No, we didn’t want to risk making it rain toads or bringing the swing set to life or turning Clyde into a heaping bucket of goldfish.
God, I hated being talked at by grown-ups.
Meanwhile, Wertheimer, on a hunt for evidence, found the black-cherry tea light, the pile of smoking ash, and a “very pretty” sword. Even from a distance, it gleamed.
No torch, though, which was weird. Where had the fire come from?
As EMTs strapped the mystery guy onto a gurney, I volunteered to ride with him to the hospital. I had questions of my own to ask. Besides, I owed him an apology, especially since it looked like he might’ve been defending us from a pal of Brad’s.
Rare as vampires were reported to be, I seriously doubted that our all being at the park tonight was a coincidence.
“Not on your life,” Zaleski declared. “You kids should be getting home.”
“But —”
“Or, Miss Morris, I’m going to have a serious conversation with your new guardians about keeping better tabs on your whereabouts. Especially after dark.”
During English, Detective Zaleski had left a message on my cell, saying that last night the unidentified man had disappeared from the hospital. Even weirder, his sword had apparently vanished from the police station.
“Keep an eye out, will ya? Don’t get me wrong. Vigilante or not, he’s not in any kind of trouble for taking out that vamp. We just want to chat . . . ask him a few questions . . . maybe try to talk him into applying to the training academy.”
When I stopped by the school library after Chem, both copies of Dracula by Bram Stoker had been checked out.
“By Vice Principal Harding,” the librarian whispered from behind her desk. Obviously, he wouldn’t be bringing them back. “I’ll put replacements on order,” she added. “But if you’re in a hurry, you might try the public library or the Web. A book that old is in the public domain. You can read it on the Internet.”
After school, Miz Morales swung by Sanguini’s on her way to meet with a chocolatier. From the break room, I heard Nora loudly greet her at the back door.
Appreciating the warning, I skedaddled to the restroom, dumped the blood from my mug into the sink, rinsed it, popped a breath mint, and zipped back to the floral sofa.
By the time Miz Morales walked in, my orange highlighter was perched over my Econ textbook. After exchanging howdys, she said, “Are you okay, Quincie? It seems like you’re always at work. You study and take almost all of your meals here. . . .”
“That’s how it’s always been,” I reminded her.
With a reluctant nod, Miz Morales changed the subject. “Nora mentioned that she’s looking for a place to rent. And you know, your house is just sitting empty, costing money.” At my questioning frown, she added, “Sorry, love. The restaurant renovation didn’t come cheap, and just the expense of reprinting the menus . . . I’m afraid the insurance company is refusing to honor your uncle’s life insurance policy.”
“He had been technically dead for a while.” I picked up my planner book from the coffee table, wishing I was in charge of my own finances. Then I glanced down at my Econ text and reconsidered.
“At least,” Miz Morales assured me, “the company is being discreet. I’m sure that once Sanguini’s is open regularly again, the books will look better, but —”
“You’re going to rent out my house?”
“You can have a few days to get used to the idea.”
“Will I be able to take your journal home with me this weekend?” Mrs. Levy asked after English class on Thursday.
I waited until the other students had left. “I can’t think of anything to say.”
“You can’t?” Mrs. Levy leaned back in her chair. “Quincie, this is your journal. It’s perfectly acceptable if you need to write about your uncle or Kieren. I just need to see some words on each page.”
I did not want to have this conversation. “Kieren?”
“I get it,” she said, tapping a pen. “You’re not the kind of soggy girl who falls apart because the boy that she cares about suddenly isn’t around anymore. You have your own life, your own goals, and other people who matter to you. That’s good. It is. But you’re still a person, and, well, not to pry, but anyone could see that you two . . .”
That we loved each other. Yeah. I already knew that.
On Friday evening, vintage dresses — black and red, chiffon and velvet, satin and silk — hung from a freestanding brass coat hanger that Miz Morales had positioned in Kieren’s room. Art Nouveau and gothic filigree costume jewelry lay artfully beside tassel teardrop hair sticks on the denim comforter. I picked up a headband with a small peacock feather attached.
“It’s called a fascinator,” Miz Morales informed me.
Good Catholic Wolf that she was, having spied me wearing Kieren’s crucifix seemed to have quieted Meara’s lingering suspicions. A few days earlier, I’d accepted her offer to help me augment my work wardrobe, and in classic wedding-planner mode, she’d eagerly taken off with my sizes and measurements.
Sanguini’s wasn’t merely a restaurant. It also doubled as a venue for the slinkiest, most glam gothic fashion show in the Southwest. Our seductively spooky hostess, Yanira, along with the waiters, bussers, and ladies and gentlemen of the bar, elevated an otherwise kitschy food-service concept to magnificent theater and cosplay.
Owner or not, I played a nightly role that might be best described as “catchall” — restocking the wait stations, cleaning spills, clearing tables, running food, replenishing hand towels and toilet paper. Not the most glitzy job, but I still had to look like I belonged.
Miz Morales had access to an endless array of eclectic stores and hefty discounts. Her choices for me were on the demure side, not that I minded. Not that I was about to emphasize to my maternal werewolf guardian that — after food and atmosphere — my restaurant’s WMD was sex appeal. Of course she’d probably figured that out for herself.
I had to admit I was having fun. It wasn’t so much playing dress-up as doing it with Kieren’s mama. I soaked up her affection, her approval.
Miz Morales held up an off-the-shoulder, sleeveless red velvet party dress with rhinestone buttons up the bodice, likely worn for a holiday wedding.
“I like it,” I said. “The material’s so heavy, though. I may turn into a sweat monster.” That wasn’t true. I’d noticed that neither heat nor cold bothered me as much as they used to, though I could sweat. But it had sounded like a human thing to say.
Around the coat hanger, I studied a black lace, empire-waist gown overlaid on a black silk slip. Lovely, but when I tried it on, the material bagged at my bust.
“I’ll get that altered for tomorrow night,” Miz Morales promised.
The last dress — a vintage black chiffon, fell an inch below the knees. The room didn’t have a mirror, so neither I nor (luckily) Meara could check out my semitranslucent reflection. But I spun, delighted by how the skirt swirled around my legs.
I only wished Kieren could’ve seen me.
When I had been drunk on blood wine, my work wardrobe had skewed more toward the sleazy than sexy, and he’d made his feelings about that known. But tonight my ensemble suggested a sassy sophistication. Like the young woman I wanted to be.
“You look too innocent for Sanguini’s,” Miz Morales observed.
I grinned. “Not for long.”
After showering, I blow-dried my hair straight and used an environmentally horrifying amount of hair spray to hold it in a swoosh shape down my back.
Then I slipped the black chiffon dress on, accenting it with the fascinator, earrings, a pair of sheer black thigh-highs, Kieren’s crucifix, and my red cowboy boots.
Tucking the vial of holy water along the base of my bra, I called it done.
“Voilà!” I announced. “One spine-chilling Cinderella.”
Meara had waited in the bedroom to coo over me, and for a moment, it felt sort of like having Mama back again. Certainly, I’d never playe
d dress-up with Uncle D.
Roberto knocked on the bedroom door before peeking at my ensemble. “Wow,” he said. “Who killed The Lawrence Welk Show?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
Sergio led me down the hall to where most of Sanguini’s staff had gathered in the dining room. He’d dressed in a black hooded cloak, complete with scythe.
“That’s an ominous look for you,” I said.
“I’ve never been management before,” he replied.
As soon as we parted the crimson drapes, Mercedes and Simone pulled me into a comforting hug. Both were Fat Lorenzo’s veterans, and they’d each left unreturned messages on my cell while the restaurant was closed.
“Oh, Quincie!” Mercedes exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Not that you have to talk about it,” Simone added. They exchanged an uncertain glance. “I mean, you can if you want to, but you shouldn’t feel like you have —”
“I’m okay — really.” I’d heard from Sergio that the staff had been buzzing nonstop about Uncle D and Brad. I also suspected that Sergio had asked everyone to keep it out of my earshot, which was fine by me. “You two look amazing!”
Simone pivoted, showing off a crushed black velvet baby-doll mini with a chunky satin bow across the bust and fringe along the skirt line.
Mercedes, who’d streaked her dark brown hair a midnight orange, glanced down at her three-inch spiked boots like she already regretted them. Mercedes, the adventurous one who’d tried the chilled baby squirrels.
As Sergio launched into a welcoming pep talk, I scanned my eerie, come-hither-looking staff, counting five new unnatural hair colors — onyx, glittery navy, deep purple, bloodred, bone-white — a few new tattoos, a few new piercings.
Xio wore a silver corset and black slit skirt with fingerless silver gloves and fishnets. Yanira — also among the unknowing infected — modeled a long nude slip with a crimson netting overlay, accented by a sheer crimson scarf. By apparent agreement, the bussers wore leather on leather and the bar staff wore chains on leather.
Jamal had won Sergio’s old job as expeditor, running the food from the kitchen to the dining room. But two of the new waiters had called in that day to quit — no notice.
After Sergio introduced Nora and Freddy, I stepped to the center of the small dance floor. I had no intention of interfering with Sergio as manager, but this I had to say for myself. “I just want to thank everyone for the cards and messages. Your love and prayers were appreciated. I’m sorry I haven’t been great about getting back to you. We had to focus on reopening the restaurant ASAP. I hope y’all understand.”
“That’s what Vaggio would’ve wanted,” Xio called.
And Mama, too, I thought as the staff burst into whoops, hollers, and applause. Forget Uncle D. Forget Bradley. I’d fret the future tomorrow. Tonight was ours!
Now and then, I’d catch sight of a tall, slender, fair-haired man and pause to make sure he wasn’t Bradley. Sometimes it would take an extra beat because of the guests’ makeup, because of the almost uniformly goth posturing. But no. Except for me, all the vampires here tonight seemed to be make-believe — at least for another two weeks.
By nine thirty, Ol’ Blue Eyes was singing “Strangers in the Night,” Sergio had ditched the flowing Grim Reaper robe to better navigate the tables, and I was running an order of spit-roasted doves to the bar. I grabbed three more tickets from Sebastian and strode — projecting calm — toward the kitchen.
Talk about an obstacle course! Many of the guests had gone to greater lengths with their wardrobes than the staff. I dodged an open bloodred umbrella, almost tripped over a raven-head cane, and nearly stumbled at the sight of a busty and bare-bellied Vampirella sporting red spandex wrapped around her torso like a slingshot.
As Xio rushed out with javelina chops, I called to Nora, “How goes it?”
“Catching up,” she replied. “By the way, we donated the meat in the freezer to a local homeless shelter.”
That made sense, and given that the squirrels had been delivered frozen and were never unwrapped, I wasn’t worried that Bradley had had a chance to contaminate the leftovers. “Any sign of Mitch?”
“Not since Tuesday,” Nora replied.
Three days ago. The media had been quiet. No new killings.
How was Mitch getting by?
Later, I scooped vanilla ice cream, topped it with brandied peaches, and, tray held high, scooted from the kitchen to the dining room.
All the tray tables had been snatched up, but I’d been running food since fifth grade. In the chaos, I decided to wing it. After blowing a quick kiss to Vaggio and Sergio’s poker buddies, the Sunday Night Sinners, at table six, I grabbed a flame lighter from the wait station and stepped carefully around the thumping tail of a Seeing Eye dog resting beneath a nearby four-top.
The midnight-blue carpet, crimson velvet drapes, and black leather all helped for sound dampening, but the dinner crowd had still become loud, well lubricated, and guests had the annoying habit of straying from their seats.
Pivoting, I accidentally bumped into one of our massive bouncers. Olek Zaleski, or maybe it was Uri, was hauling away a wannabe Nosferatu in an off-white bodysuit that looked like something out of a black-and-white movie.
The crazed customer flailed his long, pointed fingernails, screaming, “Blasphemy! Blasphemer! You’ll pay penance to the master!”
Backing around, I stepped to table nine, where two blue-haired women in their seventies were dining in full-length black gowns with high necks, long sleeves, and lace-trimmed cuffs and collars.
“Evening, ladies.” Raising the flame to the first bowl of brandied peaches and ice cream, I noticed what looked like a real human finger bone — complete with a gold wedding band — mounted on red lace and pinned to a bodice.
“It’s rude to stare,” scolded the woman wearing the macabre brooch.
As the brandy caught fire, the Nosferatu broke free and barreled past me. One of his waving arms slapped my tray up, out of my control.
As the bouncer yelled, “Look out!” I angled to catch it, only to be accidentally knocked off balance by a guy I’d noticed earlier wearing a MY NAME WAS LESTAT name tag.
Falling to the carpet, I shut my eyes and flung my left arm over my head to try to protect myself. Once the flames hit my hyper-sprayed retro ’do, it would ignite like a torch. Now debuting on Sanguini’s menu — vampire flambé.
But the impact never came. Instead, the crowd gasped, loud and awestruck, and then burst into applause. Mystified, I opened my eyes.
Standing above me was the young hunter from the neighborhood park — the one I’d sent flying into the chain-link fence and who’d slipped away from the hospital. He’d somehow caught my tray on his fingertips. “Nice crucifix,” he said.
Without missing a beat, the personable stranger delivered the flaming desserts to the Arsenic and Old Lace grannies, who twittered at him. Then, as I smoothed my chiffon skirt over my knees, he handed the tray off to Jamal and offered me a hand up.
Back on my feet, I found myself confronted by piercing green eyes. A strong jaw and cheekbones, full lips that almost crossed the line to pretty. I’d guess twenty-two years old. Just over six feet tall in a silky white, long-sleeved shirt with a banded collar, black brushed suede pants, and black cowboy boots. He had a bandage over his temple where it had been scratched by the chain link.
The dining room was still at a virtual standstill. Gawkers peeked in from the foyer and bar. Somebody whistled, and Lestat whispered to his date, “Mount Olympus called. They want their Greek god back.”
I focused on the newcomer. “What’re you doing here?”
His gaze was cautiously friendly and like he was weighing me somehow. He let go of my hand. “I’m Zachary. I’m here about a job.”
Sergio stepped between us and hired him on the spot.
Two minutes later, I’d dragged Sergio to the manager’s office.
“Are you crazy?” I
asked. “Who is this guy?” So much for my vow not to armchair-quarterback business decisions.
“Zachary is a good friend of Nora and Freddy’s. He used to work with Nora in Chicago. Freddy called him tonight, saying that we were shorthanded, and asked if he could pitch in.” Sergio slipped his cloak back on. “I forgot to mention it earlier.”
“You forgot?” I was still stuck on the used-to-work-with-Nora part. In Chicago? For the vampire? But . . . I’d assumed he was a hunter. At least it had looked that way in the park. “Don’t you think he’s too charismatic, too good-looking?”
Bam! Sergio brought the end of his scythe down hard on the concrete floor. “Lamb chop, Clark Gable was charismatic. Montgomery Clift was good-looking. We could auction off tickets to see this boy.”
As Yani seated Zachary’s first table — Lady Macbeth with three fellow Shakespearean-looking types I couldn’t specifically ID — I moved to the trainee’s side. I liked Freddy well enough and had begun to trust Nora’s judgment, but Sanguini’s was mine and no way would I just turn this rookie loose on the public unsupervised.
From just beyond the far side of the dance floor, I gestured toward his station. “That party, they’ll be predators.”
“You can tell just by looking?” Zachary asked.
I reached to adjust my fascinator headband. “Can’t you?”
He pointed at a slender girl in a nouveau Gap dress, being escorted on a leash by a macho guy with a fondness for hair gel. “She’s prey, right?”
“Don’t even get me started on the Little Red Riding Hoods.” Handing him a notepad and tray, I added, “You want to tell me what you were doing in the park? Or would you rather talk to Detective Zaleski at APD?”
“Did you not want me to save you and your friends from the vampire?” he countered, which pretty much put an end to that conversation.
For all of Zachary’s mystery-man persona and splashy looks, the other night Clyde had confirmed a pulse, so he was probably still a living being. It also seemed obvious that if Nora knew what I was, Freddy and Zachary did, too.