by Sarah Zettel
“Things are going to change, Taylor. You might want to be sure you’ve got the right kind of friends.” I held up the check again.
Brendan, at least, caught my drift. When the easily confused Taylor felt it necessary to look to a fellow guy for confirmation, Brendan nodded.
“You’re shittin’ me.” A little desperate now, Taylor turned to the only other male in the room. Anatole also nodded. “You’re getting in the game?”
Good start. Which game are you talking about? “Why did Chet get you the job with Bert Shelby?” That the answer would almost surely mean Chet was also “in the game” was something I’d deal with later.
“You haven’t got the balls.” Taylor struggled to retrieve his attitude, which had been knocked seriously askew.
I shrugged and pushed the check across the counter. “If you’re really sure about that, you can walk out of here now. But I will remember this conversation, and more important, Mr. Maddox will remember this conversation.” And I’ll apologize to him for this later.
When it came to personality, Taylor Watts was about one inch deep. That made it very easy to see the possibilities rattling around his brain. The name Maddox worked on him. Something was going on there. At least he thought there was.
“Answer my question,” I said to Taylor. “Or quit wasting my time.”
Slowly, the new arrangement of reality settled into place behind Taylor’s eyes like so many Tetris pieces, and unfortunately, the only set of facts he was comfortable with came out on top. I needed him. He had information, therefore he had power. Taylor grinned at Brendan and Sevarin. The fact that either one could have squashed him like a bug did not seem to be registering. The fact that I could have squashed him like a bug was not even on the radar, although I was itching to put it there.
“Chet got me a job because otherwise I was going to tell you he was cooking the books.”
What!
Anatole realized my voice had just short-circuited. Probably those acute undead senses, or the fact that my eyes ha bugged out of my head. “Chester Caine was embezzling from his sister?”
“Or laundering money.” Taylor shrugged. No! my brain howled. That’s Shelby’s game. Not Chet’s!
“Chet wasn’t in a sharing mood when I caught him,” Taylor went on.
“You caught him?” put in Brendan.
“I’d left my keys here one night and had to come back for them.” In Taylor-speak that meant he’d planned on pilfering a bottle of top-shelf vodka again. “So I’m behind the bar, where I leave my stuff during my shift. . . .” As if I’ve forgotten we have lockers. “And they didn’t see me when they came out of the office.” I heard the boss coming and I ducked. . . . “So, there’s Chet with this other little vamp. I couldn’t understand all of what they were saying. . . .” I couldn’t catch all of it because I was busy trying to keep two vampires from hearing me breathe. . . . “But they were definitely talking about shuffling around the money in the Nightlife accounts.”
The same fierce nausea that had hit me in Post Mortem when I found out about the menu came back with a vengeance, and I found myself wanting to take the smug smile off Taylor Watt’s face with the back of a frying pan.
“What then?” Brendan prompted
If Taylor had been chewing gum, he would have popped it right then. “They must have heard my heartbeat or something, because the next thing I know Chet hauls me over the bar and threatens to fire me. But pretty soon he knows it’s too late for that.”
“Two vampires could have talked you into forgetting,” remarked Anatole. “Why didn’t they?”
Taylor snorted. “The mental oogity-boogity only works on the tourists.”
Silence fell, and so did the temperature in the kitchen by another five degrees. “Would you care to look at me and say that?” Anatole inquired.
“No, thanks, Dracula. I’m fine.”
There are things you don’t call other people; a whole range of insults that immediately change the game. With vampires, it’s the D-word.
For one heartbeat, Taylor was leaning against the counter, full of bullshit and vinegar. By the next, there was a rush of cold wind and Taylor was pinned against the wall, with Anatole’s dead-white hand around his neck.
“Gah!” said Taylor.
Anatole barked something in Russian, dry-spat and said, “Look at me, you pathetic little peasant boy.”
“Gah!” said Taylor again. I glanced sideways at Brendan. Brendan stayed right where he was, arms folded, watching the proceedings with detached interest.
Slowly, squinting like the lights were too bright, Taylor Watts made himself look at the angry nightblood.
“Be very glad I have changed since my youth.” Anatole’s voice had gone into vampire basso profundo. All the hair stood up on the back of my neck and Brendan discreetly eased himself a little farther out of range. “Be glad I am no longer the kind who would have already broken your worthless head against this wall and enjoyed hearing the squishy sound your brains made as they dribbled to the floor.”
Currents of force leaked out of Anatole. Slowly, all expression drained from Taylor’s pretty face. Which was bad enough, but then his mouth stretced out into an empty, mindless grin. “I’m glad.”
“Better, Taylor Watts.” Anatole let go of Taylor’s throat, but Taylor stayed plastered to that wall, up on his toes. My stomach squirmed around as if looking for a quick exit. I reminded myself Anatole liked me. Just then, I had a hard time believing myself.
“Now, give me the truth,” said Anatole to Taylor. “What is it you discovered about Chester Caine?”
“I told you everything I know about Chester Caine.” Taylor’s voice was monotonous, tight and weirdly clipped, like he’d been possessed by the ghost of Stephen Hawking.
“Did you know the other vampire who was there when he caught you eavesdropping?”
“Chet called him Marcus. I’d never seen him before that.”
“Why didn’t they make you forget what you’d heard?”
“Because I told them I’d already texted myself what I’d heard.”
“Smart,” remarked Brendan.
“Much smarter than I would have given him credit for.” Something was going on in the back of Anatole’s mind, but I couldn’t tell what. “Tell us more about the second vampire.”
Taylor’s eyes didn’t flicker once from Anatole’s. In fact, no part of his face moved except his mouth. Up on his toes like that, he looked as if he had perfected some kind of marionette routine for a talent show or an episode of The Twilight Zone. “Second vamp was a little guy. Round face. White. Not real old, but his hair was already starting to thin. Toupee top. Needed a hat.”
“Nebbish?” I heard myself whisper.
“Answer her,” snapped Anatole.
“Yeah. Nebbish.”
My knees decided I needed to sit down just then. But there was nowhere to sit. I pressed both my hands onto the counter, willing myself not to collapse.
Brendan, proving that warlocks also have preternaturally acute senses, rounded the counter to stand beside me. “What is it?”
For all of half a second, I considered not telling him. “This . . . Marcus . . . he was the vampire who was with Pam.” And there was no reservation for that table at the time they were in there and we were booked full that night. There was no reservation, because Chet knew Marcus the Nebbishy Vamp when he came in, and took care of the table personally. Because Chet and Marcus were in some kind of business together.
But there might be a way out. It was Marcus who had brought Pam Maddox, and subsequently Dylan Maddox, to Nightlife. Robert had also said he’d thought it was the first time Chet had met Pam. Maybe it was Marcus who was running this game, and just making use of Chet and the fact that he kept our books. Chet would do anything for a friend. He was like that.
I touched Brendan’s hand to say thanks, and made myself straighten up. I needed to find Marcus the Nebbish and have a talk with him. Maybe I’d bring Anatole alo
ng for that interview too.
“Exactly how was the money being shuffled?” Anatole asked Taylor.
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“They did not trust you. Such a surprise. Was that the end of your dealings with Mr. Caine?”
“Caine would come into the bar sometimes after tfont>
“Blond?” Brendan asked before I could.
“No. Black hair and piercing. Vamp, heavy goth, lots of attitude. Wouldn’t have minded her wrapping those lips around my . . .”
“Manners. Manners.” This time Anatole’s voice shook, drawing out the “s” just a little too far. “What was her name?”
“Called her Ill . . . Miss Sin . . . Miss Saint Something . . .”
“St. Claire?” Anatole suggested.
“Yes, St. Claire,” Taylor agreed. “Ill-on A St. Claire.”
Chet had said he didn’t know Ilona St. Claire, whose name I had just happened to hear from Detective Linus O’Grady.
I did not feel so good right then, and Anatole did not look at all good. His face had gone slack, a lot like Taylor’s, and his skin took on that waxy corpse yellow color that is never a sign of health. “Why was Ilona there?”
“I don’t know. Every time he showed up with her, they’d go into the back office with Bert and lock the door.”
Sevarin was quiet for a moment. His hand trembled as he tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“Is there anything you wish to ask?” he turned to me and Brendan. We both shook our heads, and for a split second, Anatole looked grateful.
“Listen to your orders, then,” Anatole said to Taylor. “You will leave here without talking to anyone and go directly home. All will be normal, pleasant even. Once home, you will take off all your clothing and fall asleep facedown on your bed. When you wake up, you will have a splitting headache and no memory of what happened. Nod if you understand.”
Taylor nodded.
“And the next time you hear the word Dracula, you will immediately perform the chicken dance. Nod if you understand.”
Taylor nodded.
“And if you are ever again with a woman—”
“Sevarin.” Brendan interrupted. “That’s enough.”
I didn’t agree. I could tell Anatole didn’t either, but he just shrugged. “Obey,” he said to Taylor.
Taylor, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, peeled himself off the wall. He stumbled, and Anatole stepped back. Actually, he staggered back. Taylor, on the other hand, found his footing and straightened up. He adjusted his collar, smoothed down his hair (of course), and walked out the back door without saying a word.
“Are you okay?” To my surprise, Brendan asked the question before I could.
Anatole grimaced. “Contrary to popular belief, ‘mental oogity-boogity’ takes effort, and it was unusually difficult to get that overgrown adolescent to hold a coherent thought. I will be all right in a moment.”
Right. Macho idiot. “Hang on.” I headed for the stairs.
We hadn’t been able to use up any of the liquid product in our cleanout-turned-charitable-event that afternoon. I had five gallons of thawed bull’s blood that would not last past tomorrow. When I toted the bucket up the stairs, Brendan actually moved forward to help. I looked him in the eye and hefted the thing up onto the counter.
One-handed.
Okay, so macho is contagious.
I pried off the lid, grabbed a cup from the pile by the dishwashing station (yes, it was clean—sheesh), dipped it full and handed it to Anatole.
“Ever the gracious hostess.” Anatole’s eyes gleamed as he accepted the cup. He swallowed, grimaced at the temperature, and then gulped down the rest. He passed me the cup and I filled it again. Probably he wished I’d just given him a straw.
“Do you know Ilona St. Claire?” I asked.
“I do,” he replied between sips. Already his skin was filling out and returning to its normal pallor.
“Can you get her to talk to me?” From what Taylor had said, she would know Marcus the Nebbish. She could give me his name, maybe a contact number.
“To us,” put in Brendan. When I turned to protest, he just lowered his eyebrows at me. “You’re not the only one with family in this mess.”
I couldn’t argue with that, and truth was, it would be good to have him there. It’s not that I didn’t trust Anatole to have my back, but Brendan could make the sun rise on command, which, as we had already seen, could be very useful.
“Ilona might not be interested in talking to either of you.” Anatole looked into the bottom of his cup as if he could read hemoglobin like tea leaves. “She has . . . views about daybloods and their relation to nightbloods. However, we have a more immediate concern.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the counter. “What?”
Anatole raised his cup. “This liquid I am drinking—it is human blood.”
15
“It is not,” I snapped at the exact same moment Brendan demanded, “Are you sure?”
“It is, and yes, I am.” Anatole smiled at our amazing display of dayblood denialism, and we both got a good look at his bloody fangs. “I am . . . most familiar with the taste. Although it is much better warm.”
“I do not serve human blood!”
“I did not say you did.” Anatole dipped his cup into the bucket again and took another long, appreciative swallow.
“Then what’s it doing here?” Part of me knew I had to get past this, and quickly. There was something I needed to deal with on the other side. But I couldn’t make my mind budge from the fact of the bucket’s existence.
“Excellent question.” Anatole drained his cup a second time, eyes closed, savoring the rare beverage. It might be stale and refrigerated, but nothing acts on a vamp like the true human. Anatole’s face, which had been so corpselike a minute ago, wasn’t just pink now, it was flushed. If he kept this up, he’d be thoroughly stoned inside of five minutes.
“I’ve got another excellent question,” said Brendan grimly. “Whose blood is it?”
Anatole froze with the cup halfway to the bucket again. Then he set it carefully down on the counter.
“It very much pains me to say this.” Anatole eyed my bucket like a drunk eyeing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. “Charlotte, I believe you should call Detective O’Grady.”
“No!”
Both of them stared at me. “No,” I said again, more softly. I put the lid back on the bucket and pounded it down, hard. So my fist hurt. So I had something to concentrate on besides the feeling of these two men trying to work out how much of my mind I had actually lost.
Brendan grabbed my wrist. We stared at each other over that stupid, mislabeled bucket. He was waiting to see if I’d pull away, I was sure of it. Come to that, I was waiting to see if I’d pull away. “Sevarin’s right, Charlotte. O’Grady needs to know about this.”
I did pull away then, and Brendan let me go. “I know, I know. Just . . .” I put up my hands to hold him back so I could think. “Not yet, okay?”
“Why?” Anatole ran his finger around the rim of the bucket. Abruptly, I remembered O’Grady and the lasagna. The men I ran into did love their food.
“This isn’t easy on either of us, Charlotte,” said Brendan. “We’ve both got someone important at risk here.”
You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what I’ve done to Chet. I’m responsible for him. I’m responsible and I will not let anybody take him down like this!
“You must consider that this blood might have been taken from Dylan Maddox,” said Anatole. “If it was, it is vital that Detective O’Grady know you are not concealing it. We do not know that Chet can be held responsible for the presence of human blood in your restaurant, but if we fail to report it, we most certainly will be.”
“I know, I know.” I couldn’t seem to stop saying that, which was ironic because right then I felt like I didn’t know anything at all. “I just . . .”
I do not beg. Not to anyone, not ever
. But while witnessing the nearly inconceivable sight of the warlock and the vampire on the same side, that’s exactly what I did. They liked me, both of them. They were attracted to me. We’d flirted. And I stood there working it for all I was worth. I am not proud of it. I don’t excuse it. I just did it.
“Please. Just one more day. Let me talk to Ilona St. Claire and find out if she knows what’s happening. If Chet’s involved, let me give him a chance to explain. Then, if he won’t go to O’Grady, I will.” The last two words came out in a whisper. “I promise,” I breathed. “Please.”
Brendan caved first, and Anatole saw him do it.
“This is a very bad idea,” he said to the warlock. Why did Anatole care about any of this? Oh, I knew what he’d told me about the importance to the nightblood community of solving the murders, but that couldn’t be all there was to this, could it?
“You do not even know that Ilona will consent to speak with you,” Anatole reminded me. Us. “She has very definite views about the worth and status of daybloods.”
“I was hoping you could help us with that,” I murmured.
“Yes, of course you were.” Anatole went still the way only a dead man could. There was no way to tell what he was thinking. None at all. I glanced at Brendan, who was almost as still. The difference was that while Anatole was staring at the bucket, Brendan was staring at me.
“Very well.” Anatole came back to movement so suddenly that I startled backward. “But only because I also have questions that she needs to answer.” Anatole pulled his phone out of his pocket, punched in a number and waited while it rang.
“Ilona,” he said and then lapsed into Russian. His voice went . . . delicious. Smoky, rich and filled with hidden laughter. My toes tried to curl up and I reflexively leaned closer. Brendan caught my shoulder and glared at me, which I deserved.
Anatole finished the call and tucked the phone away. “Ilona has agreed to speak with you,” he said. “Both of you. But she wants you to come to her theater tomorrow at midnight.”
“Um,” I said, “why?”
“I expect it is to make you hideously uncomfortable and to show me how weak and pathetic daybloods are.”
