Cocktails at Seven, Apocalypse at Eight: The Derby Cavendish Stories

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “No?” I asked. The tingle was back in my belly. I took Tarik’s hand. “More tequila then, bartender?”

  ※

  The party was long. The draperies around the edge of the stage parted to let in a wash of grey, pre-dawn light. Sluggish in the cold, the green toad that crouched in the shadows wriggled away from it slowly.

  “Oh, come out, Hermione,” said a bright young voice. “It’s just me.” The toad blinked but didn’t move. “Come out,” added the voice irritably, “or I’m sending Sara in for you.”

  A hiss like that of a very large snake echoed the threat. The toad blinked again, then hopped out into the light.

  Four teenage girls stood outside amid the detritus of the night’s revelry. Two of them, one with black hair and the other pale as age-yellowed linen, looked at the toad with bored disdain; a third, the one who held back the draperies, stared with disturbing intensity. She was a willowy redhead and her eyes were like glowing golden embers.

  The fourth girl was as blonde as a cheerleader. Her nose turned up perkily, her lipstick was frosted pink, and her jacket was edged in fluffy white fur. She held a takeout coffee cup with the boxes ticked for extra foam, chocolate, and cinnamon syrup. There was a heart drawn around the name on the cup.

  Bethany.

  That perky nose wrinkled at the sight of the toad. “That is so not a good look for you, Hermione,” Bethany said. “Stand up.”

  The spell broke in a flash of green light and Hermione wore her own body again. She opened and closed her fists, her knuckles turning white with the strain of each motion. “I hate that bastard!” she said. “I hate him and his singing and his fake tits—”

  “Derby had fake tits?” asked Bethany, raising an eyebrow.

  “Mitzy!” Hermione roared at her.

  Instantly, the other three girls were clustered protectively around Bethany. The red-haired girl hissed. The black-haired girl snarled. The pale girl made no noise at all, but bared sharp teeth in black gums. Bethany gave Hermione a narrow look. “First,” she said, “you need to get over this prejudice. When someone is in drag, use the appropriate pronoun. It’s simple. Have you got a problem? Second—” Her eyes narrowed even more. “—do not ever raise your voice to me.”

  Her words echoed in the empty street. Dawn’s light seemed to dim a little. The draperies on the stage and the banners that hung out front of the Lumber Yard shivered as if a wind blew against them.

  Hermione flinched and took a step backward. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just—” She paused and took several deep breaths before continuing. “I’m just frustrated. Mitzy was here just like you said that he . . . she would be, but my spell wouldn’t work on her! It transformed people around her. It transformed that meddling Derby Cavendish. It even transformed me. It just wouldn’t work on her!”

  “Well, of course not,” Bethany said. She took a sip from her cup. “She’s a werewolf. Can’t shift a shape-shifter’s shape and all that.”

  Hermione’s eyes went wide and angry, and her fingers curled into fists again. Green fairy dust drifted out from between her fingers. Bethany watched her over the rim of her cup. The three girls around her leaned forward as if in anticipation of a fight. After a moment, though, Hermione clenched her teeth and forced her fingers open. “You . . . knew about this?” she asked.

  “I hardly knew you were going to try transforming her now, did I?”

  “Then I’ll try something different. Tell me where she’s going to be next!”

  “I could. I know people who know things. They could find that out. But I have something else in mind.” Bethany shooed the other girls aside and strolled over to Hermione. “You’ve mastered a very particular form of magic, Hermione. You proved that last night. Even if you did get a little amphibian at the end, I like your style.” She put her arm through Hermione’s and pulled her into a walk. “We should work together.”

  Hermione stiffened. “Was last night an audition?”

  “No! Well, yes. Do you think I just told you where to find Mitzy at a time when she was particularly vulnerable for the hell of it?” She patted Hermione’s arm. “I figured Derby would be there. He usually is. By the way, you didn’t hurt him, did you?”

  “No,” said Hermione cautiously. “I turned him into a cat, but he managed to break the spell at the last second.”

  Bethany snorted. “Typical Derby. He doesn’t just have a horseshoe up his ass—he’s got the entire horse. But that’s fine. I expected as much.” She stopped and turned to face Hermione. “Here’s the thing. You want to hurt Mitzy Knish. I want to hurt Derby Cavendish. And the best way to hurt Derby is by hurting something he loves.”

  “Mitzy,” said Hermione with a growl.

  Bethany’s laugh was a silvery sound like trees shattering in extreme cold or a barrage of bullets fired through stained glass windows. “You’re thinking too small!” she said. Her voice took on a vicious edge. “I want to destroy Derby Cavendish. I want to break him. I want to hurt him so badly that he’ll pull the lucky horse out of his ass, cut it open, and crawl inside the carcass to shake and shiver until the end of his days!”

  For a moment, the street—maybe the entire city—seemed absolutely silent. Then Hermione said, “But I get to destroy Mitzy?”

  Bethany blinked and looked at her. “You have seriously got a one-track mind.”

  “But I get Mitzy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m in. When do we start?”

  “Oh, Hermione,” said Bethany with a smile. She took Hermione’s arm again and gestured for the three girls to follow them along the street. “I’ve already started.”

  2. Mardi Gras

  The various beings that exist around the edges of the world generally don’t get along with each other. Behind the glamour that hides the otherworldly from the mundane are more cliques and simmering tensions than a high school prom. There are a few notable times and places where the otherworldly do mingle, though. A hot club night here. An obscure bookstore there. A bowling alley with a particularly auspicious alignment of feng shui. One of the most infamous gathering places in our city, however, is the annual Mardi Gras party hosted by the big and burly power triad of Richard, Stephen, and Michael Holden-hyphen-Williams-hyphen-Key—a.k.a. the Three Bears.

  The Bears host the event as their official joint birthday party. They’ve been together for so many years that I suspect they’ve simply forgotten each other’s birthdays and are collectively too proud to admit it. In any event, the party has become the big do of a notoriously do-less season: Valentine’s Day is mostly for couples and Groundhog Day is such a terrible excuse for a celebration not even Hallmark can sell it. Many people, mundane and otherworldly, gay and straight, wait eagerly for one of the Bears’ signature purple envelopes—purple being one of the three colours of Mardi Gras, of course—to arrive each year.

  For a more select and exclusively supernatural group, however, the Bears’ annual invitation arrives in a gold envelope. In the scheme of Mardi Gras, gold is said to represent power. For the Three Bears it certainly does. Simply put, the Three Bears know things and, like a three-headed otherworldly godfather, they’re ruthless in wielding those secrets. In addition to being a celebration, the party is their way of reminding their “clients” just where the power lies. Regrets are not an option for those receiving a gold envelope.

  But the Bears’ velvet fist also means good behaviour at the party is guaranteed. For one night of the year, their luxurious condo is neutral ground, and denizens of the shadows who would otherwise never speak are briefly united—mostly in murmured contempt for their hosts but you have to start somewhere. That rare neutrality is the only reason I go. My invitation—Derby Cavendish and guest—arrives each year in a green envelope matching the third colour of Mardi Gras. I’d like to think that the green envelope shows a certain respect, but I suspect it’s more likely a
sign that the Bears are keeping an eye on me, so when I go, I always go alone.

  My green envelope for the year appeared in my mailbox on a cold, late-January day. I took it, along with the rest of my mail, into the apartment I rent on the top two floors of a lovely, creaky old Victorian. Tarik was waiting for me, stretched out on the chaise longue in front of the TV with a blanket, a bowl of popcorn, and a bottle of wine. We’d been seeing each other for about three weeks, and I’d discovered that wine and sex are both better with a satyr around.

  With the single-minded eagerness of new love, I dropped the mail unread on the coffee table, stripped down to my tighty-whities, and joined Tarik under the blanket. “What’s on?” I asked.

  “Fast and Furious,” Tarik said.

  “Mmm—just how I like it,” I said. He looked at me and grinned.

  Sometime later, after we’d actually started watching the movie, I reached out from under the blanket and retrieved my mail. I opened the glossy green envelope first to confirm the date of the Bears’ party—and the sweaty warmth under the blanket instantly seemed cold and clammy.

  Someone had drawn an emphatic line under the words “and guest.”

  I immediately slipped the invitation back into the envelope. I had no doubt what that line meant. The Bears had connections. They knew everything. My involvement with Tarik could not have escaped their unwanted attention, although exactly how they’d found out about him I didn’t know.

  I did know that they weren’t going to find out anything more. “Tarik,” I said, “I’ve got a thing I need to go to in February. Sorry, but I’m not going to be able to bring you.”

  He shrugged without taking his eyes off the television screen. “Okay. What is it?”

  I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to involve him any more than necessary, but also not wanting to lie. “Have you ever heard of the Three Bears?”

  “Only in Goldilocks.”

  Every so often I had to remind myself that Tarik was still relatively new to the city. At least his lack of familiarity was working in my favour. “They’re important and they’re having a party. Invitation only.”

  “Okay.”

  That simple acceptance gave me a warm feeling inside. I scooted in close to Tarik and wrapped my arms around him. An idea was already forming in my mind. All my life, I had reacted to otherworldly threats. I had defended against them when they attacked. With one little line, the Three Bears had changed that.

  To protect Tarik—to protect any of my friends that the Three Bears might try to use against me—I was going to take the offensive against the otherworldly for the first time. I needed a plan. And I needed help. At the very least, I needed someone to be my plus-one. If the Bears were going to insist, it would just be rude to go alone.

  ※

  That was why, when I stepped into the elevator of the Bears’ condo building on a Tuesday evening a few weeks later, my dear and trusted friend Matthew Plumper skipped on at my heels. I pressed the button for the top floor, the doors closed, and the elevator rose as smooth as grease on glass. My palm was damp. I tried to wipe it surreptitiously on my pant leg, but Matt grabbed my arm.

  “Oh my God, Derby!” he squealed. “The Three Bears’ Mardi Gras party! Thank you for finally inviting me! It’s too bad Aidan couldn’t come too, but I’ve promised to tell him everything.”

  Aidan is Matt’s nearly perfect boyfriend. “Just remember to behave yourself,” I told him.

  “I make no promises,” he said, then looked at me sharply. “Wait. You’re nervous. You’re never nervous. Derby, what’s going on?”

  Matt might not have the snappiest elastic in the waistband of life, but he manages to keep his underwear up. He’s also my oldest friend and has stood with me against zombies, spirits, and magical attacks. Unlike Mitzy Knish (who was incidentally out of town, Mitzy’s Big Year having blown their budget to send her to New Orleans for a Mardi Gras celebration that really mattered), Matthew is solidly mundane. He knows a thing or two about the otherworldly, though. There was no one else I’d rather have at my side in tight spot. Even so, I hadn’t told him everything—or really anything. I had a plan and it involved Matt, but it also required absolutely perfect timing.

  “There are some things you’re better off not knowing too much about,” I said simply. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. The corridor beyond was plushly carpeted and ominously quiet. “Let’s just say that the party is mixed company.”

  Matt winced. “Lesbians?” he asked. I shook my head. His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. The Three Bears are real bears, aren’t they? I mean bears that go grr, not bears that go woof.”

  “They’re not shape-shifters, if that’s what you’re trying to say.” We were at the door and I could hear the sounds of the party beyond. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “They’re vampires.”

  Matt’s mood rebounded. “We have vampires in the city and you didn’t tell me?”

  “Keep it in your pants,” I told him. “They’re not what you think, they’re more dangerous than you realize, and they won’t be the only nasty things here tonight. Behave yourself and you’ll be fine.” I pressed the buzzer beside the door. “And try not to gossip.”

  “What?” said Matt in confusion, but it was too late to answer him. My finger had barely left the buzzer before the door opened.

  The Three Bears stood before us like hairy gods, their smiles dazzling against beards thick as welcome mats, their shirts—stylishly coordinated in the colours of Mardi Gras—open to reveal luxuriant carpets of chest hair. Richard, a big muscle daddy, reached out a hand like a sirloin. Stephen, chubbier and softer around the edges, offered sugar-dusted pastries. Michael, the disarmingly adorable cub of the trio—not too hard, not too soft, but just right—held up two electric-red hurricane cocktails. I felt Matt sway before the Bears’ brawny good looks and steadied him with one hand while I took Richard’s with the other.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “a pleasure to see you again.”

  Sometimes appearances can be at odds with actual behaviour. Sometimes the most macho-seeming men can have more flounce than a chorus line—as the saying goes “he opened his mouth and his purse fell out.” That wasn’t the case with the Three Bears.

  It was more like an entire collection of handbags.

  “Oh, you! The pleasure is ours!” Michael made kisses in the air as he passed us the cocktails.

  “Try the beignets—everyone says they’re divine!” Stephen pressed the pastries on us.

  “But really, we’re furious with you,” said Richard, passing us the cocktails, taking our coats, and handing them off to a girl who looked like she’d been hired for the evening. He gave Matt a critical once over. “This isn’t the sweet thing we were so looking forward to meeting.”

  “Hey!” protested Matt, but I cut him off before he could say anything more.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted to meet Tarik or I would have brought him,” I told the Bears with an apologetic smile. “But I have been meaning to bring Matthew to you for years. Richard, Stephen, Michael, this is—”

  I saw recognition flicker in the Bears’ eyes as I spoke, and Michael finished the introduction for me. “—Matthew Plumper! We should have known!” Michael slipped an arm around Matt’s waist. “Darling, I have heard so much about you. . . .”

  Matt had time only to throw me a confused glance before the Bears swept us into the party.

  It was, as it always is, a who’s who of the city’s what-what. Matt’s eyes glazed over at the sight, but I knew better. As Richard hustled us along in a flurry of introductions, I let my vision go out of focus and looked at the crowd again. A moderately famous actor chatted casually with an award-winning writer—and a pair of misty wraiths wearing festive jester hats. A pack of pixies hung out by the baby grand, their presence putting the instrument out of tune and causing the unsuspecting
pianist no end of frustration. A local newscaster with a predatory reputation leaned in close to an ogress, who looked uncomfortable and scanned the room for an escape.

  I didn’t try to spot all of the otherworldly. Whether they had received purple envelopes or gold, most of the Bears’ guests were regulars. Vampires are notoriously predictable, sticking with the same things year after year. I think it has something to do with living so long. There were some new guests, though—including a few mundanes whose true features were also concealed by glamour. That was highly unusual. I commented on it.

  “Stephen found this lovely old witch in Chinatown who makes charms that are next best thing to invisibility,” said Richard. “Even otherworldly don’t see through them unless they try.” He gave me a penetrating look. “I’m surprised that you can.”

  “I wouldn’t be where I am if I couldn’t see through charms—but it helps that I know the witch you mean. You need to careful about witches. They’ll turn on you.”

  Richard waved my warning away. “She wouldn’t dare. Anyway, we just had to wring a few out of her. We’ve never been able to put mundanes on our special guest list before.”

  I didn’t know most of the disguised mundanes, but there was one I recognized immediately: lurking on the fringe of the party and looking uncomfortable in his Mardi Gras beads was Reverend Bobby Gold. I must admit, I wasn’t surprised to find him at the Bears’ party. A fiery young preacher, Bobby had landed in the headlines not long ago after he was allegedly filmed in a motel with several other men enjoying the kind of spit roast you don’t find at a church picnic. The headlines and the video had both vanished after suspiciously convenient evidence put Bobby at a prayer meeting instead. I’d suspected at the time that the Three Bears had been involved. Now I was certain of it.

  Richard noticed me noticing the fallen reverend and whispered, “Don’t stare, Derby. He thinks no one can recognize him.”