Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (21 page)

“I want to talk about Saturday morning.” Mona flicked ash to the damp ground. “About Zane, and you, and what you said about the Nightshade.”

“Oh.”

Bailey would’ve been floored if not for the icky floor. Mona was talking about the Fight. It was one of the most important events, if not
the
most, of Bailey’s and Zane’s friendship. It was in fact the reason Bailey and Zane were
just
friends, and sometimes barely friends at that. How on earth had he never mentioned it to his girlfriend?

“I’ve asked him,” Mona said, as if she could read Bailey’s mind. “He wouldn’t elaborate.”

“So you’re asking me?”

“I’ll like your answer more.”

Bailey bit her lip. She wasn’t proud of that moment in her life at all, and especially now she hated revisiting it. But Bailey had definitely wronged Mona when she’d kissed Zane, so she owed her the truth. Or some of the truth. Mona didn’t need to know the real reason Bailey had been bounced to Long & Strong, but a frank account of the Fight would balance the scales.

Right?

“So,” Bailey said, “Zane and I have been friends basically since we were born. We grew up together and played together and taught each other about music and stuff.”

“The loud band,” Mona said impassively.

“For Dear Life is one of the best third-wave pop punk—okay, anyway.” Bailey cleared her throat. “Point being, I guess I always kind of wondered, you know, why he never seemed to go after any girls. I mean, I figured out early on he wasn’t gay.” She shuddered, recalling the one time she’d accidentally uncovered the search history on his laptop. “And yeah, a lot of the girls at our school kind of sucked, but not all of them did. So I didn’t get it.”

Mona nodded. “Because you were missing the obvious answer.”

Bailey’s mouth twisted as if she’d just tasted something bitter. “Luke Perez’s graduation party. It was Zane and me and a lot of cheap beer we couldn’t really handle, and we, you know—” She didn’t really know how to phrase it tactfully for the ears of the guy’s girlfriend.

“Fucked,” Mona said helpfully.

Bailey blushed. She knew that she, a feminist woman of the twenty-first century, probably shouldn’t be so precious about blunt mentions of sexuality, but still, ugh. “Um, yes,” she said after
a moment. “And after—” She hesitated. This was the part of the story that was impossible to spin in her favor. “Zane said he’d been waiting all his life for me to notice him and told me he’d be working in the Nightshade, and the money he got would help him fly out to Philly to visit me a couple times a year. He had it all worked out.”

“But?” said Mona.

“I told him—” A sick feeling rose in the back of Bailey’s throat as she remembered what came next. “I told him the bar was trashy. I told him I was going away and there wasn’t any point. Basically I told him he wasn’t good enough for me. And until a month and a half ago that was the last time I talked to my best friend.”

For a long moment Mona merely stood there, leaning against the wall and smoking her cigarette.

“I’m a totally different person now,” Bailey said hastily. “I realize how stupid and elitist and mean that was, and I know I didn’t have any fucking clue what I was talking about. If I could take it all back, I would. I totally would. And I’d kick my own ass, too, just to make the lesson stick.”

“And you didn’t—” Mona stopped short. “That’s all he told you about the bar? That he was working to save money? Nothing else?”

“I … yeah.”

Mona stomped out her cigarette. “I like you, Chen. And I like the truth. So I’m giving you a gift in kind.”

“You—what?” Bailey clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. “I mean, um, I like you, too?” It was kind of true, in the sense that she was too creeped out and/or terrified of Mona to dream of saying otherwise. “What are you going to give me?”

“The truth,” Mona said simply. “The truth is that you were right to stay away from the Whelan bars. Don’t go back. Not even if—”

Someone screamed.

Mona instantly headed back into the alley. Bailey whipped around and followed her. They saw the waitress standing frozen, holding a bag of garbage, cornered between the wall and the Dumpster by something squat and fleshy and evil.

“Tremens,” Mona said.

“What?” Bailey gaped. Impossible. It was still daytime and the sunlight stretched up to the bar’s back door, shining on the creature’s ugly exposed muscle skin.

Mona leapt forward and kicked the tremens in its side.

“Angie, get inside!” she yelled. “Chen! Get in there and mix me something.”

The waitress screamed again, dropped the garbage, and bolted for the door.

“But this can’t—” Bailey started to say. Again Mona kicked it, but the thing made an ugly snarling sound and latched on to her boot. She shook it off, hard enough to slam it against the Dumpster.

“Now! Anything! Please!”

It was the
please
that did it. Mona could kick ass—probably could bruise up that tremens pretty well—but if she was going to kill it, she needed magic. And Bailey could help her.

Inside, Bailey pushed through the crowd, ignoring the
heys
and
what the hells
, just shoving blindly until she got to the bar. Angie was hovering at the end, looking terrified, and Bailey took the opportunity to wedge her way behind to the bottles and glasses.

“It’s for Mona,” she said shortly, and started pulling together the first recipe that came to mind: Vodka. Orange juice. Ice. The one thing she knew she could make without even trying. As soon as the glasses started to glow, Bailey downed her screwdriver in a single gulp, then jerked open the lift-up bar and booked it for the back entrance. When she flung open the door, she didn’t see Mona.

“Mona!”

She was flat on the ground, pinned by two tentacles, her face
twisted in pain as a sickening mouth opened above her. Bailey reacted before she realized what she was doing.

“Get off her!”

With her superpowered arm, she pitched the second screwdriver as hard as she could at the tremens’s head. The glass glanced off its stubby face and smashed on the asphalt in a shower of citrus and ice—not enough to kill it but enough to distract it.

“Do it!” Mona yelled, pushing it off. “Now!”

“Do what?”

“Something!”
Mona had wrestled the tremens onto the shards and was grinding it down as hard as she could. “Just do it now!”

“Okay! Um, okay!”

Panic clutched Bailey’s chest—
whatdoI​dowhatdoI​do
—and then she got an idea.

“Move!”

A two-foot running start was all she needed. Bailey booked it for the middle of the alley, superstrong legs propelling her with impossible force, just as Mona released the tremens from her half nelson. As soon as she did, Bailey jumped.

With a vicious
crunch
, Bailey landed on the beast, heels first. Her shoes—her sensible, expensive, no-nonsense business-lady shoes—gouged it right between the eyes. Liquid gushed.

“Are you okay?” Bailey took a squelching step out of what used to be the tremens and what used to be her shoes.

“I’m fine.” Panting, Mona pushed herself up. “I don’t get hurt. But you …” She stared. “Not bad for a
tite pichouette
.”

“A what?” It sounded French.

Mona shook her head. “You need to get out of here, Chen.”

“Get out?” Bailey stared back at the puddle hissing around her ruined high heels. “But that was a
tremens
. In the
daylight
. The waitress saw it. This is serious. We have to tell Za—”

“You’re not telling Zane,” said Mona, “or Vincent. You’ll go
home and leave the rest to me.”

“No way.”

“I’m no fool, Chen,” said Mona. “I know why you’re here. Those people you were with—they were all wearing T-shirts with the same logo. That company that does the applicatives for your music phones.”

“Well—” Bailey frowned. “Yeah.”

“So tell anyone about what happened in this alley, and I’ll ensure that the Court knows why you were here to witness it.”

Bailey balked. “I just saved your life, you ungrateful—”

“Chen.”
Unmoved, Mona stared her down. “I know you don’t care for me. But you have to trust me.”

And with that she opened the door, zipped past Bailey, and disappeared into the crowd.

Mint leaves, sugar, lime juice. Concentrating on details always helped.

Bang
.

The door to Long & Strong flew open and Bailey jumped, but it was just Bucket returning from patrol, red cheeked from the night air but seemingly unharmed. She had spent her preshift Saturday drinking coffee and staying as alert as possible; now that she was up next for patrol, she was making herself a mojito—her ex-coworker Trina’s favorite, which would give her the power to manipulate ambient water to her will—and her hands were shaking. From caffeine or from fear, she couldn’t quite tell.

“Phew.” Bucket staggered to the bar and mimed wiping sweat from his brow.

Bailey rolled her eyes, acting more relaxed than she felt. “You’re fine.”

Bucket perked up instantly. “Damn right I am. I found three tremens and made them into dead- … mens?” He grimaced. “Oof. Even Zane would not have gone for that one.”

Bailey smirked. “You underestimate him.”

“Probably. You ready for your turn?”

“Almost.” Bailey dropped a mint sprig into the white mixture, but it wasn’t glowing. “Dammit,” she said under her breath.

“Everything okay?”

Bailey looked up. “Why? What happened?”

“Well, you put salt in your mojito, for one.”

“Shit.” Bailey dumped out the liquid and started over.

“Hey, it’s okay. Happens to everyone. Also, like, crazy shit’s been going on lately.” Bucket grabbed a fresh lime, split it with a knife, and without even being asked, squeezed out a fresh measure of juice.

“Thanks,” Bailey said. This time her mojito glowed.

Bucket shrugged. “Just looking out for a friend.”

Friend. Bucket was maybe the first friend she’d made since returning to Chicago. “Actually,” she said, “Bucket? I need to tell you something.”

“Sure.” Bucket scooped a loose strand into his mohawk, but it refused to stay put. “What’s up?”

Bailey fiddled with a paper coaster. She’d been true to her word and hadn’t breathed a word to Zane, but Bucket was different. Bucket was, after all, her friend.

“I saw one in the daytime,” she blurted out.

His eyes widened. “What? Where? How?”

“With my eyes,” Bailey said. “In the Loop the other day. I killed it but—”

“Yeah.” His complexion turned arctic pale.

“You … believe me?”

“Uh, duh,” Bucket said. “I mean, one, you were onto the delirium before anyone else even noticed, eh? And B, you’ve always got
my back, so I trust you.” He grinned weakly and Bailey felt better, demonic upsurge notwithstanding.

“Do you think it’s got something to do with Halloween?” he added.

“I was thinking that, yeah,” she said, poking her cocktail with a straw. “But that’s still not for a week. It comes but once a year, right?”

“Right. Well. I guess we’ve just gotta keep doing the job, eh?” Bucket tried and failed again to smooth his hair to its full height. “You ready to take over? I’m gonna go make myself pretty before I start tending.”

Bailey said “sure,” but he wouldn’t leave until she tagged him in, like they were wrestlers. When she finally slapped him five, he struck a dynamic pose, then practically skipped toward the bathroom.

She’d almost got the mojito to her lips when Vincent appeared at her side. “He made you do the wrestler thing, huh, kiddo?” he said.

Bailey put down her drink. “Yeah.”

“And you saw a tremens pre-twilight.”

She froze, remembering Mona’s warning.
Ah
, a little voice in her head said.
But you didn’t tell him. He told you
.

“I—yeah,” she said. “I know I sound crazy but—”

Vincent interrupted with a wave of the hand. “You know what you sound like, kiddo?”

“What?”

“Someone who asks the right questions.” Despite his blindness, Vincent had no problem navigating the back of the bar to fill the meager stream of orders. Granted, it was a slow night, but Bailey had seen sighted bartenders unable to keep up with demand. Hell, not too long ago she’d been one of them. “Been rolling it over in my head a bit. All this shit with the delirium. Got a theory, if you’ll let me bend your ear.”

“Should we wait for Bucket to come back?” she said.

Vincent shook his head. “Bucket’s a good worker, but he’s too tight with the Whelans for my liking.”

Bailey nodded, then blushed as she realized her mistake. But Vincent was already smirking.

“You tried to nod, huh? And now you’re blushing?”

“Okay,
how
could you know I’m blushing?”

“I didn’t,” said Vincent, “but that mental picture was funnier. So here’s what I’m thinking. The way I figure, you gotta go at this scientifically. If the control is the way things have always been, then that means the variables are the tremens, the environment, and us. The tremens have remained constant, and so have we, at least as far as I can tell. That means the one variable in this experiment is the environment.”