A Taste of Love and Evil (18 page)

“Titania stomped into the next room to make a call. Miles couldn’t hear her, but of course I did. She told someone named Gino to steal it that night, so I decided to take it myself first.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” Violet said. “Titania’s all bent out of shape because even if she’s invited to the ball, she can’t be elected queen. She can’t be in the parade at all! Only club owners are allowed to participate.” Violet preened. “Now, no more of Titania.”

Rose opened her mouth to speak. Family or no family, her fault or not, she had to finish this.

Violet put up a firm hand. “Nothing! Or I will—”

“Listen to me!” Rose stood. “She threatened me this morning, and I think she’s on her way back here, and I don’t
know what she’ll do next. I need to understand what’s going on, and I think you do, too.”

Violet scowled. “What can possibly be so important that you have to tell me now?”

“This,”
Rose said. “She told Gino, ‘This year, I’m going to be the Bayou Gavotte queen!’”

This time, Tony had to hold Violet for a good ten minutes before she stopped struggling. “I’m calm!” she hissed. “I’m fine,” she growled. “Let me go or I’ll never let you squeeze me again!”

“That’s supposed to be an inducement?” Tony didn’t release her.

“You haven’t moaned,” Zelda said. “You always moan. That’s your signal.”

“She’s too upset to get anywhere near orgasmic,” Tony said. “Bad sign. Zelda, go find something dispensable.” Zelda hurried into the kitchen, banging cupboard doors and clattering dishes, while Tony followed with the writhing Violet. Rose took up the rear.

Tony let Violet go, and Zelda offered her mother a chipped mixing bowl. “Break this.”

Vi slumped. “I don’t have the energy to break anything.” A tear glistened at the corner of her eye.

“Scream, then.” Zelda looked worried. “Let fly. Come on, Mom! This isn’t like you.”

Violet’s eyes grew huge. “If she moves into my territory, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Even Tony seemed unnerved. “Now, now, Vi. Calm down.”

“I may have to kill her,” Violet whispered. She dropped into a kitchen chair.

“Mom!” Zelda set the bowl on the table. She and Tony exchanged dismayed glances.

Violet’s eyes flicked this way and that. “I’ve never killed anyone before. I don’t know if I can!”

“Of course you can’t,” Zelda said. “You disapprove of violence, remember?”

“We can’t let her muscle her way into Bayou Gavotte. She’s tormented me ever since we were in school, and now she’ll ruin everything!” A muscle twitched below Violet’s eye. “Maybe Constantine can kill her for me. Tony, do you think he would?”

“Jesus.” Tony crossed his arms. “That boy has enough problems without his friends asking him to commit murder. You should be ashamed.”

An emotion crossed Violet’s face, but it didn’t look much like shame.

“You’re making something out of nothing,” Tony said. “It’s not easy to buy into one of the clubs, because nobody wants to sell. Does Titania have a ton of money?”

“I don’t think so,” Violet said. “She inherited some after her husbands died—actually, she probably murdered all three of them—but she gambles and she’s a spendthrift, and she never does a lick of work. That’s why I was so surprised when she dumped Iachimo Tallis. He has an endless amount of money. She should have been all over him, squeezing the life out like kudzu.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about. You need a drink.” He left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Violet raised haughty eyebrows, but Tony said, “You need to calm down, and I’m not wasting the Glenfiddich Thirty Year on a hissy fit.” He filled a glass with ice, saying calmly, “Don’t look now, but I think someone’s snooping in the backyard.”

Violet leaped to her feet, allure swirling.

“Shit, Violet,” Tony said. “Will you never learn? Show Rose the statue. That’s a decent excuse for looking at the yard.”

They all trooped over to the window. On a pedestal in the garden stood a statue of a near-naked vampire. “That’s
my sister, Ophelia,” Violet snarled. “Where is he? I don’t see anyone!”

“Me, neither,” Zelda said.

“No,” Tony said, “but I heard him when I was getting the whiskey, and I saw the cat take off across the yard. Keep talking, Vi. It would help if you smiled.”

Violet grimaced. “Ophelia’s fangs aren’t actually that big, but the sculptor worked from a photo where she was wearing fake fangs. That Bitch! If she sent someone to snoop, I’ll…I’ll…”

“Your sister’s lovely,” Rose managed, scanning the garden.

“He must be hiding someplace.” Calmly, Tony dolloped Johnnie Walker over the ice.

“Maybe he went around the side of the house,” Rose said, almost positive he hadn’t.

“I would have heard him. More likely, he’s waiting and hoping we’ll get away from the window.” Tony grinned. “And staying very, very still.”

Damn straight. If that faint shimmer below the statue’s breasts was Jack, what was he doing here?

Tony turned to Violet. “Did you hear about the Threshold?”

“I
never
want to hear about that disgusting place.”

“Some guy got inside last night and took off with a girl who’d been sold to the club for a mutilation fuck scene.”

Rose stared. “Someone was
sold?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s been known to happen. The dude also saved an underage kid who got caught trying to sneak in the back.”

“Good for him,” said Violet. “The clubs can dispense with ‘Safe’ and ‘Sane’—even though I completely disagree with such stupidity—but ‘Consensual’ is an absolute! That place will ruin Bayou Gavotte’s reputation.”

“The thing is,” Tony said, “not one person got a good look at the guy.”

Go,
Jack.
Rose suppressed a smile.

“Similar thing happened a couple of months ago. One of the regulars drugged an underage girl and set up a private ritual, but before they even got the knives sharpened, the participants were flat on the floor and the chick was gone. Nobody saw who did it then, either.”

“Good,” Violet said. “Tony, go check the garden.”

“No,” Rose said before she could stop herself. Tony gave her a look. She gathered her wits and said, “If it’s one of Titania’s spies, we don’t want her to know we’re on to him.”

Tony gave her another look. “That’s one way to play it, if it’s not too late. Move to the living room for now—it has curtains—and I’ll sweep the house for bugs.”

Tony stayed by the window, licking his fangs. Reluctantly, Rose went with the others.

What a stupid risk of exposure, not to mention a waste of time, all because he was hung up on Rose. Jack inched off the statue in deepest camo, snailed from shrub to shrub into and through the neighbor’s yard, and didn’t even downgrade to semicamo until he was half a block away.

He wasn’t just hung up. He was worried about Rose. Not just worried, frightened for her, but if anyone could protect her from Titania, Tony Karaplis—who had smiled through Violet’s window, revealing that he was yet another vampire—could. Which meant Rose didn’t need him at all.

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 phone. 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.”