Ashe started walking, taking the long way back to the place where she’d left her Ducati.
If she had to get busy with a stake to keep her sister fang-free, she’d do it. Still, there was due diligence. She’d at least talk to the bloodsucker before sending him straight to hell—for Holly’s sake.
I’m not a hard-assed bitch 24/7. More like 23.75/7.
As if in answer to her thoughts, she saw Caravelli’s T-Bird parked in a puddle of streetlight.
Bingo.
Chapter 12
Mad humping disease. That’s what he had. Mac hadn’t felt the drive to own a female this way since he was a teenager. As an adult, other things came into play. Career choices. Mutual goals. Educational compatibility. Family dynamics. Certainly being the same species fit in there somewhere.
The driving, dirty, have-her-at-all-costs impulse might not exactly fade with maturity, but it got diluted. It got weighed in the balance. Cooler heads prevailed.
Then he’d met Constance and somehow all that rationality had turned to ash, just like a staked vampire. Great. Whoever said they wanted their teenage years back was lying or brain-damaged. For one thing, all that cooler-heads stuff was for safety’s sake. In a world populated with divorce lawyers and other monsters, impulse control was key.
Which only part of him cared about. The rest just wanted. It wanted Constance. Naked. It was as acute as the soul hunger, a killing thirst he simply had to slake.
Was this the demon talking? The room she’d taken him to? More of her pheromones at work? He didn’t care, and that’s what scared him.
He’d forced himself to be cautious. He’d spent the day doing research, trying to figure out how best to outwit the Castle guards. He’d kept an appointment to update his will, just in case. Mostly, he was counting on Holly to come up with anti-demon mojo—and waiting.
The Empire Hotel had been beautiful once, respectable for longer, and derelict for the past forty years. It was in the heart of Spookytown, right around the corner from the Castle door. Recently, it had reopened to serve the supernatural community. Human customers were giving it a wide berth. If the werebeast clientele didn’t finish off the patrons, the food certainly would.
Mac gave up on the hunter stew—possibly made from organic hunters, safety vests and all—and turned his attention to the beer. It came from a bottle, so it was presumably safe.
The pub area reminded Mac of an old Western saloon, with wooden floors, a double swinging door, and an enormous bar decked out with marble and brass rails. He wasn’t sure who had bought the old place, but there was plenty of work to be done before the hotel would be fully restored. The rooms upstairs were still under repair.
Despite the construction dust and the dangerous cuisine, the place was hopping. About forty patrons were scattered around the tables or leaning on the bar. Someone was playing an old piano in the back corner, pounding out upbeat jazz standards. The atmosphere was feel-good rather than a serious drinker’s bar.
Mac picked up his spoon and poked at the stew again, wishing it was nontoxic. He was hungry, but he still had internal organs to think of. Plus, he hadn’t felt well since coming back from the Castle. Achy, headachy, and running a bear of a fever. In any other circumstances—like being human—he’d say he was coming down with old-fashioned flu. As it was, he could only ignore the symptoms and hope for the best.
Work was the best antidote, and this business with the Castle was as absorbing as any case. Heck, there was even a complimentary kidnapping. When Holly had called to give a report, he’d had the old thrill-of-the-chase shivers down the back of his neck. Taking it as a sign from the universe, he’d asked to meet.
On cue, the doors swung inward and Holly walked in, Caravelli at her side. Mac felt an instant dump of adrenaline hit his veins. Great. She brought the guard dog. Mac pushed his chair back, jumping to his feet. He’d run or poof to dust before he started firing silver ammo—or any other ammo—in a crowded room.
The quick move was a mistake. Caravelli leaped forward, sailing over one table and darting between the rest. Mac spun backward, putting the table between him and the vampire. He would have run farther, but the wall was in the way.
Every head in the place turned to stare, the piano music trailing off as if the tune had ripped in two. A couple of the werewolf patrons lumbered off the barstools, hitching up their pants and adjusting their baseball caps. The floor show was about to begin.
“Alessandro, what the hell are you doing?” Holly asked in the voice of a woman pushed to the edges of her patience.
Caravelli was half-across the table, poised to close the distance between him and Mac. The vampire gripped a long silver knife, the casual dress version of the broadsword. Just as deadly for stabbing, much messier and slower for beheading.
Mac held up his hands, showing they were empty of weapons. “I come in peace.”
He said it loudly enough the whole room could hear, and with an edge of sarcasm. His heart was pounding like he’d just run the four-minute mile. And to think he’d been looking forward to a quiet social drink where the only weapons were the little plastic swords that went through the olives. Like I’d ever do anything to Holly.
But he had. Mac had done her serious harm when the demon had been in control. Beneath his disappointment, he couldn’t blame Caravelli for protecting her as best he knew how.
He stole a quick glance away from the vampire, who was still poised like a macabre centerpiece. Holly was furious, her hands on her hips, glaring at the two of them. She was wearing a belted tunic and leggings that reminded Mac of Robin Hood or Peter Pan. The thought of Caravelli as Tinker Bell nearly made him laugh out loud.
Holly pointed to the chairs, her expression no-nonsense. “Sit. Both of you.”
Caravelli slowly backed off the table, sliding the knife into a sheath hidden by his jacket. Once the weapon vanished, the patrons started returning to their seats. The piano man struck up “Skylark.”
Holly threw herself into a chair, her lips compressed. “I said, sit.”
Mac complied, inching his chair back a little. Caravelli was too close for comfort, but he tried for a carefree tone. “Word of warning: stick to the drinks. The menu needs work.”
Obviously reluctant, Caravelli folded himself onto a chair, every inch the graceful predator. His gaze traveled from Holly to Mac, the vampire’s amber eyes glinting in the low lights. He leaned forward, raking his yellow stare over Mac. “I don’t agree with this meeting. You have no right to walk these streets. If you give me any excuse, I’ll finish what I started on Wednesday.”
By way of reply, Mac took a slug of his Bigfoot and stifled a belch.
“Since we’re all such good friends, I think we can skip the small talk,” said Holly, squashing the testosterone fest with a glare.
Caravelli put his hand on Holly’s. “Good. Say your piece and then we’ll leave.”
“Relax.” She looked up into his face. “Have a drink or something. You drive me crazy when you’re like this.”
Caravelli’s expression closed, as if someone had pulled the shutters tight.
Interesting. He’s going all protective, and she’s just annoyed. Vampire men were prone to territorial behavior, but what about the women? He wondered about Constance.
Holly turned back to Mac. “You look kind of ragged. Are you feeling okay?”