Another One Bites the Dust (9 page)

Bergman said, “Vayl? Can we do one more test of the equipment?”

“We just did one on the dock,” Cassandra protested.

He gave her a dirty look. “It might function differently when we’re surrounded by water.”

It
was a dandy little system wherein wires, kindly sewn into our collars by our resident psychic/needlewoman, bounced some sort of wave off surrounding objects. A machine Bergman had wired to the boat then translated those signals. Ideally it would keep us from getting caught by wandering guards while we installed the surveillance cameras. We each had five of the little gadgets in our pockets, none bigger than a Tic Tac. Is it a bad thing when you need a magnifying glass to examine your examining equipment? I’m thinking maybe.

Vayl’s job, besides keeping our getaway boat buoyant enough to ferry us back to shore, was to monitor the monitor. If someone was coming, he would contact us via mouth-mint, or as Bergman liked to call it, wireless oral transmitter. We each wore minute hearing aides that allowed us to receive the communication in barbershop quartet bass, while preventing us from looking like we’d spent way too much time dancing by the speakers at a KISS concert in our intrepid youths. Vayl could also receive our messages, though we’d been cautioned against blabbing any old time we felt like it. Enhanced hearing is a common vampire trait and Vayl thought maybe we should leave any stray bad guys who might be listening out of the loop.

“You know, I could probably get us all talismans that would do the same job,” Cassandra said casually, glancing at Bergman out of the corner of her eye. My God, she was baiting him! Didn’t she know better? Especially with him wired to blow any moment, now that his invention was in the hands of a psycho? The potential for disaster suddenly spiked to orange, the same level you get when you tell a group of prom queen candidates their shoes don’t match their dresses.

Bergman’s face looked like he’d just stuck it in a vacuum-pack machine. His cheekbones may have actually touched. Concerned that if he lunged for her he would either fall out of the boat or knock a hole in the bottom, I leaned forward and patted his knee. Hard.

“She’s kidding, Bergman. Your inventions are essential to us.”

“I was not kidding,” Cassandra mumbled.

Holy crap, what has gotten into her tonight? It’s the pirate outfit; I just know it
. “Cassandra,” I mumbled back, “I know you’re, like, a millennia older than me. But trust me, this is not the time for a magic versus machine debate. Bergman is not a cat you want to poke with a stick right now.”

“Not even a little?”

With my lips still burning from my recent vamp teasing I said earnestly, “Not even.”

“Jaz, look.” Cole pointed to Chien-Lung’s yacht as we pulled up beside her. Big black letters spelled out the name “
Constance Malloy
.” “I didn’t expect that, did you?”

“Hmm. A Chinese vampire on an Irish yacht. Nope, I wouldn’t have thought it.”

Vayl maneuvered us to the back of the yacht, which opened nearly at the water’s level. Cole tied us on and the three of us unloaded right there on the mini deck. Straight through a set of glass doors we saw metal tables and benches, the crew’s mess, no doubt. It looked about as comfortable as the cafeteria at St. Mary’s Medical Center in Cleveland. At least it had a view.

Two ladders on either side of the doors led up to the main deck. I was just considering the wisdom of running up one and taking a peek when I caught a scent that made me wrinkle my nose.

“Company coming,” I whispered as I took the last cooler from Vayl.

Moments later a Hollywood-thin Asian vamp wearing a purple suit, ruffled white shirt, and shiny black shoes emerged from the glass doors as if walking onstage. Cassandra, Bergman, Cole, and I exchanged glances. Were we supposed to applaud?

“
You
are late,” he fussed, running his pinky across his forehead, where his thin black hair traversed it on its way to the opposite ear. He spoke to Cole, which pissed me off. Why is it that the jerks always assume the good-looking guy is in charge?

“Sorry about that,” I told him. I stuck out my hand, which meant I released the handle of the cooler. As expected, he caught it instantly, but he was not happy to be touching the menial’s equipment. I shook his limp fist hard enough to make him wince. And he could’ve broken my back without breaking a sweat. Theoretically at least.

I went on. “The oven caught fire while we were baking the cheese puffs and it took us forever to put it out. You know how cheese likes to burn.” I smiled, letting go of the other handle to adjust my bandana. Oops! Now he held the entire cooler. He put it down and wiped his hands on his violet slacks.

He looked down his nose at me, not an easy feat considering I had him by a good five inches. “I know nothing about cheese,” he said. As I began to speak again he held up a hand. “Moreover, I wish to know nothing about cheese.”

Moreover? Who says that?
“What a lovely outfit,” I said, pouring every ounce of sarcasm I could muster into the statement. “Where did you find such a stellar suit?”

He totally missed my undercurrent as he began to preen. “Oh, this old rag? I just picked it up at a little men’s store called Frierman’s. The tailor there is a genius. But then, you don’t look as if you could afford his wares.”

Okay, this guy is obviously color blind
and
a social leper. I may have to kill him now
. “If you would just point us to the kitchen?”

“You mean the galley?” he asked with a superior little sniff.

Cassandra slid in front of me before I could act on my brilliant plan to tie an anchor around the twit’s neck and toss him overboard. She shoved a box in his hands and picked up the cooler. “If you would be so kind,” she said.

He swished toward the doors, followed by my crew, with me lagging behind. Vayl cleared his throat. I glanced over my shoulder. He made three short gestures that clearly meant
Get in. Get out. Don’t screw up
. I made a gesture of my own that was also quite clear. Unfortunately he took me literally and I think I left him in a state of rising excitement.

The twit led us through the doors into the crew’s mess. Beyond the tables a stainless-steel counter separated the dining area from the
galley.
“What a lovely kitchen,” I said as the twit scowled at me and Cassandra hid a smile. I opened the fridge, checked out the cabinets. “Very . . . organized.”

The twit set his box down on the counter. “Chien-Lung is quite particular about cleanliness,” he told me sternly. “Please see that you straighten up after yourselves before you leave.”

“Why certainly. We are here but to serve.” I gave him a bow with just enough angle on it to let him know if he ever hit the Midwest, nine of ten farmers would agree he had a cob up his ass. He sniffed and tossed his head, perhaps wishing he had long curls that would allow him to emphasize the huffy. He left through a large arched doorway at the other end of the galley. Having studied the plans of this particular vessel before we left, I knew he was taking a twisting ramp up to the main deck.

Together we unloaded the goodies. Vamps may not require delicious layouts of shrimp cocktail, bite-sized crackers topped with funky green veggies, and gallons of margaritas to survive, but they sure do relish them. (Hah! Pun intended!) By the time we finished, the galley resembled a behind-the-scenes Food Network show. I half expected an abnormally thin TV chef to step out of the broom closet and start breaking down the recipe for the mini kebobs.

“I’m starving,” Cole said, his hands full of small square brownies. “And since there’s no room on the tray for these . . .” He popped them all into his mouth.

“Cole!” Cassandra smacked him on the shoulder.

“Wha—?” When he opened his mouth all you could see was half-chewed goo.

“How old
are
you?” I demanded. I threw a shrimp at him and it got stuck in his tangle of wig hair. Bergman fished it out, wiped it off, and put it back on the serving dish.

“Now,
that
is disgusting,” said Cassandra.

“Children!” Vayl’s voice boomed in our ears, loud and sudden enough to make us all jump guiltily. “I trust you are performing actual work right now.”

“Chill out, Vayl,” I replied. “Bergman is just conducting an experiment to see how vampires respond to ingesting brown hair dye.”

“That makes me curious, Vayl,” said Cole in a sticky, goodie-between-the-gums voice that reminded me of Winnie the Pooh after a major honey binge. “Have you ever colored your hair? You know blonds have more fun.”

“Not when they are in the hospital.”

Cole suddenly struck a pose that bore a remarkable resemblance to the twit. “What a meanie bo-beanie. God.”

We all spent the next three minutes swallowing huge peals of laughter, and when one did escape, disguising it as a cough. Before we were done our eyes were streaming and we were hacking like a bunch of cigarette hounds. Some people play video games when they stress. Some people kick their dogs, beat their spouses, have heart attacks. I laugh. Usually at exactly the wrong moment. Apparently my crew had caught the bug. But it worked. It was, in fact, just what we needed to help us relax into our assigned roles.

Having consulted Yetta’s map and figured out where to situate all the goodies, we grabbed the boxes marked “table coverings,” threw the booze, a few trays, and the tableware on a cart, and hoofed it upstairs.

We emerged in a huge open space divided into a formal dining room at the back, an entertainment area complete with baby grand in the front quarter, and a conversation corner in which someone had arranged two overstuffed couches and six chairs around a fake fireplace. The decor combined gleaming maple with rich blues and just a touch of ivory. Uh-huh, fancy.

We headed toward a set of open glass doors that led to the main deck. Cole stopped at the serve-yourself bar just outside the doors to stock up and attach a couple of cameras. A built-in awning provided protection from the weather, but it stood at least ten feet above the deck, so no cameras there. Gold silk had been wound around the railing, which meant anything we attached there could be covered by the blowing material, discovered by whoever cleaned up in the morning, or butt rubbed right into the bay. Everything else was portable. Straight-backed chairs lined up to starboard, waiting-room style. To port, two bare and embarrassed-looking buffet tables waited for our touch.

“Time to explore,” I murmured. Cassandra nodded, and while she and Bergman began wind proofing the tablecloths I went back to the galley. Grabbing a tray full of dime-sized sandwiches, I headed through the arch once again. But instead of taking the ramp, I went down the adjoining hall. Passing several closed doors that led to crew quarters, I walked to the very end, where metal steps led me up two levels to the pilothouse.

What a sight. Recessed lighting combined with maple cabinetry and state-of-the-art navigational equipment to make the place resemble a cruise ship. At the very least I expected to find some bored young sailor babysitting a bank of inactive dials while the captain spent his evening on land. But the room practically echoed.

“Huh.” We’d seen no staff while we were in the galley and I’d encountered nobody while I was on their turf. Had Lung sent them all ashore?

Well, hey, if the wind was blowing my way, I sure wasn’t going to turn my head and spit. I planted a camera and took a different set of stairs to the guest level, where a long hall carpeted in blue Berber offered up all kinds of options in shiny arched doors with glowing gold latches. After knocking lightly on the first one to my right, I inched it open and looked inside. Empty. I left a camera near the porthole and moved across the hall. I’d just opened the door when Vayl said urgently, “Jaz, someone is coming.”

Crap!
I slipped into the room, closed the door behind me, and scoped the place out. Bed against the wall wearing black sheets and matching pillows, topped by a red velvet throw. Black bedside table with built-in lamp. Mirrored closet to the left. I checked inside. Definitely no room for me unless I found another place for the shiny silk suits and neat lines of shoes. Look at all those loafers! The guy was definitely gay.

I reached for Grief, realized I held a tray full of party food in my shooting hand, and by then it was too late. I turned to face the door as it swung open and the twit walked in.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“We were told to bring a tray of sandwiches to this room,” I said, smiling politely as I switched it to my left hand.

“I did not order anything,” he snapped.

“Well, she definitely told us to bring it here.” I could see him mentally thumbing through the list of possible women to whom I could be referring. It must’ve been pretty short, because within seconds he was considering me with less irritation and more interest.

“Pengfei must know I like chicken salad with my brunettes.”

He moved toward me and I backed up, wishing for more room to maneuver. “Now, wait a minute,” I said, my heart beating so hard I was surprised my bra straps didn’t snap. “The caterers
provide
the food. We aren’t food ourselves.” I didn’t want to smoke the creep. It would so compromise the mission, and I’d done enough of that last time around.

I’d run out of floor space, so I stepped up onto the bed. The twit continued to stalk me, enjoying his abbreviated hunt, sure of the outcome.