“Not even a little?”
With my lips still burning from my recent vamp teasing I said earnestly, “Not even.”
“Jaz, look.” Cole pointed to Chien-Lung’s yacht as we pulled up beside her. Big black letters spelled out the name “Constance Malloy.” “I didn’t expect that, did you?”
“Hmm. A Chinese vampire on an Irish yacht. Nope, I wouldn’t have thought it.”
Vayl maneuvered us to the back of the yacht, which opened nearly at the water’s level. Cole tied us on and the three of us unloaded right there on the mini deck. Straight through a set of glass doors we saw metal tables and benches, the crew’s mess, no doubt. It looked about as comfortable as the cafeteria at St. Mary’s Medical Center in Cleveland. At least it had a view.
Two ladders on either side of the doors led up to the main deck. I was just considering the wisdom of running up one and taking a peek when I caught a scent that made me wrinkle my nose.
“Company coming,” I whispered as I took the last cooler from Vayl.
Moments later a Hollywood-thin Asian vamp wearing a purple suit, ruffled white shirt, and shiny black shoes emerged from the glass doors as if walking onstage. Cassandra, Bergman, Cole, and I exchanged glances. Were we supposed to applaud?
“You are late,” he fussed, running his pinky across his forehead, where his thin black hair traversed it on its way to the opposite ear. He spoke to Cole, which pissed me off. Why is it that the jerks always assume the good-looking guy is in charge?
“Sorry about that,” I told him. I stuck out my hand, which meant I released the handle of the cooler. As expected, he caught it instantly, but he was not happy to be touching the menial’s equipment. I shook his limp fist hard enough to make him wince. And he could’ve broken my back without breaking a sweat. Theoretically at least.
I went on. “The oven caught fire while we were baking the cheese puffs and it took us forever to put it out. You know how cheese likes to burn.” I smiled, letting go of the other handle to adjust my bandana. Oops! Now he held the entire cooler. He put it down and wiped his hands on his violet slacks.
He looked down his nose at me, not an easy feat considering I had him by a good five inches. “I know nothing about cheese,” he said. As I began to speak again he held up a hand. “Moreover, I wish to know nothing about cheese.”
Moreover? Who says that? “What a lovely outfit,” I said, pouring every ounce of sarcasm I could muster into the statement. “Where did you find such a stellar suit?”
He totally missed my undercurrent as he began to preen. “Oh, this old rag? I just picked it up at a little men’s store called Frierman’s. The tailor there is a genius. But then, you don’t look as if you could afford his wares.”
Okay, this guy is obviously color blind and a social leper. I may have to kill him now. “If you would just point us to the kitchen?”
“You mean the galley?” he asked with a superior little sniff.
Cassandra slid in front of me before I could act on my brilliant plan to tie an anchor around the twit’s neck and toss him overboard. She shoved a box in his hands and picked up the cooler. “If you would be so kind,” she said.
He swished toward the doors, followed by my crew, with me lagging behind. Vayl cleared his throat. I glanced over my shoulder. He made three short gestures that clearly meant Get in. Get out. Don’t screw up. I made a gesture of my own that was also quite clear. Unfortunately he took me literally and I think I left him in a state of rising excitement.
The twit led us through the doors into the crew’s mess. Beyond the tables a stainless-steel counter separated the dining area from the galley. “What a lovely kitchen,” I said as the twit scowled at me and Cassandra hid a smile. I opened the fridge, checked out the cabinets. “Very . . . organized.”
The twit set his box down on the counter. “Chien-Lung is quite particular about cleanliness,” he told me sternly. “Please see that you straighten up after yourselves before you leave.”
“Why certainly. We are here but to serve.” I gave him a bow with just enough angle on it to let him know if he ever hit the Midwest, nine of ten farmers would agree he had a cob up his ass. He sniffed and tossed his head, perhaps wishing he had long curls that would allow him to emphasize the huffy. He left through a large arched doorway at the other end of the galley. Having studied the plans of this particular vessel before we left, I knew he was taking a twisting ramp up to the main deck.
Together we unloaded the goodies. Vamps may not require delicious layouts of shrimp cocktail, bite-sized crackers topped with funky green veggies, and gallons of margaritas to survive, but they sure do relish them. (Hah! Pun intended!) By the time we finished, the galley resembled a behind-the-scenes Food Network show. I half expected an abnormally thin TV chef to step out of the broom closet and start breaking down the recipe for the mini kebobs.
“I’m starving,” Cole said, his hands full of small square brownies. “And since there’s no room on the tray for these . . .” He popped them all into his mouth.
“Cole!” Cassandra smacked him on the shoulder.
“Wha—?” When he opened his mouth all you could see was half-chewed goo.
“How old are you?” I demanded. I threw a shrimp at him and it got stuck in his tangle of wig hair. Bergman fished it out, wiped it off, and put it back on the serving dish.
“Now, that is disgusting,” said Cassandra.
“Children!” Vayl’s voice boomed in our ears, loud and sudden enough to make us all jump guiltily. “I trust you are performing actual work right now.”
“Chill out, Vayl,” I replied. “Bergman is just conducting an experiment to see how vampires respond to ingesting brown hair dye.”
“That makes me curious, Vayl,” said Cole in a sticky, goodie-between-the-gums voice that reminded me of Winnie the Pooh after a major honey binge. “Have you ever colored your hair? You know blonds have more fun.”
“Not when they are in the hospital.”
Cole suddenly struck a pose that bore a remarkable resemblance to the twit. “What a meanie bo-beanie. God.”
We all spent the next three minutes swallowing huge peals of laughter, and when one did escape, disguising it as a cough. Before we were done our eyes were streaming and we were hacking like a bunch of cigarette hounds. Some people play video games when they stress. Some people kick their dogs, beat their spouses, have heart attacks. I laugh. Usually at exactly the wrong moment. Apparently my crew had caught the bug. But it worked. It was, in fact, just what we needed to help us relax into our assigned roles.
Having consulted Yetta’s map and figured out where to situate all the goodies, we grabbed the boxes marked “table coverings,” threw the booze, a few trays, and the tableware on a cart, and hoofed it upstairs.
We emerged in a huge open space divided into a formal dining room at the back, an entertainment area complete with baby grand in the front quarter, and a conversation corner in which someone had arranged two overstuffed couches and six chairs around a fake fireplace. The decor combined gleaming maple with rich blues and just a touch of ivory. Uh-huh, fancy.
We headed toward a set of open glass doors that led to the main deck. Cole stopped at the serve-yourself bar just outside the doors to stock up and attach a couple of cameras. A built-in awning provided protection from the weather, but it stood at least ten feet above the deck, so no cameras there. Gold silk had been wound around the railing, which meant anything we attached there could be covered by the blowing material, discovered by whoever cleaned up in the morning, or butt rubbed right into the bay. Everything else was portable. Straight-backed chairs lined up to starboard, waiting-room style. To port, two bare and embarrassed-looking buffet tables waited for our touch.
“Time to explore,” I murmured. Cassandra nodded, and while she and Bergman began wind proofing the tablecloths I went back to the galley. Grabbing a tray full of dime-sized sandwiches, I headed through the arch once again. But instead of taking the ramp, I went down t
he adjoining hall. Passing several closed doors that led to crew quarters, I walked to the very end, where metal steps led me up two levels to the pilothouse.
What a sight. Recessed lighting combined with maple cabinetry and state-of-the-art navigational equipment to make the place resemble a cruise ship. At the very least I expected to find some bored young sailor babysitting a bank of inactive dials while the captain spent his evening on land. But the room practically echoed.
“Huh.” We’d seen no staff while we were in the galley and I’d encountered nobody while I was on their turf. Had Lung sent them all ashore?
Well, hey, if the wind was blowing my way, I sure wasn’t going to turn my head and spit. I planted a camera and took a different set of stairs to the guest level, where a long hall carpeted in blue Berber offered up all kinds of options in shiny arched doors with glowing gold latches. After knocking lightly on the first one to my right, I inched it open and looked inside. Empty. I left a camera near the porthole and moved across the hall. I’d just opened the door when Vayl said urgently, “Jaz, someone is coming.”
Crap! I slipped into the room, closed the door behind me, and scoped the place out. Bed against the wall wearing black sheets and matching pillows, topped by a red velvet throw. Black bedside table with built-in lamp. Mirrored closet to the left. I checked inside. Definitely no room for me unless I found another place for the shiny silk suits and neat lines of shoes. Look at all those loafers! The guy was definitely gay.
I reached for Grief, realized I held a tray full of party food in my shooting hand, and by then it was too late. I turned to face the door as it swung open and the twit walked in.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“We were told to bring a tray of sandwiches to this room,” I said, smiling politely as I switched it to my left hand.
“I did not order anything,” he snapped.
“Well, she definitely told us to bring it here.” I could see him mentally thumbing through the list of possible women to whom I could be referring. It must’ve been pretty short, because within seconds he was considering me with less irritation and more interest.
“Pengfei must know I like chicken salad with my brunettes.”
He moved toward me and I backed up, wishing for more room to maneuver. “Now, wait a minute,” I said, my heart beating so hard I was surprised my bra straps didn’t snap. “The caterers provide the food. We aren’t food ourselves.” I didn’t want to smoke the creep. It would so compromise the mission, and I’d done enough of that last time around.
I’d run out of floor space, so I stepped up onto the bed. The twit continued to stalk me, enjoying his abbreviated hunt, sure of the outcome.
“Listen,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. He’d take it as a signal to charge. Grief weighed heavy on my shoulder as I tried to talk him out of his own demise. “Chien-Lung’s your master, right? Surely he won’t be happy knowing you’ve eaten the caterer. After all, he’s here to entertain, not mop up.”
“Chien-Lung is no master of mine,” the twit snarled, wrinkling his lips as if he’d just bitten into something rotten.
“Pengfei then,” I said, latching on to the name he’d dropped earlier.
He drew himself up to his full height, threw his thin shoulders back. “Those two are barely fit to lick the soles of my sverhamin’s boots. It is a wonder to me that Edward even bothers with them sometimes. I have never met a more unbalanced pair.”
I did a quick expression check. Mouth shut? Eyes focused? Inner turmoil completely masked? I sure as hell hoped so, because given the circumstances, the twit could only be referring to Edward the ‘Raptor’ Samos. Samos must not have been able to attend to this affair directly, so he’d sent his avhar to take care of it in his place. Weird to have the avhar thing in common with Mr. Thin-and-Pasty. I’d assumed it was only a human thing. Apparently vamps could form that kind of bond too.
“If you’re planning on eating me, could you at least tell me your name?”
He appeared to consider my request. Finally he nodded. “My name is Shunyuan Fa.” He didn’t ask for mine in return. Which brought us right back to our cat-and-mouse game. I was just moving into the acceptance phase, where Grief would come into play and this whole job might explode in my face, when Vayl blew into the room. He slammed the door hard enough to make the bed shake. Both the twit and I froze, looking at him in shock.
“There you are!” he said, waving his hands expansively, reminding me of my uncle Barney, a man who does everything on the Big and Loud. “I am so sorry”—he bowed to Shunyuan Fa—“she is always flirting with clients when she should be overseeing operations.”
He turned to me. “There seems to have been some sort of accident with the shrimp and the punch. Miles insists he has just invented a new hors d’oeuvre, however the guests may not agree. Also the cheese puffs have exploded. And I cannot be certain, but I believe I saw Cole sneeze all over the bar glasses.”
The twit gave a horrified little scream that nearly made me laugh out loud. However, since my knees were still shaking from my close call with mission-screwed, I managed to maintain an air of calm as Vayl took my arm and escorted me out the door. I purposely turned the wrong way, managed to plant two cameras on two separate doorframes before Shunyuan Fa joined us in the hallway and set us on the correct path. We parted ways at the deck.
Vayl and I found the rest of our team in the galley. After some hurried conferring during which we all agreed our cameras had been planted, the buffet set up, and the empty coolers packed back on the boat, we decided to blow on outta that joint before our luck completely deserted us.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We made it back to shore without sinking, which, I decided, was the second-best thing that had happened to me that night. We lingered just long enough to tie the boat to the dock, although it might have been kinder to let it drift. Then the kids moved the party to the RV while the grown-ups stood side by side, surrounded by sailboats and speedboats and fishing boats. The moonlight reflected off the soft waves of the bay, combining with the gentle breeze to create an ideal atmosphere for conversation.
“Close call,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Sounds like Shunyuan Fa is linked to the Raptor.”
“I agree.”
“I wish you’d stop to take a breath once in a while. I can hardly get a word in edgewise.”
Tightening of the lips. Corner-of-the-eye look. At last he spoke. “You would tell me if I had offended you in some way, yes?”
“Of course.”
“You know I did not think you needed to be rescued just now. I just supposed it would be nice to leave Shunyuan Fa alive so that, perhaps, we could trace him back to Samos.”
“Yeah.”
“And, before”—he let out a huge breath—“when our lips touched—”
“I know you were just trying to teach me a lesson,” I rushed in, glad of the night so he couldn’t see me blush. It had been a very pleasurable lesson.
Weird the way his eyes narrowed slightly like that. Usually that only happened when he was hurt. “Of course.” He nodded. “Exactly. I am glad we have that settled then. Shall we go?”
“Okay.” Nothing had changed. The breeze still wafted across the bay. The moonlight still provided a lovely backdrop for a walk along the pier. But I shivered anyway. I glanced at Vayl. Why did I suddenly feel so cold?
As I stepped inside the RV, I said, “Good God, our mobile home has swallowed a Radio Shack!”
Bergman had wired a bank of electronic whatsits to our plasma TV, making it look like it had sprouted a blocky beard. The screen itself was divided into multiple quadrants, showing views of the common area and the deck of the Constance Malloy. We settled down to watch, Vayl and Cassandra on Mary-Kate, Cole and I on Ashley, with me pretending I didn’t mind a bit that my sverhamin had forsaken my company for the psychic’s.
No big deal. Stop feeling like the kid who gets picked last in PE class. In
these times I looked to my old friend and roommate for comfort. Bergman sent me a wry smile from his position at the banquette where he’d set up a couple of laptops, one of which I recognized as Agency equipment. He said, “I’ve fixed it so we’ll only see views from the party area cameras. The rest will record straight to the computer. We can review that footage later.”
“What’s that?” Cole pointed to a black box about half the size of a DVD player sitting on top of Ashley’s table. It was fronted by eight dials and a red button.
“Brains of the RV’s security system,” Bergman said, as he tapped at his keyboard and tried to keep his eyes on all the screens at once. “Since I couldn’t hardwire anything I had to get creative. We’ve got cameras in the Chinese lanterns we strung along the edge of the front and back awnings. The dials control them, and they’ll only activate when they detect movement, in which case the bedroom TV will automatically switch on and begin feeding us video. That way nobody can sneak up on us.”
Okay, that explained the thin black cord snaking from the black box all the way back to the bedroom. Another ran from the box up the wall and out a vent in the ceiling. I assumed it ended up outside where it connected to the cameras. Old Miles had been a busy little bee.
“Vayl said I couldn’t play with the door lock, but it’s a good one. Everybody just make sure you memorize the key code. I’ve set a welcome mat I just designed outside the front door. Any visitors we’re not happy about get a punch of the red button there on the side of the black box. The mat will deliver a jolt that’ll knock them flat.”
“Impressive,” said Vayl.
“Thanks.” Bergman shifted in his seat, darting a glance out the window at the padlocked trailer, which still held a couple of boxes full of equipment he thought he might need but didn’t want us to see. He was just one of those guys who’d much rather be working from an underground bunker somewhere deep in the heart of Montana. One with its own special vault just for him.
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