Siren Song (Blood Singer #2)

Siren Song (Blood Singer #2) Page 18

“Day pass. I take it you didn’t get my message?” I pressed the key to increase the volume to high.

“No. Sorry. Things have been a little hectic.”

“Oh, well, there’s stuff you need to know. Is this a good time?” Maybe he could hear the deeper question, because he immediately came back to full focus. It made me feel better and the fluttering things clawing at my insides calmed down.

“Absolutely. What’s up?”

I told him about the Will reading, the shooter, and the breakup of Miller & Creede. “Is that going to change your plans? I don’t have any idea whether they’re still going to honor your deal. Creede said it’s up to Miller.”

“Well, crap!” Apparently, he hadn’t known. “Goddamn it! You’d think that would come up in conversation. I just talked to Miller this morning and he didn’t say a thing. I was joining because John Creede asked me, not because of Miller. He’s a horse’s ass and doesn’t have as much talent in his whole body as Creede has in his little finger.”

“Thank him for saying so.” John was standing next to the table, a pleased smile on his face. “I’d suggest he call his attorney. Since it’s still in the verbal stage, there might be a chance to get out of the deal now. I’d enjoy forming a company with him as part of it.”

“Really?” Now Bruno’s voice sounded more than a little excited. “Hey, tell him—”

I shook my head, amused. “Why don’t you tell him? I need to use the bathroom.” I handed Creede my phone and they started talking terms. Worked for me. I’d be happy to have them team up. Bruno working in my building. That would be amazing.

By the time I got back, the phone was closed and waiting for me on the table and there was a combination plate in front of John. He lowered the fork that was halfway to his mouth and said, “Hope you don’t mind. I’m starving.”

“Me, too. Go ahead.” I sat down and picked up the old-fashioned malted glass that was obviously waiting for me. The contents were warm and smelled wonderful. But scent isn’t everything, sadly. There was an odd, metallic tinge to the smoothie and the cheese was stringy and lumpy enough to nearly make me gag.

Barbara came to the table, looking like an eager puppy, watching for my reaction. Should I lie to save her ego, or tell the truth and give them the chance to try again? I went for analytical. “Spices are about right, not too much garlic or onion. But there’s an odd metallic aftertaste. And maybe a different kind of cheese? This didn’t melt fully and I can’t do solids. At all.” Okay, good. She was taking notes and didn’t look at all offended. I breathed a sigh of relief. “But a great first attempt! Really.”

She picked up the glass even though I’d taken only a few sips. “Okay, let us give it one more go before we give up today. Just take a second.”

It was a torturous few minutes. I could smell John’s plate and watch him chew it with obvious delight, and my hunger was getting hard to resist. He wasn’t quite done with his plate before Barbara was back. “Try that,” she said with pride.

I took a tentative sip. And then another. Yum! “Wow! Not bad, Barbara! Not bad at all. I can live with this. What did you do different the second time?”

I was sipping as she spoke and nearly spit it out when I heard, “We cooked the cow blood just a little bit, to get rid of the metallic taste, and I switched to Velveeta instead of regular cheese. I don’t use it much, but it does blend better.”

“Cow blood?” I asked as my tongue conflicted with my brain and good sense.

She looked at me as though I were nuts. “Well, of course cow blood. Girl, you got to have plasma protein and there’s none better than cow. Just short of human for taste. Pig is a little better for nutrition, but there’s all those diseases they carry and you are still part human.”

It was like finding out I was eating worms and liking them. John didn’t say a word. He made a little smirk that he covered with a coffee cup. But I knew he thought it was funny. That’s okay. I had plenty of time and many ways to get him back.

I forced myself to drink the smoothie because logically she was right. But it still disturbed me to realize how good it tasted. Almost immediately, I started to feel better. I even felt my hands warming up, although I hadn’t realized they were cold until they heated. Reluctantly, I stopped myself before I licked the glass down more than a few inches.

Then Creede and I talked business, including discussing who the shooter might have been. After a little hesitation, I unbent enough to show him the curse mark and tell him what had happened . . . jeez, was it only this morning?

“And you’re sure there was no sign of the mark before then?”

“Nope.” He was holding my hand in his, palm up, running an index finger over the ugly discoloration of the mark. His touch wasn’t in the least erotic this time and I was grateful. Because if there was any chance we were going to be working together I did not need that kind of distraction.

“About the only thing that can create and hold that level of illusion for any period of time is demonic energy.”

Oh, crap. Demons. Again. I shuddered at the memory of facing off against a demon in the parking lot of Anaheim Stadium. It had been one of the most awe-inspiring and terrifying experiences of my life. I did not, ever, want to encounter the demonic again.

“I can feel a hint of it still. But that was just the masking. The curse itself isn’t demonic at all. In fact, I can’t really tell what kind of energy is behind it. But whoever or whatever cursed you was damned powerful and the curse feels old.” He shook his head and gave me a wry grin. “You do lead the most interesting life.”

“Tell me about it.”

Juan, the oldest son of the owner, was waiting tables today. I’ve known him since he was too young to carry a fully laden tray. Bright and handsome, he was wearing a starched white shirt and crisp black trousers. I smiled in greeting as he brought my third margarita to the table. Creede had excused himself to use the restroom, so Juan and I spent a couple of minutes chatting, catching up on family gossip.

I hate having my back to the door. But I didn’t have much choice when we’d arrived. When I saw Juan stiffen and heard a commotion by the door I had to turn sharply in my seat and look over my shoulder to see what had drawn everyone’s attention.

Three imposing men in hand-tailored suits had come through the front door and were peering through the gloom, obviously looking for someone in particular. As soon as I got a good look I knew they wanted either me or Creede. The man in front was George Miller. How the hell did he know we were here? Sure, Creede’s car is pretty unique, but La Cocina isn’t in a common area of town and I don’t think George had ever been here before the wake.

Juan made a noise in the back of his throat, clearly unhappy. I couldn’t blame him. You could tell from their body language that they were looking for trouble.

Miller looked angry but also like death and not even warmed over. It was obvious even in the dim lighting of the restaurant. The last time I’d seen him he’d been strikingly handsome thanks to a combination of good genetics and better plastic surgery. He kept fit, dressed in the very best hand-tailored suits, and was more fussy about his appearance than any woman I knew. Not today. Today his wide face was gray and coated with a faint sheen of sweat and there was a fine tremor to his body. His left arm hung absolutely limp at his side. When one of the servers accidentally bumped it Miller’s knees buckled beneath him. Only the lightning-quick reflexes of his men kept him from collapsing to the floor in a heap. From the corner of my eye I saw Barbara scurrying to assist, but he waved her away.

“What’s the matter with him?” Juan had paled to a shade almost as white as the tablecloth.

“Binding oaths are a bitch.”

“He broke a magic oath? Is he insane?”

“Yes. And possibly.” I took a long pull of my drink. I’d probably need it and I was glad for the restorative powers of Pablo’s mexi-shake. But unless and until they came up to the table, I was going to pretend this was just a coincidence and assume that George brought his well-coutured ass down to this neck of the woods all the time. No doubt for the huevos.

“You know about this?” I looked up and realized that Juan didn’t look like a kid anymore. He was all grown-up and ready to play bouncer if need be. I hoped he wouldn’t have to. He’s a tough kid, but I’d feel guilty as hell if anything happened to him and the M&C boys are professionals.

“A little,” I admitted. “John Creede, the man with me? Likely he’s the one who cast the oath on Miller.”

Juan started to swear, softly, under his breath. I almost couldn’t hear him and I was sitting right there, so the rest of the diners were spared. Kind of a shame. They might have learned something. He was doing a very thorough job of it. When he’d gone through his repertoire he took a deep breath. Looking me straight in the eye, he said, “I have your back. But you’re paying for any damages.”

I nodded and shifted in my seat, unfastening my denim jacket. I’d taken some of my usual armament from my car before we left the attorney’s. I always feel naked without a few weapons.

Juan stepped away from the table but didn’t go far, just a few steps away, behind the bar. He stayed there, puttering around in the general vicinity of where I knew the shotgun was kept. I don’t know what signal passed between them, but while he didn’t say a word, I noticed that Lola, his sister, had stepped out from behind the maître d’ stand and pulled on a server’s apron.

“Ms. Graves.” George Miller had come up to my table. I’d thought he looked bad from a distance—up close it was much, much worse. And the smell. Eww. Maybe it was my enhanced vampire senses, but he smelled like meat left in the sun to rot. My stomach roiled in protest even though I was holding my drink close to my nose to try to mask the stench. I moved the salsa bowl so that it sat on the table right in front of me. Pablo’s homemade salsa is really spicy. I figured the pepper smell might help. It’s strong and I don’t like it much, but it was better than the alternative.