A Taste of Love and Evil

by Barbara Monajem

  “Go watch the back door,” Grandma was saying. “There’s supposed to be someone on guard at all times.” Poopsie whined. And whined again.

  “Not anymore.” Stevie put the cigarette to his lips. “They changed the rule about minors.”

  “The underworld? Impossible!” She tapped Poopsie’s nose. The dog yelped and subsided but wouldn’t stay down for long. You had to be tough to survive with Grandma.

  “Not the underworld.” Stevie scrounged in his pockets for a lighter. “The club.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Those vigilantes are a goddamned nuisance, but they’re the law here and they’ll never budge on that one.”

  “That’s why the club’s changing it on their own.” The cigarette bobbed up and down as Stevie spoke. Poopsie poked her head out of the bag again. She sniffed and wriggled and sniffed some more. Juma held still and willed the dog not to find her.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandma said. “It’s one thing to sneak virgins in from time to time. Group deflowering is a prime attraction for the elite crowd. It’s another entirely to leave the door wide open for hordes of underage kids. We’ll get caught, and the underworld will shut us down.”

  We? Juma stared wide-eyed through the peephole.

  Stevie found his lighter. “Underage kids are worth a fortune. From now on, we let them sneak in and keep the ones that look best.”

  “What? I won’t let a bunch of fools ruin my investment.” Grandma went pink with rage. Her face almost matched her hair. She didn’t get this pissed off even when she found a poetry book under Juma’s mattress! She jabbed Stevie with the cane. “This is my goddamn club, and I make the rules. Go man the door or you’re fired!”

  Stevie backed out of reach, lit his cigarette, and took a long, long drag. Juma’s head whirled. Her grandmother owned the most dangerous club in all Bayou Gavotte? Un-fucking-believable. She’d always wondered how Grandma made so much money out of that dingy hairdressing shop. Well, duh. She didn’t. She made it here. She also approved of preying on virgins. Juma didn’t even want to think about that.

  Grandma banged the desk drawers open and shut. “I need to make some calls. Why isn’t there a pen in this god-awful mess? Why are you still here? Put out that cigarette and go!” Stevie lounged against the filing cabinet. “Don’t order me around, old lady. I don’t work for you anymore.”

  What had gotten into Stevie? He never disobeyed Grandma, and he definitely never sassed her. She had enough on him to send him up the river for life, or if she didn’t, she’d find something, and people would believe every word she said.

  Poopsie got her front paws clear. Grandma scowled at Stevie. “Damn right you don’t. You can’t keep hold of one runaway teenager, and now you’ve dragged me to Bayou Gavotte for nothing.”

  Stevie grinned and took another drag. “It’s not for nothing.”

  Footsteps clacked in the hall. The door opened, and the voluptuous woman in purple came in. “Stevie, darling, I need you to…Well, well! What a charming surprise!”

  The pink drained from Grandma’s cheeks. “Mary Lou?”

  “Mommy, darling!” the woman said. “It’s been so long.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mommy?

  Dizziness assailed Juma. Unless Grandma had two daughters named Mary Lou, this woman was…her mother. The mother who had died of an overdose when Juma was a baby. The one Grandma refused to talk about. The one even Dad said they were better off without.

  But she had died. Not in Destrierville, but in New Orleans. Juma had seen the newspaper clipping. On the other hand, Grandma was just crazy enough to pretend someone she didn’t like was dead. It didn’t take a genius to read the hatred on Grandma’s face.

  Juma pulled herself together. She tried without much success to recall the few faded photos Dad possessed. She peered through the peephole, shaken, fascinated, appalled at this stunning woman with the killer smile.

  She was like a drug, Dad had said once. Believe me, chemicals are safer. That, far more than Grandma’s rages, had put the kibosh on Juma’s fantasies of a loving mother, but the sick feeling in her gut told her those dreams had only been suppressed. She was trembling, which was totally stupid. She didn’t even know this woman! Nor did she care about her one way or the other. She took a deep breath to calm herself. And another.

  Crap. Poopsie had been watching Mary Lou with silent wariness, but now her ears pricked up and her nose twitched in the direction of the closet. Juma froze, trying to take comfort in thoughts of her father. Useless druggie or not, he loved her.

  “Mary Lou, what the hell are you doing in my club?” spat Grandma. She always spewed droplets when she got majorly pissed off. Poopsie wiggled and squirmed, her claws scrabbling against the canvas of the bag

  “Having a party,” Mary Lou purred. “New Orleans is such a bore these days. And my name is Titania.”

  Grandma gave a cackle of derisive laughter. “Still fantasizing about being queen of the perverts?”

  “It’s not a fantasy.” Titania licked her scarlet lips. “Starting tonight, I’m Queen of Bayou Gavotte.”

  Grandma snorted. “Go have your goddamn party someplace else, Mary Lou. I told you never to come near me again. That includes my club, and you know it.”

  “But Mo-om! What about motherly love? Stevie loves me. Don’t you, baby?”

  “Always, Titania.” Stevie gazed at her rapturously. “Ever since kindergarten.”

  “Don’t you miss me, Mom? Stevie missed me. Didn’t you, honey?”

  “Hell, yeah. Ever since you went away to that fancy New Orleans school. Later, I heard you were dead.” Stevie sounded close to tears.

  The sick feeling clutched Juma again. Back in the day, had Dad gaped at this creepy woman like that? Actually, Titania did suit her better as a name, although it was a bit of an insult to the queen of the fairies.

  “I pay you good money to stay the hell away,” Grandma snarled, and added in a taunting voice, “Mary Lou.”

  “Not enough. And my name is Titania,” she repeated. She held up a white hand with immaculate bloodred nails. However ghastly she might be, her mom knew how to pick a manicurist. If it was her mother. Juma wasn’t quite ready to believe the impossible.

  “You’re getting old, Mom,” the woman said. “I don’t suppose you’re planning to leave me the club when you die?”

  Grandma huffed. “You’re already dead to me.” Pause. “Mary Lou.”

  “It’s Titania.” Pause. “Poor Stevie was deprived of fabulous sex for years, and it’s all because of you. Are you mad about that, Stevie?”

  “Hell yes, Mar—Titania.” He blenched under her instantaneous glare. “Real, real mad.”

  “Mom needs to be punished for what she did to you.” She leered at Grandma. “I saw my lovely little obit in the Destrier-ville paper. Who did you threaten to get that done?”

  “The editor.” Grandma snickered, proud as always when she’d pulled something nasty. “In exchange for not starting a rumor that he fondled his daughter’s friends at her birthday party.”

  “Good old Mom,” Titania said. “I must have inherited my twisted imagination from you. I put it to better use, though. We’re planning some fun tonight, aren’t we, Stevie?”

  “Sure are, Titania.” Stevie’s tongue was all but hanging out. Gross.

  Titania perched on a corner of the desk, stretching lazily. In her tight purple dress with boobs busting out all over, and a metal-studded belt with a dagger in a sheath, she reminded Juma of a comic-book baddie. “The thing is, Mom, what will I do for money after you’re gone?”

  Grandma gripped her cane. “You can go to hell for all I care.”

  Titania snickered. “Sure you want me there with you?” When Stevie giggled, spewing a long stream of smoke, she whirled. “Put that thing out. I’m allergic.”

  Stevie obeyed. “Sorry, Titania. I didn’t know.” He ducked his head, abject and slavish. He’d always been a dodo, but this was
so weird.

  The pink in Grandma’s cheeks morphed to crimson, clashing horribly with her hair. “Stevie, your ass is going straight to jail. As for you, Mary Lou, get the hell out of my club or I’ll call the cops.” She shrieked at the scrabbling dog. “Stop it!” Poopsie stilled for about one millisecond.

  Titania blew a kiss at Stevie. “Mom and I need some alone time. Do the rounds of the club. See if any babes in arms have found their way inside. We need to make up for the money we lost on the one that escaped last night.”

  Stevie chuckled. “My pleasure, Titania.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, ordering my employee around?” Grandma hissed.

  “Shut up, old lady,” Titania said.

  Grandma’s crimson morphed to purple, and Poopsie wiggled, squirmed, and whined fit to bust. Grandma whacked the dog hard, then gave in and unzipped the bag. She always did, because unlike Juma, Poopsie had no pride. “Go! Git!” Poopsie leaped out and made straight for the closet door. She snuffled and sniffed and pricked up her ears.

  Juma stopped breathing.

  “So, who will you leave the club to?” Titania said. “My sweet, innocent little daughter?”

  “Juma’s not little, and she’s not sweet.”

  The awful truth settled heavily in Juma’s gut.

  “But she’s innocent? If you believe that, she’s pulled the wool over your eyes. She is my daughter, after all. How old is she, thirteen?”

  Stupidly, this hurt. Her own frigging mother didn’t know how old she was.

  Grandma didn’t bother enlightening her. “She’s not coming near this godforsaken town. She’s going to be a hairdresser and run my salon.”

  Juma stopped just short of leaping out to deny this. A mother who expected her to have sex at thirteen was way too skewed to care about her college plans. Unlike Rose, who deserved an apology.

  Poopsie barked. And barked, and barked again. Juma clasped her hands and prayed for Rose.

  “Shut up, dog.” Grandma narrowed her eyes at Titania. “When I die, Juma gets everything.”

  Titania sighed. “Actually, I already knew that. The girl in your lawyer’s office showed me your will.”

  Grandma’s claws clenched. “You bribed her?”

  “No, I threatened her. Threats are free.” Titania laughed like fingernails on a blackboard.

  Juma stifled a shudder, but Grandma just glared. “I’ll have the bitch fired.”

  Titania lifted a languid shoulder. “Whatever. I’ll get what I want in the end. I saw how the lawyer looked at me.”

  “I’ll get another lawyer and another will.” Pause. “Mary Lou.”

  “It’s Titania.” Pause. “I have better things to do than threaten lame-ass girls and fuck limp-dick, stick-up-the-butt old fools. I spent last week doing that.” Her eyes glimmered with malice. “Payback tonight.”

  Juma couldn’t prevent the shudder this time. Poopsie panted happily in response.

  I don’t need company now. Please don’t betray me.

  Poopsie pawed the closet door. “Yap!”

  Titania licked her lips. She poked out her tongue. “I can already taste it. I am going to have such a party.”

  Grandma picked up the phone. “Not here, you’re not.” Pause. “Mary Lou.”

  Titania grabbed the phone and slammed it down. Grandma reared back. Titania got right in her face. Grandma didn’t budge.

  “Yes, here. You’re signing the club over to me tonight.” Titania straightened again and put her hands on her hips. “Or else.”

  “Or else what?” Grandma scoffed. “Mary Lou.”

  “It’s Titania. Or else you’ll never see your precious Juma again.”

  Grandma’s color faded. “You kidnapped her?”

  Juma began to feel dizzy. This was too crazy. She pressed a hand to the wall for support.

  Titania opened the filing cabinet. “I’ve had the papers drawn up. Just sign on the dotted line.” She slapped a file onto the desk.

  “Yap. Yap, yap!”

  “I don’t believe you,” Grandma said. “I saw Juma an hour ago. She was running away from me, and if you kidnapped her, she wouldn’t run back to you.”

  “Maybe she loves her mommy,” Titania said. “Maybe she’s dying for a little fun.”

  “Yap, yap!” Frenzied paws scratched and scrabbled at the closet door.

  Slowly, Grandma’s head turned, and understanding dawned in her eyes. “She’s in there. Poopsie knows. She smells her.” Grandma snorted. “Some kidnapper you are.”

  “Some imagination you have,” Titania jeered. “It’s not Juma she smells.”

  “Then who is it?”

  “A corpse,” Titania said.

  Juma shrieked and flung open the closet door.

  The streets were clogged with vehicles. Rose parked the minivan several streets from the club, which was situated a long, long block from Blood and Velvet. She ran through the congested town. Speculation about Constantine bounced from mouth to mouth, and a bar TV gleefully announced a threatened suicide attempt—horrible news, but better than a helicopter crash. But if it was true, Jack might have to stay with his friend. As she jogged on a corner, waiting for a chance to dash across the street, she heard an older man tell a kid, “He’d be better off dead.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Rose snarled. “He needs kindness and consideration. He may be screwed up, but he’s a good guy at heart.” The kid threw her a grateful look before she took off again.

  She hurried through the crowds, passed the Threshold, counted the buildings to the corner, and dove down the alley at the end of the block to find the back entrance. The Threshold was easy to find, its rear entrance wide open and the nearby sign clearly visible.

  Someone was emptying trash in the yard of the restaurant next door. “Sure you want to go in there?” said a tired male voice. “No guard again, the bastards. They let the kids think they’re sneaking in, but it’s a trap. That place stinks.” Literally, as Juma had said. The odors of sex and fear sent acrid claws into the Bayou Gavotte night. The Dumpster put up no competition at all.

  “I’ll be fine,” Rose said, but the guy had come over to the fence, and he looked so worried that she let down her fangs and smiled at him. She brushed her fangs regularly, so they glowed softly in the dark. He couldn’t miss them. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Oh.” He swallowed. “I guess you can.” Sighing, he retrieved a trash-can lid from beside the fence and returned to work.

  Rose retracted her fangs and entered the Threshold. Really, she didn’t need Jack. Her task shouldn’t be difficult. Long hallway on the right, door halfway down. Straight there, get Juma, drop her at Vi’s. Damn, unless Vi was still at the cop shop. Well, she’d deal with that problem if and when. Maybe Zelda was at home. Maybe the suicide attempt was just more media blather. Maybe Jack was already on the way to save Miles. If so, Rose had to return and make sure Titania didn’t get her claws into Jack.

  The back door was unmanned, and the hallways were empty. Raunchy dance music issued from somewhere at the front of the club. Rose turned into the right-hand hall and hissed. The ripe aroma of blood overlaid the stench of sex and fear. Her fangs shot down. The walls were hung with weapons, gleaming in the light from sconces. Scimitars and swords, knives and daggers, a barbaric-looking poleax…Moans sounded from behind closed doors. Farther down, whimpers. At the far end, a despairing scream. Compelled, Rose headed to the end of the hall. A woman was weeping, begging for her life behind the last door.

  Rose’s fists clenched, and her fangs slotted down. Juma would have to wait.

  “The Threshold?” Constantine opened his eyes, yawning, and sat up. “Sure, why not? Suits my mood perfectly. Judging by what’s been going on there lately, somebody needs punishing.” He punched one fist into his other hand. His bored, cynical front had vanished. Now he positively quivered with something—excitement, rage, maybe even bloodlust.

  Jack didn’
t care what it was, as long as he got a move on. “Hurry up and put on your damn shoes.” Rose didn’t have much of a head start, but she could be up to anything.

  Constantine reached under the table for a pair of grubby sneakers. “Maybe while you’re saving lives, I’ll get to kill someone.” He pulled on one shoe and tied it. “After all, what does one more murder matter? If I off Titania, Vi will be pleased with me, and I like disposing of bodies.” He pulled on the other sneaker.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jack headed for the door.

  Constantine tied the other shoelace. “In the dead of night, I tip them over the bridge at Manchac.” He stood, raising his hands in a graceful flipping motion. “Sploosh!”

  “Stop talking garbage and let’s go!”

  They took the rooftops and a roundabout route via the alleys. Constantine wasn’t great at camouflage—what he practiced was more like illusion—but with the help of darkness, they evaded the press and approached the Threshold from the rear.

  They had just reached the backyard of the Cajun restaurant next door when Constantine’s cell rang. “It’s Ophelia.” As they approached the Threshold, he stopped. “Say what? Where’s Tony?”

  Now Jack was doing the quivering, but with impatience. “I’m going in.”

  Constantine raised a hand. “Why did he pick tonight of all nights to go to New Orleans? All right, all right. I’ll take care of it.” He clapped the phone shut. “Seems Vi pitched a hissy fit at the cop shop because they arrested your potter friend and wouldn’t let him go on her say-so. The chief was freaking out that the media would accuse him of corruption, so he tried to restrain her. He should know better. Nobody squeezes Vi except Tony and me.” He sounded almost cheerful. “I’ll go handle it and be right back. Don’t want to miss my chance to kill someone.”

  “Meet you inside,” Jack said. The back door yawned wide open, the corridor bright and bare. Jack plunged into the Threshold to find Rose.

  “There’s a dead person in here?” Juma squeaked. Titania laughed. “He might only be almost dead.”