary believe what he wanted—shame for turning her back on her heritage. She didn't want it. With a roommate, she could lie to the world, pretending she had a normal vamp life with a live-in source of blood yet remain true to her guilty secret. I told myself I didn't care, that it protected me against other vamps. But sometimes… Sometimes it rankled me that everyone assumed I was Ivy's toy.
My sulk was interrupted by the arrival of the wine,
slightly warm, as most vamps liked it. It had been opened already, and Ivy took control of the bottle, avoiding my look as she poured three glasses. Jenks made do with the drop on the mouth of the bottle. Still peeved, I settled back with my glass and watched the other guests. I wouldn't drink it because the sulfur it broke down into tended to wreak havoc with me. I'd have told Ivy, but it was none of her business. It wasn't a witch thing, just my own personal quirk that gave me headaches and made me so light sensitive that I had to hide in my room with a washcloth over my eyes. It was an oddly related lingering remnant of a childhood affliction that had me in and out of the hospital until puberty kicked in. I'd take the developed sulfur sensitivity any day in exchange for my misery as a child, weak and sickly as my body tried to kill itself.
The music had started again, and my unease at Piscary slowly filtered away, driven out by the music and background conversations. Everyone could ignore Glenn now that Piscary had talked to us. The rattled human downed his wine as if it were water. Ivy and I exchanged glances as he refilled his glass with shaking hands. I wondered if he was going to drink until he passed out or try to tough it out sober. He took a sip of his next glass, and I smiled. He was going to split the difference.
Glenn gave Ivy a wary glance and leaned close to me. "How could you meet his eyes?" he whispered, hard to hear above the surrounding noise. "Weren't you afraid he'd be-spell you?"
"The man is over three hundred years old," I said, realizing Piscary's accent was Old English. "If he wanted to be-spell me, he wouldn't have to look into my eyes."
Face going sallow behind his short beard, Glenn pulled away. Leaving him to mull that around for a bit, I jerked my head to get Jenks's attention. "Jenks," I said softly. "Why don't you take a quick peek in back? Check out the employees' break room? See what's up?"
Ivy topped her glass off. "Piscary knows we're here for a reason," she said. "He'll tell us what we want to know. Jenks will only get himself caught."
The small pixy bristled. "Get Turned, Tamwood," he snarled. "Why am I here if not to sneak around? The day I can't evade a baker is the day I—" He cut his thought short. "Uh," he reiterated, "yeah. I'll be right back." Pulling a red bandanna from a back pocket, he put it around his waist like a belt. It was a pixy's version of a white flag of truce, a declaration to other pixies and fairies that he wasn't poaching should he stumble into anyone's jealously guarded territory. He buzzed off just below the ceiling, headed for the kitchen.
