by Mary Hughes
But with Junior’s happiness at stake, he had to be sure Camille had gotten the message clearly. Junior’s safety was paramount. If he had to, he’d even completely burn the bridge. Best case, Camille would hate him instead of Junior. If that didn’t work, he’d destroy Camille, her minions and the whole damned Coterie. Whatever it took to make sure Junior was safe. And happy.
In a life without him.
So for Junior, he needed to clarify things with Camille. But for Camille, he’d do it in person. For what she once was—or rather, what they’d all been to each other.
He waited until just before dawn, when Mishela was snuggled in for the day and Emersons were at it again—for the fifth time. Before Junior, Glynn would have raised an eyebrow at the waste of time. Now he was envious.
He strode out into the cool air, noting the bright moon and stars. No clouds to ease his return if he wasn’t finished before sunrise. He’d just have to deal with it.
One try to talk Camille into leaving. Into abandoning whatever plan Nosferatu had here with the club. They’d been friends once. Hopefully that still counted for something.
The windows he passed were dark, the humans still abed, so Glynn kicked into the gliding run of his kind. Mist would have been faster, but the mental focus needed to hold the dispersed form made it viable only for short distances. The glide got him there quickly enough.
Glynn paused outside the black marble facade of Fangs To You. If anyone saw him here, it might be considered betrayal. Talking directly to the enemy? He wasn’t sure he’d disagree.
He firmed his resolve and shouldered his way through the door.
This late—or early—the bouncers were inside. Again two, different from last night but in the ubiquitous black. Without a line to manage, they simply stood on either side of the door, the muscles bunched up by their aggressive, cross-armed stances prominently displayed in their sleeveless T-shirts. Glynn tested the air for vampire.
Hot scent crashed into his nose, a heavy wash of perspiring humans, cloying perfumes and smoke both legal and illegal. A stench like burning rubber snaked up from trays of little cheese curds scattered around the room. The stink all but masked any vampire signature.
But Glynn was trained to observe too. The larger bouncer’s working jaw and clenching fists did not completely hide fangs and claws. Judging by build, the male was older, perhaps two hundred. Not a fledgling, but not Glynn’s strength either. The other was either a small vampire or moderate-sized human. If it came to a fight, Glynn would win.
Suddenly cinnamon and anise bit into his nostrils like shards of sugared glass. His nose wrinkled.
Camille.
He could take the bouncers, but she was another story. She was his age, and not only knew all the tricks—she liked to fight dirty.
No. He had to believe he could still connect with her somehow.
“Glynn, darling. How good of you to come.” Fingers curled over his shoulder, nails pricking. “I have a room waiting for you. All the pleasures.”
He turned and beheld her. Glossy black hair, perfect skin, pouting lips and green eyes lined in thick black—just as beautiful, just as treacherous as he last remembered.
“This way.” She glided through the crowd as serenely as any queen or goddess. He waited for the pang of unwanted desire to hit, never able to avoid it, only barely able to suppress it and then only using his considerable will.
But this time, nothing.
He followed, slightly off-balance. He felt—nothing. No distracting desire, no disturbing attraction. For the first time in eight hundred years—or actually seven hundred, as the first century she’d been sweet without the bite—he felt nothing for her. He shook himself, reached out for it—still felt nothing.
Except free.
Well. Elias was right again. When the right woman came along, all the others faded away. Too bad he and Junior had no future. It would almost be worth giving up his home for this bliss.
Pulsing heat and music assaulted him as he followed Camille to a glass elevator. The inside pulsed with psychotic red lights. When she reached past him to insert a key in the pad, she crowded him, deliberately pressing her large breasts against him, her pulse pounding with sexual invitation.
Glynn felt the start of a headache at all the pounding pulsing.
One floor up the doors opened to air both cooler and quieter. The headache receded.
An exposed walkway overlooked the seething mass of people. Glynn took note of the layout, automatically cataloging tactical advantages and disadvantages. He wasn’t planning to fight his way out, but he’d lived this long by being prepared.
Several doors lined the walkway. Glynn let his senses extend, smell and hearing but also taste and touch. He’d saved a dozen humans once sensing a drop in air temperature just before a vampire attack.
The smell of drugs and sex, the coos and shouts of ecstasy were unexpected. Free beer, yes. Maybe even a bit of marijuana as a naughty curiosity. But he couldn’t believe the good townsfolk of Meiers Corners would allow the kind of depredations he sensed here, much less indulge in them. Perhaps visitors to the second floor were all vampires from Chicago. “You’re using prostitutes?”
“We call them sex workers, darling.” Camille gave him a simpering smile over her shoulder.
Long ago, her smile would have been sweet and he’d have returned it. Later, he’d have felt the sexual tug of those glossy, plump lips. Now he felt—nothing. Amazing. He was truly free. “Vampires?”
“A few. Mostly humans though, especially for the marks too drunk or stoned to care. It’s cheaper and easier. More cost effective. Your little plaything would appreciate that.”
The barb jabbed home. Junior, a businesswoman, would appreciate cost-effective.
Then he rolled his eyes. Camille had become the goddess of trickery. One person’s time might be paid more than another’s, but one person was never more valuable than another. Junior would approve of cost-effective goods or work, never cost-effective workers.
And that was their difference. Junior saw the humanity behind the business. To Camille, these people were nothing but numbers.
But it meant his hope of calling on their old bonds of friendship was dimming.
She opened the last door and stood back, waiting. Wary, Glynn looked in.
Red-flocked walls, black lacquered furniture and iron candelabras dripping guttering candles gave the room a heavy, oppressive feel. Thick, yellowed mirrors skewed what illumination there was into a mockery of light.
The heart-shaped bed, covered in red silk, should have been a valentine. The mirrors and candles twisted it into a dungeon piece. The trio of shackles hanging from the ceiling didn’t help.
The naked human women writhing in the shackles were certainly Camille’s crowning touch.
“They’re for you,” Camille purred. “Just titties. I remember you don’t like danglies as much, though I don’t remember why.”
“Are these locals?”
At her sly smile and coy nod, Glynn stifled his immediate reaction, which was to tear the chains from the ceiling and smash the funhouse mirrors. The young women weren’t frightened—he’d have smelled it. Still, the drugs he could see in their blown pupils might have made a mockery of their will. Something stronger than marijuana and, he’d guess from the eyes, hallucinogenic. Which might explain why the shiny-new, as Nixie had called it, hadn’t worn off and life hadn’t returned to normal. How had Camille gotten local folk to try drugs, much less get hooked? “Let them go, Camille.”
“But darling—”
“I said release them.” He turned on her with a snarl. “Unless you want me to walk out right now.”
“Pooh. You’ve become such a spoilsport.” But she waved her hand.
A scrawny human male, naked but for a slave collar and black leather lederhosen—Glynn closed his eyes; only in Meiers Corners—applied key to shackles. When all the women were loose, they and the young man shambled out, stopping just outside the do
or.
Glynn stalked into the room, far enough that he couldn’t see the waiting humans. He spun. “Why, Camille?”
The vampire woman sashayed past him to pick up a crystal decanter and gold-rimmed glass from a tall blackwood table. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him; perhaps her tribute to what they’d all been to each other, perhaps just caprice. “Why? To make money, of course. I’d certainly rather be at my downtown club. It’s a hell of a lot more fun, but expansion is good for business. If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”
He lost his temper. “And corrupting the humans? Is that for money?”
“It’s because they’re humans.” She whirled. “We’re better, Glynn. Nosferatu woke me up. These damned short-lived apes are already corrupted—by death.” She slammed the decanter down on the blackwood, shattering it and slicing her hand.
Glynn’s nostrils flared at the punch of blood-scent. His fangs descended, but not with desire.
She considered the slash on her palm. Her eyes rose to his. Slowly, she licked the trickle clean.
He scowled. “You’re being a bit obvious, aren’t you?”
She flushed and looked away. “Besides, these Meiers Corners humans are such babies. So easy to corrupt.”
“So it’s their fault you tempt them? Their fault you drug them?” His blood flamed. “We ought to be better, Camille. We live long enough. But we aren’t better at all.”
“Of course we are. Watch.” She beckoned with one long, red fingernail. The lederhosen man came like a puppy. Smiling all teeth, she petted him like one. “Is this not proof?”
Treating the man like a dog. Glynn shuddered with the memory of Fychan, treating Glynn like an animal or worse. “Oh, indeed. It proves things quite well.”
“Somehow, darling, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.” She pushed the man away and he wandered out the door. Then she smiled at Glynn. “Perhaps this will help you see my point.”
She released a tie at her nape. The drapes covering her breasts fell.
Glynn, watching her shoulders for an attack tell, couldn’t avoid seeing her round globes bared.
As a new vampire, Camille had been pretty. Conical little breasts with dainty coral nipples. As she grew into the change, her breasts became large as musk melons yet high as a teenager’s on her chest.
Glynn waited for the automatic surge of lust that being a vampire made impossible to avoid.
Nothing.
He swallowed. Free. He was truly free. He owed Junior more than she’d ever know. If he hadn’t loved her already, that would have cemented it.
His anger cooled, and he remembered he’d come here to connect. “We were friends once, Camille. What happened?”
“Friends? We were lovers.”
He snorted. “The way a pack of puppies are lovers. When there were just the five of us, you were different. Caring.”
At first, she didn’t get it. He could see it in her wide, confused eyes. She looked almost as he’d known her then, when they’d been fledglings with only each other for support, innocent and new and scared, but together.
Now she had only Nosferatu. The Coterie’s head was not known for his understanding.
“Please, Camille. Tell Nosferatu this won’t work. Tell him there’s no profit in corrupting Meiers Corners.” Glynn reached for her hand, in the spirit of what they’d once had.
She jerked away. Her eyes narrowed. “I brought you here to give you one last chance to see reason. Your side is outsmarted and outnumbered. Switch to the winners before you get hurt.”
“Strange. I came to talk sense into you.” He could afford to be gentle now; she had no more hold over him. “The Ancient One isn’t too happy with you. He’s rather fond of Meiers Corners.”
“Even your precious Ancient won’t save Meiers Corners this time.” She snapped her fingers. The humans, doped-up thralls, dutifully came. She snapped again. The young man bent to one of her large, high breasts, and a woman to the other. She pressed their heads to the ruby centers. Her lids half-closed, her nostrils flared, her mouth dropped open in pleasure. “Remember this, Glynn. Remember the humans of Meiers Corners are mine. And remember you could have shared in it all.”
Glynn shook his head, saddened. “Camille. A share of emptiness, no matter how large, is still just a pile of nothing. I won’t let you harm Junior.”
The vampire’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Who says I care? Play around with your little human if you want. I got over you a long time ago, Glynn. I have bigger fish to fry.”
“You’ll leave her alone? Your word?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “My word.”
Glynn left. He’d gotten what he came for—Camille had agreed to leave Junior alone.
But his headache had returned, perhaps because he knew the value of the word of the queen of lies. As empty as that pile of nothing.
Chapter Fourteen
So there we were. The city had put all its financial eggs in one basket, tourism. But CIC Mutual was pressuring our business shells from the outside, while Camille sucked cash flow yolk from the inside. Crunching was inevitable.
Too many defaulted loans would kill the Sparkasse Bank, which would topple the whole town. Which would start a vampire war, top of the not-good food chain.
More personally, Oz, Wonderful Oz’s attendance was in the sewer and morale was even lower. If we were this pathetic closing night, we wouldn’t get to Milwaukee, much less Broadway.
Could things get any worse?
Yeah, I apparently enjoy flushing my head down Murphy’s toilet. Yay, swirlies.
“Get the hell out of my way! I saw this scarf first.”
“I had my hand on it. You get the hell out of my way.”
I sighed, gave up facing boxed sausage and shut the clanking cooler door to make my way to the combatants.
Were they big city nobs, no patience and less humanity?
I wish.
“All right Mrs. Gelb, Mrs. Gruen. Break it up.” I pushed them apart. They glared at each other, jaws jutting. The contested scarf fell to the floor. “I thought you two were friends.”
“I thought so too.” Mrs. Gelb’s jaw jutted so far I thought her nose would fall in. “I was wrong.”
“You’re no friend,” Mrs. Gruen blasted back.
“I’ve got more scarves in back,” I said. “You can both have one.”
“I wouldn’t touch it now.” Mrs. Gelb turned away with a sniff. “Not if she wants it.”
“Me either. Not if she does.” Mrs. Gruen stomped off for the door.
Then, to my everlasting hope, she paused. Sneaked a glance over her shoulder.
Mrs. Gelb gave her a stiff back with a side of cold shoulder.
Mrs. Gruen huffed out.
“How dare she?” Mrs. Gelb glared at me like this was my fault. Then she too stomped out the door, leaving me to pick up the scarf.
I brushed the dirt and indignity from it (okay, there wasn’t any real dirt, thanks to the Stieg broom fetish), and sighed as I folded it and returned it to the shelf. Meiers Corners matrons making scenes—worse, making messes. What in blazes was going on?
I didn’t know what had gotten into die Frauen’s morning Schnitzel-O’s, but whatever it was, I didn’t want it to get worse. I called Pop to bring out more scarves.
Proactive Junior, making sure things didn’t get worse. Yeah, next time I’ll just take a mallet to my head. It’ll be faster and less painful.
I was handing Hermy a jar of creamed Braunschweiger, the new Summer Spices collection, for Tiny to test when Twyla Tafel sailed through the door.
“It’s Armageddon.” Twyla slapped her hand on the counter. “I swear the whole city is going van Gogh, cut-my-ear-off insane. Did you hear what happened at Der Lebensmittelgeschaft?”
“The grocery store? No, what?” I got down a second test jar and opened it.
“Traffic accident. Mrs. Schwartzkeller cut off Mrs. Weiss with a wide right turn and a wider right gesture.”
“Parking lot?”
“Produce aisle. Knocked an entire display of casabas to the floor with her shopping cart. ”
I stuck a spoon in the jar and handed it to Hermy, then got Twyla’s order together. “A few smashed melons isn’t the end of the world.”
“No, but then they started a catfight.”
“I don’t believe it. Pillars of Meiers Corners society don’t spar in the produce aisle.”
“Spar? Try screaming and scratching and hair pulling.”
“That’s bad.” I watched Hermy offer a spoonful of creamed Braunschweiger (with chives) to Tiny as I bagged the city’s order. “But still not Armageddon.”
“It gets worse. The melons pulped into a muddy mess. Mrs. Weiss tore off Mrs. Schwartzkeller’s blouse and Mrs. Schwartzkeller ripped Mrs. Weiss’s skirt to her ass…and, well, both of them ended up with bruised tits and black eyes and tickets for disorderly conduct. The video’s already on YouTube.”
“Okay, that might qualify for a couple apocalyptic horsemen. Were they drunk?”
“Not alcohol, but Elena thinks they were jacked on some sort of psychedelic, though they swore they hadn’t done any drugs. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“You’re kidding.” I rang her order up.
“Elena fielded an armed robbery at the Alpine and Ruffles had a case of domestic abuse—not bedroom games getting out of hand but broken jaw battery.”
“Good heavens.” I stopped ringing and stared at her. “What’s going on with everybody?”
“Call the CDC. It’s an epidemic of stupid.”
I handed her the bag. “Strange that it started just when Fangs To You opened. Coincidence?”
“Maybe corruption is infectious.”
“Thank you, Typhoid Camille.”
The door bell tinkled, but before I could even hope for a shiver, Rocky ran in.
“Junior! I know you hate those things, but you’d never hurt my mother like this so please tell me it wasn’t you.”
Twyla grabbed Rocky’s shoulders. “Breathe, kiddo.”