“Right,” she said, and wriggled over into the driver’s seat. Give Molly credit, she might be nervous, but she had learned the job of wheelman—sorry, political correctioners, wheelperson—fairly well.
I kept my right hand in my coat pocket, on the handle of my gun, hunched my shoulders against a small breath of frozen wind, and hurried to the mall entrance, my shoes crunching and squeaking on the little coating of snow. I walked toward the doors like I owned them, shoved them open like any shopper, and got a quick look around.
The mall was dark, except for the entrance and that single open shop—a little bistro with tinted windows that would have been dimly lit even when all the lights were on. I could see figures seated at tables inside and at a long dining counter and bar. They wore lots of black, and none of them looked much older than Molly, though the dim lights revealed few details.
I narrowed my eyes a bit, debating. Vampires gave off a certain amount of energy that someone like me could sense, but depending on which breed you were talking about, that energy could vary. Sometimes my sense of an approaching vampire was as overtly creepy as a child’s giggle coming from an open grave. Other times there was barely anything at all, and it registered on my senses as something as subtle as a simple, instinctive dislike for the creature in question. For White Court vamps like my half brother, there was nothing at all, unless they were doing something overtly vampiric. From outside the shop, I couldn’t tell anything.
Assuming they were vampires at all—which was a fairly large assumption. They didn’t meet up in the open like this. Vampires don’t apologize to the normal world for existing, but they don’t exactly run around auditioning for the latest reality TV shows, either.
One way to find out. I opened the door to the bistro, hand on my gun, took a step inside, holding the door open in case I needed to flee, and peered around warily at the occupants. The nearest was a pair of young men, speaking earnestly at a table over two cups of what looked like coffee and…
And they had acne. Not like disfiguring acne, or anything, just a few zits.
In case no one’s told you, here’s a monster-hunting tip for free: vampires have little to no need for Clearasil.
Seen in that light, the two young men’s costumes looked like exactly that. Costumes. They had two big cloaks, dripping a little meltwater, hung over the backs of their chairs, and I caught the distinctive aroma of weed coming from their general direction. Two kids, slipping out from the gathering to toke up and come back inside. One of them produced a candy bar from a pocket and tore into it, to the reassurance of the people who make Clearasil, I’m sure.
I looked around the room. More people. Mostly young, mostly with the thinness that goes with youth, as opposed to the leanly cadaverous kind that goes with being a bloodsucking fiend. They were mostly dressed in similar costume-style clothing, unless there had been a big sale at Goth-R-Us.
I felt my shoulders sag in relief, and I slipped my hand out of my pocket. Any time one of my bouts of constructive paranoia didn’t pan out was a good time.
“Sir,” said a gruff voice from behind me. “The mall is closed. You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”
I turned to face a squat, blocky man with watery blue eyes and no chin. He’d grown a thick, brown gold walrus mustache that emphasized rather than distracted from the lack. He had a high hairline, a brown uniform, and what looked like a cop’s weapon belt until you saw that he had a walkie-talkie where the sidearm would be, next to a tiny can of mace. His name tag read: Raymond.
“Observing suspicious activity, Raymond,” I said, and hooked my chin vaguely back at the bistro. “See that? People hanging around in the mall after hours. Weird.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Don’t I know you?”
I pursed my lips and thought. “Oh, right. Six, seven years ago, at Shoegasm.”
He grunted in recognition. “The phony psychic.”
“Consultant,” I responded. “And from what I hear, their inventory stopped shrinking. Which hadn’t happened before I showed up.”
Raymond gave me a look that would have cowed lesser men. Much, much lesser men. Like maybe fourth graders. “If you aren’t with the group, you’re gone. You want to leave, or would you rather I took care of it for you?”
“Stop,” I said, “you’re scaring me.”
Raymond’s mustache quivered. He apparently wasn’t used to people who didn’t take him seriously. Plus, I was much, much bigger than he was.
“’Allo, ’Ah-ree,” came my brother’s voice from behind me.
I turned to find Thomas there, dressed in tight black pants and a blousy red silk shirt. His shoulder-length hair was tied back in a tail with a matching red ribbon. His face didn’t look much like mine, except around the eyes and maybe the chin. Thomas was good looking the way Mozart was talented. There were people on the covers of magazines and on television and on movie screens who despaired of ever looking as good as Thomas.
On his arm was a slim young girl, quite pretty and wholesome-looking, wearing leather pants that rode low on her hips and a red bikini top, her silky brown hair artfully mussed. I recognized her from Thomas’s shop, a young woman named Sarah.
“Harry!” she said. “Oh, it’s nice to see you again.” She nudged Thomas with her hip. “Isn’t it?”
“Always,” Thomas said in his French accent, smiling.
“Hello, Mr. Raymond!” Sarah said, brightly.
Raymond scowled at me and asked Sarah, “He with you?”
“But of course,” Thomas said, in that annoying French way, giving Raymond his most brilliant smile.
Raymond grunted and took his hand away from the radio. Lucky me. I had evidently been dismissed from Raymond’s world. “I was going to tell you that I’m going to be in the parking lot, replacing a camera we’ve got down, if you need me.”
“Merci,” Thomas said, still smiling.
Raymond grunted. He gave me a sour look, picked up a toolbox from where he’d set it aside, along with his coat and a stepladder, and headed out to the parking lot.
“’Ah-ree, you know Say-rah,” Thomas said.
“Never had the pleasure of an introduction,” I said, and offered Sarah my hand.
She took it, smiling. “I take it you aren’t here to play Evernight?”
I looked from her to the costumed people. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, it’s a…game of some kind, I take it?”
“A larp,” she said.
I looked blank for a second. “Is that like a lark?”
She grinned. “Larp,” she repeated. “Live action role play.”
“Live action…vampire role play, I guess,” I said. I looked at Thomas. “And this is why you are here?”
Thomas gave me a sunny smile and nodded. “She asked me to pretend to be a vampire, just for tonight,” he said. “And straight.”
No wonder he was having a good time.
Sarah beamed at me. “Thomas never talks about his, ah, personal life. So you’re quite the man of mystery at the shop. We all speculate about you, all the time.”
I’ll just bet they did. There were times when my brother’s cover as a flamingly gay hairdresser really grated. And it wasn’t like I could go around telling people we were related—not with the White Council of Wizards at war with the Vampire Courts.
“How nice,” I told Sarah. I was never getting out of the role people had assumed for me around Thomas. “Thomas, can we talk for a moment?”
“Mais oui,” he said. He smiled at Sarah, took her hand, and gave her a little bow over it. She beamed fondly at him, and then hurried back inside.
I watched her go, in her tight pants and skimpy top, and sighed. She had an awfully appealing curve of back and hip, and just enough bounce to make the motion pleasant, and there was no way I could ever even think about flirting with her.