by Anthology
“Hmmmph. Tell Caleb to make you up some fish ‘n’ chips.”
“Thanks.”
He made a gruff noise in his throat, then reached for a bar rag and began polishing the brass. “Can’t have you passing out while we got customers needing food. And Gracie can’t handle this place alone. I think we pretty much answered that question in the negative this weekend. Had to call Trish in, and she weren’t none too happy.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about until I followed the direction of his gaze and landed on a ponytailed twenty-something in a white T-shirt with the Bloody Tongue logo silk-screened on the back. She was fumbling with the half apron she wore around her waist, trying unsuccessfully to count out change and make small talk at the same time. Gracie, I presumed. The unhappy Trish, however, was nowhere to be seen.
I conjured a smile. “So, I guess I should get to work.”
“I’d say so. What’s with your hair?”
“My hair?”
“You forget the rules? Get it back in a ponytail.”
“Oh. Right. Wasn’t thinking.” A tall blonde with pencil-thin legs and severely highlighted hair came in from the back holding a prep tray of lemons and oranges. Trish, I presumed. And her hair was in a high ponytail, the same as Gracie.
“So what are you standing around for? Get it done and get to work.”
“Right.” I hooked my thumb toward the kitchen. “I’ll just go find a rubber band.”
I was passing Trish on my way to the kitchen when a female yelp underscored by the clatter of breaking glass stopped us both. The sound came from a far corner of the bar, and I turned in time to see Gracie on her rear, shattered pints littering the floor around her.
But compared to the spectacle playing out above her, Gracie sprawled on her ass was hardly even worth commenting on. Because even as she picked herself up off the floor, the limp body of a huge man was hurtling through the air.
He collided with the wood-paneled wall with such force it shook the sconces, then slammed down, shattering a table beneath him.
“Goddammit!” shouted the bartender, rushing out from behind the bar.
I took a step forward, but Trish’s hand on my shoulder stopped me. I started to protest, then saw who she was looking at: a man, tall and dark, rippling with uncontrolled rage and thrumming with raw energy. He stood a good ten feet from the injured man, but there was no doubt, no question in my mind, that this mysterious man had tossed his victim like so much garbage that entire distance.
Now I watched, unable to draw my eyes away, as he clenched and unclenched his hands. He took one step forward, then stopped, the effort clearly costing him. At any other time, I imagined that his face was uniquely handsome—a strong jawline, a once-broken nose, and eyes that took in the world beneath a strong brow. Now that face was contorted, still lost to whatever dark urge had powered his victim ten feet through the air.
“I gotta check him,” I said, my EMT training kicking in. I hurried to my charge, purposefully avoiding eye contact with his attacker. I bent down, speaking softly as I gently probed his flesh, manipulating his limbs as I looked for breaks and fractures.
I heard movement behind me and turned long enough to see the mysterious attacker cross the pub in long, even strides. He met my gaze once, his eyes a brown so dark they looked black, with tiny flecks of gold that caught the light. Powerful eyes, and for a flash I saw recognition there, so intense it made my heart stutter. But it was stifled in an instant by the fury that boiled beneath the surface, so close to bursting I feared the explosion could well destroy the man.
Without warning, he lashed out, swiping two pints off a nearby table before stalking out the front door, leaving the pub so silent you could hear the beer seeping into the floorboards. The door slammed behind him, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.
I swallowed, my attention returning to the guy on the floor, my demand for a flashlight ringing out above the nervous titter of resumed conversation.
Trish appeared at my side, and I checked the battered man’s eyes.
“What are you doing?” Trish asked.
“Making sure his pupils are dilating evenly,” I said. “I, um, read about it in a first-aid book.”
“Yeah? No wonder you’re always acting like such a smart girl.”
I cut her a look, but she smiled sweetly. Apparently Alice and Trish weren’t exactly the best of buds.
We tried to help him up, but the man was clearly back to his old self, full of masculine self-sufficiency and gruff embarrassment. He pushed us away, then climbed to his feet, shooting a malevolent glance toward the front door, following the direction his attacker had taken.
“Go home, Leon,” Trish said. “Cool down. You don’t want to take him on when he’s like that, and you know it.”
The look Leon shot her was pure contempt, but he took the advice, stalking to the door and disappearing into the night.
I looked around for the bartender, then found him coming in from the back, pushing a mop and bucket. “Shouldn’t he have gone after that guy?” I asked Trish. “I mean, this is a lot of damage.”
She lifted a brow. “What planet are you on today? Like Egan would go after Deacon when he’s like that. Not damn likely.” She shrugged, then pulled out a handful of tips and started counting them, as if this were any old conversation between waitresses. “You may think he’s not too bad, but honestly, the guy scares the crap out of me.”
She headed off, and I stared after her before cutting my gaze over to where Deacon had disappeared.
If I’d been smart I’d be scared, too. But my brains must have taken a hiatus. Because right then, it wasn’t fear I felt. It was curiosity. And more than a little attraction.
CHAPTER SIX
After Leon left and the crowd dispersed, I cleaned up the broken glass, then continued on to the kitchen where the cook, Caleb, made me a basket of the best fried cod I’d ever tasted. The only thing missing was a pint of Guinness, but I seriously doubted that drinking on the job was copacetic, even though I’d probably do a better job waiting tables with a hint of a buzz. While I was eating, Gracie came in and graciously gave me an extra ponytail holder.
“Table four,” Egan the bartender said as I came in, full and ponytailed and ready to start my shift. While I’d been eating, he’d carted the splintered table off somewhere, and everyone in the pub had gone back to business as usual. Not me; I felt itchy and out of sorts, and my mind kept returning to that look in Deacon’s eye. It was Alice he was looking at, of course, but I couldn’t shake the sensation that he’d seen me—Lily.
“Get your head out of the clouds, girl,” Egan said, pushing a tray holding two pints a few inches down the bar toward me. “Get to work.”
I hurried to take the tray. A laminated sheet with a handwritten layout of the tables hung behind the bar, and I used it to get my bearings. Table four was in the back, opposite the corner where the now-smashed table had been earlier. I headed that way, walking carefully so I wouldn’t spill the lager, my head full of questions, most of them about Deacon. Who was he, this man from whom rage had burst like a volcano? Trish had said that Alice didn’t think he was “too bad,” an assessment that made no sense whatsoever. Either Alice had a seriously screwed-up view of life—a theory I was willing to get behind, considering her apartment vomited pink—or I was missing the bigger picture.
Or perhaps Alice had been wrong about Deacon. Maybe he was so bad after all. And maybe it was her calm complacency around such a dangerous man that had ultimately cost Alice her life.
“You picked a bad day to piss off your uncle,” a biker dude at table four said, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Apparently,” I said, mentally connecting the dots and realizing that Egan the bartender was Alice’s uncle.
“Where did you go, anyway?” his companion asked, this one in jeans and a flannel work shirt, his eyes hidden behind aviator glasses. “After you pulled your disappearing stunt on Saturday, it too
k forever to get my bangers and mash.”
“Oh. Um. Sorry.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, don’t apologize. I’ll just take it out in your tip.”
“I—”
He barked out a laugh. “Gotcha.”
“Lighten up, Alice,” Biker Dude said to me. “You’re walking on fucking eggshells.”
“Headache,” I said with a shrug. “More like a migraine.”
I turned away, not sure I could take another round with those two, and returned my attention to more important things. Being Alice. Sliding into her life. And, hopefully, reaping some clue as to what had happened to her.
That hope was countered by the more mundane tasks of my new life. Things like learning how to draw Guinness from a tap. Struggling to check the table-number chart without anyone catching me peeking. Even carrying on an innocent conversation with Gracie as we refilled saltshakers and balanced ketchup bottles precariously on top of one another.
All things that required my full concentration if I didn’t want to give myself away.
“So how come you didn’t call me back?” Gracie asked, after we’d finished with the saltshakers and had moved on to pepper. Previously, our chatter had centered on whether she should take Caleb up on his offer to make her an order of cheese fries. Now, apparently, we were getting to the meat of the issue, and I wasn’t sure whether I was dreading the conversation or desperately curious.
“When?”
“Forget it,” she said, standing and picking up a tray loaded with saltshakers.
“No, wait, I’m serious. My uncle told you I got sick, right? I’ve been a complete head case.”
The tray went back down.
She turned slowly as she scoped out the tables, looking to see if anyone needed a refill or a check. Apparently we were safe, because she slid back into the seat and pulled out her tip money, then started organizing it by bill. “Really?”
“Totally. I haven’t even checked my messages.”
“Oh. Well, okay, then. But I was bummed you didn’t call. We were supposed to go to the movies Sunday before work, remember?”
“Oh, man,” I said, trying for sufficiently contrite. “No wonder you’re pissed.”
“I’m not all that pissed,” she said, blue eyes looking up from under her bangs. “But I was worried. You’ve been so—you know—these last few days.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Well, distracted, for one. That’s what you called it, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, starting to load up another tray of completed shakers. “That about sums it up. I told you why, though, right?” I said it with a smile—a confidence between friends.
“Very funny.”
Apparently I hadn’t told her. “Sorry. I’m just teasing. But I should have said something. I mean, if you can’t share stuff with your friends—”
“Exactly.” She leaned in closer. “Do you wanna talk about it now?”
I waved off the question. “Nah. It’s no big deal. Guy trouble.”
“Noah?”
“Excuse me?”
“Him just picking up and heading to Los Angeles. I mean, what a prick.”
“Major prick,” I said, making a mental note to search Alice’s apartment for anything related to a Noah. Maybe he killed her and then fled the state.
“It’s been over a month, Alice. It’s kinda time to move on.”
“Right. I know. You’re right.” Cross Noah off my suspect list.
“Brian’s interested, you know. I can tell he wants to be more than just friends.”
“Yeah, well, you know,” I said, hoping I sounded noncommittal instead of absolutely freaking clueless. I had no idea who Brian was.
Gracie laughed. “Try not to look that uninterested around him, okay? You might hurt his feelings.”
“Sorry. It’s just—”
“You’ve got someone else in mind,” she said, sounding like a girl with a secret.
“I do?”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Lily. Do you really think Deacon Camphire’s gonna be interested?”
I sat up straighter, my eyes wide and hopefully innocent “What are you talking about?”
“Come on. I saw you talking to him last week.”
“So?”
“So?” she repeated, incredulous. “Don’t you think he’s kinda scary?”
“Like tonight, you mean.”
“Well, duh. I mean, Leon was being more of an A-hole than usual, but what Deacon did—I mean whoa.”
Her whoa pretty much summed up my reaction to the mysterious Mr. Camphire on all fronts. Not that the people I hung with were all that straight-arrow, squeaky clean. You start scrambling to pay the bills at the ripe old age of fourteen, and you either stick to your principles and stay broke, or you cut a few corners and meet some unsavory individuals. My corners were so cut I only owned circles.
I had a feeling that Miss Hello Kitty didn’t have to scrape the way I had, though. But before I had the chance to prod Gracie for any more info about Alice’s recent conversations with the enigmatic man, Egan’s booming voice interrupted. “You two gonna gossip all night? Or is someone gonna finish the side work and close out these checks?”
We both popped out of our seats like he’d sent an electric shock to our butts. Our eyes met, and we started laughing. Real laughs, as if the world were going to collapse around us, but we didn’t care because something was just too damn funny.
I hugged myself, trying to get control despite the fact that I didn’t want the moment to end. I felt alive right then. I felt as I had with Rose, before Lucas Johnson ruined everything. The way we’d bump hips in rhythm when she washed the dishes and I dried. The way we’d laughed. Rose was the reason I’d busted my tail—and stained my soul. To keep Rose safe and normal and protect her from the dark underworld I’d moved through while trying to keep us all alive. It had almost worked, too. Almost, however, isn’t worth shit. It won’t keep you alive, it won’t pay the bills, and it damn sure won’t get you into heaven.
“Alice?” Gracie asked, peering at my face.
Without thinking, I reached over and gave her a hug, needing human contact. She flung her arms around me exuberantly and hugged me back, and the intimacy—the connection—was so real it almost broke my heart. Because it wasn’t real at all. I hardly knew her, but I’d latched onto the first light of humanity I’d found.
From behind the bar, Alice’s uncle glowered at us, until we had to either calm down or risk psychiatric evaluation. Gracie grabbed a tray and moved away, then turned as a new thought occurred to her. She came back, then leaned in so she was speaking directly into my ear. “I got a callback on that receptionist job. I’m nervous as hell—but thanks for setting it up.”
“Anytime,” I said, wondering why Alice would be shooing her friend away. Better money? Better career track? Or something else altogether?
I grabbed my own tray, the questions circulating in my head, and went back to work. The rest of the shift whizzed by like a final exam, the night passing quicker than the traditional turning of a clock’s hands. At one point, I grabbed one of the paper menus Egan kept by the door, then scribbled down the names of everybody I’d met that night. Later, I’d run through the list, making sure the names were burned in my brain. Alice’s homework.
The pub closed at nine on Mondays, and by the time Egan announced that I needed to cart the trash to the alley, my feet and calves ached, and I realized that I’d actually managed to learn quite a bit about Alice’s life. On top of that, I also hadn’t blown my cover. All in all, I considered the evening a success.
As I wrapped a twist tie around the top of a bag filled with greasy pub food remnants, Egan went to lock the front door. The pub had been expanded from the original tiny tavern, but the back section that snaked behind the public areas and ultimately opened to the alley was original construction. The kitchen, of course, had been thoroughly modernized, but as I passed through the door into the section the staf
f called the “Back,” I left stainless steel and bright lights for damp wood, ancient brick, and low-wattage lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling by thick insulated cords.
The dim light barely permeated the darkness, and I imagined monsters hiding in the shadowy corners, their cackles barely disguised by the creak and gurgle of ancient plumbing coming from the lower level.
I knew the set of stone stairs led down to a stockroom and a second walk-in refrigerator supplementing the one in the kitchen, and I was curious about what else was down there. Now, though, exploring wasn’t on my agenda. Instead, I followed the rough brick walls to where a steel fire door had replaced what must have once been a thick wooden entrance.
I pushed the exit bar with more force than necessary and escaped into the relative illumination provided by a few sputtering streetlights. The Dumpster was about twenty yards away, shared with all the tenants that opened onto this alley. I hefted my bag and moved toward it, holding my breath against the inevitable stench of garbage from a row of restaurants and bars.
The Dumpster lid was open, which I considered a blessing as I didn’t want to touch the nasty thing. I lifted the sack and tossed it in, surprised at how light it seemed. It landed with a satisfying thud, and I congratulated myself on a job well done.
I’d pulled my hair from the ponytail, and now it fell in my eyes. I brushed it back behind my ears, not used to this new length. That was when I saw him. The creature from my awakening. The Hell Beast I’d coldcocked instead of killed.
And damned if he wasn’t rushing right at me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I do not need another freaking test,” I screamed, a complaint that had absolutely no effect on the beast rumbling toward me. Much more effective was the kick I landed. Straight up, so that my heel collided with what I assumed was his sternum, resulting in a satisfying smack that sent the creature spinning backward.
Because the idea of hanging around to tangle with a Hell Beast wasn’t tops on my list, I made a dash for the back door to the pub, desperate to get out of there. Clarence might insist I was some hotshot assassin for evil, but at the moment, I really wasn’t feeling the love.