Downbeat (Biting Love) (24 page)

And if any rich bitches at the ball crushed her happiness I’d personally kick their butts back to the Big Bang.

“All righty, sugar.” Dolly whipped off the cape. “You’re done.”

Showtime.

Chapter Fourteen

I got up, grasping the gorgeous necklace and earrings, still avoiding the mirror. Dolly draped Mom’s long satin wrap dramatically over her arms and shoulders.

The bell tinkled as we exited.

At the sound Dragan, lounging on the trunk of a sleek black car, looked up from chatting with Mrs. Weiss. His nostrils flared. “
Raquel
.” His voice rasped. His eyes on me were deepest, darkest black.

I froze at the sheer desire etched in his face.

“I knew you were beautiful, but in that ensemble you simply outshine the sun. All the women at the ball will shrivel knowing they cannot compete, and the men will be insanely jealous that you are on my arm.”

It was so over the top that I could only stutter, “Thank you?”

He opened the door to the car and handed my mother and me in. As I passed him he plucked my glasses from my face. He tossed them into the gutter with an, “Except for these. An abomination.”

“But—”

“No. Before I am done here, I swear I will destroy every pair you own.”

We drove off, leaving them behind.

Standing on the sidewalk outside Dolly Barton’s salon, Dragan awaited Raquel and her mother. Steel cooled his heels inside the car but Dragan leaned on the Mercedes E-Class modified stretch limo that he’d rented for the evening and passed the time talking with Emestine Weiss, who was waiting for her husband.

The door opened. He scented heaven and looked up as the bell rang. His heart stopped.

Raquel glided out. Even in her baggy dull clothes she was alluring. In a dress that really fit her, she was stunning.

Despite no circulation, Dragan’s body spiraled with tight heat. His very cells shouted and reached out to claim her.

He flexed his heart so that he could speak and tried to put the fullness of his feelings into words.

All she said in return was a hesitant, “Thank you.”

He shook his head to himself. She was so beautiful, but she didn’t see it, didn’t get it. Her artlessness actually made her more attractive to him. It reminded him of simpler, happier days. Happier times.

Buried in centuries of debauchery, but never gone.

Strangely, he wanted to return to those happier times—or at least to be better than he was now. For her. She made him want to give up his wild ways. Before, the only thing that made him feel like that was conducting. But now a slip of a human woman was calling to the best in him.

Almost as if she was his mate.

His heart began to race. Could it be, after all this time…? His knees buckled.

He injected steel into them, as cold as he could make it. Impossible. This was physical attraction, no different in nature if not in strength than he’d felt for ten thousand females. The alternative was too alarming on too many levels. As he opened the car door for her mother and her he kept that thought firmly in mind.

Her scent stirred the air as she passed. Sweet
máma
, it was the scent of life itself.

No. She was not, could not be his mate. Because…well, because he wasn’t ready to settle down. And even if he were, she deserved better than a hell-bound roué like him.

She deserved a male who could hold her when she laughed and when she cried. Not a conductor and spy whose activities took him across the globe on a moment’s notice. Not a vampire whose heart was black with pain and loss and sin.

He nearly turned to run away.

But no. As a member of his orchestra, no matter how temporary, she was his responsibility. He’d already taken her under his wing.

Besides, she was like a baby bird. He had so much more to teach her so that she could fly.

He’d simply have to help her fly free of him when the time came.

I slid in. Memories of another limo turned my hands to ice.

So I didn’t see much until the limo pulled up outside the magnificent double doors of the posh Avignon Francois Hotel, where even the entryway was like a palace. Then what I saw was how incredibly out of place I was.

We got out. Luke and Mom waltzed arm in arm along the red-carpeted concrete under the tunnel of awning to the gold and etched glass pieces of art they called doors.

My feet were ice now too, blocks fused to the carpet. “I can’t.”

Ever gracious, Dragan called to Mom and Luke. “I must help with Raquel’s necklace. Wait for us inside please?” He took the sapphire necklace from my nerveless fingers. “What is it?”

 
“Memories.” I swallowed, or tried to. My mouth was coated in dry gelatin. “Bad memories,” I amended.

“I can see that.” He fastened on the necklace. “Perhaps if you imagine you’re playing your flute? You’re more confident then.”

“Right.” I tried. My head filled with music, but it was a stark sound, plaintive and keening in loss. “It’s all ‘Syrinx’,” I whispered.

“The Debussy?” His gaze went far into the distance, hearing the piece in his mind, then came back to mine, dark and filled with compassion. “A song of love that is twisted and killed. Chaste Syrinx escapes Pan’s abuse by transforming into water reeds, only to be cut by him to make pan pipes. Raquel, who abused your love? Tell me.”

I was shocked. I’d never considered my little incident with Todd as quite so archetypal.

But Dragan’s understanding warmed my hands and feet. No matter what other horrors happened tonight,
he
wouldn’t treat me like Todd. “I’ll tell you, but later. I’m ready to go in now.”

He hesitated, then put a warm hand to the small of my back and guided me inside. We joined Mom and Luke in a cavern of opulence. Mom wasn’t intimidated at all. She glowed. Luke occasionally bent to her ear to make a remark, and she’d let out a peal of laughter like a girl.

Even amid my own worry, I loved seeing her happy. Occupied by Mom, Luke’s haunted expression seemed to have lifted too.

The place was huge but we finally arrived at a bank of six elevators. Even those functional doors were a daunting gold buffed to a mirror polish. The four people boarding with us, reeking of old money, sent me scurrying from Dragan’s guiding hand into the corner to cower.

Dragan joined me in my corner and, with an understanding smile, picked up my hand, gave it a pat and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “It’s all right,
drahý
.”

 
“
Drahý
,” my mother said brightly. “That’s what your father used to call me.”

“A casual endearment.” I said. “It means honey.”

“No. More. It means beloved.” She gave a happy sigh.

“And when’s the wedding?” Luke drawled.

Dragan’s high cheekbones darkened. My face wasn’t far off. Gotta love friends and relatives, otherwise you’d never want to see them again.

The elevator dinged. The rich people sashayed out and Mom and Luke sashayed right after. Dragan might have had to tug a little to get me out. Not my fault. My limbs had solidified into stone, or maybe a new kind of plastic like ethylavoidance or polyscaredshitless.

The elevator alcove opened into a hallway like an airport runway lined with bars. Opposite them, three sets of double doors stood open. The ballroom. I froze completely again.

“Would you like a drink, Raquel?” Dragan patted my hand and tried to disengage, but my polyavoidance had permanently fused my fingers to the crook of his arm.

“We’ll get them,” Luke said. “Won’t we, Trudi?”

She beamed at him. “Love to. I’ve wanted to try a bunch of fancy cocktails. Here’s my chance.”

After they’d set off for the bar Dragan looked down at me. “Shall we see what they’ve done with the ballroom?”

“No! I mean…shouldn’t we wait for Mom and Luke to come back with our drinks?”

“Raquel,” Dragan said gently. “We’ll have to go in sooner or later.”

“Later, then.”

Suddenly a sharp stink like rotten sewage rotor-rootered my nasal cavities. I stiffened.

A cart zipped by.

The breeze in its wake concussed me. My stomach wadded itself into my throat. I recognized that scent, or rather, olfactory assault.

Cheese balls—but not any old cheese balls. These were made by the Meiers Corners’s Lutheran Ladies Auxiliary Mothers Association. LLAMA balls were regulated under Article XII of the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons.

“On second thought—let’s go!” I kicked into motion after the cart, dragging Dragan with me.

He came freely, but I could hear the raised brow in his, “What’s wrong?”

I pointed at the blue-sweatered back of the figure stepping sprightly behind the wobbly creak of a badly aligned cart. “That’s Mrs. Blau. She has—” I waited for the dramatic
duh-duhhhh
music, but apparently life only has a soundtrack in my head, “—cheese balls.”

“Very interesting.” His tone said what he was really thinking:
Big deal
. Delicious cheese in a convenient shape, perfect for parties.

“Those aren’t ordinary cheese balls,” I panted. “They’re not balls containing cheese.” Or food of any kind. “Those are LLAMA cheese balls.”

“I see.”

He really didn’t. “Dragan, nobody knows what they’re made of, but it isn’t cheese. Nixie says they’re pus and mayonnaise. Liese thinks the ingredient list is much darker, like people
pâté
.”

“I see.” This time the music in his voice said I was edging toward crazy.

I backpedaled fast. “Of course, I think that’s ridiculous.” I did. It was much more likely, from their consistency, that LLAMA cheese balls were made from creamed zombie.

Mrs. Blau, wheeling the cart of doom, disappeared into the ballroom.

I chased after her, Dragan in tow. It struck me we were doing a Nixie and Julian, but even that thought didn’t slow me. “Mrs. Blau, what are you doing here?”

She glanced over her shoulder. She must have seen us bearing down on her like the grill of a semi gaining on a moped but she only said, “Oh, hello, Rocky. Isn’t this a lovely shindig?”

“Yes.” Actually, I had no idea. Somehow I’d entered the ballroom without having a meltdown. Potentially the place was a magical wonderland or a fiery hell but I was mid-ballroom and the only thing I saw was that cart. I wasn’t even worried about whether I looked like a Mud Queen to all the rich important people. It’s amazing how a little life-or-death panic can reorder priorities. I threaded white-draped tables, vaguely aware of appetizers along the far wall and a small orchestra on a stage and dance floor to my left. “Mrs. Blau. Stop a minute, please?”

“Well…just for a moment.” She creaked to a halt. “I don’t have much time. Mrs. Gruen said we had to have all these appetizers out before they serve the first course.”

Mrs. Gruen was the current LLAMA VP, confirmation if I needed it that these really were the toxic balls. “Why? I thought the hotel’s five-star restaurant was doing the catering.”

“Sure, but when we heard you were coming, given what happened last time…well.”

It was junior high, but as I said, people have long memories in the Corners.

“We united and decided to show our support.”

“You mean you brought—” I waved my hand at the cheese grenades, “—to
help
me?” I laughed feebly. Joy of joys, as if I couldn’t do a good enough job of pantsing myself on my own, now I had friends who would help.

“How kind of you to think of Raquel,” Dragan said. He’d finally gotten a whiff of the deathballs. I knew because his nostrils were drawn, as if he were trying very hard not to breathe. “But perhaps it would be better if you let hotel catering handle the job.”

“Oh, but they don’t have cheese balls,” Mrs. Blau said. “Want one?”

“Thank you. But—”

“Here you go!” She grabbed his fingers with one hand, slid a spatula under a ball with the other and flipped it onto his palm.

He pulled his hand loose at the last second. The ball slid off the spatula onto the floor, splatting like a squashed bug. There was a hiss as it began to eat through the carpet.

Dragan bent to pick it up. I grabbed at his coat sleeve, but he was too strong to stop. His fingers closed around what was left of the ball…and sank in. A hissing and bubbling as they disappeared made it look like acid dissolving flesh and bone. With a pained expression, he straightened and dropped the ball back onto its plate. Tendrils of goo stuck, and he had to shake his fingers several times before he got loose. His fingers were bright red as if the skin had indeed been seared with acid.

While we were focused on this drama, a statuesque woman in pearls and paisley steamed up, straight out of
Society Matron Monthly Magazine
, complete with lorgnette. She looked like my mother, if Mom had been one of the idle rich on
Titanic
.

It was the green lady from the restaurant. She nodded to Dragan and then tentatively at me. Apparently Dragan’s reprimand Tuesday had made an impression.