Why was it that all vampires had that jerk-off attitude? Sure, he'd saved Mac from whatever the hell those things were last night, but that didn't make him the bloody Fanged Avenger. Vamps were the same as everyone else. Eternal life didn't make a person anything besides old. The real value lay in what you did with all that time. As far as he could tell, most immortals wasted that opportunity on internal politics and fashion crimes.
"Here ya go." Brian set a mug of coffee in front of Mac. No cream, no sugar. Like all good bartenders, Brian remembered these things.
"Thanks."
"Food won't be long."
"Great." The coffee smelled like nirvana. That was what life was. Little things like good coffee, and a place where people knew how you liked it. He sipped gratefully. Vampires might get immortality, but look at their diet. What kind of a bargain was that?
Mac took another sip.
Tonight's body had been found in the wine cellar of the university's Faculty Club. No sunlight ever got down there, so a vampire could have done it despite the early hour. The neck wounds, the bruising, the positioning of the body had been the same. This one had a metal disk in her hand. The only one who hadn't was the one in the Flanders house, which made him think that somehow it got lost. What were those disks, anyway? A religious thing?
He took another swallow of Brian's strong coffee. He could feel his body groping for the caffeine. The only good point to this latest death was that the brass doubled the manpower on the case, which meant Mac finally got to take a break long enough for a hot meal, his first in three—or was it four?—days. He knew he shouldn't be sitting on his backside, stuffing his face, but he needed real food if he was going to pull another all-nighter. Unlike other players in this fiasco, he was only human.
Mac missed his partner, who was on maternity leave. Without her nagging to look after himself, he'd let work grind him down to the survival basics. Food. Clean clothes. He only vaguely remembered the concept of taking time out for himself. I used to cook for fun. I was really, really good. And when was the last time I talked to a woman about something besides dead bodies?
Too bad that Holly Carver had a boyfriend. She was everything: smart, pretty, brave, and she had that something that let a person know that if she was in their corner, she was there one hundred percent.
"See any of the game?" Brian asked, jerking his head at the silent big screen TV.
Mac looked up. "Not so far. Flyers winning?"
Brian grunted in disgust, rattling glasses.
Mac started in on the bowl of junk food on the bar. He'd never used to be able to eat after a murder scene, but after the first dozen, his body finally took over.
A woman came in and sat down at a corner table. Mac looked because, well, he was busy, not dead. Plus, she looked like the murder victims: blond, pretty, and barely legal. Mac kept an eye on her via the mirror over the bar.
The waitress sauntered over to the girl's table. The girl ordered while the sound system cranked out a hard rock standard. Aerosmith, maybe? Not the pub's usual sound track, but Mac liked it. He needed something kick-ass.
"Hey, there, Suki," he said as the waitress passed by on her way to key the order into the computer.
"Hi, Mac." Suki stopped, thrusting out one hip and tilting her head, which caused the lime green spikes in her hair to list like the rigging of a capsizing schooner. "Chickie over there says if you're gonna watch her all night you may as well join her."
Mac raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." Suki gave a cheerful leer. "Your fairy godmother granted you a wish. Don't make me jealous, eh?"
Mac looked down at himself. He liked clothes and tried to dress well, so outside of the possible bloodstains, he was presentable.
"You're gorgeous, Gorgeous." Suki slapped him gently on the side of the head.
"Gotta serve and protect," Mac said with equal cheer, sliding off the bar stool.
The girl was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar—the only light was a candle in a cheap glass dish—but he could tell his first impression had been correct. She was stunning, shapely, and dressed to show it off in a dark, off-the-shoulder sweater. Her face was model beautiful, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes of stormy gray. Her hair was straight, blond, and hung past her elbows. Once, Mac had worked security for a movie set and seen some of the Hollywood lookers. This girl blew them all out of the water.
"Hi," he said, sitting down. That put his back to the door, which he hated, but this once he'd make an exception.
The girl smiled. "I'm Jenny."
"I'm Mac."
Suki was back, setting a fancy coffee—the kind with a mountain of whipped cream—in front of Jenny. Definitely not a model, then, with all that calorie-rich whip.
Then Suki set a pint of Guinness in front of Mac. She leaned close, putting her lips next to his ear. "On the house, hound dog."
Mac laughed as Suki sailed away, green spikes lurid in the potlights.
Good things like this just don't happen to me. An odd tingling in his stomach—something between hunger and anticipation—made him squirm on the vinyl-padded chair. Jenny, eh? An old-fashioned name. Nice. He wanted to devour her with his mouth, with his eyes, with his lovemaking.
"The server seems to think you need congratulating," Jenny said. She sounded almost formal, the way he remembered the supersmart girls in English lit class used to talk.
"I think I do. In the last sixty seconds I've gone from lonely man at the bar to man at a table with a lovely lady. And a beer." Even if he was on duty and couldn't drink it.
"What are you hoping for in the next minute?"
"Dinner. I'm a simple man. How about you?"
"I don't know. Company, I suppose."
"You've got that."
"And you have your food. The star of our fortunes sails to its zenith."
Okay, she's read waaay too much Shakespeare. But Mac was distracted by the arrival of his steak sandwich, still sizzling from the grill. "Aren't you eating?"
"Not yet, but you go ahead."
He did, his mouth watering in anticipation of the garlic pepper sauce. As he chewed, she snitched a slice of pickle from the edge of his plate and popped it into her mouth. There was a kittenish mischief in the gesture, as if she were bad but knew he would forgive her.
He watched the deliberate naughtiness, idly wondering where it might lead. She grinned, and he was caught by the way the candlelight shone on her perfectly formed teeth. And the perfectly smooth skin in the low neckline of her sweater. That was one fine neckline.
Having finished with the pickle, she took a sip of her cream-topped coffee, then made a face. "Not a good taste combination."
She licked the white cream froth from her lips with the tip of a tiny, pink tongue. A dusting of sugar had fallen from the rim of her cup into the hollow between her breasts, and all Mac could think of was taking his own tongue to that softly sculpted region.
"Hold still." He picked up his napkin and dabbed at a smudge of cream at the corner of her mouth. She tipped up her face, studying him from under lowered lashes.
"You have lovely manners," she said, then dipped her finger into the cream. She licked it off, her tongue swiping around the neatly rounded nail. "Are you proposing to make me presentable with each sip?"
"There are worse ways to spend an evening, honey," Mac replied, "but I'll need something better than a paper napkin for the job."
"Not a good napkin if it can't handle a bit of cream." She took another sip, the rich froth clinging to her lips. She looked like a greedy little girl.
"I am sure you can, uh, encourage it to keep its shape."
She caught his gaze and held it for a long moment.
"You use this pickup routine often?" Mac asked.
One corner of her mouth curled up in a salacious quirk. "Why not? It works."
Every instinct Mac had screamed that Jenny was trouble, but wow. He couldn't help wondering whether she had any solicitation arrests. Vi
ce might know.
She did the dip-and-lick routine again, that same circular swipe of her tongue over the nail. His eyes fixed on her lips closing around the dollop of cream. Mac loosened his tie and cleared his throat. What was the matter with him? He'd forgotten about his sandwich, and he had to get back to work. He looked at his watch. Then he looked at Jenny.
Man, I've been a good boy way too long. I so need to have some time off.
"I can see you have to leave," she said sadly. "And we've not even had a chance to talk."
"Duty calls."
"This late at night?"
"I'm a cop," he said, waiting for the inevitable golly-I'll-pay-those-parking-tickets face.
She merely lifted one eyebrow. "What kind of cop?"
"Right now I'm working homicides."
"Fancy that," she said. "Can I call you? You're clearly busy now, but maybe later?"
"Oh, yeah," he said quickly, whipping out his card.
He held it out to her, but she grabbed his tie like a handle and, half rising, leaned across the table to plant a hard kiss on his lips. Her mouth was sweet with sugar and cream, but there was urgency in her tongue, as if he were the meal she had come for. He could feel her teeth crease the tender flesh inside his lower lip, and a sudden trickle of blood.
Mac thought he might have gasped. He wasn't a hearts-and-flowers kinda guy, but even he liked to warm up his engines first.
And then the burn started, somewhere near the backs of his knees. A wave of heat crawled up his body, arousing the flesh as it came, then leaving it exhausted as it passed.
A ripple of life passed from his mouth to hers. It was an orgasm of taking, with nothing of sowing. He shuddered, as if the icy finger of the Reaper had slithered up his spine. Mac fell back in his chair, all but paralyzed. His heart was pounding light and fast, like a bird beating its wings against a window, doing its damnedest to escape.
Jenny stood, and for the first time he really saw her clothes. She wore a skirt and sweater, but they were shabby and didn't quite fit. He knew the look. Stolen. Maybe stolen off the dead.
She dumped a handful of loose change on the table without counting it.
"I'll call you," she said, edging out from behind the table. Her manner was natural, just an old friend saying good-bye till next time.
Next time? No effing way! He couldn't move, either held by some unseen force or else too weak to turn and watch as she pushed open the door and left. He felt the blast of air on his cheek as rain-soaked wind blew in from the parking lot. Then the door clunked shut.
Mac drew in a long, shaking breath, now finding he could drag himself upright in his chair. His head felt too large, inflated to a hyperalert awareness of his surroundings.
How had she done that? What the hell was she?
With horror, he felt the pricking of frightened tears. Get a grip!
And then suddenly his appetite was back, and he dove at his sandwich with Cro-Magnon table manners. The bun had gone soggy, but he didn't care. The food filled his universe, the only important act making sure he devoured every last scrap.
He started as Suki appeared at his elbow.
"So," she chirped, "you guys gonna hook up and have some fun?"
"I sure as hell hope not," he said, his mouth full. He took a long swig of the forbidden Guinness.
Suki fingered her nose ring. "Huh. Yeah, I hate dating, too."
Chapter 11
When well-meaning people say romantic train wrecks will look better in the morning, they lie. Ben was gone, and so was the future Holly had planned with him.
She turned off the shower and groped for a towel. Blotting her face dry, Holly looked in the mirror. She looked drawn, her eyes puffy from crying in her sleep. It was bad enough feeling like something scraped from the back of the vegetable crisper; she hated looking the part as well.
There was nothing she could do. Someday she would meet a man who didn't mind a little witch in his woman. Or a lot of witch. With a giant demon mouse stalking her. So the demon problem is a buzz kill. We all have flaws. In defiance, she dressed in a skintight scarlet sweater that used to drive Ben wild.
Used to. She repeated it several times, trying to get accustomed to the past tense.
Reality waited outside the bedroom door, but it was kinder than she expected. The smell of fresh coffee, warm and bittersweet, hung in the air. Coffee? Is Alessandro still here?
"Hello?" Holly called as she walked into the kitchen.
Curled up by his food dish like a fat, tabby basketball, Kibs meowed a greeting. There were still scraps of food in the bowl, a telltale sign that he had conned breakfast out of Alessandro. She looked around. The coffeemaker hissed as condensing steam dripped onto the hot plate. The sound was as comforting as lambskin slippers, but she was clearly alone.
Of course. It was daylight. Vampires were tucked safely in their beds. She got a mug from the cupboard and poured a hit of caffeine. A note was propped against the toaster. Steam rose from the mug, ghosting before the slanting letters.
6:30 a.m. All clear, quiet night,
I will call you at dusk. Stay safe.
Alessandro had stayed until nearly dawn. As he had promised, he'd watched over her through the night. A twinge grew in Holly's chest, a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He deserved more than she could ever give him. Holly set the note down slowly.
Stay safe. How was she going to swing that?
Picking up the cordless phone, Holly grabbed a coat and took her coffee onto the back deck. She stood awhile, leaning on the wide railing and feeling the comforting presence of the house and yard.
Spiderwebs shone like a scatter of silver thread. Still rolling in from the sea, the fog hid the fence, blurring the pine trees with smudges of gray. Marigolds burned like sudden fires. Familiarity didn't make the scene any less beautiful. It was part of her, where she drew her strength. She could never give up her house. Never, ever.
Holly propped her chin in her hand. Kibs came out and leaped onto the deck railing, curling up near her elbow. Fuzzy comfort. She sipped the coffee, holding it on her tongue a moment before swallowing. It tasted stale from sitting too long, but Alessandro had made it strong, the way she liked it.
Stay safe. Good advice, if a little short on detail. Ultimately she had to take responsibility for her own safety. Alessandro could do only so much. Besides, Holly had her own weapon—magic. Pain or no pain, it was up to her to take care of business. No excuses.
However, self-reliance did not exclude asking for advice from someone who'd bagged her share of monsters. She thumbed one of the speed dials on the phone.
"Hey, Grandma," she said.
"Holly, is that you?" Grandma's voice was rough with decades of chain smoking, a vice she saw no point in giving up at this late date. After two hip replacements, she wasn't going to be running any marathons, anyway.
"Yeah, it's me. I need your sage advice. Can I bribe you with a treat from the Harvest Sheaf?"
"Maybe. What's the problem?"
"Demons. I need to spruce up the house's defenses. A lot."
"How much is a lot?" Suspicion and alarm crackled out of the receiver.
Holly gripped her cup. "Mega a lot. I need to work some serious protection spells."
"What happened?"
"It's too long to explain over the phone. Can I come over?"
There was a long pause. "Like that, eh? Bring cinnamon rolls." Holly heard the flick of Grandma's lighter and a quick breath as she lit another cigarette. "Double frosting. Wisdom of the ancients doesn't come cheap."
For a supervised care facility, the Golden Swans was nice, and Grandma liked having her own space. She had lived in the Carver house while Holly grew up, and that was long enough for both of them. Grandma deplored Holly's lackadaisical housekeeping, and Holly hated her grandmother's smoking.
Holly took the elevator to the east tower, where the semi-independent-living apartments were grouped around the common rooms. When she got to Grandma's door, sh
e picked up the daily paper where it had been left outside, bundled with an elastic band.
"Grandma?" She opened the door and poked her head in. "Hello?" Her eyes scanned the pin-neat interior.
"Come on in."
Holly entered, blinking a little from the cigarette fog. Grandma was in the kitchen, carefully spooning loose tea into a teapot. Her hair was pulled back in a long gray ponytail, showing off the strong bones of her face. Once plump, she had thinned down to a healthy weight but still gave the impression of solidity. She was dressed in a blue fleece ensemble with a sparkly gargoyle across the front.
Holly kissed her cheek. "Hey, there, Grandma."
"Demon trouble, eh?" she asked, eyeing the cinnamon buns as Holly set them out on plates.
"It followed me home, but I don't want to keep it."
The kettle clicked off. Holly poured boiling water into the teapot and carried it to the table. She filled Grandma in on the events of the last few days, ending with the mouse. "Why is there suddenly so much demon activity in Fairview?"
Grandma sat, hooking her canes, one to each side, on the tabletop. "Why not? Demons are all about manifesting on the earthly plane. For them, Earth is like Vegas, all entertainment, food, and fun. Fortunately, most of the time they can't get here. The demon realm is a prison, after all."
"A prison? I always thought of it as the demon home-world. Y'know. Hell."
"No, this isn't a place for mortal souls. No fiery pits. Look in the front of Anderson's Realms, on the top left-hand shelf of the bookcase behind you."
Holly turned, pulling out an oversized red volume that looked about a century old. This wasn't one of the books Holly had read. Of course, she'd never read even half the demon lore in her parents' library—apparently she needed to get right on that. "What am I looking for?"
"Look at the picture facing the title page."
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