by Minda Webber
Beverly flashed a very toothy smile at the human male, then looked the painting over. She loved competition, though she viewed no mortal as much of a serious challenge. She said, "I see this painting is done by Salvador. From his earliest period."
"I was just telling Lucy its very sexual implications. Such passion in the work. Look at the brushstrokes! Such primal desire. Such a forceful presence is the man. And the woman's face is remarkable—a true study in sex-slave ecstasy," Desmond explained with his slight hauteur.
Such a big purple prick, Lucy thought sardonically. Looking at the painting, her date and her ex-lover, she amended: pricks.
"Lucy didn't seem to properly appreciate the painting," Desmond remarked. "But with her beautiful face and body to match, I can tolerate that she's not knowledgeable about the art world. A man can't have everything, you know."
Wanting to slam his nose into the painting, Lucy instead remarked through clenched teeth, "Why, thank you, Desmond."
Val's mouth twitched, hiding a smile. He knew Lucy hated condescension. In spite of the pair holding hands at the moment, Desmond wouldn't be holding anything more tonight; Val was certain of that fact. Unable to resist stirring the pot a little, he asked, "What did you think of the painting, Lucy?"
She retorted flippantly, giving Desmond a long dark look and Val a hard glare. "It looks like a painting of a dead fish on a table to me, and a big prick." Take that, you faithless fang-face, she added hatefully. She knew her thoughts were rude, but she had had her fill of Desmond's condescension and Val's cool demeanor.
Val stopped the grin from coming to his face, wondering just which of them was the big prick Lucy had mentioned. Did she mean the painting? Or… She was glaring at both him and the human. He stirred the pot a little more by saying in a patronizing tone, "A prejudiced viewpoint never advanced the science of art."
Desmond, who was clearly embarrassed by her comment, nodded his head. "Lucy! You don't understand the painting or its theme of significant sexual bondage."
Val's date added her two cents, too, in a very superior manner. "It's a Salvador. Everyone just loves Salvador. Why, I have three of his prints. You must look beyond the obvious. But then, mortals are so often limited in their scope." Turning to Val, she shrugged sexy shoulders. "But what can you expect from the great unwashed."
"Excuse me?" Lucy asked, swelling with ire. "I may be a mortal, but I bathe daily and at least I don't go rolling in mudpiles at the cemetery like you dirt nappers. I don't make love in nasty old coffins, and I'm smart enough to know a dead fish is a dead fish. I like what I like, and I dislike pretentious people who run around spouting off popular mumbo jumbo about nothing."
Val watched with amusement. Lucy could do that better than anybody: go from irritated to full-out enraged in less than sixty seconds. He so enjoyed her pale blue eyes when they lit with that inner fire—whether passion or anger. And it appeared that four years had done little to dim her inner fire. It was such a waste, since she was untrustworthy and disloyal, a fickle female and a death-dealer to hearts, like that Buffy character or two.
"Stupid human. Just because you can't understand the otherworldly is no reason to disdain it," Beverly snapped, her cool demeanor vanished.
Lucy didn't care that she was creating a scene or enraging the full-blooded vampiress. She continued, "Otherwordly? This painting has nothing to do with the paranormal. It only makes me feel glad I didn't have swordfish for supper."
Desmond dropped her hand and took several steps away, frowning in disapproval.
Val's date sneered. "You know nothing about art or the paranormal! Who do you think you are, you insignificant piece of human offal, to ridicule my tastes? What utter rubbish. What conceit. I've lived centuries!"
Hiding the urge to laugh out loud when Beverly got on her high horse, Val decided to defuse the situation. He didn't want mortal and vampire to come to blows even if it would be amusing. "Settle down, cherie. Lucy does know a little about the supernatural. She's the host of the Twilight Zone talk show."
Lucy fell off her high horse, crashing to the figurative ground with a loud thump. Why did Val have to bring up what she did for a living? The vampiress's anger slipped away, and she actually giggled.
"C'est vrai?"
"Mais oui—it's true," Val replied.
The vampiress giggled again. "So that's why you look familiar. I've seen your show by accident once or twice. I couldn't believe it. I caught the tail end of the one about 'Men Who are Genies and the Women Who Rub Them.' I had tears in my eyes by the time that genie appeared in all his pinkish smoke. You were coughing, and your face had black tracks where your mascara had run. It was just so… camp."
Lucy's lips tightened. "I happened to have an allergic reaction to the smoke coming out of the genie's bottle, although I didn't know it at the time."
"Your face swelled up and you croaked like a frog!" the vampiress recalled, chortling gleefully.
"Too bad I didn't fall down and crack my head open. You could have really gotten a real thrill then. All that tasty blood," Lucy retorted.
"Fall down and crack your head?" Val asked. He couldn't resist. "But, didn't you do just that on the show where you had to chase those gremlins about?" Lucy glared at him, letting him know that he was definitely the big prick she'd been talking about earlier. Nobody wore a clearer "I'd like to kick you in the balls" expression.
Glaring at Val, Lucy recalled only too clearly how she'd had to go and get stitches after the gremlins fiasco. It had been her Easter show, and she had thought gremlins would be cuter than bunnies. Their cages had been decorated like Easter baskets, but the scheming little devils had made short work of those, chewing through the bars and snapping at her audience's pant legs. Recalling the whole sordid event, Lucy recognized that she probably hadn't thought the whole basket-cage thing through well enough.
"Yes. I ended up with six stitches," she admitted.
Suddenly realizing that the wily detective had made a deadly slip, she stopped glaring, a slight smile forming on her lips. "I didn't know you watched my show."
Val replied smoothly, inwardly kicking himself for admitting as much to the untrustworthy female. "Only when I'm in the mood for some good lighthearted comedy, Lucy." He would never admit that he watched her show whenever he got the chance, and that, when he didn't, he actually taped it.
"I live to entertain," Lucy replied. "By the way, I'm thinking of doing a show called 'Supernatural Cheaters.' You'd be perfect for it."
Val glared at her. "Not my style."
"If the show fits…"
"Fits? There is one thing certain in this life, cherie—the only way I'd do that sorry-ass show is over my dead body."
"Stake, anyone?" Lucy quipped.
Val's lips lifted in a sneer, and he went on the offensive. "I've often wondered. Did you catch all those little gremlins—especially the one that took a bite out of your finger?" he asked, his expression wicked.
Lucy shook her head, her face red with anger. "You know, some men don't have any moral compass," she said. Glaring first at Val and then at Desmond, she retorted savagely, "Speaking of fingers," and then she shot Val one as she left. The two vampires and her date were given a view of her quickly retreating form.
She departed in graceful elegance, though inside her raged a storm of emotion. Unfortunately, while patting herself on the back for getting the last word and finger in on Val, she wasn't watching where she was going, and as she pushed her way through the crowd, she suddenly knocked into something.
Falling, Lucy at first thought that she had knocked over a life-sized statue of a gargoyle, tumbling them both to the floor. She hoped the statue didn't break. How could she ever cover the cost on her peanuts salary? But at the enraged shriek, much to her embarrassment, she realized the statue wasn't a statue but a real-life gargoyle in the flesh. How humiliating!
The gargoyle cursed her roundly, and in the background Lucy could hear Val's laughter stinging her very soul. It remin
ded her of another of her mother's quaint little sayings:
"He who laughs last is usually the biggest ass."
She couldn't agree more.
Chapter Four
The Ex-Girlfriend's Grudge
The weekend for Lucy was long and boring after her disastrous date and run-in with Val and his nonhuman paramour. With fate conspiring against her, Lucy gave up men for Ben & Jerry. She ate two gallons of their delicious product not to mention two bags of dill potato chips and a whole pizza—and probably gained three pounds, she grumbled as she walked into her dressing room at WPBS on Monday morning. She had an hour to go before her show.
"Hey," Ricki called out, glancing up from the makeup case she was cleaning. Ricki was the Twilight Zone hairstylist and makeup artist. Her dedication to makeup was legendary around the studio, second only to the legend of her love life. Ricki had never met a man she didn't like. Of course, she only got involved with those males who were both intelligent and wealthy, so Lucy supposed she did okay.
"You look worried." Ricki's words were a question. "Is it the witchy-warlock show?"
No, it wasn't the show but her lack of a love life. Lucy shook her head, taking a seat in the makeup chair. Well, today's topic did make her a tad nervous. It was "Lei-line Warlock Magic vs. Wand-conjuring Witches," which made her role as host a bit tricky.
The two wizarding groups were very competitive, and each coven believed its magic was the best. Of course, the supernatural world was a very competitive one, filled as it was with predators, huge egos, and all manner of creatures.
Yes, she'd noticed, every supernatural group, pack, nest, or coven felt that it was head and shoulders above the others. Even though it was more than obvious that vampires stood five to six heads taller than goblins, talk to a goblin and that goblin would say it was tops, the highest creature on the old paranormal totem pole. Talk to a Lei-line warlock, and he would boast that his magic wand was bigger any day of the week—and especially at night.
Lucy had been surprised to find that the two magical covens were doing her show together, since animosity had always run rampant between the two groups, not to mention bitter spells and black clouds. Getting the two covens together was going to end in magic muttering, spellbinding mumbo jumbo—i.e., just the kind of stuff those television bigwig rating-cravers yearned for, like her boss Mr. Moody.
"You have purple bags under your eyes," Ricki remarked, dabbing white concealer beneath Lucy's eyes. "You need to get more sleep."
Right, Lucy thought. How could a person sleep when she was all tied up in knots like a really twisty pretzel? It had been three nights since she encountered Val at the gallery opening, and four years since she had slept with him. But her body felt as if it were only yesterday, and she was reliving with intensity the devastating passion the vampire had once brought to her life.
Yes, Val had once filled her life with such joy that every day was like Christmas, and their lovemaking had set off fireworks that eclipsed the Fourth of July. He had intrigued and enthralled her with his wit and wisdom. He had known more about history than any class she had ever taken, and knew more about detective work than Columbo and CSI put together.
Until Val, Lucy had always carefully guarded her heart; she had kept her feet on the ground. Letting herself go, she had ended up with her head in the clouds. And then, after loving Val, one dark rainy night, her world came crashing down. The bang had shattered Lucy's heart into so many pieces, she didn't think she could ever put it back together again.
That night, after finding Val, she had flown back to San Antonio, where it became crystal clear that she needed to go farther, home to the range. So, grabbing her keys and cash from the table in the hall, she'd driven straight through the black rainy night, even though she was haggard and hurting, trying hard not to fall asleep at the wheel. The old house where her mother lived was outside of Hawley, and a six-hour drive from River Walk City.
She had cried the whole way, raindrops on the windshield keeping pace with the tracks of her tears. Until that time, Lucy hadn't known a person had so much water in her body. Arriving home, she had been both waterlogged and dehydrated, and was longing for her mom's arms and the familiarity of home.
Half listening to Ricki's prattling now, as Ricki applied blush to her cheeks, Lucy knew that she had been in the forever-kind-of-love with Val. It hadn't mattered about their cultural differences, like she was alive and he was undead. She had ignored the fact that he drank blood and she drank Cokes, that he had nice straight fangs and she'd had braces. She had overlooked the fact that he was from Old World France and thrilled to the dark paths of the night with all its vibrating pulse, and she was the original sunshine girl from West Texas.
And she should have been prepared for the deceiving Damphyr's betrayal. She had been through the unfaithful bit before; her mother had been divorced twice, both times the result of her husband's unfaithfulness. Lucy's father was now married to a third wife, younger than Lucy by two years.
And yet, Val's infidelity and loss had left her disconsolate. She couldn't eat or sleep, feeling as if part of her was dying. Inside she had been so very cold and so very empty, except for the hurt that never quite dimmed.
Some redemption had come in the form of her mother's devastating car wreck, and in the frequent surgeries afterward. Lucy hadn't had time to cry over spilt milk—or blood as the case might be—and had no time to feel sorry for herself. Her mother came first, and Lucy had bravely and determinedly gotten over her debilitating depression and finally found work.
And if it wasn't the work she had once hoped for, at least her work paid fairly well and kept her dauntless curiosity and creativity well used. Her work on the talk show had helped her to cope with the loss of the one true love of her life, and her mother's recovery had helped her find her smile again.
To be honest, when Lucy had first received the offer to come to work here in New Orleans, she had secretly been hoping to run into Val again. A tiny part of her had hoped that just maybe he would beg her forgiveness, that he would tell her how much he had missed her in his life. In fact, when she'd first moved to New Orleans, Lucy had indulged in this little fantasy quite often. Sometimes she would imagine that she would laugh in Val's face for betraying her with that overstacked, overfanged, and under-dressed vampiress. She would then order Val out of her house, his face shocked and sad, hers filled with the joy of gleeful revenge.
A few times her daydreams had gotten her and Val back together again. Well, to be honest, Lucy had mused on such a fate more than a few times, but her secret hopes and daydreams had been dashed. Even though she knew Val was aware of her presence in town, she had only seen him once—on a date at a jazz bar. He hadn't even noticed her; nor had he called since she'd arrived. Apparently, she was forgettable. And that was unforgivable, because Valmont DuPonte was anything but.
"Earth to Lucy," Ricki called. "Bags, Lucy girl, bags under the eyes! Not a good look unless you're a ghoul or a ghost. Now, why aren't you sleeping?"
Valmont DuPonte, Lucy thought angrily—the Don Juan of the dead. Once a vampire was in your blood, he was in your blood for good, like some damn parasite.
"I don't know," she lied at last.
Never again would she tell others about Val's betrayal and her broken heart. In Texas, everyone who had known Lucy knew about Val's infidelity and Lucy's love for the coffin-hopping, vampire-bopping creep. They could have written books. But no one in New Orleans even knew she had a history with this, the sexiest detective on the city's Paranormal Task Force. Which was perfect.
"I guess I've been working too hard. I've been too wound up after work to sleep."
"What you need is some good, hot, old-fashioned sex," Ricki advised.
"That's your suggestion for everything," Lucy replied, a smile on her face. Sex with Val had always almost burned up the sheets. Once he had filled her room with dark golden roses, calling her his Yellow Rose of Texas. It had been lovely.
"If it works, why
knock it? Besides, whatever gets you through the night," the hairstylist commented, beginning to fluff Lucy's hair. "Hey, last night on the phone I forgot to ask about your date Friday. How'd it go?"
"He was a first-class troll."
Ricki stepped back, her mouth gaping open. "You're kidding, right? I thought you went out with Desmond Tribideaux. Instead you dated a troll? That's so gross. I wouldn't let one of those touch me with a ten-foot pole." Then, thinking about her remark, she added thoughtfully, "Although, I bet trolls might have ten-inch poles. Or larger. Hmm?"
Lucy arched her brows, giving Ricki a look of amused disgust. "Not a real-live troll. Just Desmond, who was being a first-class jerk with sex on the brain—sex in chains. Everything with him was sex and bondage, and he couldn't have cared less what I thought or what I want in life. Just what he wanted, and that was—"
"Some S & M big time, huh?" Ricki broke in.
"You got it," Lucy agreed, shaking her head. "He was almost worse than my last dinner date."
Ricki cocked her head and studied the effect of her work on Lucy's hair. "Yeah? The tax accountant?"
Lucy nodded. "I had one dinner date with the man and he was all over me. I tried to talk him out of walking me to my door, but he was adamant. Then, at the door, when he finally got it through that thick skull of his that I wasn't going to invite him in, he got all indignant and angry."
Ricki looked worried. "You didn't tell me about this."
"I was a little embarrassed at the time."
"What'd the guy do? He didn't give you any trouble that you couldn't handle, did he?" The concern in her voice was evident. Sex in today's modern world had been dangerous before paranormal predators were mixed into the lot; now sex was an impossible competition between human males and predatory paranormals. A female of any kind had to be extra, extra careful.