“I’m going to take that as a yes.” She considered him along with her options. Clearly, whatever danger Niecie had been involved in had resolved itself by now, but it bothered Daphanie that her sister hadn’t told her about it. And it bothered her even more that this Quigley creature knew more about her sister’s recent past than she did.
“Take what as a yes? Was there a question? I don’t remember a question—”
“And that means that whatever situation you were in with Danice, it was one she didn’t want to be reminded of on her wedding day. Because I’m assuming that otherwise she would have invited you.”
Quigley’s nervous laugh made her think of hyenas and two-year-olds, simultaneously. Which was kinda creepy.
“Heh. Come to think of it, maybe she did mention she had a sister with a bit of wanderlust to her. Haven’t you been traveling for a few years now? I think I heard Danice tell Mac that her sister was some kind of gypsy, wanderin’ around the world sellin’ her art and lookin’ for inspiration to make more. That’d be you, I take it?”
“Which means that if she or Mac knew you were here, they wouldn’t like it.” She saw his eyes dart nervously around, as if he expected the linens to disappear and leave him vulnerable to exposure. She was on the right track. “Given that it’s their wedding day, they might not want to make a big scene and might just get someone from the staff to escort you out. That would cause the least amount of trouble, I’m guessing. But then again, Niecie always has had a temper. If she was really upset to see you here, she might pick you up by your ears and fling you out a window herself.”
“A real live artist! Fancy that!” Quigley’s voice had risen to an uncomfortable and unnaturally loud squeak that made Daphanie wish for ear muffs. “Who would have thought I’d be sitting here at Vircolac’s talking to Danice’s famous artist sister! Now, she didn’t call you a painter, so what was it you do? Sculpture? No, not that, but something similar, right? I think I remember it being something simi—”
Daphanie crossed her arms, her lips pursing. “Now, I don’t know Mac very well yet, but he does seem to be awfully protective of my sister. It makes me curious. I wonder what he would do if I just let him know about his little uninvited guest under table three…?”
“Hey, you know what? It’s gettin’ kinda stuffy under here, ain’t it?” The imp cut her off with grim determination and a forced tone of good cheer. His smile looked more pained than friendly, but she guessed he was at least making an effort. “Whatta ya say we blow this pop stand, eh? You’re new to the city. I could, you know, show you around. Take you to all the hot spots.”
As an attempt to change the subject, the offer lacked a certain amount of subtlety, but it made up for it in obvious desperation. Daphanie quirked an eyebrow.
“I grew up in Brooklyn. I think I can find my way around Manhattan. But thanks. Maybe I should just go ask Danice about the adventure the two of you had together. I think that might be easier all around. Have a nice night, Quigley.”
She placed her palm flat on the carpet and made as if to push to her knees and crawl out from under the table. Quigley’s hand slapped onto her wrist so fast, she thought he might have broken the land speed record.
“Wait!” Quigley’s eyes narrowed on her face and his expression shifted from fear to calculation. “You might know what streets lead where around here, but ya don’t know the city like I know the city. I’d betcha a case of root beer ya ain’t never been to any of the places I could show ya.”
The creature stabbed his chest with a stubby thumb. Daphanie considered him for a minute, raking her gaze over his outrageous and frankly unpleasant little form. “I’m not sure I’d want to go to any places you could show me, Quigley.”
“Is that right? Huh, and here I thought you monkeys always wanted to go to the places ya ain’t been invited to. The places where the real Others hang out.”
“‘Monkeys’?” Daphanie repeated the insult. It took her brain a second to catch up with the rest of his statement. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘the real Others’?”
The creature shrugged. “Just like I said. The real Others. The ones like me, not like this bunch of pretty, rich movie stars they got here.”
“I don’t recognize anyone here from the movies,” Daphanie observed dryly. “I thought Niecie said this was a private club especially for the Others. She said it had been founded and run by werewolves for something like two hundred years and had werewolves and vampires and demons and all sorts of Others as members.”
“Sure, Vircolac is for Others, if you happen to be an Other with a couple billion bucks in the bank or a family name that goes back to one of the first Others in America,” he snorted. “Sayin’ any Other can hang out here is like sayin’ anybody can live in a penthouse on Park Avenue. Theoretically, it might be true, but it ain’t gonna happen for real people.”
“Okay, so where do the ‘real’ Others hang out?”
Quigley shrugged, his gaze running over her with calculation. “We got a few places, but they ain’t what I’d call suitable for most humans. Ya sure ya wanna see ’em?”
Daphanie thought about that for a moment. Did she really want to follow something that looked like a miniature devil, a creature she’d met only ten minutes before, into parts of the city she might not know all that well? Did she want to take that chance?
Part of her held back, wary, which only made sense. She wasn’t stupid, after all, and she had a healthy sense of self-preservation; but another part of her whispered that this was an opportunity. An opportunity afforded her by fate, the same way all the other major opportunities in her life had presented themselves to her—the scholarship to the New School, the first chance to go to Paris, the offer to travel into China, the fellowship in San Francisco, even the little studio in New Hope where she’d settled last. The best things in her life had all come to Daphanie out of the blue, and it had been up to her to grab on and run with them.
All her life, Daphanie had had a streak of insatiable curiosity. She’d always wanted to know how everything worked, especially people. She craved answers like a drug, and now that she’d encountered the biggest question mark of her life in the form of her newfound knowledge of the Others, her curiosity was threatening to drive her crazy. She needed to know more, and who better to learn it from than an insider? She couldn’t imagine anyone more inside the world of the Others than a—a—a—
She frowned at the small red monster. “What exactly are you, anyway?”
Quigley rolled his eyes. “Oh, nice. Nice manners, human. I happen to be an imp. A greater imp,” he emphasized, glaring at her. “And you wanna watch it with questions like that. Not everyone will take kindly to that sort of thing. I mean, how rude is it to ask something like that?”
“I don’t know.” Daphanie shrugged. “I don’t know anything about the Others, which is the reason I’m actually considering letting you distract me from talking to my sister about you. I don’t know what kinds of Others there are, or what they look like or act like. I don’t know how to talk to them. I don’t know how not to make them want to eat me. Nothing. You might say I’m totally ignorant about them.”
“You can say that again,” he muttered.
“So, maybe this is the opportunity for me to learn the basics,” Daphanie mused aloud. “If you show me where they gather and how to react to them, it would go a long way toward helping me understand Niecie and Mac…”
“Are ya asking for my opinion? Because if ya are, I gotta say that so far yer charm ain’t gonna take ya real far with the kinda folks I know. Most of ’em don’t take kindly to rude, ignorant humans pokin’ noses into their business.”
She glanced down at him. “But while I’m with you, you can let me know if I do or say something wrong. You know, keep an eye on me.”
The imp’s eyes widened. “Look, Daphne—”
“Daphanie,” she corrected. “Like Stephanie, only not. But you can just call me Daph.”
“Daph,” he ech
oed. “I ain’t some kinda Emily Post. I offered to take ya to a club or two, not turn you into a human-Other ambassador. That ain’t my shtick.”
“Then what is your shtick? Hanging out under tables at wedding receptions and hoping no one will notice you siphoning off their root beer? Don’t take this the wrong way but that strikes me as a touch … I don’t know … pathetic.”
Quigley glowered. “You callin’ me pathetic?”
Daphanie shrugged.
“All right, fine.” The imp threw up his hands. “Ya wanna learn all about the Others? We can do that. But ya better brace yerself, and ya better keep yer eye on me, because where we’re goin’, yer sister ain’t gonna be able to come to yer rescue.”
“Am I going to need rescuing?”
Quigley sized her up with a jaundiced eye. “Let’s just say that outfit ain’t gonna help ya blend in.”
“Well, I was planning to change,” she scoffed. “I love my sister, but this is still a bridesmaid’s dress. It’s not like I plan to wear it outside of this room. I’ve got jeans and stuff stashed upstairs. I can be ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
The imp scowled and snatched up the tablecloth on the side closest to the wall. “Make it ten,” he barked as he ducked out from their little sanctuary. “That way you might catch me before I change my mind.”
Daphanie pushed to her knees and made to follow the grouchy red creature. “Are you saying you’d leave without me?”
Quigley laughed. “Leave without ya? And not take ya out on the Other town? Lady, I don’t owe ya that kinda favor.”
As Daphanie pushed through the service door at the rear of the room, slipping out of the party undetected, she wondered exactly what that was supposed to mean. A club was a club, after all, and she’d been to hundreds in her life. How different could this one really be?
Two
Most of the Others are really just like you and me—they have jobs and friends and families. They live, they work, and they play. They’re no more dangerous as a group than humans are.
Of course, you also have to remember that Ted Bundy and Jack the Ripper were both humans.
No, really. They were. I promise.
—A Human Handbook to the Others, Chapter One
With his back to the wall of the crowded club, Asher Grayson enjoyed the security of knowing that no one among the throng of revelers could sneak up behind him and attempt to take revenge for whatever plot he’d foiled or friend/relative/acquaintance/partner-in-crime he’d seen brought to justice recently. The thought offered him a small amount of comfort. The position also, however, severely limited his escape routes, since in order to leave he would have to move away from the wall and through the crowd to reach the nearest exit.
Life was about nothing if not compromise.
Luckily, Asher didn’t feel ready to leave. Not quite yet. He could see the need building—crowds, after all, did not constitute his favored environment—but he still had half a glass of gnomish beer to finish and the night was young. By midnight, Lurk would begin to fill with its regular contingent of shifters and shifty characters, and by 2 A.M. would be bursting at the seams. If the nightclub held true to form as one of the most active and least restrictive of Manhattan’s Other nightspots, before dawn it would play host to at least one magical altercation, three Lupine and/or Feline wrestling matches, and at least a handful of chairs broken by drunken imps or demons.
Asher intended to be long gone by the time any of that happened, but for now he just wanted to finish his drink in peace. He deserved it.
He also deserved a vacation after three straight assignments, all of which had taken him out of the city and kept him out for more than a year, and not one of them a stroll through the rosebushes. Unless, of course, he wanted to count the thorns they’d left in his ass. Between the man who’d unknowingly made a binding contract with a fiend known to traffic in mortal souls, and the scouting troop that had managed to plan its annual jamboree in a national park in the middle of the territory of Eastern Canada’s largest Lupine pack—during the decennial wild hunt week—Asher couldn’t recall taking a day off since, oh … birth. Five hundred and forty-three years ago. And that wasn’t even counting the customers of the brothel on the Mexican border that was owned, operated, and staffed entirely by succubi. It had been a busy couple of months to be a Guardian.
Frankly, if Asher never saw another human in supernatural distress, it would be too soon. The weight of his wings was starting to give him a bad back. He could stand to put them away for a week or two. Or twelve.
In fact, after he finished his drink, he might take a little detour on his way home. Maybe if he went straight to the Watcher, he could finagle a few days of R & R before his next assignment. If he told the big man he was on the verge of losing his damned mind without a couple of vacation days, the creepy bastard might cut him some slack. After all, it would be the truth, clear and unvarnished.
Asher took another swig from his mug and swept his gaze around the room. Although the tinted windows kept out the sun during even the brightest part of the day, he could see from the level of shadows that the sun had set while he’d nursed his first beer. By the time he finished the one in front of him—his third—it would be past time to make his exit.
A quick glance at his wrist confirmed that it was now well after ten o’clock. Of course, his survey of the crowd told him pretty much the same thing. Although the club wouldn’t really do the bulk of its nightly business until after midnight, many among the more mortal of the Others had already found their way inside. Asher could easily identify half a coven of witches, three half-giants, assorted varieties of changelings, and several brownies, dwarves, trolls, gnomes, and other demihumans all unwinding in the immediate vicinity. Before long, the shifters would begin to drift in, followed by the vampires and then the demons and the fiends. He wanted to be well away before that point. Too much potential for trouble to crop up, and he was decidedly off duty. Tonight it could be someone else’s turn to clean up the inevitable messes.
That was precisely the thought in his head when he saw her walk in the door. It was followed closely by a resounding chorus of Oh, shit.
Of all the gin joints in all the world …
Asher knew in an instant that the woman spelled trouble. How could she help it? She was undoubtedly human, she was undoubtedly out of place, and she was undoubtedly accompanied by a greater imp who looked more than vaguely familiar to the overworked Guardian.
Damn, there went his vacation.
The woman walked into the club with the excited air and wide eyes of a first-time tourist in Times Square. Her head turned constantly as she struggled to take in her surroundings, devouring the experience in huge, ravenous gulps. And frankly, even a sip would have a more worldly soul than her good and drunk. To humans, the world of the Others could prove as intoxicating as Appalachian moonshine, and very few of them seemed to understand how to hold their liquor. It went to their heads, and inevitably something bad happened.
The kind of thing Asher’s long-standing oaths left him duty-bound to deal with.
Wasn’t that just a kick in the pants?
His grip tightened around his drink as he watched the incongruous pair weave their way through the crowd toward the end of the room where he sat. They made quite a picture together, the short, red imp only visible when they moved between tables—since his head barely cleared them—or when the crowd shifted to show glimpses of his denim and Mohawk between some club patron’s legs. The woman’s movements were a lot easier to follow, partly because she stood at least three feet taller than the imp and partly because she had the sort of look that caught the eye.
Okay, that caught a man’s eye.
Dressed in a perfectly ordinary pair of jeans and some sort of thin-strapped top that shimmied and shimmered when she moved, the woman still managed to stand out from the other club-goers. She even managed to stand out from the Other club-goers, including the ones designed by nature to catch the e
ye.
First of all, her humanity practically glowed. It was part of what made a Guardian, to be able to identify an individual’s species—especially when it came to humans—instantly, even surrounded by crowds of Others denser than this one. You had to be able to recognize a member of a species before you could expect to protect it, right? But this woman didn’t just look human; she radiated humanity, like light, from her pores. He could only hope no one else noticed the aura, since to a certain breed of Others it would speak not just of innocence and ignorance, but of vulnerability. Asher didn’t have trouble at all picturing a fiend eager to feast on all that vibrant energy, or a vamp unable to resist the urge to sink hard fangs into the long, elegant curve of her neck—
He caught himself on the edge of doing a little drooling of his own. Not that it wouldn’t make sense. He was, after all, a man, as well as a Guardian, and the human still moving toward him was a very attractive woman. He could (at least pretend to) view that objectively. He swept a long glance over her, impassively taking in everything from the bronze-polished toenails peeping out from the ends of her strappy, sexy sandals, to the dusky skin and surprisingly toned muscles revealed by her flirty top, to the exotic tilt of her eyes and the thick fall of jet-black hair that tumbled from a high, tight ponytail. She was stunning, both sleek and curved, lush and slender, with her aura of energy and humanity simply adding to the magnetic pull he felt.
That had to be the explanation. She was just a gorgeous woman. He couldn’t help but react to her, especially when he tried to remember the last time he’d managed a date, he assured himself. It was perfectly natural.
What wasn’t natural, however, was seeing her here, mingling with the rowdy and inhuman crowd at Lurk on a Saturday night as the clock wound down toward the witching hour. The woman was out of her element, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d find that out soon. Probably the hard way.
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