by Dana Fredsti
I held out my hand. “Lee Striga. Nice to meet you.”
We shook hands.
“You kicked some major ass in there,” she said. “On set and just now. Watching Axel get taken down twice, it was all sorts of awesome.” She had a great voice. Well-modulated, a little smoky without being rough. She sounded like an adult instead of someone stuck in her pre-teens, a failing for a lot of actresses these days.
“It felt pretty awesome doing it, gotta say,” I admitted. “I’m not sure how I managed it the second time around, though.”
“Maybe it was, like, when a mom lifts a car to save her kid or something like that,” Eden suggested.
“Maybe.” It was as good a theory as any.
Another brief pause.
“So,” I said. “Priaptic demon, huh?”
Eden shot me a sideways look. “You heard that, huh?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t seem surprised or anything.”
“Nah. I come from a background that’s pretty much ‘there’s more to heaven and earth, Horatio.’”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
Another beat of silence before I spoke again.
“So priaptic… is that, like, a demon with a permanent erection?”
Eden laughed. “Something like that. I mean, they don’t have erections twenty-four seven, but it takes very little stimulus to get things up and running. Think of them as the frat boys of the netherworld. Axel’s one of the worst, even though he’s only a half-blood. He’s so annoying that the succubae have put out a restraining order against him.”
“Seriously?”
Eden nodded.
“Wow, and here I thought he was just a horny creep.”
“He totally is,” she said, nodding. “He’s just a horny creep on demon steroids.”
I shook my head in disgust. “Who the hell thought it was a good idea to cast him in the role of a rapist?”
“He probably came cheap.”
The double entendre, intentional or not, made me snort.
“Plus,” she continued, “I don’t think Rock has a clue that any of his actors or crew are anything but human.”
“He hasn’t… Axel didn’t pull this shit on any of you, did he?”
Eden shook her head. “No. He usually behaves himself on set. Just too much rough stuff during the scenes. You have no idea how grateful all of the actresses are that you’re on the film.”
“That’s what Rock’s almost paying me for.”
She grinned, then suddenly snapped her fingers.
“Hey, I know this little bar on the Venice Beach boardwalk that’s open late, plus I know the bartender. He gives me great deals.”
She smiled happily without any hint of innuendo and yet still managed to come across as totally sexy, sort of a cross between a naive Disney princess and a succubus. I thought about her offer. We were already in Santa Monica, and it’d be a quick drive. I could chill out and let the adrenaline fade out naturally.
Besides, when was the last time I actually went out with someone for drinks? I really couldn’t remember. As far as I knew, if I’d had any female friends before the fall, they’d faded away during my recovery. So this would be a welcome change.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”
Eden’s smile widened. “Great! I’ll text Megan and tell her we’re heading out, so she doesn’t have to come back upstairs.”
“Would she want to go?”
“I doubt it. She’s still got at least another couple of hours left, and she’s an early bird.” She pulled an iPhone in a rose-pink case out of her jeans pocket. “Hey,” she said into the phone. “We’re heading out now just in case Axel wakes up cranky, so forget the water. Good luck keeping everyone pretty!”
She looked at the screen. “What the fuck, Siri? I said ‘pretty,’ not ‘petty.’”
She fiddled with corrections, hit “send,” and then turned her attention back to me with smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. “If you can find parking on Rose or on Main Street thereabouts, that’d be perfect. The bar’s called Ocean’s End and it’s a little hole in the wall between On the Waterfront and the bike rental place. Easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there, so meet me at On the Waterfront.”
“That sounds great,” I said, and I meant it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I lucked into metered parking on Rose Avenue just east of Main Street itself, the meter thankfully unenforced after 6 P.M. I’d talked nice to the parking gods on my way to Venice, and whichever one was on duty paid attention. I left a Hershey’s Kiss on the lip of the parking meter. I had yet to find a deity that didn’t like chocolate.
I grabbed my old leather bomber jacket out of the trunk for protection against the cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. Such a change from the warm dusty winds out at the Ranch.
People walked past in small groups, mostly young techies out to spend some of their hefty paychecks on craft beer and good wine on Main Street or Abbott Kinney. There were still some old-school locals living in Venice, but a lot had been forced out by rising rents after Google moved into the neighborhood. I’d so love to live out here, but it was out of my price range. Then again, a cardboard box on the boardwalk was currently more than I could afford.
The back of my neck itched again, and I resisted the urge to scratch back there. Of all the scars I’d gotten in the accident, that one annoyed me the most. The others had finally stopped itching once that part of the healing process finished. Why this one couldn’t get with the program, I did not know.
Rose Avenue itself was relatively quiet as I walked toward the boardwalk, with a few rowdy locals drinking out on balconies, but their conversations and other sounds were oddly muffled. The air seemed heavy, as if a storm was building, but no clouds appeared in the night sky. For no particular reason, I felt isolated and yet vulnerable.
Was I being followed?
Red eyes, burning with hate and lust…
Looking around, I drew my bomber jacket closed and zipped it shut. I wasn’t normally shy about showing some cleavage, but after my freaky-ass dreams, the incident in the back yard, and half-demon Axel McRapey, I didn’t want to call any attention to myself.
A few more steps… then vision suddenly split in two. I stopped and shook my head in confusion, immediately regretting the movement when a wave of gut-churning dizziness hit. Reaching out for a nearby pole, I missed it on the first try, my fingers going through its ghost image. I managed to grab the real thing on my second try and clung to it, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass and fighting not to throw up then and there.
Roaring filled my ears and I slid down the pole like a really crappy stripper, folding over on myself when I reached bottom. I shut my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning.
So much for staying inconspicuous.
“Miss, are you okay?”
A worried voice spoke next to me. A female voice, older maybe, but I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t shake my head—if I moved or even opened my mouth, I’d throw up. I just knew it. All I could do was keep my head down on my knees, both hands clutching the metal pole in front of me. I wondered distantly if this was a delayed reaction to my encounter with Axel, or if it had to do with the accident.
It’s not a tumor, I thought involuntarily, hearing Arnold’s voice in my mind. I giggled, then choked back the bile that rose in my throat. My chest tightened, my throat constricted, and I gasped for air.
A cool hand rested on the back of my neck.
“Just breathe,” the voice said gently. Suddenly everything loosened up. The spins and nausea seemed to retreat away from the soothing fingers gently rubbing my neck.
“Breathe,” she repeated.
I did, inhaling slowly and deeply, letting the chill ocean air fill my lungs and clear my head.
“Thanks,” I said faintly once I knew I could talk.
“You’re welcome.” Her voice came from a distance. The touch on the back of my neck vanished. Oddly, I also s
melled the faintest hint of chocolate.
Huh?
I opened my eyes, relieved to see only one pole in front of me, instead of two. Sounds carried clearly again, a dozen conversations vying for my attention. The aura of menace, that sense of being watched…
Gone.
I looked around for my Good Samaritan, but the only person within ten feet of me was a kid in board shorts and a hoodie, carrying a skateboard under one arm and a six-pack of Coors in the other hand.
Huh.
As I carefully stood up, I noticed a crumpled piece of silver foil by one foot, a little strip of white paper sticking out of one end. I picked it up, then looked down Rose, across Main Street where I’d parked my car. I had a feeling if I went back there, the chocolate would have vanished.
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
“You’re welcome…”
The soft reply might have been a whisper on the breeze.
I’m totally stocking up on Hershey’s Kisses, I thought. With that, I resumed my walk toward the beach.
* * *
There was a time back when Venice wasn’t so gentrified. When boardwalk commerce had mainly consisted of local artists, fortune tellers, and the street performers doing their shows and passing the hat. There’d been a few restaurants and permanent storefronts on the east side, but nothing like what it had become.
Mind you, I loved Venice Beach and the boardwalk, even though it could be a total crowded, tourist-filled circus on hot summer days. The west side of the walk was still the territory of street vendors and performers. Mimes, musicians, and jugglers took spots in between tarot card and palm readers. Scattered among those were dozens of arts and crafts booths, and way more temporary tattoo stands than necessary.
The east side was more like a bizarre strip mall, with at least half a dozen T-shirt stores, along with shops selling lots of cool imported stuff like jewelry, clothing, shoes, and more. There were medical marijuana dispensaries, skate and surf shops, restaurants and bars. If henna tats were too tame, there were plenty of actual tattoo parlors.
The stores and vendors had closed up shop around six, but there was still plenty of foot traffic what with the bars and restaurants. A relatively new brew pub sat on the corner of Rose and Ocean Front Walk, crowded inside and out. I couldn’t remember what it had replaced. Stores and restaurants came and went from year to year.
On the Waterfront was hopping, most of its outdoor seating taken. The inside looked similarly packed. The beer garden was a sea of tables and bodies, the wait staff moving adroitly through the crowd with platters of food and drink.
Mmmm, beer. But I kept walking, figuring I could find the bar without Eden’s help, then just text her once I arrived.
Before I knew it, I was at the next corner, past the bike rental place. I must have walked right past Ocean’s End without noticing, no doubt while staring enviously at other people’s drinks. So I turned and walked back the way I came, going slowly past the bike place and—suddenly I was right back where I’d started.
How the hell had I missed the bar twice in a row? Maybe I’d gotten the block wrong. No, I distinctly remembered her saying “just north of Rose Avenue.”
Okay, color me annoyed.
Could Eden have been jerking me around? Even as the thought flickered across my mind, I dismissed it. I’d just met her. I mean, yeah, I’d worked with her for two weeks without getting to know her name—which was admittedly lazy and a little bit rude on my part—but surely that wasn’t reason enough for her to do anything that shitty. Right?
I took a deep breath, determined to try it one more time.
“Lee!”
I turned at the sound of my name. Eden waved at me from the other end of On the Waterfront, a wide smile on her face. I waved back, and tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying slithered off my shoulders.
Hurrying over to where she stood, I noticed a table of twenty-something males checking her out over the partition. Tipsy hipsters sporting ironic facial hair, they all had big glass boots of beer in front them, with several empty pitchers in the middle of the table. Oblivious to the stir she was causing, Eden smiled happily as I reached her.
“You made it!”
“I did?” Looking around, I still didn’t see Ocean’s End. “I figured I was on the wrong block or something.”
“Told you it’s hard to spot,” she said, “That’s why I said I’d meet you here.” As she spoke, two of the guys at the table whispered to each other, one of them pointing in Eden’s direction. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.
“You’re causing a ruckus.” I said, and I gave a small nod toward her admirers. She looked over, and her smile widened.
“We’re causing a ruckus.” She gave the table a little wave. One of the guys clutched his chest, while the other grabbed himself a little lower, and the group cred dove into the gutter. Eden just shook her head and giggled.
“This place is too crowded,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
I followed her back toward the bike shop, where she turned into a little alley I would swear hadn’t been there only a few minutes earlier. I hesitated, looking at the walls on either side of the cobblestone walkway, and wondered how I’d missed it twice in a row.
About ten feet into the alley, the walkway dead-ended into a wooden door, a ship’s wheel dead center on the planked wood. A weathered driftwood sign bore the words “Ocean’s End” in fading blue paint, and hung above the door. A dimly lit lantern dangled from an iron hook next to the sign.
“Come on!” Eden reached out and grabbed my hand, giving me a little tug. “See, you can only find this place if the owner likes you—and first he has to meet you.”
I grinned. “Hipster techies need not apply, eh?”
“Ooh, wait until you see Manny’s whiskers. Those guys are amateurs in comparison.” She led the way to the door, her face eerily illuminated by the flickering light cast from the lantern. I was pretty sure it held a candle and not a bulb. So far this place took retro to the limits.
I paused, casting a glance back to the entrance of the alley as people strolled past without once looking in our direction. “They don’t see it, do they?”
“Nope! And now they don’t see us either.”
That could come in handy, I thought.
Eden pushed the door open and we walked inside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ocean’s End was old, with dark wood. A buttload of it. High walls, beamed ceiling, and small tables and booths around the perimeter. Lots of pictures on the dark walls, mostly seascapes, lots of stormy white-capped waves, ships awash in salt water. Not a sunny, happy sailing vessel in sight.
A couple of plank-style tables ran most of the length of the room, which seemed longer than possible. One of those “bigger on the inside” places. About half the tables and booths were full, the customers lit by candles flickering from randomly spaced wall sconces.
There looked to be plenty of lively conversations going on, but the sound level was pleasantly low. Music played quietly yet clearly from all corners of the place. Great acoustics, but when I checked for speakers, I didn’t see any. Whoever set up the sound system knew his or her business.
The bar itself was a length of polished redwood at least twenty feet long and a good six inches thick, with another five-foot piece giving it an L shape. Not shiny polished, but smooth nonetheless, as if someone had taken a slab from one of the old-growth trees instead of nailing planks together.
Only a couple of customers were currently seated at the bar. Two older females with waist-length hair and oddly textured skin. Liquid dripped from the sodden hemlines of their skirts. The rest of their clothes, including the skirts above the hems, were bone dry. The vibrant green shade of their hair might have been expensive dye jobs, but somehow I doubted it. If more than one or two of the patrons were actually full-blooded human, I’d eat my bomber jacket.
Behind the bar was the pièce de résistance. Lit by fat pillar candles
on either side, it depicted a sailing ship being dragged underneath the ocean by what might have been a giant squid, water roiling with tentacles above and below, with at least four wrapped around the hull of the doomed vessel. Sailors dressed in 18th-century garb screamed, the terror on their faces remarkably—and disturbingly—rendered.
I stared at it, simultaneously amused and appalled even as I admired the skill of the artist. I nudged Eden. “I want that one above my bed,” I murmured. “I don’t have enough nightmares.”
The sound of someone clearing his throat rumbled from back behind the bar, bringing to mind the warning growl of a pissed off grizzly or a volcano with pre-eruption indigestion.
“Uh-oh,” Eden murmured.
Uh-oh?
A shock of flaming red hair rose into sight, lending support to the volcano analogy. It was followed by a broad, strong forehead, an intimidating red unibrow the same shade as the hair, and slate-gray eyes, the color of angry storm clouds. Next came an aquiline nose and a… well, a mouth. I’m not entirely sure what it looked like because it was mostly hidden by a truly impressive mustache and beard.
Eden was right. Hipsters would weep with envy. Both beard and ’stache had to be at least a foot long, and were thick and wavy, like his hair—which fell well past his shoulders down his back, the front drawn back in narrow braids. Bits of seashells, frosted multicolored glass, and silver beads were woven into his beard at random intervals. The side of the mustache flowed into it, trimmed just enough at the top to leave him a gap for eating. He wore the front of his hair in two braids, similarly twined with shells and silver beads.
The whole effect worked, all organic and wild. I still wasn’t a fan, mind you, but at least he didn’t come across like a trendy douche. I wasn’t sure if I should say “Arr, matey” or request permission to come aboard, and sensibly opted for neither.
He stared at me balefully. “Eden, your friend doesn’t like my choice of art.” Irish accent, thick and unexpectedly sexy. I’d been expecting Groundskeeper Willy from The Simpsons.
