A Taste of Love and Evil

by Barbara Monajem

  But he needed Rose. He needed to talk to her, to find out how Violet had communicated with her about the hotel, because the information leak had happened by way of Violet, whether she knew it or not. How had Titania found out Rose was making Violet a dress? Someone had penetrated either Violet’s home or her work, or perhaps gotten the password to her e-mail account. He could ask the same questions of Violet, but Rose, he knew, would tell him the truth.

  Meanwhile, he’d see what he could find on his own. The gift shop and salon at Blood and Velvet opened early in the day, so tourists could browse for costumes and indulge in inanities like fake fangs and bloodied hair. The club itself would be empty of all but cleaning crew.

  He sidled into the gift shop, attracting so little notice that he camouflaged himself against the red velvet curtains framing the door to the club while two teenage girls stood only a foot away, digging through a tub of gaudy underwear.

  “How about these?” the brunette asked her friend, holding up a couple of scraps of lavender fabric. “There’s gotta be some magic about it.”

  “Guys don’t care what color panties you wear,” the blonde retorted. “They just want to take them off.”

  “See the label? ‘Passion on Demand, by Violet Dupree.’ Obviously, she knows something. Look how many guys are after her.”

  One of the saleswomen called, “Potty break!” to her coworker and came up to unlock the door into the club. She stopped next to the two girls and said, “Violet believes in taking the initiative when it comes to love.” She flipped through the tub of underwear and found a set of three gold-embroidered thongs connected by a crimson ribbon. “These are my favorites: ‘No guilt,’ ‘No hesitation,’ and ‘No holds barred.’”

  The blonde looked dubious. “That seems awfully irresponsible to me.”

  “Not really,” the saleswoman said. “See what it says on the elastic?”

  The girls peered forward. “ ‘Know what you want and go for it,’” the brunette read. “I definitely know who I want.”

  “Perfect! Now’s the time for some action.”

  The blonde rolled her eyes and held up a deep purple panty. “It reads a little differently on this one.”

  Know what you want? read the front panel; Go for it! graced the rear. Nobody could say Violet didn’t have a sense of humor.

  “No matter how much initiative you take,” the saleswoman said, “sometimes guys need to have it spelled out.” She opened the door to the club. “The ones in that basket are from the ‘Irresistible’ line. Those are on special, too.”

  Jack slithered in camo through the doorway. The saleswoman followed and pulled the door shut behind them. Oblivious, she headed for the restroom while Jack bypassed the elevators and took the stairs two at a time. Violet’s office suite stretched across the front of the third floor, opposite the portrait studios at the back.

  He exited the stairs at the end of the long hallway that traversed the club, expecting relative gloom and finding instead far too much light. The carpet cleaner’s apparatus stood smack in the middle of the elevator vestibule halfway down the hall. The cleaner wouldn’t stop Jack, but he might see him, since brightly lit, more or less barren hallways and walls were the devil to deep-camo against.

  He held on to a light covering of camouflage, enough for anonymity, and moved quickly down the hall, ears alert for the carpet cleaner. As he entered the vestibule, he eased up and blended with the shiny, pseudo-Chinese wallpaper there. To one side were the elevators. To the other, one of the glass doors to Violet’s suite stood ajar, the offices beyond them dim. A little way past the vestibule, the door of the first portrait studio was wide open. Bottles of carpet shampoo, a bucket, a hose…and faint movements from somewhere down that way.

  Jack eased along the wall into Violet’s suite and went straight to her office, thankful he’d spent time getting to know every club in town. He picked the locked door easily and slipped inside, dropping most of the camo and getting to work. No cameras and nothing on the phone, but two minutes later, bingo, he found the bug under the desk.

  Leave it there? He chuckled to himself. Let Violet decide that one.

  He left the office, locking the door behind him, and paused at the entrance to the suite. The carpet guy’s stuff hadn’t moved, so maybe he was doing prep or had gone onto the balcony off the portrait studio for a smoke. Jack moved quietly into the hall.

  A whiff of cool air drifted from the portrait studio, and curiosity took over. The hall on this side of the building was wider and plastered with photographs of vamp wannabes in various stages of dress and undress. He flickered along the wall, more or less invisible, and peeked into the portrait studio. Nobody, not even behind the changing screen, but the dark curtains that covered the balcony doors stirred in a breeze from outdoors. No smell of tobacco…

  Biff the thug pushed from behind the curtains, stuffing a Glock into his shoulder holster. Jack dodged back into the hall and deep-camoed fast against a medley of photos.

  Biff hurried out of the studio, passed Jack without a glance, and went into Violet’s suite. Jack waited long enough to see Biff pick the lock of Violet’s office—she needed better security all around—and slipped back into the portrait studio. If Biff had gone to retrieve the bug, he’d know soon enough. He found the carpet guy on the balcony, alive but unconscious from a blow to the head. Jack hauled the guy back inside and went after Biff.

  He emerged into the hallway, camoing as he went, just as Tony Karaplis stepped out of the elevators. Damn. Tony had definitely seen something this time. What the hell was going on? A secret for all these years, blown once, almost certainly blown again. Jack blended deep into camouflage and waited for Tony to make his move. Sure, he could take this guy on, but he was even more sure he didn’t want to.

  “Damn it, kid,” Tony said. “Is that you?”

  Huh?

  “Because if you’re playing games with me, I need to know right now.”

  Tony knew someone else who could camo. Constantine Dufray?

  Tony shifted, his stance no longer merely annoyed. “All right,” he growled. “Whoever you are, I don’t much want to tangle with you, and you’re better off not messing with me. How about you tell me why you were at Vi’s place, and what you’re doing here.”

  Jack considered his options. No, his only option: to get away, with enough camo to remain anonymous. He sidled along the photo-covered wall, and Tony’s eyes, intent but unsure, followed him remarkably well. Damn. No telling how much of this tracking was smell and hearing, but he couldn’t get past Tony to the stairs without a fight. Meantime, the carpet guy needed tending, and Biff was—

  “Look out!” Jack flung himself out of camo and wrenched Biff’s gun hand high. The shot meant for Tony hit the ceiling. Jack and Biff crashed together into the glass door. Jack twisted the gun away from Biff as Tony leaped forward, fangs full down. With a roar, Biff ripped free of Jack, slammed Tony into the carpet-cleaning machine, and sprinted down the hall toward the stairs.

  Jack retrieved the gun and camoed his face into nondescript while he checked the magazine. He shoved the gun—quite a collection he was amassing—into his belt.

  Tony stood, cussing and rubbing his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “The carpet guy’s in the portrait studio. He needs medical attention,” Jack said. “There’s a bug under Violet’s desk, unless that dude just retrieved it.” He took off after Biff.

  After a couple of hours of unpacking and shelving little bottles of glaze and pottery paraphernalia, Juma began to feel like a cornered possum. Freezing in one place inevitably led to being found. The work was okay, but she didn’t like the way Gil kept watching her. Any minute now he would accuse her of stealing something and call the cops. Not that he actually did anything to support this belief; the only people who came were the FedEx guy and an old dude who bought clay. Still, she didn’t dare trust him, so she eavesdropped like crazy on every one of his calls.

  He spent a lot of time on the ph
one. Many of his calls started out about pottery classes or supplies, but they ended up with what sounded like life advice. Gil had a beautiful voice. Really beautiful. Warm and comforting…and like all soothing voices, a complete and total fraud. She’d had enough. When he finally got off the phone for two seconds, she stomped right up to his desk and got in his face. “Stop staring at me. I’m not going to steal anything.”

  Gil did a decent double take. “I don’t suspect you of stealing.” He sounded so gentle and sincere she wanted to believe him, which was not only freaky but majorly dumb.

  “Why else would you keep watching me? So, dude, how much do you pay? Because although I need money, I need study time even more, and this is seriously eating into my schoolwork.” Pause. “Well, duh. Why am I even asking? You won’t need to pay me once you’ve hustled me off to jail.”

  He actually appeared hurt. He was tall and solidly built, with a teddy-bear look about him that made you want to grin. Reproachfully, he said, “I won’t send you to jail.” Surprisingly, she almost believed him.

  “Back to Grandma, then, which is worse. You were plotting something with Jack. Otherwise why all that whispering? You don’t have laryngitis. You have a perfectly good, absolutely gorgeous voice.”

  “We weren’t plotting,” Gil said, and she wanted to believe him again, which was ridiculous. He got out his wallet and handed her a twenty. “That’s for what you’ve done so far.”

  Another surprise, but she couldn’t let herself be sidetracked. “Um, great, thank you, but I still need to know why all the whispering. And don’t try bullshitting me. I heard you talking on the phone, laying it on thick about patience and understanding and how everything will be all right. Which is crap, of course, but you do a good snow job. It just won’t work on me.”

  “It’s not a snow job. If you’d rather study, feel free. There’s a table in the storeroom.”

  “So I won’t hear when you call the cops. Nope, you’re stuck with me right here.” She plunked herself on the floor with her backpack. “So. About the whispering. It can’t have been just because Jack told you I’m a thief.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.” He didn’t seem concerned. “Are you?”

  “Not at the moment. Stop avoiding my question.”

  “Sure you want the answer?” He widened his eyes and whispered, “It’s because I’m possessed.”

  Juma huffed. “The real reason, dude.”

  Gil shrugged. “That is the real reason.” God, he had a voice. His deep, beautiful tones caressed Juma’s brain. “I truly am possessed.”

  “If you say so.” What the hell? This was insane. “Come on! There’s no such thing as possession.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but that’s the only answer I have for you. My voice has a powerful effect on women. I whisper when I’d rather not have that effect.”

  Juma opened a book of twelfth-century French poetry Jack had loaned her, then closed it again. So what if this was nuts? It was also fun. “Possessed by what?”

  “Take a guess.” The phone rang. Gil took one look at the display and whispered, “Fuck.” A pause, with a glance at Juma. “I beg your pardon.” He glowered at the phone as if that would stop it from ringing.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Juma said.

  Gil shook his head, and the answering machine came on. “Gil? This is Jolene? The real-estate agent? About our appointment this afternoon? I have some wonderful homes lined up? What time should I come by? I’m looking forward to showing everything I have to you.”

  “Fuck,” Gil whispered again.

  “Sounds like it.” Juma broke out laughing, but Gil didn’t look amused. “Is she ugly or something? She’s a major up-talker, but so what?”

  “No, she’s not ugly,” Gil muttered. “She’s quite attractive, but I’m not interested.”

  “You already have a girlfriend?”

  Gil paused. Reddened. “No. And no, I’m not gay. I’m just not interested. Do your studying, will you?”

  “Maybe you’re possessed by an incubus,” Juma said. “Except that incubuses aren’t real. Neither are vampires or anything else interesting or cool. Grandma wouldn’t even let me believe in Santa Claus.”

  Gil strode over to a counter at the far side of the shop, got a lump of clay from a plastic bag, and began punching and kneading as if he wanted to murder someone.

  A half hour later, the phone rang again. Jolene had set up a bunch of home viewings and asked if Gil wanted to do lunch first. Gil cursed under his breath but didn’t pick up the phone. He had made a slew of coils, and now was piling them atop one another with unbelievable speed and skill. Juma knew this wasn’t easy. She’d about killed herself to get an A in art class at school.

  She shut the poetry book; she was getting nowhere deciphering the Old French. “Why are you buying a house? Jack says you live behind the shop.”

  “It’s for a safe house. We need a place for rescues to stay.”

  “So if you don’t want to work with Jolene, why not cancel the appointment and get a male real-estate agent instead?”

  “It’s not that simple.” He sounded miserable. Evidently, being possessed, although impossible, was no fun at all.

  The phone rang again. “Hi, Gil? I’ve made reservations at the Impractical Cat?” Pause. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you?” Juma had to give Jolene points for persistence. “I’ll pick you up at—”

  “Oh, hell!” Gil slung a coil across the room, smashing a pottery rabbit to the floor. Juma leaped for the phone.

  “Gil’s line,” she chirped. “I’m sorry, but Gil’s not available for lunch. We’ll meet you at your office at two. We’re just dying to see everything you have to offer.”

  Gil gaped at her, crushing another coil in his hand.

  “Who are you?” demanded Jolene, suddenly bitchy as all get-out.

  “I’m Gil’s intern. See you at two! B’bye!” Juma hung up in a hurry and turned to Gil. “She can’t crawl all over you with me there, and if you let me do the talking, maybe she won’t even want to. Compared to Grandma, Jolene will be a piece of cake.”

  After Tony left, Rose called the shop in Chicago to give Miles the good news, but he wasn’t in yet. Then Violet called Constantine Dufray to demand that he kill Titania.

  “Mom!” Zelda’s small breasts quivered under her T-shirt, and her fangs were full down. “Tony said not to!”

  “Tony was wrong.” Violet stormed into the kitchen with Zelda behind her. “Constantine, she’s trying to muscle her way into Bayou Gavotte. She’ll ruin everything!”

  “You woke me up for this?” Constantine’s voice was drowsy and slow.

  Zelda’s eyes were huge, and blood drizzled down her lip from where she’d pierced it with a fang. “You’re soliciting a murder!” she hissed. “On the phone!”

  “Go back to bed,” Constantine drawled.

  Violet wasn’t listening to either of them. “It’ll be worse than before you and Lep took over. She’ll break all the rules, and even the sissy clubs like Blood and Velvet will go bankrupt, because tourists won’t come here anymore.”

  Constantine’s yawn came through clearly. “Maybe when you wake up again, you’ll make sense.”

  “Bayou Gavotte will be destroyed!” Violet cried. “It’ll be all your fault!”

  The line went dead. Violet shrieked and dialed again, but the call went straight to message. She threw her phone at the wall. “Why isn’t he listening to me?”

  “Mom, you’re not thinking straight. Apart from Tony being right that it’s bad for Constantine to kill people, what if there’s a bug he didn’t find?” Zelda licked the blood off her chin. “Not that I approve of murder, but Constantine is special. We need to take care of him, not endanger him.” She gave Rose a suspicious look. “And you’d better keep your mouth shut, too.”

  “I lived with a mobster for years,” Rose said. “I won’t blab.”

  Violet glowered at Zelda and told her to get dressed for scho
ol. “Now that Rose is here, I don’t need you to keep watch.”

  “No way,” Zelda retorted. “I’m not letting you call Constantine again, and not only that, you can’t design a costume without me. You have no sense of style. Just look at that nightgown you’re wearing and the tacky underwear you sell in the club.”

  “People buy that underwear, darling,” Violet protested. “It’s one of our best sellers.”

  “Most of your customers are screwed up. And I don’t mean to be rude, but judging by her clothes, Rose doesn’t have a sense of style, either. The Elizabethan gown is amazing, but it was copied from a painting. If you want to design something from scratch, I’m going to be involved.”

  “I dress like this in the hope that no one will notice me,” Rose said. “My underwear is another thing altogether.”

  “That’s all very well, darling,” Violet said, “but dressing cheaply never works. Neither does abstinence. We vamps have to embrace our natures, not suppress them.”

  “All very well for you,” Zelda said morosely. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like at school.”

  “Not at all,” Violet said. The subject was then hashed and rehashed as, obviously, it had been many times before. They leafed through magazines. Rose sketched and Zelda fended off Violet’s worst ideas, but Rose couldn’t keep her mind off Miles.

  And Jack. With Titania.

  She called Miles again, but he still wasn’t there. An hour later, she tried once more. “Miles hasn’t shown up,” said the intern, all by herself and sounding harassed. “Have you heard from him? Is he sick?”

  “I think he had a late night,” Rose said. “Let him know I have a check for him, and tell him to give me a call.”

  She forced her mind away from Miles and refused to think about Jack and Titania. “I’ll need to shop for fabrics. We can order some things online, but others I want to see and feel.” She settled herself at the desk in Violet’s study and brought up a couple of Web sites on the computer. Zelda shoved a chair next to Rose’s and devoured an array of lace trims.