Bite Marks (33 page)

Plus, we’d heard from Martha. Only our mission had succeeded. NASA had taken hard knocks in California and Madrid, from which it wouldn’t soon recover. So Roldan’s stock had just doubled, making the Valencian Weres the newest, worst threat to national security. Bad news for the good guys.

Especially considering Cassandra’s vision. More than ever before I worried for the safety of my team. In light of Pete and Ethan’s deaths, I’d pleaded with them all to go home. Let Vayl and I tackle the next leg of this quest alone, especially since it wouldn’t be an Agency-sanctioned mission. Only Cassandra had agreed to fly back to the States, and I still thought the main reason was because Dave had called to let her know he was about to come home for a couple of months. At least she was taking Jack along. Now I wouldn’t have to worry about him becoming possessed too.

A knock at the door. “Occupied!” It opened anyway. “What the hell?” Vayl said, “I have sent the others into Canberra to secure transportation for us to Sydney and, from there, to Marrakesh. They will be, how do you say, crashing at a hotel in the city afterward.” I leaned against the wall. So tired. What was that saying? Yeah, I guess I could sleep when I was dead.

“Okay. Wait, you sent what others?” I strained to hear. Was that a coat dropping to the floor?

“All of them.”

“It takes four people to book plane tickets?”

“No. But it takes one person to watch Cole and another to monitor Kyphas; therefore, I sent the lot.” Yup, that sounded like a belt buckle. “Where’s Jack?”

“In the backyard.”

“And Astral?”

“Locked in Bergman’s room with orders not to slide beneath the crack.”

“Wow. You got rid of everybody.”

I tried to ignore the Inner Bimbo, who was chuckling and noting that elimination was kinda his job. The librarian was also waving for my attention. She wanted to tidy up the piles of unshelved experiences.

Tabitha’s demise. Ruvin’s quiet exit. Cassandra’s Ufran-trance, during which she chose the new shaman.

The call we’d made to Martha after. The tears we’d shed for Pete before agreeing to lay low until she could set up new deep cover offices. We hadn’t told her about the plan to find the Rocenz, or that we’d need to travel to Morocco to do it. Just let her know we’d do our best to be back for the funeral. But I wanted to leave all of that until the hot water ran cold. I figured I had ten minutes left. That was all I wanted. Ten minutes of—

“May I join you?” Silky request that sounded more like an invitation from the other side of the shower curtain.

“Yeah.”

I just stared at him for a while after he’d stepped into the tub. Already he’d taught me the pleasure of patience. Anticipation. I watched the water droplets trickle down his shoulders, nestle in the hair of his chest, emphasize the muscles of his thighs.

“You look amazing. If I were an artist, I would totally paint you.” The sides of his lips quirked. “Perhaps I should purchase you a set of brushes.”

“But I can’t—”

“Ahhh, surely you could think of other uses for them?”

He pulled me into his arms, his hands, his skin warm against mine, his lips and tongue all working to remind me that crap was always lying around in a steaming pile. But I could sidestep it if I wanted. Get wet and soapy with a gorgeous vampire and remind myself why life could be good. If I decided it should be.

We’d decided to spend the first hour of our wait for the Odeam team stuffing our faces at Wirdilling’s one and only eatery. But as I stood beside Vayl at the end of a row of connected gray-faced shops, contemplating what might be the scariest little pub in the southern hemisphere, I told myself I wasn’t that hungry. Because apparently somewhere nearby lurked a kickass fishing lake that people liked to visit during the warmer seasons. They didn’t always come prepared, so some bright businessman had decided to build a bait shop. And then stick a pub called Crindertab’s on the end of it. At least I hoped it hadn’t developed the other way.

The bait shop had a closed sign hanging from its faded green door. We weren’t so lucky with Crindertab’s. Its entry, peeling paint so old it probably contained enough lead to line a bunker, had one small window that allowed enough dim light to emerge to convince us the place was inhabited. I looked over my shoulder, longing to join Jack and Astral in the Wheezer, where they regarded each other warily from opposite ends of the interior.

Vayl opened the door. A tsunami of country music burst out of the opening, reminding me of all the reasons that I hated eating out.

I spun around. “I’ll have mine to go. Salad. Italian dressing. Lotsa crackers.” Vayl’s hand on my arm stopped me, unaccountably made my ribs itch. “I refuse to endure these tortures alone.”

His nod directed my attention to a setup to the left of the door. Which was when I realized the owner of the voice wailing Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” sat behind a fold-out table, all but the top of her silver bangs hidden behind a bank of karaoke equipment.

Okay, this is just too weird to miss.
But the ash-gray walls covered with framed pictures of old stamps (uniformed man and woman in a background of red, Pink Floydesque flowers about to eat each other, pissed-off Victoria holding her scepter in one hand and a Christmas ornament in the other) didn’t increase my appetite as I followed Vayl to a long wooden table in the corner whose top looked like it had been hammered by the boot heels of thousands of drunken cowboys.

I dodged a little girl who was speeding toward the bathroom. Barefoot. A couple of sets of old folks laughed at her progress, and I thought she’d come to eat with them. Until a plump waitress with black roots glaring out of her bleached-blond hair slammed through the kitchen doors and yelled, “Alice!

Gitchyer shoes on! Bloody hell, you’ll have the health inspectors down my throat in a minute!

“Don’t mind my daughter,” she told me when she caught me gaping. “She doesn’t bite. Much!” She grinned and moved on, leaving me to scope out the rest of the clientele. Who were even older than Alice’s ungrandfolks. Ah, but they loved those wail-and-woof songs. Much foot-tapping and head-bobbing after the microphone changed hands and a man’s voice began to sing a George Jones classic. His face hid behind a speaker but his stick-legs, covered by faded jeans and scuffed boots, entertained by pulling a few Elvis moves under the table as he belted, “Son she was hotter than a two dollar pistol, she was the fastest thing around.”

Vayl had taken his place at the head of the table. I sat to his left and Cole took the empty chair next to mine. He nodded toward the couples’ gams, two-stepping joyously while their upper bodies played hide-and-seek with the electronics. “So, have we just seen the ultimate in performance anxiety?” I shook my head. “That may be the most bizarre thing I’ve witnessed all day.”

“Do you think they’ll let me sing?” asked Cole.

“No!”

Before Cole could protest, Bergman dusted the crumbs off his seat and plonked his butt down opposite me. “Somebody’s a collector,” he said, nodding to the stamp prints.

“Or a pack rat,” Cassandra suggested as she sank down beside him, pointing out a shelf running all the way around the room about twelve inches below the ceiling. It sagged so badly under its load of fake plants, old tins, and cracked china that I was glad I’d chosen a middle-of-the-room chair.

Cole pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wadded his gum up in it. “If you could collect anything, what would it be?” he asked. Raising his hand like he meant for the teacher to pick him next, he twirled it around in the air a few times before pointing it at Bergman.

He answered instantly. “Girls’ phone numbers.”

Cole grinned. “I might be able to help you there. How about you, Lucille?”

“I don’t see the point,” I said. “Whatever it was would sit there gathering dust I’d never have time to wipe off.”

Alice’s mum came to take our orders. Her round, cheery face lifted my spirits instantly. I searched her with the extra sense that had come after my first death. Nope. No powers on her. She was just naturally fun to be around.

“G’day!” she said joyfully in that broad accent so many Americans confused for British. “It’s too bloody cold for camping. Tourists?” she guessed.

Vayl gave her his tight-lipped smile.
His
accent was so slight you hardly even noticed it unless he was upset. But as soon as he began talking I could see her trying to place his origin. “We are from Hollywood,” he said. “Our company, Shoot-Yeah Productions, is planning to do a film here next summer. Perhaps you have heard of us?”

As she shook her head, her mouth ratcheting open in a suitable show of awe, Cole added, “We specialize in action films starring some of America’s hottest new stars. And we’re always looking for fresh new faces.” His grin told her she might just be the freshest he’d seen yet. He stuck out his hand.

“My name’s Thor Long-fellow.”

“Well, isn’t that exciting?” she said as she gave it a dainty shake. “I’m Polly Smythe. Are you looking for extras? I can scream like bloody murder. Wanna hear?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Cassandra. “Unfortunately our casting director had to stay back in California. He’s deathly afraid of wallabies. Oddly enough, he has no problem with crocodiles. But the wallabies make him crazy. Poor thing.”

All during Cassandra’s comment, delivered in a serious but angelic manner, Cole’s face had brightened to Jonathan-apple red as he struggled to hold back his laughter.

“Crazy, huh?” said Polly, frowning at the eccentricities of western Americans.

Cassandra nodded her head gravely. “He saw one at the zoo last year and spent the next week in the hospital. ‘Giant hopping rats!’ he kept squealing, rather like a Tourette’s patient. Only he doesn’t have Tourette’s, does he?” she asked Cole.

“No,” Cole squeaked, shaking his head rapidly as little gasps of overripe giggles escaped his quivering lips.

“Oh. Well, that is too bad.” Polly glanced down at the pad in her hand, remembered why she’d come to the table in the first place, and said, “What can I get for you today?”
A diaper for Cole, because he’s not going to be able to hold it in much longer.

“You going to be all right there, dude?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“Do you want me to order for you?”

Another nod.

So I did. And after Polly left, Cole buried his face in a pile of napkins and leaned under the table, leaving the rest of us to pretend that our companion made a habit of howling into paper products before every meal.

The food sucked less than the music, though it left me with such a greasy-spoon aftertaste that Vayl suggested a walk might settle my stomach. Leaving a few bills on the table he told our desserting crew,

“We will meet you at the rental house.”

Within moments we’d left Crindertab’s and he’d pulled me around the corner into an empty side street.

He pressed me up against the stone wall. “It has been too long,” he breathed as his lips grazed my nose, cheeks, chin. His cane began a slow slide up my leg.

I swallowed a burp. My breath tasted like fish and chips. Great. I didn’t even know if he liked Murray cod. And I’d run out of mints somewhere between Sydney and Canberra. Also my chest itched like I’d dipped the girls in formaldehyde before strapping on a wool bra for the evening. I hadn’t felt less sexy since I’d broken my ankle in ninth grade and watched them pull the cast off to reveal—ugh. I still shudder to remember that moment. Me, sitting on the patient’s table hiding my face while Dave (who’d come for moral support) laughed like a wind-up clown and yelled, “Oh my God, it’s outta control! Quick, somebody call Gillette!”

I directed my words into Vayl’s chest, trying to ignore his roving hands, not to mention that tiger-carved treasure tickling my calf, as I said, “It’s been less than twenty-four hours, you nympho.” But I missed it like crazy. And I couldn’t help comparing that setting to this one.

His island, which office gossip had branded as a working gold mine, was a private paradise in the Philippines with a white-sand beach, a redbrick house fit for a family of ten, and a series of orange groves, which Vayl laughingly said brought him a more preferable income than ore, since at least the fruit grew back. If I closed my eyes I could still feel the warm ocean breeze brushing over my skin and through my hair, following the path of Vayl’s kisses.

We’d have been there still if Pete hadn’t interrupted our bliss with his urgent, only-you-can-pull-this-off, mission and then dropped the bomb that he’d already sent our regular crew in ahead of us so no way could we refuse to go. The son of a bitch. I might’ve begun to get mad again, thinking of the danger he could’ve put my people in. But he had taken major steps to appease me. Plus, Vayl, close and real, made it tough to hold grudges.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held him tight. Because it felt like floating to snuggle with someone who cared that much. And rubbing against his buttons was even better than scratching. He seemed to like it too.

“To the house,” he said hoarsely, taking my hand.

“To the car first,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere without my weapons bag.” And once we got there, Jack did such a pathetic you-should-walk-me tail drag that we decided to take him and Astral too.

Night had fallen while we’d eaten. And enough streetlamps had been broken or left bulbless that it was easy for us to move through the shadows without being seen. Because of that, Wirdilling should’ve felt like a sheltering hand, hiding us from unwelcome eyes. Except its bones were shattered. And maybe its spirit too. Plastic bags and dented beer cans littered the street outside the single row of stores that passed for downtown.

To the left of Crindertab’s sat a beauty shop called JoJo’s with a sun-bleached picture of Hugh Jackman taped to the front window to encourage guys, as well as gals, to take advantage of their no appointments needed! policy. The organized client could stop into the library adjacent to JoJo’s first to pick up a dust-covered book, or maybe an old issue of
New Idea
magazine from the stack I saw teetering by the front door.