Silver-Tongued Devil
Page 32

Anyway. After that nightmare, walking into Vein was like entering an oasis. I might have a more generous attitude toward humans in general, but I preferred the company of vampire hustlers, prostitute nymphs, and mage drug dealers to being surrounded by dirt-nappers.
Speaking of vampires, Alexis sat in a booth across the bar with a few of Tanith’s lackeys. She saw me come in and held up her beer in salute, but she made no move to approach me. Thank the gods. The last thing I needed was to endure that harpy’s attention. Especially when she’d probably just use it as an excuse to gloat about the fact there’d been no more murders since she offed Tiny. She seemed the type who’d really enjoy delivering an aggressive I-told-you-so.
Earl stood at his usual station behind the bar. His ever-present dirty dishrag worked the same spot on the bar over and over, like he was trying to clean his way through the wood.
“Hey, Earl,” I said, taking a seat on one of the stools.
He nodded, Earl’s version of a warm greeting. A raised eyebrow indicated he was listening for my order.
“I’ll take a Bloody Magdalene. Make it a double.”
The other eyebrow came up to join its mate. Like all good bartenders, Earl was an excellent reader of body language. But it wouldn’t have taken an expert in behavior to figure out I was in a bad mood. A conscientious bartender made it his business to remember the preferences and habits of his customers. The small gesture told me he was recalling that since I’d been back in New York I usually stuck with imported beer. That meant the change to blood and vodka was cause for speculation.
“What?” I snapped. I didn’t mean to be bitchy, but my craving for blood made manners impossible. Ever since I’d denied my craving during sex with Adam, bagged blood wasn’t cutting it. I’d had three bags before I left the apartment, but I was still hungry.
While he went off to get the drink, I distracted myself from both my hunger and my guilt with a scan of the bar. I hadn’t seen Vein this busy since the early days of Demon Fight Club. A good sign. Also not a surprising one. If the dark races enjoyed watching two demons kick the shit out of each other, chances were good they’d go crazy over chicks on wheels having catfights.
A few moments later, Earl slid the highball in front of me with a nod. “Thanks, Earl.” I tried to infuse my tone with the apology for being short with him earlier. He didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he went back to scrubbing the bar with his gray rag.
The mix of blood, vodka, horseradish, and Tabasco hit my tongue like liquid fire. Earl’s way of letting me know he wouldn’t put up with being disrespected. I looked over to catch the bellicose vampire grinning at me like a crocodile. My eyes watered and my taste buds screamed, but I lifted my glass to acknowledge he’d won this round. Besides, once you got past the taste of burning, the drink was actually pretty delicious.
I spotted Adam making his way toward me before I’d taken my second bracing gulp. I called to Earl. “Put it on my tab, okay?”
Another eyebrow raise.
I glared back. “Slade knows I’m good for it.”
He gave me an it’s-your-funeral shrug. Then he drifted away to fill another order.
I turned to smile at Adam. With a mouthful of liquor and my hot mage filling my visual space, my mood improved considerably.
“Hey there, hottie,” he said, sidling up. “Looking for a good time?”
I swallowed and flashed a little fang. “Watch yourself, mancy.” I ran a finger down his chest. “I like to play rough.”
“Thank gods.” He leaned in and gave me a fast, hard kiss. But he pulled away quickly, a grimace tightening his full lips. Realizing he’d tasted the blood on my mouth, I quickly wiped it away.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
He took a long pull from his beer. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.”
I took a pointed sip and smacked my lips. “That’s funny. I don’t know how you can not drink it.”
“Just be sure you brush your teeth tonight. Morning breath is a fresh sea breeze compared to the hellitosis of blood breath.”
I decided it was time to change the subject before the conversation turned ugly. “Did you see Giguhl?”
He took a swig of his beer and nodded. “I believe his exact words were ‘I’m as nervous as a nun at a porn convention.’ ”
I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my drink. I always enjoyed the quality of Slade’s blood. The stuff I got from the bank did the trick nutritionally but was the bloody equivalent to eating gruel. Slade’s blood, however, was top shelf and fresh. I preferred not to ask where he got it because ignorance allowed me to have a clean conscience.
“Anyway,” he continued, “we better head down. He said if you didn’t stop by to wish him luck he’d use your favorite boots as a litter box.”
Adam reached back and grabbed my hand to pull me through the crowd. I accepted it not because I needed his help but because I loved the feeling of being connected. I’d spent too many years steamrolling through crowds on my own. Besides, with him leading the way, my eyes were free to admire his ass.
He bypassed the aluminum risers that ringed the raised track and led me toward the locker room. Just outside the steel door, Giguhl paced and chewed at his claws. He wore green sweat shorts and a ringer T-shirt that read DEMONS DIG VIOLENT CHICKS. A clipboard and a whistle rounded out the look.
“Well if it isn’t Sporty Spice,” I called.
Giguhl’s head snapped up with a scowl. But when he saw it was us, his black lips spread into a smile. “Thank Asmodeus! I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your coaching debut for anything.”
“Thanks, Red.”
“So how’s it going?”
Giguhl shook his head, making his horns cut semicircles in the air. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“You’ll be great.” I stepped in and put a hand on his huge green bicep.
“Oh, I know that.” He waved a claw. “It’s Pussy Willow. She’s mad she can’t play.”
“What? I thought she was on the team?”
“It’s the whole penis thing.” He shrugged. “Somehow the league found out she was smuggling extra equipment in her skirt. They’re refusing to bend about the whole ‘only biological females are allowed to be on teams’ thing. So I had to tell her she can’t play.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “How’d she take that?”
“She accused me of buckling under the league’s phallocentric tyranny.”
“Wait,” Adam said. “How is it phallocentric tyranny if they’re insisting on people without penises?”
The demon tilted his head down. “Really, mancy? Would you ever say something that logical to Red when she’s emotional?”
I frowned at the males. “I never get that emotional.”
Adam raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. That earned him a light punch to the ribs. “Ouch!”
“Anyway,” I said, getting back on topic, “where does she stand on all this now?”
The door to the locker room opened and a blond head poked out. “Gigi?” Pussy Willow noticed Adam and me. “Oh! Hi, guys!”
“Hey, P-Dub,” I said. “What’s shakin’?”
She laughed, the sound filled with too much bass for a female. “Didn’t you hear? I’m about to make my debut as a color commentator.” Instead of sounding bitter about the change, she seemed excited by the prospect. But before I could comment, she turned to Giguhl. “The refs said it’s time to line up.”
Giguhl snapped to attention. “Oh, gods! I’ll be right there.”
Pussy Willow waggled her fingers in farewell and ducked back inside.
“Um, Giguhl?” I said. “I hate to point out the obvious, but she didn’t seem pissed at all.” I looked at Adam, who shrugged and nodded.
Giguhl crossed his arms. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s all smiles now because I agreed to let her do color commentary for the bout, but later she’ll probably poison my food.”
“Now who’s the drama queen?” I patted him on the shoulder. “Go get ’em, tiger!”
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a claw and disappeared inside the locker room. “Is it just me,” Adam said, “or are those two sounding more and more like a married couple every time we see them?”
“Seriously,” I said. As far as I knew, their friendship was as platonic as one can be between a Mischief demon and a gay faery transvestite. Still, there was a vein of codependency there that concerned me. “But I seriously do not have the energy to analyze their dynamic right now. Let’s go find our seats.”
A few minutes later, Adam and I located spots between two nymphs and a werewolf couple. We settled in to wait for the bout to begin.
By habit, Adam’s arm came up around my shoulders. I leaned into his side and tried to enjoy my new, more optimistic attitude toward life. But I couldn’t quite relax. Being happy felt like wearing someone else’s shoes.
A few moments later, the lights fell. A cheer rose up from the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Black Light District,” Slade’s voice boomed through the arena. He stood in the announcer’s booth next to Pussy Willow. “Vein is proud to present the first-ever Hell on Wheel’s Roller Derby Night!” Cheers, clapping. “Show some love for our visiting team, the Brooklyn Bloodletters!”
Then the speakers came to life, blaring out “Roller Girls” by the Soviettes. Spotlights flashed back and forth across the rink as the Bloodletters exploded out of their locker room. They wore uniforms that resembled naughty nurse costumes. Only ripped and spattered with blood. The crowd booed the visiting team, which only seemed to egg on their antics as they lapped the track.
Once they’d reached their bench and their coach, a female vampire, the music cut off. Then, over the loudspeaker, Pussy Willow shouted: “Manhattan! Are you ready to fight?”