A Taste of the Nightlife

by Sarah Zettel

  And he’d just saved my life. I dropped the crate scrap and wiped my sweating, splintery hands on my pants.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Probably I didn’t communicate as much gratitude as I felt right then, because he rolled his eyes in something that looked a lot like exasperation. “I was following you.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could find out why you were going from hanging out with Anatole Sevarin to walking into a bite-easy.”

  “I—” I meant to say it was none of his business, but under the circumstances it kind of was. Before I could think of a new sentence to go after that initial syllable, the wail of sirens cut me off.

  “Cops!”

  The shout came from the roof maybe, or farther down the alley. It was impossible to tell. A second later, though, a flash of red and blue light out front was met by the sound of running feet around back.

  “It is time to leave,” announced Sevarin to Brendan and me.

  “I’m not running. I—”

  I didn’t get any further. Sevarin grabbed me by the waist and shoulders, tossed me across his back in a fireman’s carry, and took off running, right behind Brendan Maddox.

  The night had definitely gotten away from me.

  So as it turns out, being thrown over a pair of lean masculine shoulders and carried away bodily is nowhere near as sexy as one imagines.

  I couldn’t see where we were going. Walls rose up close and the air stank of garbage and grease. I felt Sevarin racing around corners and I hung on tight because, as much as I hate to admit it, I didn’t know what else to do.

  At last we emerged onto the open street. No sirens followed us. The traffic and a few pedestrians passed by with their usual indifference.

  I finally found my breath.

  “Put me down!” I punched Sevarin on the arm.

  “If you have the desire to beat on me for this rude abduction, I am prepared to accept my punishment.” I heard the grin in his voice.

  In response, I grabbed his ear and twisted, hard. His mouth opened, his knees buckled, and I slid to the ground out of his loosened grip.

  A word to the wise: do not mess with an experienced older sister.

  “You really should have known that was coming,” remarked Brendan as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a PowerBar.

  “I expect you are correct.” Sevarin straightened. “Next time I will be prepared.”

  “How have you survived for centuries at this level of jackassedness?” I asked as I straightened my blouse and tried to find where my dignity had gotten itself to.

  “Please. It’s roguish charm.” Sevarin ran a hand over his hair. He’d lost his hat somewhere during the festivities and his hair gleamed gold in the streetlight. “And I can attest that as a survival strategy it works very well.”

  “I thought your kind had settled on broody angst.” Brendan peeled back the foil on his PowerBar and took an enormous bite.

  Sevarin shook his head. “Lord Byron and Bram Stoker between them have a great deal to answer for.”

  “You can take it up with them when you see them.” My head was spinning. I was sure we should actually be talking about something else, but I couldn’t get my thoughts to settle down long enough to remember what it was.

  “Oh, I have. They’ve been shacked up together in Budapest since 1904.”

  “That is not true,” I snapped.

  Sevarin shrugged. “If it gives you comfort to believe so, please do.”

  Brendan had the nerve to snicker around a mouthful of granola and preservatives.

  “Did you bring enough of that for the whole class?” I asked.

  “Magic-working burns calories at an accelerated rate,” Brendan told me. He did look pale, and nobody eats the cardboard that masquerades as “power food” that fast unless he’s starving.

  “I think we three need to talk,” said Sevarin. “May I suggest your place, Maddox?”

  “Mine?”

  “Charlotte has roommates, and while I would love to entertain you both in my home, I think you would be more comfortable in your own.”

  “Point.” Brendan stuffed the last of the bar in his mouth. “I’ll get us a cab.”

  Brendan gave the cabbie an address on Grand between Broadway and Crosby in SoHo. This told me he made way the hell more money than I did even before I saw the place. I’d worked in lofts like his as a personal chef but had never been in one as a guest. Windows opened in every wall. During the day, this place would be filled with sunlight to show off the blond wood floors covered with Persian rugs, the white walls and the framed art—a lot of which I suspected was original. The space had been dressed in butter-soft leather furniture and oak bookcases.

  I did notice that only the books looked well used, and my glimpse of the kitchen showed immaculate granite counters reflecting the track lighting. This was a showpiece, and I was willing to bet that the microwave saw more action than the professional-grade cotop did. Brendan’s high-priced loft was a stopping place, not a living place.

  “Very nice.” Sevarin settled onto a leather sofa, legs crossed at the knee and arm stretched over the back, looking perfectly at home. “You do well for yourself. Or is this a family property?”

  “No, it’s mine.” There was a bar topped with decanters and bottles just like you’d see on a movie set of a rich man’s home.

  “Can I get you anything?” Brendan reached into the mini-fridge underneath the bar and pulled out a can of Zap Energy Drink.

  “No, thanks.” I winced and averted my eyes.

  “I’m fine,” added Sevarin, and smiled when Brendan glowered at him. Then Sevarin turned to me. “Did you learn anything from Shelby?”

  I rubbed my arms. Don’t tell them. None of their business. They don’t need to know. This is between me and Chet.

  “Did you?” asked Brendan.

  I had the uncomfortable impression that Brendan at least was waiting for me to lie. I studied the immaculate floorboards. He’d just saved my life. They both had. What was I supposed to think about them now?

  Why did my life even need saving? No. Don’t get paranoid. I was in an alley by a bite-easy, even if it was only a tourist joint. I know better.

  Brendan sighed and took another swallow of the entirely artificial high-fructose corn-syrup liquid. “Do you know those two from the alley?” he asked Sevarin.

  “Actually I do, nasty little creatures that they are. Julie and Tommy Jones. Brother and sister, low-intelligence, longtime troublemakers.”

  “Wait,” I cut in. “Her name is really Julie?”

  Sevarin nodded.

  “I knew it had to be something like that.” Okay, it was a small victory, but I was very short on things to feel good about right then.

  Brendan rolled his eyes and took another utterly unhealthy swallow of Zap. My stomach roiled in sympathy. “Professional or amateur trouble?”

  “Before tonight I would have said amateur.” Sevarin rotated his ankle in a circle a few times, thinking. “But that may have changed. What is your opinion, Charlotte?”

  That startled me. “Charlotte?”

  “I rescued you from the smiling jaws of death. I think we can be on a first-name basis.”

  This was probably reasonable, but I was in no mood to admit it. “I bet you were an annoying little brother.”

  “Incredibly so. But what do you think of the status of your assailants?”

  There are times when words are like a door closing behind you. Once spoken, they cut off the last exit. I remembered standing in the dark years ago. I remembered other eyes, livid and hungry, waiting for my words. I’d felt frightened and hollow like this then, my mouth dry and my throat tight. But that other time, I’d spoken the words anyway.

  “Chet’s got some kind of deal going down with Bert Shelby,” I said. “He got Taylor Watts a job in the bar, and he gave them the menu from Nightlife.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Brendan.

  “
Yeah.” I rubbed my arms. “The problem is . . . The problem is, if the attack wasn’t a coincidence. . . .” I did not want to say this. I did not want to think this. I wanted this entire evening to just go away. “I can’t see anybody wanting me drained just because I found out they copied my menu.”

  The men remained silent as we all turned this very, very uncomfortable thought over in our minds. Brendan raised the can of Zap to his mouth again, and suddenly it was all too much to bear.

  “Gimme that!”

  I snatched the can from his fingers and headed for that pristine kitchen. He had to have real food in that gigantic stainless-steel fridge. Everybody had something. Orange juice. Great. Strawberry yogurt. My God, the man truly was of the metrosex clan, or he had a girlfriend who came round for breakfast. Don’t think about that now. A lime at the end of its lonely life lay in the otherwise empty fruit drawer. Who keeps a single lime in their fridge anyway? He must drink gin and tonic. Ice? Yes. Bananas. On a cute little hook next to the fridge. Fabulous. Blender? Blender, under the counter, with the price tag still on it. Pinch of salt for brightness and to cut the sweet, and squeeze the lime in through the top.

  While the blender did its work, I dumped the remains of the energy drink down the sink where it belonged, pitched the can into the compactor and found a glass in the cupboard. I poured it full of smoothie and shoved it across the counter to Brendan.

  He looked at me. I looked at him. He wanted to protest, but evidently thought better of it and instead drained a good half of the glass. His color looked better at once. I got myself a glass. It had been a rough night.

  “And have you anything for me, Charlotte?” Sevarin let his gaze linger meaningfully on my neck.

  “Sorry.” The smoothie wasn’t bad at all. Needed some herb flavor. Lemongrass? And I could have zested the lime in there if it had been less mummified.

  “Ah, how I suffer.” Sevarin laid his hand on his chest.

  Brendan rolled his eyes and changed the subject. “What do you know about Post Mortem?” he asked Sevarin.

  “About what you do, I expect. It has a human owner, but some nightblood investment. Second-rate food, music rather too loud, decor in the worst possible but most expected taste. If you are hungry but not interested in the uncertainties of hunting, it is a place to find volunteers.”

  “Is that from the review you published?” I poured the dregs of the smoothie into Brendan’s glass.

  “Some of it,” admitted Anatole.

  “Do you know who the nightblood investors are?”

  Anatole shrugged. “Before this, I never cared. But I can find out.”

  “Could one of them be Chet Caine?” Brendan asked the question to his glass.

  I shook my head. “Chet doesn’t have money to invest. He’s only been able to make the rent reliably for about six months.”

  “That you know of,” said Brendan gently.

  Time for me to change the subject. “What happened with Taylor?” I asked Sevarin . . . Anatole.

  Brendan raised his eyebrows, and I explained about my ex-bartender and how Linus O’Grady had dragged his name into this.

  “That proved a very interesting time,” said Anatole. “Not as interesting as rescuing fair lady, but still . . .”

  “He’s not going to lay off, is he?” I said to Brendan.

  “Doubt it very much,” Brendan replied

  “If I may be permitted to continue? After Charlotte left me, I continued my surveillance of her brother’s doorstep for twenty minutes before Taylor Watts reemerged. He walked from there to a little bistro on Tenth, where he sat at the bar for approximately one hour, at which point I noticed three things.”

  “And nothing on God’s green earth is going to make him hurry, is it?” said Brendan to me.

  “Doubt it very much,” I replied.

  Anatole ignored us and ticked off his points on his long, manicured fingers. “The first was that he got phone numbers from three separate women with low necklines and clearly low rates of perception. The second was that the longer he sat there, the more uneasy the bartender became.”

  I cocked my head toward him. “And that couldn’t have been because a prominent dining critic was in the house?”

  “Their intelligence-gathering operation is not as efficient as yours. I was not recognized.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can tell.”

  Gimme strength. “Guys always think that.”

  “Plus, there was the member of the Paranormal Squadron having a beer on the stool by the front window.”

  “Was he following Watts?” asked Brendan.

  Sevarin shook his head. “He was there when Watts came in, and although he tried to disguise it, he was startled by that young man’s arrival.”

  We stood there in that now less than pristine kitchen, drinking our drinks, each turning over the pieces of our own particular puzzle in our mind, trying to make them fit together a little more comfortably. I’d gone to Post Mortem, and maybe made somebody nervous enough to send in the vamplette squad. Taylor Watts had gone from Chet’s to a little bistro being staked out by the P-Squad, and the bartender there got nervous. That was a lot of nerves for a Monday night.

  In the middle of all this mulling, Brendan’s doorbell rang.

  I jumped, splashing smoothie across counter, floor and rumpled blouse. Brendan jerked his head around, alert and pale.

  Sevarin arched one cool vampire eyebrow.

  The bell rang again, followed by a furious pounding that shook the door in its frame.

  “You seem to have someone at your door,” said Sevarin.

  “Yeah,” agreed Brendan.

  The knob rattled. The doorbell rang, and rang again.

  “Are you going to see who it is?” I asked.

  “I know who it is.” Brendan set his empty glass on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. “My family.”

  11

  Anatole pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose, Mr. Maddox, that you have a back exit?”

  “No.”

  “How disappointing. Well, we shall have to brave it out.” The pounding grew louder. “You could, I suppose, let them break the door down, but I imagine you’d be charged a maintenance fee for that.”

  For a minute Brendan actually seemed to be considering the trade-off, but at last he walked into the foyer and snapped the locks open.

  The pair who all but toppled in could only have been Brendan’s relatives. They both had his big frame, black hair and intense blue eyes. Surprisingly, the look worked as well on the woman in the red leather coat, black leggings and red lace-up boots as it did on the man in jeans and black bomber jacket. Better, in fact, because the man had an aggressively receding hairline, one of those obnoxious little chin tufts, and wisps of chest hair sticking out of the top of his black button-down shirt.

  “What the hell, Brendan!” shouted Chin Tuft. “What are you . . .” The sentence trailed off as he caught sight of me and Anatole.

  Anatole nodded casually, as if meeting someone at a cocktail party.

  “What is this, Brendan?” whispered Chin Tuft.

  “Anatole Sevarin is a guest in my house,” said Brendan. “You will not give him any trouble, Ian.”

  Chin Tuft—Ian—looked as if he was exercising superhuman control to keep from spitting on the floor. “You’re making guests out of vampires now? Dylan was right. You have gone over.”

  “Just calm down, Ian.” Brendan’s weary sigh told me this was not the first time he’d been on the receiving end of this particular accusation. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “And who’s this?” The woman sauntered slowly up to me. She was a sophisticate—tall enough that she looked slender despite her sturdy bones—and she walked easily in her high heels. She’d gone light on the makeup, and she projected the particular cat-cool menace of supremely self-confident women. She tugged off her red gloves as she approached. Nice touch.

  “Charlotte Caine.” I mad
e sure she saw me look her up and down. “And you are?”

  But the woman just rolled her eyes. “A vamp and a vamp-lover. Great Goddess, Bren . . .”

  “Enough, Margot. Either the pair of you behave or you can come back later.”

  These new Maddoxes shared a long, eloquent glance that told me there’d be a lot more words as soon as the unwelcome intruders were gone. I started to move. This was no place for me. But Sevarin put a cool restraining hand on my wrist. I should have just shaken him off, and I’m still not sure why I didn’t. Probably it was blatant curiosity overriding common sense. Or maybe I just wanted to see how long it’d be before Margot’s ice cracked.

  Meow to you too.

  Brendan walked back into the living room and dropped into an armchair. “So, what couldn’t wait?” He did not invite either of his relatives to sit.

  “You know what it is,” Ian muttered.

  “Beyond Dylan being dead?” Brendan shot back.

  I slid into the corner between the entrance to the kitchen and the interior hallway and wished for invisibility.

  “How can you be so cold?” Ian’s chin tuft positively quivered with the force of his rage. “He’s our flesh and blood!”

  Too late, Ian rlized what he had said. Sevarin, who had positioned himself on the threshold where he could enjoy the show, licked his lips theatrically and maliciously. Ian went white and clenched his fist. I got ready to duck. These Maddoxes liked playing with fire. It was a wonder none of them were chefs.

  “Ian,” warned Brendan.

  “He . . .”

  “Is doing his damnedest to provoke you. Back off.” Brendan surged to his feet and put himself squarely between Sevarin and his relatives. “Sevarin is not our problem. Our problem is Pamela.”

  “You’ve found Pam?” Margot cut in.

  “No. But I’ve seen her.” This was stretching the truth, and he didn’t mention he’d “seen” her in my restaurant a few hours before we got saddled with his cousin’s corpse. This was, in my opinion, positively chivalrous.