“Bad timing.” I glanced up at her ruefully. “Rain check?”
“Always.” She reluctantly stepped back to sit in the chair next to my desk.
A werepuma who reminded me of a slightly warped Aphrodite, my girlfriend was extremely good about knowing when I needed to present a professional appearance. She sat primly in the chair, her skirt-suit and tawny chignon making her look like a librarian waiting to bust out and go wild. Everybody knew we were together, but it wouldn’t do for the boss to be sucking face when the help checked in.
“Come in.” I waited as Chrysandra opened the door and peeked her head around it. “What’s up?”
She glanced at Nerissa, then at me, and grinned. “Sorry to interrupt, Boss, but I’ve got someone out here looking for a job. I’m not sure about him, but you might want to talk to him.”
“Supe?” I had instituted a policy of hiring only members of the Supernatural Community. The Wayfarer attracted far too many potential problems for me to take a chance on any more full-blooded humans. Chrysandra had gotten the hang of working around Supes of all kinds, but for a bartender, I needed someone who could also act as bouncer when I wasn’t around.
Pieder, the giant, did a good job, but he worked during the day and I was hiring for the night shift. I probably should hire a second bouncer while I was at it, but since I worked most evenings in the bar, usually I could cover the void. Smart people didn’t mess with vampires, and most of my regulars had quickly learned not to cross me.
She nodded. “Yeah, but I’m not sure what kind. He has an odd feel to him.” The look on her face told me that he either made her nervous or he was just so strange that she didn’t know what to make of him. Chrysandra was, I had discovered, somewhat psychic for an FBH—full-blooded human—and she picked up on things easily.
“Send him in.” I turned to Nerissa. “Sweetie, you mind giving me a little privacy to interview him?”
“No problem. You sure you want to talk to him alone, girl?” She stroked my cheek with her fingers. “I can stay.”
“I can tear apart ninety percent of the creatures I meet if they bother me. Don’t forget that I’m a vampire, sweetheart. Never, ever forget it.” I took her hand, holding it for a moment. As much as I cared about her . . . all right, as much as I loved her . . . I never wanted her to forget I was a dangerous predator. It was my nature and I accepted it and, at times, reveled in it.
“I never do,” she whispered softly, then followed Chrysandra out of the room, her skirt swishing in a way that drove me crazy. I wanted to slip my hands under the hem, to run them up her golden thighs. For so long I’d repressed my sexuality after Dredge was done with me, but Nerissa had woken it up, full-steam ahead, and there was no putting the Djinn back in the bottle.
I put my feet on the floor and straightened the papers on my desk. I had to start the inventory soon; we were coming up on the end of the year and I needed to do a full accounting of everything in the bar. I also was getting ready to open the Wayfarer to overnight travelers. We’d cleaned out the rooms upstairs and had space for seven guests. That meant hiring a maid and someone to run room service, carry bags, and take care of the needs of our Otherworld patrons in general. For the most part, that’s who I expected to see. I already had decided that I wouldn’t rent to goblins, ogres, or anybody likely to cause trouble.
Since the Wayfarer technically belonged to an OW resident, it was considered sovereign territory and I could discriminate for whatever reason I wanted. And letting creeps and miscreants stay in the bar wasn’t my idea of security. Especially not when my sisters and I were waging a demonic war.
The door opened and a man cleared the archway. As I glanced at him, looking him up and down, I was suitably impressed. At least as far as him being able to chuck people out of the bar.
Brawn, he had. That much was clear. The man—or whatever he was—stood around five-eight, but his biceps were works of art, and his thighs looked strong enough to crack a skull. His hair, jet black with a white streak, was held back in a thick pony tail, hitting about mid-shoulder. It set off eyes as green as my sister Delilah’s. He looked mid-thirties, but if he was Supe, who knew how old he really was?
I could tell right off that he wasn’t human. Chrysandra hadn’t been kidding, this dude had some seriously powerful energy rolling off of him. I was about as headblind as you could get for someone half-Fae, but even I could feel it.
“How do you do? I’m Menolly D’Artigo. And you are . . . ?” I stood and walked around the desk. To someone my height, he seemed tall. I was five-one, barely, and petite, but I could probably take him out without blinking an eye. One of the perks of being a vampire: exceptional strength that belied any lack of visible force. Motioning him to a chair, I hopped up to sit on my desk.
“Derrick. Derrick Means.” He took the chair and leaned back, eyeing me closely. “You look like a vamp,” he said.
I blinked. Nobody had ever said that to my face, but what the hell. “Good. Because that’s what I am, and anybody that works for me has to not only tolerate it, but actually accept the fact. What about you?”
He arched an eyebrow and folded his arms. “I’m from the Badger People. I’m a friend of Katrina’s. She said you might be open to me applying for the job, even though you’re a vamp. Said you’d hired a werewolf before.”
Badger People? Weres and vamps didn’t always get along, but I wasn’t just any vamp—I was half-Fae as well as half-human. And Katrina was one of our friends, a werewolf who had started to fall for my former bartender before he ended up having to leave Earthside for Otherworld to protect his sister.
I frowned. I’d never met anyone from the badger tribes before and had very little clue what they were like, though if they matched their namesake creature, he wouldn’t have any hesitation about tossing problem people out on their asses.
“Tell me about your experience. And are you part of a clan or a loner?”
“Used to be in a clan, until I decided to hit the city and see what life here is all about. I like Seattle, but there’s not much chance to interact with my family since I moved. We keep in touch via e-mail but I don’t get to see them often.” He let out a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like a huff, and relaxed back into the chair.
“Experience?”
“I’ve got fifteen years bartending experience under my belt, I double as a bouncer no problem, and I’ve never been fired.” He handed me a piece of paper. To my surprise it was a resume. A detailed resume. Usually people just came in and asked for a job. Or at best, an application.
“Why do you want to work at the Wayfarer?” I glanced over his CV. Everything seemed in order. No immediate alarm bells went off in my gut.
“Because I need a job. You need a bartender. And you won’t get in my face about taking off the nights of the full moon.” He leaned forward. “I’m good at what I do, I’m loyal, and I’ll be here, sober, whenever you call. I don’t hit on the women—at least not on duty. If you want to call some of my references, the numbers are there.”
I stared at the list. Applegate’s Bar, Wyson’s Pub, the Okinofo Lounge . . . not upscale bars but not seedy holes-in-the-wall, either. They were solid and had a good clientele. I let out a long breath and glanced up at him. “Wait out front in one of the booths.”
After he nodded and swaggered out of the office, I put in a few calls. Nobody had anything bad to say about him, and several of the bars praised him, though I could feel a definite tension there. Chalking it up to FBHs dealing with Supes, I made my decision and headed out front.
Derrick was nursing a Diet Coke and I slid into the seat across from him.
“You drink? Do drugs?”
He shook his head. “Drink beer and Scotch occasionally, but never on duty. Drugs and Badger People aren’t a good mix. We have a temper; I am the first to admit it. I know my limits.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” I motioned at the bar. “I need somebody and I need him now. So if you can start this week,
preferably tonight, so much the better. Your shift is from four P.M. until two A.M., but you may need to come in to help with inventory at times during the day. I can pay you fifteen an hour to start. If you’re as experienced as you seem to be, and you last ninety days, I’ll raise that to seventeen. I’m the boss, you do what I say while you’re here, and you keep your nose clean. What do you say? Want the job or not?”
He raised his glass in salute. “Here’s looking at you, Boss.”
At least one of my problems was over with. But it didn’t take long for another to rear its head. As I was showing Derrick around the bar, watching how he handled the bottles and suitably impressed at how he handled customers, the door opened and Chase Johnson swaggered in.
My sister Delilah’s ex-lover, and a detective who was as good as family by now, Chase dressed in Armani and perpetually smelled like a taco stand. He was also one damned fine detective.
After all the arguments we’d been through, I had to give him props. He’d managed to keep it together in situations that would drive the average FBH wacko. Oh yeah, one other little tidbit: Chase also was as good as immortal, at least in human terms. He’d been given the Nectar of Life in order to save his life, and that gave him a long leg up on the rest of FBHs.
He glanced at Derrick and nodded, giving me a quizzical look.
“This is Chase Johnson, detective and friend of the business. Close to being family. Treat him right.” Derrick nodded. “Chase, this is Derrick—my new bartender. Derrick, give us a few minutes alone. Chase has something to talk to me about. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, though I wish this were just a social call.” He waited till Derrick moved off and then followed me to a booth. “Werewolf?”
“Badger People. Werebadger.”
“Sheesh—is there a Were class for every animal on the planet?” Chase snorted and rubbed one perfectly coiffed eyebrow.
“Just about. What is it, Johnson?”
“Trouble. You have the time to take a little ride with me to headquarters? Vampire business, I think.” He let out a long sigh.
Hell. Vampire business was so not what I wanted to hear, because when Chase came calling about vampires, it usually meant somebody was dead. Most likely murdered. There’d been an upswing in nocturnal activity lately, but since I was no longer privy to the scuttlebutt going around Vampires Anonymous, it was harder for me to ferret out secrets. I had to rely on what Sassy Branson could tell me, but she was growing more erratic every day. I’d been seriously considering taking my “daughter,” Erin, out of the older vampire’s care.
“Let me tell Chrysandra.” I hustled over to my waitress and tapped her on the arm. “Keep an eye on Derrick. Help him learn the ropes. Chase needs me.”
“Sure thing, Menolly. But are you sure? I mean, it’s his first night.” She looked a little worried. Normally, I’d chalk it up to nerves, but tonight I stopped and looked into her eyes, trying to get a feel for where her jitters were coming from.
“You have a bad feeling about him?” I cocked my head, waiting.
She glanced over at him, then slowly shook her head. “No . . . but . . . there’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it. He’s more than he appears to be, but I don’t sense . . . he’s not hostile, but I think he walks with danger.”
I bit my lip, then said, “Get Tavah from the basement. Tell Riki to take over down there. If anything goes wrong, Tavah should be able to take care of matters.” Tavah, another vampire, spent her nights in the basement of the Wayfarer, guarding the portal to Otherworld, and keeping track of the guests who came through. She kept the creeps out and let the paying visitors in.
“Okay.” She ran down the steps as I hightailed it over to Derrick. “Listen, Derrick, I’ve got to go out. Chrysandra will help you out, and while I’m gone she and Tavah are in charge. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”
He nodded, eyes on the drink he was mixing. “Not a problem. Got it.”
And with that, as soon as Tavah appeared at the top of the stairs, I followed Chase into the icy night.
Winter in Seattle vacillates between mild and nasty, but the past couple of years had been pretty rough at times. Instead of the incessant rain, we’d actually seen snow—enough to stop the city in its tracks for a few days. Now, a week or so before Yule, it was cold enough to snow and I’d considered putting snow tires on my Jag.
The chill didn’t bother me, but Chase buttoned his trench as we headed out the door. He held it open for me—he was, at heart, a gentleman—and we hustled to his car. I could tell he was cold; the breath puffed out of his mouth like clouds from a steam engine.
The streets were packed with shoppers looking for Christmas bargains. As we edged through traffic, Chase flipped on the radio and Danny Elfman’s voice came out of the speakers, singing “Dead Man’s Party.”
“Man, I remember dancing to this at one of the local clubs almost fifteen years ago,” he said offhandedly. “I was in high school and dating a girl named Glenda. She had hair a mile high and was in full retro mode. All she wanted to wear was spandex and look like one of the B-52 girls.”
I glanced at him. “Do you miss those days? The days when you didn’t know about us or the demons?”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as we waited for traffic to inch forward. “Trick question. No way to answer that truthfully.” Giving me a sideways smirk, he added, “Yes, I do, but only because life was much simpler then. Choices were black and white. But I have to say since you three entered my life, I’ve never been bored. Scared shitless, yes. Bored? Never.”
Snorting, I leaned forward and turned up the music. “You ever want to, you can come clubbing with Nerissa and me, as long as we aren’t hitting a vamp club. We’re damned good on the dance floor.”
Chase’s turn to snicker. “Right, and while I’d be the envy of a thousand men, I don’t think that would fit my style anymore. Hell, I have no clue as to what my style is now.” He sounded lost, and a little frightened. “Look—Santa.”
A sidewalk Santa was ringing his bell for the South Street Mission in front of a small boutique. The winter was chill and cold, and a lot of people were out of work. Gauging from his expression, he wasn’t having much luck.
“Santa’s a freakass scary dude in reality. Camille met him when she was young.” I stared at the pseudo-Santa through the window as we passed by and fell silent. Santa, passing out presents. Humans clung to their myths in the hope that they’d ward off bad luck, ward off evil. How little they knew about the truth that hid behind their fairy tales, or what monsters were really sliding down their chimneys.
I turned up the music as Ladytron replaced Oingo Boingo. A part of me felt sorry for Chase. We’d totally shifted his life and he could never go back to what he’d been, to the life he’d expected to lead. Collateral damage. We were leaving a nasty trail, and there’d be far more by the time this demonic war was over.
It took us another twenty minutes to reach the FH-CSI—the Faerie Human Crime Scene Investigation—headquarters. I knew this building all too well. It seemed like my sisters and I were here all the time, especially since our war against the demons was escalating.
Most of the building was underground—the bottom level was the morgue, in-house laboratory, and archives. Third floor down were the jail cells for the Otherworld magical and strength-enhanced Supes. Second floor down was the arsenal—containing a vast array of interesting weapons viable for use against anything from werewolves to giants. The main floor contained both police headquarters and the medic unit. Delilah had hinted that she thought there was another level below the morgue, but what it was or whether it really existed, we didn’t know.
Chase led me straight to his office rather than to the morgue. A good sign, I thought. Straight to the morgue was bad. Straight to the morgue meant immediate danger, and right now, I wasn’t in the mood for trouble.
But as I took a seat opposite his desk, I happened to catch a glimpse of the photographs spil
ling out of a file on his desk. They didn’t look promising. In fact, they looked downright ghastly.
“That’s your trouble, I take it?” I nodded to the pictures.
“Yes, and one I wish you’d take as far away from me as you could.” He let out a sigh. “I don’t know what to make of it. If it looked like straight vampire killings, I’d at least know what I was dealing with. But there’s something else going on.” He motioned for me to scoot my chair closer, and laid out the photos in a line for me to look at.
There were four women pictured, each with obvious puncture wounds in her neck. Vampire activity, all right.
“Looks pretty straightforward to me,” I said.
“Yeah, you would think so, wouldn’t you? But look again at the women. Look closely. Notice anything odd?” He frowned and leaned back in his chair, crossing his left leg over his right and interlacing his fingers. “I really want your honest opinion because I want to make sure I’m not just barking up a tree that doesn’t exist.”
I studied the photographs. Women, all pretty, all somewhere in their thirties, looked to be. All . . . Wait a minute. Pattern. There was a pattern.
“They all have long brown hair, layered. They all have brown eyes, and they all seem to be around a hundred thirty pounds. How tall were they?”
“All between five-six and five-nine. So you see it, too?”
“Yeah. Was there any connection between them? Any similarity to their deaths?” A nasty thought was forming in my head, and I had the feeling Chase had already come to the same conclusion.
“Well, obviously they were all exsanguinated, and they were all killed at night. Puncture wounds on the throat, though there’s no way to prove for sure that they were killed by a vampire. All the women were murdered within a five-mile radius, and all four were hookers.” He frowned. “I’m thinking we have a vampire serial killer. If it wasn’t for the fact that all the girls look alike, I’d just chalk it up to vampire attack, but they look so much alike, they could be related.”
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