“I said unless she needs me, I could use a few days to wrap up the show stuff.” I looked at him. “In other words, I lied.”
“So we have a few days?”
“We do. And the stripper room at that motel is booked for one of them.”
SORRY SEEMS TO BE THE HARDEST WORD
“Looks like someone made a wrong turn on her way to Yorkville,” Rudy grunted as his bar door swung open, a blast of October air rushing in.
“Close the fucking—” someone began.
The complainer stopped and murmured an apology that almost sounded genuine. That’s what made me twist on my stool to look. The newcomer did indeed look as if she’d gotten lost on her way to the fashionable shopping district. She was in her early forties, long designer coat pulled tight, knee-high boots under it, short copper hair perfectly coiffed, as if the gusts outside didn’t dare disturb it.
As her gaze swept Miller’s, I swear every guy sat up straighter, even the ones so drunk they needed to prop themselves on their elbows to do it. Part of that was because she was an attractive woman. Mostly, though, it was for the same reason one had apologized—because something about her said they damn well better. A bar filled with supernaturals—half of whom look like they’d rob their grandma for beer money—but when she walked in, they straightened and squirmed like errant schoolboys.
She strode across the hardwood floor, heels clicking. I was impressed. I’ve never been able to manage that sound effect in here, where the sheer amount of old booze and vomit underfoot sticks to my boots with every step.
“If you’re looking for the wine bar—” Rudy began.
“I would love the wine bar,” she said. Her accent was French. France, not Quebec. Old, aristocratic French. Very old. Very aristocratic. “In fact, I’m quite certain I would prefer to chug boxed wine in the alley next door. However, the person I am meeting seems to be quite comfortable here. Which does not surprise me one bit.”
I lifted my beer. “Hey, Cass. Found the place okay, I see?”
“No, I do not find the place ‘okay,’ Zoe, as I’m sure you knew when you told me to meet you here.”
“Rudy? Meet Cass. Cassandra DuCharme.”
Up until this moment, Rudy had been the guy in the bar who didn’t quail under Cass’s haughty stare. When she’d been insulting his bar, he’d looked about ready to toss her out on her ass. Now he stopped, bar towel hanging from his fingers. It took him a moment to close his mouth.
“Ms. DuCharme.” He hurried from behind the bar and extended a beefy hand. “Rudy. Sorry about the, uh …” He waved around the bar. “The mess. We had a party last night, and I haven’t quite finished cleaning the place up.”
I peered about. Miller’s looked exactly as it has every day for the last fifteen years. In all that time, I’d never heard Rudy apologize for it. Now he was wiping off a stool and offering Cass some Cristal he “kept in the back.” He kept Cristal in the back?
I could say he was tripping over himself to be nice because Cassandra DuCharme is a vampire. But so am I. The difference, as I’m sure he’d point out, is that Cass is a real vampire—the kind that other supernaturals imagine when you say the V word. Hell, even other vampires aspire to be Cassandra DuCharme. She embodies the romantic sophistication of the stereotype with none of the broody angst. Also, she’s a stone-cold bitch. Who doesn’t want to be a bitch? Well, me, for one. But that’s why the joke in Miller’s is that there are no vampires in Toronto, because Zoe Takano doesn’t count.
“I don’t believe we’re staying,” Cass said when Rudy offered the Cristal.
I opened my mouth.
“No,” she said. “We aren’t staying.” She started for the door.
“I haven’t finished my beer.”
“Bring it.”
“Haven’t paid for it, either.”
She growled under her breath, stalked back to the bar, and slapped down an American twenty. I mouthed for Rudy to apply the rest to my tab, but he was too busy gaping at Cass to even pick up the money—another first for Rudy. He didn’t even give me shit for absconding with his glass.
“There is a wine bar up the road,” I said as we stepped out. “And a fetish bar the other way. I’m fond of the fetish one myself.”
“I’m sure you are. As I believe I tried to indicate on the phone, this is a private conversation, Zoe. We’re going to your apartment.”
She swept off, coat fluttering behind her. I let her get twenty feet before calling, “Wrong way!”
She glowered, spun on her heel, and headed back as I went to hail us a cab.
If I was still using oxygen, I’m sure I’d have been holding my breath as we walked into my apartment. I’m very proud of my place. I spent two decades in Toronto before I found just the right apartment, high above the city, with an amazing view. Then I’d set about decorating it just as slowly, each piece chosen with exquisite care.
With anyone else I’d have rested easy, knowing they’d be impressed. But Cass makes her unliving dealing in art and antiques. I consider myself something of an expert in old stuff, too—I’m a thief, specializing in artifacts. Both are excellent occupations for people who’ve been around a few hundred years. But as confident as I am in my expertise, I’m not on Cass’s level, and I watched her walking around my apartment, waiting for her to snark.
“Nice,” she said, sounding surprised.
“Thank you.” I should have left it there, but I couldn’t. “Any suggestions?”
She took a slow look around. “The sake jug doesn’t fit. It’s a very nice piece of folk art, though. Meiji period?”
I nodded.
“I would suggest a teakettle from the same period. I saw a beautiful tetsubin one last week. Octangular. Silver inlaid handle. I could provide you with the seller’s information.”
I said I’d take it. She was right about the sake jug. As much as I liked it, I’d known it didn’t quite fit.
“Also,” she said, “I’d get rid of the human hiding in your bathroom.”
“I’m not hiding,” said a voice from the hall. “I was using the toilet. Do you want to check?”
A young woman walked out. I’d say “a teenage girl,” but she hates being called that, even if, at nineteen, Brittany technically still is one. I’d forgotten she’d be here—she often used my place as a crash pad following afternoon classes.
“Who’s the vamp?” she asked as she strolled in.
“What makes you think I’m a vampire?” Cass said.
“Because I wasn’t making any noise,” Brittany replied. “You sensed me. Ergo, a vampire.”
“Brittany’s an ex-slayer,” I said.
Cass turned to me, as if she’d misheard. “A what?”
“Former vampire slayer. Well, she never actually got around to slaying one, but that was her plan. I dissuaded her.”
Brittany gave me a look that said she might be un-dissuaded if I kept introducing her that way. It was like having your mom tell people you wanted to grow up to be a rock star.
“She wants to work for the council someday,” I said. “I’m training her to fight.”
I braced myself for Cass to make some sly remark about Brittany’s chances improving if she found a new trainer. Yet she resisted, which only made me more anxious. Cass was being nice. Cass wanted something. Shit.
“Speaking of the council …” Cass made herself comfortable, while managing not to inflict a single wrinkle on her outfit. “I need to speak to you about an opportunity there. Perhaps your young friend should be on her way?”
“The council?” Brittany plopped into the chair nearest Cass. “Hell, no. What’s your connect—” She stopped and her eyes rounded. “You’re Cassandra DuCharme. Holy fucking shit.”