A Taste of the Nightlife (3 page)

“Pamela!” he wailed. Pamela sat stiffly, attempting to look as dignified as her fang-tease outfit would allow. I saw triumph shining in her eyes and if I hadn’t hated her before, I did now.

“Sir . . .” Chet spread his arms, getting ready to either grab the drunk or herd him toward the door.

The drunk ignored him. “You let her go, you undead bastard!” Nebbish vamp went whiter than dead and knocked his chair back as he jumped to his feet. The drunk swung both arms high over his head.

Whump!

There was a smell like hot kerosene and a ball of flame the size of a watermelon burst to life between the drunk’s palms. Chet leapt back. Somebody snarled. Somebody screamed.

Well, shit.
This wasn’t just a drunk. This waswarlock with lousy taste in women.

And he was threatening to torch my restaurant, and my guests.

In the middle of dinner rush.

This was
not
how I planned to get Nightlife into
Circulation
.

“Put that out!” I shoved past my brother.

The warlock blinked at me. The flame wavered and shrank from watermelon size to cantaloupe size before he caught himself and it flared up again. “Why should I?”

Heat washed against my face. “Because, you idiot, she’s not worth it, you’re too drunk to have any damn aim, and besides, you’re going to . . .”

The alarm blared and in the next heartbeat a driving shower of white foam pelted down on the dining room. Guests shrieked and swore and dove for cover.

“Set off the sprinklers,” I finished.

2

At one in the morning, we were still apologizing.

We apologized to the police who showed up ten seconds after the deluge and began to take the deflated drunk-punk-warlock away in the special forged-iron handcuffs they keep for magic workers. We apologized to the firefighters who came to turn off the alarm and the sprinklers. I made a note of their station house so Marie-Our-Pastry-Chef could make up something special and send it over. We apologized to all the guests and took names so we could pay the dry cleaning bills. We called our reservations for the rest of the night and apologized for being unexpectedly closed and offered to reschedule.

I even apologized to the rest of the staff as I called and texted (being especially nice to Marie-Our-Pastry-Chef) to let them know what had happened. I also let them know that tomorrow we would need all hands on deck by noon to get prepped for dinner service.

We tore the kitchen and the dining room apart, looking through every place where the fire suppressant foam might possibly have collected and cleaning it out. By four a.m., we had mopped up and gotten most of the dishes washed and the linens wrung out and bagged. We’d just taken a delivery on Thursday, so thankfully we had enough clean tablecloths and napkins for Saturday dinner service.

At four thirty, I sent everybody home to get a few hours’ sleep. I’d just finished shooing Suchai out the kitchen door when I turned around and found Chet waiting behind me.

My brother looked tousled and pale. He hadn’t stopped to drink any more than I’d stopped to eat. At least we both had dry clothes. When we designed the place, we made sure there was space for employee lockers and a shower. He was back in his civvies: worn jeans and a BYT ME BEATMAN concert jersey. I was still in my uniform of white jacket and black pants, partly, I admit, because it made me feel ready to stay in the fight.

“You get too,” I told him. “It’s almost sunrise.”

Chet shrugged. “I can stay in the walk-in. You look dead.”

“Takes one to know one.” There was nothing unusual about me making my way home in the small hours. Normally, however, that was from a busy night, not from dealing with the aftermath of a magical assault.

Chet touched my shoulder. “Go home. Get some sleep.” I felt him trying to do a little of the vamp-whammy on me, and I shook him off.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep until I do an inventory.” This was a lie, although an inventory would be a good idea. But I had something else to do first.

Chet prodded a fang with his tongue, like a kid with a loose tooth. “Okay.” He gave me a careful, tightly puckered kiss on the cheek. “See you at sunset, C3.”

“G’night, C4.” Family nicknames. Our dad was Charlie Caine, so he was C1. Mom was Colleen, C2. Birth order determined my number and Chet’s.

Not that we’d been able to get Dad to talk to Chet since he’d been turned, or transitioned, or whatever the hell the current Vampirically Correct term was.

My brother retrieved his hat and jacket from his locker and left by the front door. I locked it behind him. My clogs sounded loud against the hardwood floor as I exercised owner’s privileges by going to the bar and pouring myself a very large single malt. Even with everybody gone, tension hung in the air. Maybe it was the fact that every time I looked outside I could see the massive poster for the 3-D rerelease of
Midnight Moon
, the biggest, schlockiest vampire romance movie ever made. Its big red reminder that next week was the fifth anniversary of the actor Joshua Blake’s disappearance did nothing to help. We had history—me,
Midnight Moon
, and Joshua Blake—and I didn’t need those outsized broody eyes staring at me just then.

On the other hand, maybe the problem was my restaurant just smelled wrong. There should have been a lingering warmth and the scent of spices permeating the dining room. But tonight there was just the odor of cold chemicals, with unexpectedly earthy undertones that made me wonder if we’d left some mushrooms out somewhere.

I’d started the night thinking we were on our way. We were going to get reviewed by Anatole Sevarin. We might
finally
make it. Now, I was wondering how we were going to pay for all the high-class dry cleaning and what in the hell the foodie blogs were going to say about this fiasco.

Tears pressed against the back of my eyelids. My plan was to drink until I was loose enough to start crying. If I didn’t get it out of the way now, it’d happen at some less convenient time, possibly in front of witnesses, which would not do my ego or my authority any good at all.

Somebody knocked on the door.

I looked up. A man peered through the glass front door, his expression hopeful.

Oh,
great.

I mouthed,
We’re closed!

He mouthed back.
I know.
And knocked again.

I do not deal well with slow learners at four thirty in the morning. I made a slashing gesture across my neck and then indicated with two fingers he should walk away.
That way. Now.

The Guy pulled back a little, reached into his pocket and brought out his smartphone. He tapped the screen, and my heart sank. A couple seconds later, the house phone rang. I glowered at him. He raised his eyebrows at me. I stayed resolutely where I was. After six rings came the click indicating that Robert had remembered to set the voice mail before he left. The Guy frowned at his phone and touched a couple buttons.

The ringing started again. The Guy shrugged, and waited. When the ringing stopped, he hit what must have been redial, and it started again.

At this point, I probably should have just pulled the drapes and taken my scotch back to the kitchen. Unfortunately, it is not in my nature or my training to leave unresolved problems on the doorstep. So, grinding my teeth, I stomped across to the host station and picked up.

“What?”
If you’re from the media, I swear to God I will send you back to your editor as fillet of staff reporter . . . .

The man on the other side of the window smiled sheepishly. “I’m here to apologize. May I please come in?”

This was not what you’d expect to hear from an overeager tabloid writer. “Apologize for what?”

“My cousin the flaming jackass.”

That halted thoughts of how I would debone something the size of a human male. I squinted at the Guy. The streetlight didn’t reveal any obvious family resemblance between him and the previous warlock. For one thing, I had an impression that the Guy was much taller, and much broader through the shoulders. On the other hand, during the incident, I had been far more focused on the fireball than on the person holding it.

I sighed. “Listen, I appreciate the gesture, but I would much prefer to have this conversation in the morning . . . later in the morning.”

“Please,” he said. “I need to ask some questions too. It’s a family emergency.”

My thought processes stopped in their tracks. I understood family emergencies. God knows I’d been through enough of them, and not just in my own family. Since we’d opened Nightlife, I’d watched my staff deal with everything from a line cook’s brother being in imminent danger of deportation back to a place stunningly more unpleasant than the dish room of a national restaurant chain to the time Zoe’s pet python got loose in the air shaft when her building was about to go condo.

Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I put down the receiver, undid the lock and dead bolt and opened the door.

“Thank you.” The Guy stepped inside and extended his free hand. “I’m Brendan Maddox, Ms. . . .”

“Charlotte Caine.”

Brendan Maddox either worked hard or worked out to get the shoulders that curved so nicely under his electric blue button-down shirt. Nobody came by a build like that naturally. Hats were back in style and he was wearing a sharp gray fedora, which he remembered to take off, revealing waves of black hair cut in a business-chic style. He looked to be in his midthirties, maybe a little older. His tan was natural, and his bright blue eyes were the kind you could spend a long time staring at, especially with the sweetly apologetic little smile he was flashing at me just then. He had a nice handshake too—firm without being pushy. I have strong hands and arms, and I
really
hate guys who act like they’re afraid I might break, or worse, like I might break them.

It was a very good thing my hormones were as tired as the rest of me; otherwise I might have had to care about looking like several different kinds of hell just then.

“Ms. Caine, I really do want to apologize for Dylan, my cousin, the one who . . . caused such a scene. There’s no excuse for what happened, and I wanted to let you know our family is ready to help pay for any damage he may have done.”

That was exactly the right thing to say.

“Thank you, Mr. Maddox.” I folded my arms and straightened my shoulders, so he wouldn’ think I was
completely
taken in by the charm offensive. “I’m sure our lawyer will be glad to talk to yours and see if we can come to an agreeable settlement.” His name was making memories stir. Maddox. They were somebodies, the Maddoxes. . . .

Memory kicked in. Maddox was the name of a prominent witch family from upstate. More. The Maddoxes were also one of the old vampire-hunting clans. I’d seen something about them on FlashNews recently. The name Lloyd Maddox surfaced alongside the memory of an effort to get vampires and vampirism declared illegal again. . . .

“Are you alone?” Brendan Maddox lifted his head, as if he’d just gotten a whiff of something burning.

It was a question that had my hand diving in my pocket for my cell phone. “Yes . . .”

“No.”

Maddox leapt for the shadows.
What the
hell
?
I reeled back. For a moment all I could see was a big black blur. Then it separated into two male silhouettes. One man rushed the other and they both toppled to the floor. Tables ricocheted off each other and chairs toppled over. Glassware rattled dangerously.

I yanked out my phone with one hand and slapped on the lights with the other.

Brendan Maddox knelt on a male vampire. The vamp heaved himself backward. Maddox flew through the air and rolled over the bar, taking with him two bottles of scotch, two of vodka and more glasses than I could count. The vamp flowed effortlessly to his feet as glass and booze crashed to the floor. I screamed. Maddox had vaulted back over the bar like a stuntman and raised his hands. The vamp opened his mouth and let out a full-fang hiss.

Maddox froze.

“Sevarin!”

Sevarin?
All the strength in my knees gave out, dropping me hard into the nearest upright chair.
No. Oh, no, no, no.

“Good evening, Mr. Maddox.” Sevarin made a small bow toward the warlock who’d been trying to beat the undying daylights out of him.

Anatole Sevarin is still in my dining room.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Maddox.

“This is a restaurant. I am a dining critic.” Sevarin adjusted his suit jacket cuffs. He was one of the few vamps I’ve seen who genuinely looked the part. His face was rugged, with an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a chin that could have cracked granite. A wealth of fine wrinkles surrounded his green half-moon eyes, and his face was framed by red-gold sideburns that were longer than current fashion. He wore his red-gold hair long too, and it brushed against the immaculate collar of his burgundy button-down shirt.

With a certain amount of internal chaos, I thought,
Anatole Sevarin is still in my just-been-flooded-and-closed-on-a-Friday-night dining room.