The woman continued, undeterred. “For those of you who are new here, I’m Jolene. Named
after a popular song made famous by the irrepressible Miss Dolly Parton.” She did
an impromptu curtsy before moving on. “My husband there, behind the bar, is Hobie.
We own this little slice of heaven you’re sitting in, The Belly Up Bar, and we’re
also the ones that thought, ‘You know what? Those kids are right. Our town has just
as many talented people as anywhere else in the state of Nevada. Some of them could
probably use a trophy and a recording contract. Some of them would
love
to have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars donated to their local school district.
Let’s remind the folks way over there in Sin City what we’re made of’.”
One old man in the corner beat his beer mug on the table approvingly, and Jolene beamed.
“Thank you, Dickie. So this is how easy it is. Come up here and sing a song. Any song.
It can be a cappella,” she lowered her voice. “That means without instruments. Or
you can take one of these guitars up here and show us what you’ve got so we can pick
a winner and send him or her to Las Vegas to represent our community. Heck, we even
rented a karaoke machine for the night. And if you don’t use it, Hobie will.” She
winked at her husband who nodded in silent agreement. “He has hidden talents. For
example, I bet y’all had no idea that when I met him he was a championship beat-boxer
in Reno.”
One of the patrons groaned and Mac felt his lips twitch.
He’d
had no idea. Hobie didn’t seem the type. He might pay to see something like that
before moving on. Who knew? It could put him in a better mood. Nothing really had
in at least fifty years, but he was willing to give this a chance.
No one moved or made a sound and Jolene’s dimples disappeared. Mac sensed her emotions
wavering, deflating like a balloon with a leak. “Doesn’t anyone want to go first?
Dickie? Kip? We won’t judge too harshly, we promise. I’ve heard a few of you sing
to the jukebox before. This is no different.”
Silence.
Mac had a sudden urge to leave. Her emotions were so strong they were affecting him.
He could feel the waves of disappointment, embarrassment and worry rolling off her,
knew she’d been waiting for this night, planning for it, for months. He was unaccountably
angry on her behalf. No one deserved to be left hanging out to dry like that. To be
made to twist in the wind because other people let you down. He, more than anyone,
knew what that was like.
Maybe he’d stop by that diner she’d mentioned and make a few
suggestions
. His last good deed before he continued on his way, reminding himself for the next
decade or so that attachments were for suckers.
He pushed back his stool to stand and his eyebrows lifted in astonishment when a bony
hand covered his on the bar. The bartender. People rarely touched him without an invitation.
Margo and Ume swore he had a menacing air.
“I paid my bill,
Hobie
,” Mac growled with extra attention to that menace, in case the man needed a double
dose. “What’s the problem?”
“Sing.” Hobie’s voice was low and surprisingly cultured, belying his scraggly appearance.
“I have a feeling in my gut that you can. Jolene has pinned all her hopes on tonight.
Our young Kip had promised to be the first one on stage to sing something he’d written
for his girlfriend. He’s good too, but he must have gotten nervous before he came
and swallowed a touch too much liquid courage. He seemed fine a few minutes ago, but
now the poor guy is drooling in the corner.”
Mac winced when he glanced over his shoulder to follow Hobie’s line of sight. Kip.
The man with the phone. The man whose brain he’d turned to temporary pudding just
moments ago. Hell.
Hobie squeezed his hand and Mac could feel him. His emotions might not be as jarring
as his wife’s, but they were powerful nonetheless. Determined. He tightened his grip.
“Drinks are on me, sir. All night long. I’ll even reopen the kitchen and make you
something special, since you look like a man who can appreciate fine cuisine. I studied
under a few master chefs in Paris once upon a time. Whatever you want, just help me
out. She pinned a lot of hoping on tonight and I can’t stand to see the woman I love
cry. I’m sure you understand that, right?”
What was that thing Saint always used to say about his gifts? Damn vampire empathy?
Of course he understood. Whether he wanted to or not. And he
was
hungry. It had been a few days since he’d had any food, any blood, or any reason
to want either.
He’d never been a glutton. In fact, resisting temptation was one of his natural gifts—so
much so his maker had often expressed jealousy at his restraint. Usually, he was also
gifted at staying out of trouble and helping others do the same. Now Hobie wanted
him to sing for his supper, so his perky peach-scented wife wouldn’t cry. Jesus, was
he that soft a touch? Had all the romance he’d been surrounded by recently ruined
him forever?
“Why the hell not?” he muttered, surprised by the words even as he spoke them. He
did love music. Always had. There’d been a time he’d been praised for his voice. A
time he’d found peace in a melody.
One song before he selfishly abandoned his castle staff and his friends for some much-needed
solitude. No one would ever know, unless Dickie had a website no one was aware of
or a hidden camera in that strange wandering eye.
He stepped away from the bar and held up his hand. “I’ll sing.”
Jolene shielded her eyes with her plump hand and gasped. “I think we have our first
entry for the night! And he’s so handsome. You know I have a thing for men with facial
hair. Look out Dickie, you may have some competition for our in-house-hottie contest.”
The old man glared at Mac, his whiskered chin practically touching his nose, his toothless
mouth all but disappearing at the offending thought. Mac shook his head. “I think
you’re safe, Dickie.”
He stomped toward the stage, cursing under his breath the entire time. All he’d wanted
was a little alone time to brood.
If that was true, you could have stayed away from this town altogether. Could have
had a midnight snack in some deserted forest. Could have—
He silenced the voice in his head with a quiet but colorful expletive.
Could have. Would have. Didn’t.
Instead he was standing on the stage, towering over Jolene who seemed more than ready
to pass him the microphone. Heart of gold, his ass. More like platinum.
Take
that
Gerard Butler.
Mac saw the acoustic guitar leaning on the wall at the back of the stage. Where had
they gotten that gem of a Gibson? He had one or two at home collecting dust, but this
one looked well loved. He reached for it, glancing at Jolene. “May I?”
She blushed, her dimples deepening. “Oh, please do. You sir, are my new hero.” She
spoke into the microphone. “Now tell me your name so I can introduce you to your audience.”
Mac grimaced. He was fairly certain Kip wouldn’t recognize him anymore, and he doubted
the others even knew computers existed. Still, just to be on the safe side… “Angus.”
He blurted out the name of his long-dead brother and then instantly wished he’d picked
something more forgettable. Like Jim or Todd. “Call me Angus.”
Jolene’s smile broadened. “I like it. Give a warm welcome to our first singer of the
night…Angus the brave!”
There was a small smattering of applause, mostly from Hobie and Jolene, but Mac didn’t
care. He wasn’t doing this for them. He spied a stool behind the ragged blue curtain
leading off stage and grabbed it, setting it down in front of the microphone. The
guitar felt like an old friend in his hand. Something that used to bring him joy.
Jolene slid the microphone into its stand and jogged quickly off the stage, leaving
him alone. He sat on the torn leather stool and plucked out a few notes with his callused
fingers. Perfectly in tune.
The lights dimmed and a bluish-white spotlight blared to life, aimed directly at his
face. He closed his eyes and frowned. It wasn’t Jolene’s fault. She didn’t know about
his sensitivity to light. Didn’t know she’d just invited a vampire onto her stage.
The poor thing had no idea what he was capable of—she just wanted someone to sing.
He kept his eyes closed and started to play what some would consider an oldie—though
there weren’t many older than he was—but it was a favorite of his.
His voice was rusty. He hadn’t belted out a tune since Thomas had gotten him drunk
on that shifter moonshine and convinced him to share some of the songs from his youth.
That had been a good night.
Until he found out he’d been on camera. Again.
Fucking cats.
But Thomas wasn’t here right now. No one was. No one knew where he’d gone—other than
Saint, who always knew but would never tell. He could just be. He could just feel,
or remember what it was like to experience the sort of gut-twisting love he’d begun
to sing about. The kind of love he’d longed for in his adolescence– that he’d thought
he found with the temptress who had created him. So long ago. Hundreds of years.
He’d never feel that way again. Never wanted to.
Mac’s voice didn’t waver when he felt the change in the air, sensed the new arrival.
Female. Her scent was pure sin.
Another bloody demon.
He was the one. Her mark. She couldn’t believe she’d been the one to find him, since
she was usually the one sent to the long-shot locales.
The song washed over her as she quietly entered the small-town bar, the male voice
full of gravel and grit, caressing her skin like the hands of a rough lover. Making
her shiver with a need she forced herself to restrain for the sake of the unwary patrons.
Son of a bitch.
He could sing
and
play the guitar? No one had mentioned that little tidbit in his file. Rose was a
sucker for musicians.
Musicians and drop-dead sexy men who looked like they were carved out of sharp rock
and bone and broken dreams. His pictures and what little video she’d had time to peruse
had not done justice to this Scotsman’s appeal.
He was big. He was bearded. He was a ginger with ice-blue eyes she wanted move closer
to appreciate.
The song he sang was soft and melancholy, his brow furrowed in a brooding expression
that she knew came naturally to him. She’d think he actually had a beating heart,
that he could feel the anguish of every word.
It was a facade. He was good, but like the rest of his kind, he was little more than
an actor camouflaged for the hunt.
Rose might be half demon, but every bit of her was alive. She had feelings. If anything,
her kind’s emotions were more intense than most humans…regardless of how they were
painted by humanity and other species. Demons had received a lot of bad press over
the years—though she would admit that when it came to the pure-blooded demons…and
a few of her half-blooded relatives—some of that bad press was deserved.
Vampires, on the other hand, were just cold, sexy corpses who—while claiming to recall
the echoes of emotion—couldn’t truly experience anything beyond arrogance, pride and
gluttony. At least, the ones she’d met. Yet they were forever romanticized in books
and movies and tween television shows. If those teenyboppers knew what the blood-drinkers
were really like… Well, they would no doubt still be in love—because the truth was,
teenagers of every species were among the stupidest, almost entirely hormone-driven
creatures on the planet.
This was a surprise for Rose, though. A first. Vampires didn’t usually sing love songs
in run-down, empty bars in the desert. Singing without the intent to seduce or mesmerize.
They never did anything without a reason.
She’d done enough of her homework to know Mac was no arrogant showman like his roommates.
Before they came into his life, he’d hardly left a footprint in hundreds of years.
And from what she’d seen of the vlog, he’d never willingly gotten in front of the
camera until that idiotic competition at his castle. Now he was being hunted by her
and others like her because of his contribution. By his elders for drawing too much
attention to himself. What had possessed him to get on this—on
any
—stage when he knew they were looking for him?
She noticed him send a look to the couple beside the bar, and the short woman responded
with a beaming, watery smile and two thumbs up.
For them
? For human strangers? How unusual. That made no sense…
Unless he’d never chosen to suppress the empathy that came with the fangs... Rose
shook her head. He was old enough to know better than that. Only a vampire who was
young and stupid, or masochistic and suicidal kept
that
switch on all the time. And he was neither.
At least, she’d been told he was neither.
Maybe she
had
been told about this weakness. The poor vamp had a hero complex. That might be what
this was about. He pretended that he wanted to be alone, that he didn’t care about
anyone, but all of his actions belied that pretense. His castle was filled with orphan
ghosts, his apartment with paranormal misfits and his life with the kind of trouble
that could only come from too many entanglements.
One too many, or her family wouldn’t have been hired.
Speaking of family…
Rose slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, feeling the cell phone’s cool metal
against her palm. She should call them. Daisy, Gardenia and the others. Let them know
she’d acquired their target.
Her phone vibrated against her palm and she twitched in surprise. Lifting it out of
her pocket, she read the text message that appeared.
He’s my friend, little Rose.
Hurt him…turn him in…and I’ll have to act
However you do have my permission to torture him.