Secret Worlds (232 page)

“Sorry, Greta. I hate to check my human at the door, especially if I really like the one I’m wearing—and I do, big time.”

She shakes her oversized head, cheeks pulled up in a smile, and then she says, “I’d be, uh, quicker to announce yourself, see. I may, uh, not … present … an immediate, uh, threat.” Greta’s big sausage-shaped finger distracts me as she picks at a crusty wart on the side of her nose. “But, uh, well, Grumpy Kitty over there, well, he does.”

Greta hee-hee-hee’s and points the bulbous index finger at me. The teeth under her smile really need a vigorous brushing. Green and brown junk is crammed between all four front teeth, top and bottom. And in some places it’s even waving at me as she breathes. I deflect my attention from her mouth to her finger. She shakes from knees to head and a fine spray of sewer water spreads in a three foot circle around her body. I try not to think about the brown gunk hanging on to the underside of her yellow fingernail.

Greta wears the sewer well—a walking, talking atomized bouquet of sunlight-deprived stagnant water, raw-waste, sludge, damp vermin pelts, and death-rot. But that’s where she lives, under the slow moving current of drain-off, and skims food from the bottom. Greta reminds me of home.

I politely smile, and although several of the masculine genders are still staring, most have gone back to betting on an arm wrestling match about to start between a vampire and a leshy. The bulk of the bar seems to be gravitating toward their hefty wooden table in the middle of the east side of the room.

The leshy has presented himself well. They’re woodland spirits, lords of the forest, and up close and personal with gray wolves and bears. Ill-behaved buggers, they can stir up major hostility. Leshy can shrink to the size of a blade of grass, or grow as tall as tree. In human form, they are always male. In natural form, a leshy has a beard and tail of living plants, and hooves and horns like a goat. This one has chosen to weave an upper human body with its leshy lower body—all hooves, haunches, and grassy tail with a masculine upper half rippling with muscle. His hair is long and braided, eyes dark green. He has a square chin, thick neck, and full lips.

The vampire slaps the table and hammers his elbow on the wood, hand ready to grasp the opponent’s. The leshy’s elbow hits the table and strikes a musical note of wood on wood. They join hands and turn to a púca with a whistle between its lips. The fairy is a goblin at the moment. And they talk no matter the form. If I were human, a voice coming from a bear, rabbit, or a living, breathing, kitchen chair injected with an effervescent personality and great legs would be terrifying. Almost as scary as the hefty and slouchy green goblin it’s wearing now.

I turn away, brow raised, and nod an acquaintance at the bartender as I slide onto a stool. The púca’s whistle blows, and a hush washes over the dingy room as everyone stares in silence. The match intrigues the Jane in me, and I have a hard time controlling her gaze. I pound one of her fists on the bar.

“Shoot me up, will ya?” I shout to the green water sprite tending bar.

While a backlash of hisses and boos rush the crowd, the fairy moves quickly to my attention. “And what does the lady favor?”

Letting Jane’s eyes roam the room, I spy something that has promise. A leprechaun is tipping a long stemmed glass of frothing purple fluid.

“It’s two for one tonight, dearie. You up for it?”

“I’m always up for it. Question is, are you?” Jane slips the comment past me. I push one of her most worldly smiles at him.

“One for you, and one for the delightful human you’re wearing,” he says with a tinkling giggle. “I like this one, dearie. The other was rather milquetoast. Has mum seen her?”

I shake my head with an evil grin on my lips. “No, and believe me I can wait, oh, an eternity for that meeting.”

While he giggles and polishes the bar with a damp cloth, I scan the room again and spot the frothy lavender drink in the fluted glass.

“How about one of those?” I point at the drink in a wrinkled little elf’s hand. His red hair and green outfit clash horribly with the cocktail.

“Two Purple Passions,” the fairy sings, his words rolling like rustling leaves and windblown hay toward the mixer.

The elf smiles back, arms working a shaker.

The crowd around the thick wooden table on the east side of the room bursts with mixed sentiment: cheers, boos, claps, and stomps.

Jane jerks our head in that direction.

The leshy spits a robust laugh and lays a good-hearted slap on the vampire’s shoulder, and that action ejects a set of impressive canines. In a human heartbeat, the fangs snap back into place like well-oiled pistons and the vampire slams a purse of payment on the table, all contempt and resolve.

Looking more like a woodland creature now, the leshy rakes his fingers through his whimsical flora beard and stomps a hooved foot on the cement floor. He tilts his head, and grass-like hair falls across a smooth, white forehead; his sharp horns are aimed directly at the cold, dead heart of the vampire. Color flushes amusement on the leshy’s pale cheeks and flashes mischievous intent through his eyes.

A werewolf picks up the vampire’s purse and slaps it against the leshy’s chest hard enough to suggest he take his winnings and mockery elsewhere.

Leshy may be lords of the forest and friends with wolves, but in Purgatory the creature holds no weight with the werewolf. Down Under, all otherworld creatures are treated with an equal amount of discord.

The woodland fairy takes his winnings, and steps back as several others vie for a chair at the gaming table. But as the vampire rises, the leshy’s glaring eyes lock on the werewolf bouncer.

The bartender, a water sprite, sets the Purple Passions on Purgatory coasters. He swings his long green fingers at the leshy. “If he starts screaming, I’m going to be taking a
long
break, so would you like to pay up now?”

“Jeeze, I just got ’ere! Can youse guys run a tab, or what?” I love the sound of Jane’s snappy voice. I do not, however, like the horrid, keening cries a leshy is known for. It’s hard on the ears.

Although the water sprite raises a brow, he answers cordially, “Sure. Just poke the elf mixing if you need to settle.”

“Hey, can I cop a question?” Jane’s pushy words roll off my tongue like thick dark blood, and I savor the taste.

“Of course, dearie.” The bartender giggles, and it sounds like shattering crystal this time.

“Were you here the other night when the wendigo came in?”

“Don’t I wish!”

We’d evidently hit a cord.

“Yeah, it was really something,” I say and take a gulp of my drink. “First time I’d seen one and was hoping I could get some shit on him, ya know.”

The Jane in me backhands moisture from our lips.

I about freak when fairy guy slides my second drink over, plants an elbow on the bar, and leans in. “Oh, honey, you’re not going to believe this.”

“So, you mean he just packed up and left?” I ask for the umpteenth time.

After fifteen minutes of playing questions and answers with the bartender, a berserker, the funny little elf mixing drinks, and a tree nymph named Trudy, who injected mostly theory based on dramatic differences in local gossip over the last two days, we all come to one conclusion: Gaire is in the wind … again.

From what the Elf mixing the drinks told us, we gathered Gaire’s father had arrived at Purgatory within seven hours of the event and grilled all brethren of species involved in the cage fights at the establishment that evening.

One of the berserkers said Gaire’s father had paid visits to several of Vicen’s—the berserker Gaire had killed—buddies.

Trudy said several otherworld creatures told her that he’d then searched Gaire’s diner and dwelling, but came up with zilch. My bartender for the evening had added another tidbit by saying Gaire’s father made a second trip to Purgatory after all the side investigations to leave a few calling cards—round trip tokens to Alaska—should anyone have any information as to his boy’s whereabouts. Daddy added an enticing reward leading to his son’s capture, dead or alive.

Finally, just a few minutes ago, everyone agreed Gaire’s dad had left Florida as promptly as he’d arrived, but not before suggesting the locals get a move on. Daddy went all Snow White’s mamma on Gaire. He’d hired a tracker.

“Yep. The wendigo’s son passed through like a bad storm and kept on going, dearie,” the fairy bartender burbles and pulls me from my checklist of events. “I don’t think we’ll see the likes of him again, not with the price on his head. That kind of information spreads like a fire in a windy autumn field.”

I don’t like the glint of excitement in the little green creature’s eyes and open my mouth to tell him so, but Jane blurts, “Well, screw me sideways an’ twice on Sunday! Youse guys are pissin’ me off!”

If smoke could blush, I would be bright pink under Jane’s skin right now. I really need to gain a bit more control of my girl’s sudden outbursts, both physical and verbal.

“Sorry,” I mawkishly whine. My doppelganger eyes scan the group around my corner of the bar. “My host, she’s a randy one.”

The berserker belts out a laugh. “I might-could do some tamin’ and trainin’ if you’re up for it.”

Before Jane can bypass me and tell the crude creature she’s up for anything again, I say, “No, I’ll tell you like I told Vicen. I’m not interested in using my hosts unfavorably.”

The berserker smiles at me and jingles what’s probably a bunch of wish tokens in his right pocket.

I ask, “What? You takin’ up where Vicen left off?”

The berserker says, “Thought I might.”

Vicen’s human trafficking days were over, thanks to Gaire’s darkside. I was mesmerized when he waltzed into Purgatory and killed the berserker the other night. Why he killed Vicen is still a mystery. But Gaire showed himself, knowing his kind would double the price he’d already had on his head? The reason had to be pretty important to him.

Poor Gaire, whose only crime was being born—an anomaly. Bar gossip aside, killing Vicen might not have been an issue if Gaire hadn’t disobeyed his father’s conditions, breaking costly promises made in order to spare Gaire’s life. But he did. One of the locals said, and everyone at the bar confirmed, Gaire killed a human. It cost his father’s pack everything: generationally formed bonds in the otherworld communities, and acres of prime hunting ground in remote areas of the United States. The whole wendigo population was banished to Alaska where the cold weather tempers their deadly darkside—blood lust.

With a grin as nasty as a Viking home after a year of rape and pillage, the berserker says, “You sure you won’t let me take this hot little number into the sewer? Just one trip. You might enjoy it.”

Sheesh, I should cut Jane loose on this guy. It’s right up her alley, pun intended.

“I don’t think so,” I say politely. “Too much on my plate at the moment, but thanks for thinking about me.” I manage to keep the lid tight on a kettle working hard to boil over.

Eyes on the patrons, I ignore the berserker and watch as the crowd I’ve been grilling slowly bleeds out into the ruckus around me. When I notice a guy in a black hoodie heading toward the exit, a small wave of gooseflesh feels like a warning, but I shake it off and turn back to the bar.

Alfie, the water sprite, is standing on the other side of my fourth Purple Passion on the bar in front of me. “Maybe you should consider it, Luv. This one certainly has the body and brawn for it. Besides,” he says, pushing the drink my way, “you look like you could use a diversion from the norm.”

I suppose it’s a good thing alcohol, or any intoxicating drug for that matter, doesn’t work on doppelgangers. At least it tastes better than human food. I sigh, shoot the rest of the drink, and pout.

“This,” I say, fanning my hand up and down Jane’s body sitting on the barstool, “is because I’m going to look for the wendigo. I thought it might tempt him, and I’d—”

“Did I hear the word tempt?” a deep, sexy baritone asks.

Jane and I almost fall off the swivel-stool as we whip our head toward the voice.

I plant Jane’s feet on the bar floor and rake eyes over the man. His hair and skin are black, and both shine; his hair gathers a glimmer from the lighting above the bar, and his bare chest is glossy with a fine sheen of sweat. A pristine, white shirt rests over his shoulder, hooked in place by a long, thin index finger. Black Levi’s, no belt and unbuttoned, hang low and show off his muscular thighs and one side of his well-rounded ass. Jane and I both shudder like a wolf holding its prey at paw’s length.

“Yeah, you did. So what? You need some temptin’?” Jane asks, evidently tired of waiting for me to answer.

I sniff and sense otherworld, but it’s rich like creamy chocolate, and dark like spilled blood—carnivorous. The man-side of this shifter has an air of wealth and knowledge about him—aristocratic, yet I sense strength, focus, and a coldness I can’t quite get a handle on.

Mr. Sexy-Dark-and-Deadly answers with a smile and hypnotic eyes. “I heard you speak of a wendigo. Do you know this creature? He is called Gaire?”

I try to weigh my answer carefully, but Jane doesn’t comply.

“Who’s askin’, eh?” she says. Her head bounces and upper lip curls.

The shifter masquerades a scowl with a smile. “I am Vuur Asem, and they say my flames are quite lethal when inappropriately quenched. Right now, I desire an answer. Do you still wish to taunt me?”

“Shit, yeah! Bring it on, babe. I got me some lethal desire, too,” Jane says, “and Taunt is my middle name.”

Jane’s entertaining a totally inappropriate response to what I think Vuur is selling. I can feel her mind check the distance and timing it would take to grab Smith & Wesson, all hard and skin-warmed against our back. “I know the way to a man’s heart, hot stuff. See, right now, I got me a deadly desire to ride you like a—”

I shake Jane’s head like I’m a pit-bull on the other end of a pull-toy. “Hey, let’s start over, okay, um, Mr. Asem?” I try in an able, yet meek, voice. “While the game of seduction is often a fun sport, really, I’m not interested.” Jane isn’t having it. “Bullshit! I’m sprinklin’ my thong.”