A Taste of the Nightlife

by Sarah Zettel

  “Security consultant, remember?”

  I did remember. It just hadn’t filtered through my admittedly overworked brain what that might actually mean. “I thought that was with paranormal things.”

  “You would not believe the number of paranormal things you can do with a cell phone.”

  Very few answers existed for that statement, and none of them would make me sound intelligent at all. “What else did you find out?”

  “Chet had been calling Dylan as well. Given the timing of the calls, and the text messages you found, it looks like Chet and his partner talked Pam into coming to Nightlife. Then they let Dylan know where she’d be. My best guess is they thought Dylan could take Pam back to Ithaca.”

  “But why are they involved with Pam at all?”

  Brendan clearly didn’t like any of the ideas he had on this score. “That depends what’s going on in Connecticut.”

  “Connecticut?” Once again I was several conversational steps behind.

  “Your brother has been making trips into Connecticut about once a month.”

  “How’d you know . . . ?”

  “The GPS and the Google cache. Your brother’s been buying his train tickets and renting the car online.”

  I sat back, overwhelmed by the urge to go home and run my cell phone through the food processor. For a while, I didn’t say anything, just looked out the window, trying to digest everything he’d said. It was then I realized I hadn’t asked a very important question.

  “Brendan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I got you a room at the Ritz-Carlton until the Flash vultures are done making little messes all over your front stoop.”

  “The Ritz!” I shot up so straight the belt dug into my shoulder. “I can’t afford—”

  “You’re not paying.”

  “I already owe you for my bail!”

  “Unless you’re planning to skip out on me, I’ll get that back.” He saw me getting ready to protest and made a “be reasonable” face, the kind that instantly makes you want to stop being reasonable for a long time. “You need to be someplace, and unless you want to brave the feeding frenzy and make your roommates put up with the loss of privacy longer than necessary . . .”

  “Nice use of the flanking guilt maneuver.”

  “Thank you. And wherever you end up it’s got to be someplace that neither my family nor your two playmates from Post Mortem can get into.”

  “And they can’t get into the Ritz?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Client of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  I settled down. This was another one of those times when struggling would just make me look ridiculous. I had nowhere to go and we both knew it. This was my own damn stupid fault. We both knew that too.

  “Given what we found on his cell, it’s possible that Chet’s gone to Connecticut now,” said Brendan before I had a chance to serve myself up another full portion of self-loathing. “Charlotte, have you got any idea what he’s doing up there?”

  I told him what Chet had told me, about the spa and about how much money he said it was making. So much, in fact, that he was funneling the extra into Nightlife.

  Brendan didn’t say anything. He sat there next to me for a long time, not saying anything.

  There was something else I needed to know. Though asking the question meant taking the risk of insulting the man who was once again saving my skin, it was not something I could leave alone.

  “Tell me you’re sure Margot and Ian had nothing to do with Chet vanishing.”

  Brendan sighed and looked away. He didn’t want to answer me, but I was not about to let him off the hook. Not for this. We were way past the small stuff.

  “I’m sure. They only found one of the tails I put on them.”

  “You had more than one. . . .”

  “Security consultant, remember?” he snapped. “We were just talking about it? Yes, I put two tails on my own sister because right now I do not trust her. I shouldn’t have to tell you how deliriously happy that makes me.” He looked down at his own smartphone and thumbed the screen. “My last update is from an hour ago. They’re at their hotel, probably on the phone with our grandfather. I just hope to God they aren’t telling him it’s time to go all Bruce Wayne on the city’s nightblood population. And before you say it, yes, I know she came to talk to you, and I’ve been really, really wondering when you’d get around to mentioning that.”

  A wave of nausea at my own helplessness rolled through me. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say to make this better, or to find the way out. Brendan already had plenty of reasons to be angry, at me, at Chet, and at this situation we were only making more complicated. That we were witnessing a private family struggle become painfully public only made it worse.

  “I know about the city contract,” I said, because at that point honesty was all I had to offer him. “Rafe told me.”

  My admission did not seem to surprise him at all. “This could save my family, Charlotte. It’s a way to put their skills to work legally on a large scale. It’ll also bring them out of the shadows, make them rein in . . .”

  “Margot and Ian?”

  Brendan sighed. “A few facts about the Maddox clan. My grandfather and his siblings made a lot of money—and I mean a lot—dealing with problems nobody could openly acknowledge. We were one of the few families able to defend the daybloods against the encroaching nightbloods. Then came the Change Time, and the Equal Humanity Acts, and all that income dried up. Granddad and my great-uncles started spending their time down in Washington lobbying to get the acts repealed, or at least softened. A few bad investments got made, and all of a sudden we were beyond broke.

  “Going for the city contract was my idea. I was making good money in paranormal security, so why not bring the whole family into it? There are people in high places who know how much we can do. The connections my grandfather forged are still in place. All this, and it still took months to talk him around to letting me put in a bid.”

  Brendan watched the city roll past behind the permanent twilight of the tinted windows for a long time.

  “We need a way out,” he said finally. “If the family is disgraced, if Grandfather decides to call for revenge . . . it’ll be a free-for-all.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Enough to go toe-to-toe with the whole P-Squad and come out ahead.”

  I tried to imagine the kind of havoc that could be wreaked by a clan of warlocks turned paranormal Mafia. Then I tried not to let Brendan see me shudder.

  The owners of the Ritz-Carlton must have been very satisfied clients. When we pulled up to the entrance, the manager waited beside the doorman to hand over my special key card for the elevator, usher us up to the VIP floor and show us to a suite that could have held my entire apartment and still had room left over. And did I mention the view of Central Park? There was a view of Central Park, slowly sinking into a pool of shadow as one light after another blinked on in the surrounding city. New York was waking up for the evening.

  In response to being enveloped in unprecedented luxury after a day of being held hostage to the city’s law enforcement establishment, my stomach growled. Loudly. I blushed. It didn’t care.

  “I’ll call room service,” said Brendan.

  I was ready to fall down and eat the carpet, but some reflexes will not be stilled. “Oh, no, don’t. We’ll get better . . .”

  But Brendan held up his hand, picked up the room phone and punched a button. “Brendan Maddox in 2018. Can I speak with Chef Martinelli? Yes, I’ll hold.” And he did, but not for long. “Hey, Pete. How’s it going? . . . Saw the review in the Times. They said the duck with five-spice marmalade was unbelievable. Was that meant to be a good thing? . . . Nah, I was just going to go get a burger. Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere. But I do have company, and I need to make a good impression . . . I’m sure I will be amazed, but
you know, again, is that meant to be a g—” From where I stood, I heard the phone slam down.

  “That’s supposed to be my trick,” I told him.

  Brendan shrugged. “We were at school together before he quit the MBA program for culinary school.”

  I looked at him and he looked at me. I wondered if this would feel less awkward if he hadn’t just bailed me out of jail. Probably, but not by much.

  “If you want a shower, go ahead.”

  I did want a shower. I could smell myself and there was nothing good about it. With Brendan’s reassurance that Chet hadn’t been taken up by the Bad Guys, I felt like I might have some space to get over my very long, very, very bad day. But I hesitated. There were more things I had to say; apologies he deserved, explanations I needed him to hear, things I desperately needed to understand, but I didn’t know where to begin.

  Brendan crossed the room and touched my hand. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “Just get your shower. We can talk more when you’re done.”

  Tears threatened. I was so tired. Everything was so messed up, and everything new I learned just piled that mess higher and deeper. But for this moment I was safe, high up above the darkening city, secure in a plush jewel box of a room.

  “You keep rescuing me,” I whispered. “Why do you keep on rescuing me?”

  “Because I want to.”

  It was too much. I couldn’t take it. I’d never had backup like this. Nobody could take what I had to throw at them. Even my own parents had left me alone to deal with the mess I’d made out of my brother’s existence. But Brendan kept coming back, and he not only took it, he made it better. Really better. Not because of the money or the magic, but because he saw me at a level of bad I wouldn’t have been able to imagine a few days ago, and he still came back.

  I started to cry.

  These were not decorous Elizabeth Taylor tears. These were great, loud sobs that shook my exhausted body and made my throat instantly raw. No pride, no dignity, no strength, just a river of guilt, regret and confusion I couldn’t hold back anymore.

  Brendan folded me tightly in his arms. He didn’t worry about hurting me. He seemed to know I needed to feel his strength. I rested my cheek against his chest, wrapped my arms around his waist and bawled. He said nothing. He didn’t move. He just held me close, one arm around my shoulders, one hand cupping the back of my head, and let me cry.

  Slowly, the storm dissipated, and extraneous sensation began to shine through. I could feel Brendan’s heartbeat beneath the hard plane of his chest. He smelled of warmth and Ivory soap. I lifted my head and I looked into his amazing blue eyes.

  I kissed him. There was nothing soft or subtle about the gesture. It was as raw as my crying jag and born of a pent-up desire to know what his mouth would feel like against mine.

  I can report that Brendan Maddox was an absolutely topflight kisser. Direct, open, thorough, and filled with all kinds of promises. He slid his hands around my shoulders and pulled me onto my toes as I clung to his solid waist and kissed him back with everything I had. A hot, sweet ache filled me to overflowing. I wanted to pull up his shirt and run my hands over his skin. I wanted to drag him down onto the plush carpet, or let him drag me down. It didn’t matter. I needed the tumult, the tenderness and heat that would make all the rest of this mess go away. Just for now. Just this once.

  Except it would matter, and that realization laid a cold finger on my heated brain. It mattered because I didn’t know what the hell was really happening now, or what would be happening ten minutes or two days from now. I did know, though, that Brendan wasn’t the kind to walk away. If we became lovers tonight and I changed my mind, he would not leave me with nothing but the memory of one night of poor judgment. He’d stay. I’d have to turn on him and force him away to get him to go, and as badly as I wanted him now, that was not a possibility I was ready to live with.

  My libido fought me every inch of the way, but I pulled back. Brendan let me go. But then, I’d known he would.

  We stood there, both panting, with a good six inches between us. Brendan’s cheeks were flushed and he had an adorable, kissable smile on his face that he was trying to get under control.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  He shook his head. “You?”

  I considered the possibility. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “It was just stress?” I tried.

  He thought about that. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  “I guess we will.” And if I stood here another second, I was going to throw myself at him again. He’d catch me too.

  “I’m going to get that shower,” I said.

  Once in the bedroom, which could have comfortably slept half my line crew, I shut the door firmly. I’m pretty sure I had a goofy smile on my face as I stripped down and sauntered into the bathroom. The water was instantly hot and a twist of the showerhead had it coming down in a pummeling rain to rinse off the stink from lls and cop cars. The towels were gloriously fluffy. So was the complimentary bathrobe. The toiletry kit included a heavy brush. A hair dryer hung in its holder on the wall. I spent a solid twenty minutes on my hair, teasing out the tangles and blowing it dry until finally I recognized the woman who stood before the mirror.

  The combination of being physically clean and working with my hands, even if it was just to tidy my hair, settled my thoughts. This left me with enough room in my brain to stack the information I’d gotten hold of in some kind of order. Fact One: There was a human-blood-running underground in New York City. Fact Two: Chet was looking for a legal way to deliver a better product than the runners could supply. This could very easily have made somebody nervous. Fact Three: Bert Shelby had a history of dealing with criminals. A tourist goth bar would make a great place for dealing actual human blood. You’d be hiding in plain sight.

  Taylor could have told Shelby about Chet’s spa. Shelby, or his employers, could have gotten nervous and decided to try to warn Chet that he’d better get out of the business. Or maybe, they wanted to take over the spa and Chet wouldn’t sell.

  All of which left Burning Question Number One: Had Taylor Watts turned in his keys when he left? Because if he had kept a key to the walk-in, he could have dumped both the body and the blood in Nightlife.

  But where did the Maddoxes fit in? Starting with Pam and Dylan but moving on to Margot and, as much as I hated to admit it, Brendan. Brendan said Chet was trying to set Pam up. He was gathering information on her and from her. Had Pam gotten herself involved with Shelby’s operation? She was a security expert and a vampire hunter. That’d be a very handy skill set for a gang of blood runners.

  Could I be sure that it was Shelby who was in charge, though? What if it was Ilona St. Claire? What if I had things backward, and Ilona, Chet and Marcus the Nebbish Vamp—or some combination of those three—were trying to muscle in on Shelby’s operation rather than Shelby and Pam trying to muscle in on theirs?

  Or . . . or what if Pam was still working for her family and was acting as a mole in Shelby’s operation, and Dylan had been killed as a warning to her? No, that couldn’t be right. If they knew Pam was a mole, why not just kill her? And why dump the body at Nightlife? Pam must really be in Shelby’s operation, and poor, dumb, lovesick Dylan was trying to pull her out before the fact of her criminal involvement could jeopardize the Maddox family’s chance at a city contract.

  Or maybe . . . I scrunched my eyes closed. I was dangerously close to giving myself a headache from going around in so many circles. I was also missing something. I could feel it.

  I set down the hairbrush. This much I was sure of. My world had collapsed and my brother was on the run in Connecticut, but for just a minute I needed to set that aside. I was physically clean and dinner was on its way to my hotel room. Everything else could wait, just for an hour. Just one hour more.

  That I had no clean clothing was a problem. Well, this was the Ritz. There would be a laundry service. But when I walked back into the bedroom, I got my next surpr
ise. The filthy T-shirt and slacks I’d tossed onto the bed were gone. In their place I saw a long black skirt and a soft sapphire-colored top made of what looked suspiciously like watered silk. With loose sleeves. And silver spangles.

  I knew I shouldn’t. I had already taken too much from Brendan. Besides, if I was absolutely honest with myself, there were still questions about eactly how much of this mess was just family and how much was really him. I didn’t want to owe Brendan, for that reason, but there was more to it. I didn’t want him to think that when we—I mean if we—got physical, it was because I owed him. I didn’t want to have to wonder if he was going to expect something because I owed him so much.

  I didn’t want to have to wonder what Anatole would think about my being with Brendan.

  That was another one of those ice-cold thoughts that opens the door wide to reality. Because I knew that if it had been Anatole holding me when I broke, I might have acted exactly the same, and felt the same sweet ache as a result.

  I looked at the ceiling. “It would have killed you to send them one at a time?”

  There was no answer. I sighed and got dressed.

  23

  When I emerged from the bedroom, Brendan stood up. He’d been at the dining table, which was laden with covered dishes. I smelled duck and ginger, and rice and warm bread. There were candles, and red wine.

  I refused to be distracted. I gestured to the clothes.

  “Lobby boutique,” Brendan said.

  “How’d you know my size?”

  “I looked at your labels.”

  “Why didn’t you just rummage around in my purse while you were at it?”

  “Because I didn’t think you kept your measurements in your purse.” He smiled and my heart tried to hide behind my ribs. He looked down at my Mary Sue Scarlet toes and I felt myself blush. “Nail polish?”

  “My roommate’s idea.”

  “I like it.” His eyes traveled back up to mine. “I know now is not a good time for the charm offensive, but you do look wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” I don’t get to wear girlie clothes very often. Or twirl around gently on painted toes to let a hem flutter around my ankles while my hair ripples around my shoulders. Brendan responded to this most unusual sight with another one of his bone-melting smiles. Then he pulled out my chair for me and poured the wine.