A Taste of the Nightlife (22 page)

“If you don’t, Chef Caine, it’s because you’re deluding yourself.”

Why wasn’t I getting angry? This smug little rich bitch was sitting here accusing Chet of robbing the Red Cross and selling the stolen blood out the back of
my
restaurant. And she was trying to buy me off.

The problem was, there was still the bucket in my walk-in. There was Marcus bringing Cousin Pam in the front door, maybe to meet Chet. There was how Chet got Taylor Watts a job, and how Taylor was hanging around Village bars to make mixologists nervous. These could easily be the actions of someone checking on things for the boss—things like territory and payment and purchase quotas.

“It doesn’t mean Chet’s in charge,” I said through clenched teeth. “It could just as easily be Bert Shelby at Post Mortem.”
Or the Nebbish. Don’t forget about the Nebbish. It could even be Pam herself, and Margot here is trying to orchestrate the cover-up.

Margot smiled, calm and collected for the first time this morning. She rose to her feet. “Think about my offer, Chef Caine. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” She pulled a card out of her tidy little purse and pushed it across the table to me. I put it in my pocket without looking at it.

“Tomorrow,” I said. She nodded, and left, sashaying across the dining room like she was the one who owned the place.

I couldn’t do anything but sit there and think how tomorrow was going to be the first day of the rest of my life.

Shit.

17

The Final Curtain Theater, owned and managed by Ilona St. Claire, is the kind of place that gets referred to as Off Off Broadway. Or, at least it would if a dayblood critic was permitted near it. Such people, Anatole said, did not tend to appreciate the subtleties of vampiric performance art.

“So, what’s playing?” I asked him.

“
Blood Slaughter at Sunset.
A newly transitioned playwright, making quite a stir.” Nobody can shrug as eloquently as a professional critic. “I find him overly sentimental.”

About then it began to dawn on me that this excursion might be a bad idea on more than one level. Yeah, yeah, I know.
Now
it began to dawn on me?

I assumed we’d be catching a cab, but Brendan had a car service he preferred. As he was paying, I didn’t object, and before long I was ensconced on the plush seat of a black town car with the expansive blond vampire and the intense black-haired warlock. No way I could ever tell Jess about this. She’d die from jealousy.

My big mistake, though, was deciding to dress for the theater. I’d borrowed a belted red sweater dress from Jess and a pair of sparkly gold pumps with matching purse from Trish. I was showing way more leg to the guys than I ever had before, and given our crowded conditions, I was beginning to regret it.

I did consider telling Brendan about my . . . meeting with Margot, but not for long. We all had more than enough to deal with right now, and if we didn’t we would very soon.

The Final Curtain turned out to be in Harlem, which was gutsy. Unlike most othert.

“So, this Ilona St. Claire has a little bit of attitude is what you’re saying?”

“A soupçon. Yes.”

“Wasn’t she involved in that big public meeting last year?” asked Brendan. “Where the vampires were agitating against more rights? She wanted everyone to scatter out of the city for the rural counties.”

Anatole’s smile was tight and humorless. “To reclaim the ‘unfettered, wild existence that is the true destiny of all nightbloods’? Yes. That was Ilona.”

“And this is a friend of yours?” Anatole seemed so fully at home as he was, I had trouble picturing him lurking about the moonlit woods.

“People come together for many reasons, Charlotte.” He leaned close enough for me to catch his scent of spiced cologne and fresh truffles. “Look at us.”

Brendan coughed hard. Anatole sighed and sat back. I uncrossed my ankles and crossed them again. I should have worn slacks.

As Off-Off-Broadway theaters are not noted for high operating budgets, I expected Final Curtain to be an exwarehouse or storefront. To my surprise, a renovated vaudeville palace greeted us, standing proud in its evening gown of gilt and neon. Although fully lit up on the outside, the lobby behind the glass and brass doors was absolutely dark. As Anatole directed our driver around the corner, I could see shadows moving slowly back and forth inside. My hindbrain did not like it at all.

It liked the alley with the stage door entrance even less. It was wider than the one where I’d . . . met Tommy and Julie, and didn’t have a dead end, but that pair could easily be lurking in any one of the doorways.

“Should I wait, Mr. Maddox?” the driver asked.

“Yes,” said Brendan. I ignored the way my hindbrain groveled in thanks.

We all climbed out and Anatole banged on what I had to assume was the stage door. I shifted my weight, trying to find a comfortable way to stand in my borrowed pumps. After a moment, the door opened, amazingly quietly. Despite everything, there’s still an expectation that doors into vampire hangouts should emit long, drawn-out creaks.

Of course, there was nobody visible opening it, and the space on the other side was pitch-black. Which in terms of dramatic, nerve-racking effect is almost as good.

If you run away now, you’ll never find out what’s going on,
I told myself. Then, of course, I had to remind myself why this would be bad.

Anatole stepped across the threshold without hesitation. Brendan touched my shoulder, reminding me there was another beating heart nearby. I mentally pulled on my big-girl panties and followed.

Of course the door swung shut behind us. The hollow, metallic thump and instant plunge into darkness more than made up for the lack of distressed hinges. I sucked in my breath and got the smell of dust, mushrooms and that distinctive salt-and-iron tang that you never want to get a whiff of outside a butcher shop.

A woman screamed.

I jumped about a foot and backpedaled straight into Brendan’s chest.

“Dead!” the woman shrieked. “All dead! Oh, bloody fate!”

Applause rang out. I heard a distinctive metallic
flick!
behind me and all at once I stood in a small pool of light. Magic? I whirled around to face Brendan, who held his smartphone up over his head. A virtual Zippo lighter blazed on the screen.

“Aye, bloody fate,” said a man’s doleful overenunciated voice. My eyes had adjusted enough for me to make out a patch of pale gray light over to the right that had to be the stage. “For what else can our fate be but to die, should they who are free of death choose us?”

“Nice app,” I said. Brendan grinned and although there was probably no reason to, I suddenly felt better.

“But our children!” wailed the woman. “We must avenge them!”

“There is no vengeance for us. They were taken by one who is as far beyond us as the shifting moon.”

“
Blood Slaughter at Sunset
,” murmured Brendan.

“Really, Ilona.” Anatole addressed the interior darkness. “This is an abundance of drama, even for you.”

“Occupational hazard, I’m afraid, Anatole.”

Ilona St. Claire glided out of the darkness. Unlike Anatole in his sharp, modern dress, Ilona was working with expectations. Her high-necked black evening gown looked demure, until you saw the back, which wasn’t there. At all. Her rose and bramble tattoo was . . . impressive, as were the gold rings on her gloved fingers and wrists, and dangling from her ears, and pierced through her eyebrow and nose. In the light of Brendan’s cell phone Zippo, Ilona St. Claire glittered as brightly as her theater’s exterior.

“Anatole.” Ilona slipped up close enough to him that her bodice brushed against his chest. “You must to speak with your theater critic at
Circulation
. He completely misunderstood Raymond’s work.” She ran a gloved palm across his cheek.

“. . . Rip out my heart and lay it at his feet . . .” the actress added.

Anatole gave that critic’s shrug of his. “You know my feelings about romanticizing the good old days, Ilona.”

“Your time will come soon enough!” warned the man. “Look! Even now the sun sets as the world turns to offer itself again to
him
.”

“Then give us your story, Anatole.” Ilona drew her fingers along his lips. “Tell us what it was really like.”

Anatole took her glittery finger, kissed it, and returned her hand to her side. “Perhaps I am holding out for an offer from Hollywood.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t say that to my agent.”

All Ilona’s seduction vanished, replaced by a siming frustration. She suddenly looked a lot younger too. “If you must play the fool, Anatole, could you avoid doing so in front of the daybloods?”

Anatole leaned in. “It keeps them off their guard.” It came to me that he was deliberately provoking her and I wondered again about the pair of them. The two of them, I mentally corrected myself.

Wait. What did I care whether they were a pair or not?

The patch of gray light at the corner of my vision turned deep red. Applause broke out again.

Evidently having failed to get the kind of reaction she wanted from Anatole, Ilona turned her attention to the “daybloods.” She glided up to me. Neat maneuver. Must have taken a lot of practice too, as the hem of her backless dress puddled dramatically on the floor and she didn’t once stumble. “You are Charlotte Caine. The vampire chef.”

“That nickname was not my idea.” I held out my hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”

“It is Anatole you should thank.” Ilona looked at my hand like she wondered what it was doing there. I shrugged. Okay, now I knew where we were. “Without him, you would not be here.”

“Will I blot out the sun itself with the strength of my hunger?” inquired a new actor with the heaviest Eastern European accent since the master himself. Clearly, it was monologue time in
Blood Slaughter
.

I found myself with absolutely no desire to prolong this weird little encounter. Time to be direct. “I’m trying to find out why Dylan Maddox’s body was dumped at my restaurant. Your name’s come up a couple times, so I thought you might have some ideas about who or what was behind it.”

Ilona swiveled her head to glare daggers at Anatole.

“I was surprised as anyone, Ilona,” he told her. “You have always been so discreet.” The last word came out heavily laced with grade-A sarcasm. “Is there somewhere else we could have this conversation? Somewhere perhaps you would feel comfortable providing a little illumination for your guests?”

“What do I not dare? I hunger. I thirst! These are mine, and if their bodies shall feed the soil, so their blood, their lives be reborn in the fire of my vein. . . .”

“Is this . . . normal?” I whispered to Brendan.

“I’ve heard worse,” he whispered back.

“You’re kidding.”

I should have kept my mouth shut, because now I got the full brunt of vampire glower. Studying the floor became very interesting just then, and a whole lot safer.

“Come with me.” Ilona’s disgust was plain. Keeping up the smooth, swaying glide that made me wonder if she was on Rollerblades under that dress, she led us deeper into the theater. Anatole followed her and I followed Anatole, with Brendan bringing up the rear and keeping his virtual lighter held high, so he and I could actually see where we were going. As we passed the stage wings, I could just make out the shifting backstage action—actors doing quick changes, stagehands ready with props or wheeling new bits of scenery into place. We passed a heavily pinked-up young vampire in a tight-laced, translucent nightie (white), who adjusted a corkscrew curl. Something nagged at me, and I did a double take, and staggered. Damn stupid heels.

Brendan caught me. I gripped his wrist for a split second, and then hurried ahead on tippytoes, as if that d keep a vampire from hearing me.

Because the pinked-up vamplette in the blond wig was Julie.

“Take me, then!” She announced in high, quavering tones that made her sound like a cross between a valley girl and an anxious hamster. “Reveal to me the awesome purity of your thirst!” Arms held out in front of her, Julie paced onto the stage.

Brendan was still holding on to my arm, helping guide me up the stairs. I bit my lip. I wanted to tell him what I’d seen, but not within vampire earshot. At least, not within Ilona’s earshot.

There were no lights on inside Ilona’s office, but one velvet drape had been pulled back enough to reveal half of an arched window, and enough city light entered to see by. We stepped onto plush carpet, and I could have sworn I heard a door close.

Brendan stowed his phone without looking at it. His eyes swept the room, methodically searching the shadows. Unlike its owner, the room was done up in an ultramodern style. An angular silver and crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. The desk, tables, sideboard and chairs were all glass, steel and white velvet. No wood, I noted. Anywhere. Except that other door behind the desk.

“What’s back there?” asked Brendan, nodding toward the second door.

“A closet,” replied Ilona. “Something to drink, Anatole?” She unstoppered a square decanter on the sideboard. I smelled warm blood as she poured a healthy measure of dark liquid into a matching crystal goblet.