“It would be more than a war between werewolves. You’d destroy the Great Secret.”
“Maybe the Great Secret has outlived its usefulness.”
“For you werewolves, perhaps.”
“Maybe for you vampires as well.” The threat of his words pressed against me like the barrel of a gun.
“What about your Lycanthrope Law?” I asked. “Once Le Cercle makes its decision, that’s the end of the discussion, right?”
Bourbon acted amused that I’d been smart enough to mention this. “Are you a legal expert?”
“I know enough to understand that this war of yours will be a disaster.”
“You want to prevent the war, kill Calhoun.”
“How about I kill you?”
Bourbon spread his arms and presented his chest. “Go ahead. You know what will happen.”
I should kill the egomaniacal bastard, right here, right now. But Bourbon had too high a profile. I kill him and it would knock down a different row of dominoes.
He rattled the ice in his empty glass. He asked if I wanted another drink. I said no. He’d said his piece, now it was my turn.
“I saw Wendy,” I said.
Bourbon shrugged. “And?”
“She’s doing okay, and I want her to stay that way.”
“Why are you telling me? Why not Calhoun? He’s the werewolf she’s banging.” Bourbon grinned, as if to add, The joke is on you.
I pushed the comment deep until I could no longer taste its bitterness. “No matter, as long as she stays safe. I’ve told you before. Something bad happens to her, you’re the first I’m coming to see.”
“You made that clear.”
“The same goes for Lemuel Cohen.”
“Lemuel hangs around vampires, not werewolves. Anything bad happens to him, you should start with your fellow bloodsuckers.” Bourbon pulled his weight off the railing. “Anything else?”
“Have you heard from Paxton?”
Irritation flashed through Bourbon’s eyes. “No. I’m not expecting to, and if I do, I’ll let you know. Wasn’t that our agreement?”
He whisked his cell phone from his belt, pressed a button, and said, “Lori.” He clicked the phone back onto his belt. “Thank you for your time. Can’t say it was a pleasure.”
Lori appeared at the door to the piazza.
He told her, “Mr. Gomez needs a ride.”
He was trusting to allow his gardener and domestic booty to be alone with me. The ride back to the mortuary would give me the opportunity to chat her up and get information.
As I stepped off the piazza, Bourbon hailed me. “Felix. None of this.” He pointed to his eyes, meaning no hypnosis.
He wasn’t that trusting.
Lori and I left in the Prius. Lori was cordial yet cool. The best indication that she didn’t want to talk was the radio turned up loud. The groundskeepers flanked the driveway as we rolled off the property. The Hummer followed us for a block, then turned away.
I stayed alert. I’d been a day in Charleston and already there’d been three attempts on my skin. That’s one attack every eight hours. I peeked at my watch. I was past due.
CHAPTER 25
Lori let me out in front of the Atlas Mortuary.
Lemuel was attending to a middle-aged couple in the front room, showing them casket options on the flat screen mounted on the wall as he scrolled through an Internet catalog. He flicked his eyes from his customers to me. I’m busy.
I mouthed, Let’s talk, and pointed down the hall.
He sighed, annoyed by my interruption. He handed the couple some brochures and swatches of lining samples. He excused himself and followed me.
I waited in his office. Lemuel came in and closed the door.
I said, “I need a gun.”
He acted like I’d poked him with a stick. “What for?”
“Why does anyone need a gun?”
“When?”
“Today. Tonight by the latest.”
Lemuel chuckled, amused like he was about to watch me get hit by a cream pie.
I asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Then you need to see the king.”
“Elvis?”
“No. A real king. King Gullah.”
CHAPTER 26
I asked, “And who is King Gullah?”
Lemuel went to his desk. “One of y’all.”
I wasn’t sure what he was getting at, so I guessed, “A vampire?”
“The head of both the Charleston nidus and the local—how do I put this? Street entrepreneurs.”
“He’s a crook?”
“As are most of our politicians.”
Street entrepreneur? “He’s a gangster?”
Lemuel nodded.
“A gangster vampire?”
Lemuel reached for the telephone on his desk. “Let me make a call and see what I can arrange.”
“You’ve got pull?”
“He owes me. Our relationship started when he came to me and asked, ‘If I can deliver eight bodies this month, would you give me a discount?’”
“And you said yes?”
“Of course I did. But I learned to be careful what I said around the King. One time I griped that business was slow, and the next day I was called to make two funeral arrangements. Hit-and-runs according to the po-leece.”
Lemuel made the call and spoke when someone on the line answered. “Rooster, this is Lemuel. I need some of the King’s time.”
Lemuel stared at the wall and listened.
“Today would be great.”
I whispered, “Tell him I need a gun. A forty-five would be ideal.”
Lemuel cupped the receiver. “It’s not wise to discuss those details over the phone.”
He turned his attention back to the call. He perked up—nodding—and said, “That’ll do. Later, brother.” He hung up and addressed me. “Rooster’s going to confirm with the King. He’ll call back in a few with the where and the when.”
“Who’s Rooster?”
“An assistant to the King. You’ll see.”
Someone knocked on the door and opened it without prompting. A young African-American woman stood at the threshold. In her white-and-pink blouse and matching shorts, she looked like a sorority girl on spring break, all smiles and bubbly personality. Except for the scarf tied around her neck. She was either going for the retro-’70s look or she was a chalice.
Lemuel said, “This is my intern, Shantayla.”
“Intern?” I asked. “In the funeral business?”
She pulled at the scarf. “Actually, I don’t do much for the funeral part of anything.”
I introduced myself and offered my hand.
We shook politely. Her fingers were long and sported elegantly manicured fingernails.
Lemuel said, “Shantayla will help you stay occupied until I hear from the King.”
“Occupied how?”
Lemuel smiled. “If you don’t know the answer by now, it’s about time you went back to school.”
Shantayla kept the door open. Lemuel returned to his customers while I followed her to one of the mourning rooms. The room had two couches, an armchair, and a credenza. Pictures of Jesus Christ in a decidedly darkened hue—Tootsie Roll brown—hung from the walls. Shantayla turned a plastic sign around on the front of the door.
The sign read: GRIEF COUNSELING. DO NOT DISTURB.
She shut the door and pushed the button lock on the knob. She removed the scarf, folded it on the credenza, and slipped out of her shoes. Her pink toenails matched her fingernails.
I felt uncomfortable, even a little creepy, that Lemuel had offered his intern as my afternoon snack. “Lemuel do this often?”
“Do what?” Shantayla asked.
“Set you up with out-of-town vampires.” I removed my contacts.
Her aura simmered. “It was my decision. He asked and I said yes. Why, there something about you I need to know? Are you some kind of Rocky Mountain pervert?”
Only if
I get the chance. I kept my hypnotic power in check. I showed her my fangs and talons.
Shantayla nodded, more out of politeness than from being impressed. She sat on the couch and patted the cushion next to her.
I retracted my talons but kept my fangs extended.
She unfastened the top buttons of her blouse. The collar spread and I got a good view of her bra and the tops of her breasts.
I sat next to her and clasped her waist. She relaxed against the back of the sofa and turned her head to expose her neck. Her enticing smell—mountain-berry shampoo, Satan’s Kiss cologne, and the gathering pheromones—caressed my nose. Hunger made my stomach ache and my teeth itch.
Shantayla was too much woman to appreciate just by fanging. I ran my hands up her torso.
“Hey, hey,” she protested, and pulled away. “No funny stuff.” She raised a hand, palm toward me. “Strictly fanging. Besides…” She turned her hand around and wiggled her ring finger. She wore a diamond engagement ring. “I’m getting married.”
“Okay,” I said, and readjusted my hold on her. “Lucky guy.” I didn’t understand chalices. Fanging could be a lot more intimate than any sexual fooling around.
Shantayla pressed her throat against my face and whispered, “Bon appétit.”
CHAPTER 27
Lemuel knocked on the door and announced himself. He said King Gullah would meet me at two-thirty. My watch said it was five after two. Not much time.
Shantayla lay on the couch, snoring. I’d covered her with a small white blanket I’d found in one of the drawers in the credenza. Her bare legs and arms looked like ribbons of caramel extruded from under a marshmallow topping.
As I left the room, Lemuel peeked over my shoulder at Shantayla. Whether out of avuncular concern or to sneak a glance at her fine body, I couldn’t tell. He shut the door behind us and twisted the knob to make sure it was locked.
“Some girl,” I said. “I’m definitely going to look at hiring an intern.” But one less strict about saving herself for her fiancé.
Lemuel slapped my shoulder as if he were a coach and I’d done well for the team. “How you feel?”
“Great. Why?”
“Just wanted you to be in top form when you meet King Gullah. You need to make a good impression.”
“Where am I meeting him?”
“Place called Tom Tom’s Barber Shop.” Lemuel gave directions. The address was on Nassau north of Spring Street. “I wouldn’t show up empty-handed. A bottle of good whiskey would tell him you’re a straight-up guy.”
“Where’s the closest liquor store?”
“We don’t have liquor stores in Charleston.”
“Then where am I—”
“They’re called package stores around here. On the way to Tom Tom’s, you’ll pass a Piggly Wiggly. Keep going until you see Short Billy’s. Stop there.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Nothing cheap. But he doesn’t like single-malt scotch, so stick to the major labels. Johnnie Walker. Crown Royal. Wild Turkey.”
Lemuel nudged me to the side door. “Better beat feet. The King doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
For an extra twenty bucks a day, Lemuel let me drive his Mercury Sable. Still had the sticker from the used-car lot and enough miles on the odometer for a trip to the moon. The Mercury was behind the mortuary, parked next to a hearse and an older Cadillac limo.
When I stopped at Short Billy’s, I noticed a black kid sitting in a blue Ford Escape parked near the corner. He wore mirrored sunglasses and tried to look tough despite drawing short nervous puffs from a cigarette. The engine was running and that made me suspicious that he was driving the getaway car for a robbery.
When he panned the Mercury, then me, and suddenly tossed aside the cigarette, it was obvious he wasn’t casing the store but waiting for me.
What troubled me was the timing of the kid’s appearance. Lemuel had told me to stop by Short Billy’s and I found that somebody was waiting. Was Lemuel working a deal behind my back with King Gullah?
I acted like I hadn’t noticed Super Fly junior. I went into the package store, bought a bottle of Wild Turkey, and paused by the front door. I could go around the back of the store and surprise the kid by coming from the opposite direction.
When I looked outside, his Ford was pulling from the corner. I surveyed the street and the surrounding neighborhood. At the intersection, a white Escalade rolled to the curb.
Another watcher.
The clerk cleared his throat. “Something wrong, mister?”
I turned from the door.
The clerk set a battered ax handle on the counter. The business end was wrapped in barbed wire. The suspicious set of his eyes and his tense posture told me to take my problems off the premises.
Fair enough. There wasn’t anything outside I couldn’t take care of.
I returned to my car and continued to Tom Tom’s. The white Escalade let a couple of cars pass and followed me.
The economic standing of the residents dropped with every block going north from downtown Charleston. Many of the houses were two-story wooden structures with crooked piazzas and balconies. Scabs of flaking paint marred the walls. The railings and warped stairs showed the grimy mange of rot. Weeds, trash, and stained sheets of broken plywood littered the driveways and alleys.
The barbershop occupied the middle of a three-store front on a corner lot. A weather-beaten sign reading Tom Tom’s in red script hung over the entrance. I parked between a rust-eaten Chrysler minivan and a showroom-new Lincoln Navigator.
Prices and services had been painted across the window of the shop. Faded posters of haircut styles, grooming products, and Obama for President were taped to the inside of the glass.
I got out of the Mercury. A crow sat on the corner lamppost. The third crow I’d seen today. Maybe I hadn’t noticed if crows were common around here. I got suspicious that the Araneum was keeping tabs on me.
I approached the shop and looked through the window. An older man with a graying ’fro and a white smock sat in one of the two barber chairs. He joked with a couple of men lounging in plastic chairs along the opposite wall.
The white Escalade halted across the street. The windows rolled down halfway, enough for the occupants to watch me but not low enough for my gaze to penetrate the gloom of the interior.
With the bag of whiskey in my arm, I pushed open the barbershop door. A buzzer made an irritating chirp. All three men became quiet and serious. The friendly warmth in the room became hostile and ice-cold.
CHAPTER 28
I entered the barbershop.
The two men on the plastic chairs were in their early thirties. One wore a blue uniform with the patches of a heating-and-air-conditioning repair service. The other had a blue-and-orange Charlotte basketball jersey and gold necklace chains. In each of his earlobes was a diamond the size of a pea.
The place smelled of skin bracer and cologne. Nothing from cadavers—meaning the undead—or werewolf musk. Only humans here. Except me.
The barber uncrossed his legs and placed a Styrofoam box piled with chicken bones on the counter behind him. “May I help you?”
The other two men acted relaxed to show that I wasn’t a threat, but if they had been cats, they’d be hissing and arching their backs.
“I’m here to meet King Gullah.”
The barber said, “Ain’t no one here by that name.”
Jerk me around. Thanks. “Lemuel Cohen sent me.” I hoped this would improve my welcome.
The barber gave a frosty smile. “I know Lemuel. So?” He motioned about the shop. “As you can see, there’s just us. No King Gullah. Unless he’s invisible.”
The other two chuckled and slapped one another.
I should give these three comedians a lesson in vampire kung fu, but I was here to stop trouble, not add to it. Better that I return to the mortuary and ask Lemuel to give me straight answers.
“Pardon me.” I backed out the door.
The three began to joke, at my expense no doubt.
The crow was still on the lamppost, watching.
A black kid in a baggy T-shirt and sagging cargo pants walked across the sidewalk toward me. Once we made eye contact, he veered toward the street and waved that I follow. He stopped by the curb.
Another black guy emerged from the Escalade at the corner. He wore a doo-rag, chains, and a checkered shirt that showed the outline of a pistol in his waistband. Gangsta.
A Chevy turned the corner. It was a big Impala with wheels as big as those on a Conestoga wagon. The Chevy was emerald green with gold metallic panels on the hood and sides. On the quarter panel behind the front wheel was the number 25. Took a moment to understand the numbers meant these wheels were twenty-five-inchers. Mine are bigger. A ghetto version of public dick measuring.
A second white Escalade followed. I couldn’t see through any of the tinted windows.
My kundalini noir compressed. My ears and fingertips tingled an alarm. Did these gangsters know I was a vampire? If they worked for King Gullah, they should.
The Impala slowed and passed close, but I couldn’t see through the darkened windows. The Impala and the Escalade picked up speed and continued.
The gangster in the checkered shirt answered a cell phone. He whistled and waved me toward him. He opened the door of the Escalade.
As I crossed the road I spied a white Crown Vic parked at the next corner. Its windows weren’t tinted and I could see two men in the front seat. Cops in an unmarked car.
The gangster sent out an undead vibe. Now close, I made out a faint trace of cadaver smell. Vampire. His makeup was expertly applied, but foundation showed within the folds of his ears—always a tricky spot to cover.
Made sense that at least one of King Gullah’s henchmen was undead. But this vampire family was decidedly dysfunctional, and if needed, I wouldn’t hesitate turning this fanged gangbanger into ash.
Another gangster—a teen kid—sat in the third row of the SUV. Lots of bling. He cradled a TEC-9, a cheap submachine, the original ghetto blaster.
The vampire gangster took the bag of whiskey from me. He peeked into the bag and gave it back. He cocked his thumb to the Escalade, meaning climb in. The kid with the TEC-9 would be sitting right behind me.
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