Biting Nixie (10 page)

“Okay.” This might be the Coterie Julian referred to. “But what about the
gang
?”

“Well, it's like this. These CCIC guys are not just your usual business fartzecutives. They also run one of the most powerful and most secret
gangs
in the Midwest.”

“Uh-huh.” Suddenly I was way less convinced. Gosh, Batman. One of the most powerful and secretest of gangs. Run by a bunch of
suits
. Really and truly.

Some of my disbelief must have shown on my face because Bruno scowled at me, his bushy eyebrows going low over his brown eyes. “Don't laugh, Nixie. This gang is dangerous—and they're supernatural.”

“Superna—come on, Bruno. You can't expect me to believe that.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “There's proof. Strange things going on in Meiers Corners.”

Suuure
there were. “Like?”

“Like lions and wolves growling in the night. Despite no zoo in Meiers Corners. Like people turning to
mist
.” He lowered his voice. “Like blood spatter mysteriously appearing, and just as mysteriously disappearing.”

Okay, that rang an alarm too close to home. “All right. Say I believe your ‘proof'. The CCIC runs a gang. Does this gang have a name?”

Bruno looked one way, then the other. Then, lowering his face right next to mine, he whispered, “The Lestats.”

“The States?” It wasn't unheard of for a gang to name itself after a nation or people. But why states? And why French?

“Not
l'état
,” Bruno said. “Lestat, one word. Or rather, a name.”

Lestat. And I remembered Julian saying the leader of the Coterie was a man called Nosferatu. “
Vampires
?”

“Keep your voice down!” Bruno hissed. “
They
have ears everywhere.”

“This is why you wanted to meet before sunset,” I said in amazement. “You really think these guys are vamp—”

“
Shh
.” Bruno clapped a paw over my mouth. “They may be in their graves during the day. But their human minions are everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” I said, only it came out “ebbywhir” because his meaty palm sealed my lips pretty well. Bruno removed his hand, looking abashed. “Uh-huh. Human minions everywhere.” My tone didn't exactly drip sarcasm, but it was moist.

“
They
are vulnerable during the day. Which is why I've got this.” Bruno whipped a huge tube out of the darkness behind him. “This here bazooka used to be Elena's. She took out Dracula with this.”

“Of course she did,” I said, all the time thinking Bruno had not only broken all his crayons, but had remelted them into one gray blob. “And you'll use that for…?”

He lowered his voice. “Hunting
them
, of course. But only during the day.”

“Uh-huh. In
their
graves.”

“Well…yes.”

“And you know which graves
they
occupy?”

“Well…no.”

“Hmm. Well, if you do happen to find an occupied grave, you've at least figured out how you're going to shoot through six feet of soil, right?”

“There do seem to be a few problems with my plan.”

“One or two.” I was beginning to wonder about my own plan to forget Julian Emerson. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. But obviously talking wasn't going to do it. “Put that bazooka down.” I wiggled my butt across the stool toward him.

“What?”

“Put that down” was probably not the most seductive line in the world. Pitching my voice like a mellow sax, I said, “Bruno. Let's not talk any more.” I touched his shoulder. He had very nice, very broad shoulders. A little beefy, though. Not lean and powerful, like…fuck. “Why don't you put down the bazooka for a moment and we can get…better acquainted.”

“What's wrong with you, Nixie?” Bruno eyed me like I had a goldfish stuck between my teeth and it was still whacking its tail.

And I felt…nothing. No connection. No instant fire. Damn.

Still, I persevered. “I'm going to kiss you, Bear. Put down the fucking bazooka.”

“Oh.” Slowly, he set aside the gargantuan tube. Leaned forward. Puckered up. His lips looked like a red cauliflower planted in a nest of rusty old guitar strings.

There
was an image guaranteed to make me hot.

Placing both palms gingerly against his flannel shirt, I leaned forward. Under the shirt Bruno's chest was hard, covered by a mat of springy hair. Nice. My engine started, enough so that I put my mouth naturally against his. He tasted like…beer. Like beer and…hair.

Mentally gritting my teeth, I kissed him. The hair from his mustache poked at my nose. I suppressed a sneeze.

Bruno's mouth opened and his fingers threaded through my curls. He grabbed a little tight, which distracted me. His bear-sized tongue thrust into my mouth, which nearly gagged me.

Then he torqued my head almost sideways to get his tongue deeper down my throat. It nearly threw me off the stool. His mustache got up my nose and I couldn't breathe.

“Bruno,” I squeaked, only it came out “ack-ack-ack.”

His response was to drag me onto his lap. For a moment I was distracted by the bulge under me. Respectable. Even a couple days ago I would have been very interested.

But Pikes Peak doesn't compare if you've climbed Mount Everest.

I pulled back. Bruno, panting, smiled. “Hey, that was fun. I didn't know you could kiss, Nixie. I always thought of you like my little niece.”

“Thanks a lot.” I slid back onto my stool.

“So what do you want to do now?”

I shrugged, drained my beer. It was still early, and I didn't have to be at auditions until nine. Might as well finish the plan. “I want you to meet my parents.”

Chapter Eight

My mom and dad lived in an old-style bungalow. It was the same house my mother was born in, and her father before her. Because of that, I could officially say I came from Meiers Corners. Oh, my dad's folk, the Schmelings, had been here for two generations. But in the Corners, that was still considered newcomers. My mother's family, the Gutenbergs (no relation to the printing press guy), were here before The Fire. It was even rumored that Great-Grandpa Gutenberg fought in the Civil War, although no one was sure on which side.

My mother rushed out of the house as Bruno and I came up the walk. The smell of cooking meat overlaid with vinegar and onion wafted out behind her. It was Tuesday, which meant sauerbraten.

“Dietlinde!” She trotted down the stairs wiping her hands on her apron. Today's was red-bibbed, trimmed with blue ruffles. Under she wore the ever-present house dress, cut like a parachute and stable in wind tunnels up to a hundred miles an hour.

My mother stopped and frowned at me. “Where is your hat, Dietlinde?”

“Uh…at home?”

“It is thirty-five degrees and you are without your hat? At least tell me you remembered your gloves.”

Since I hadn't, immediate distraction was in order. “Mom, this is Bruno.”

I was twenty-five and single. Normally Mom greeted any unattached male under the age of fifty with open arms. She glared at Bruno like she was trying to remember where she put the bear trap.

“He owns a store,” I added hopefully.

My mother perked up at that. Bruno had passed number one on the Mother Test, Gainfully Employed.

Then Bruno stuck his paw out. “Bruno Braun. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Schmeling.”

“Oh,” she sniffed. “A Braun.” When she took Bruno's hand, it was like she was picking up a dirty washcloth.

My mother has absolutely no color prejudice. She does not judge by race, age, or gender. But Mom went to school with Bella Butt, who used to bite her at recess. That was in first grade, but Meiers Corners folk have long memories. Bella's mother is Brunhilde Butt—nee Braun. Everyone knew the Braun kids were kooks. Troublemakers. Class clowns.

Bruno, I could see, had failed Mom's Test number two: Good Family.

I was a troublemaker and a kook too, but I came from a ‘good' family. Apparently that made everything okay. I snorted to myself. And Julian Emerson had trouble understanding
me
? No, no.
Not
thinking about him. “Bruno's my date. I brought him home for supper.”

My mother's lips thinned in displeasure. But she knew her duty as a Meiers Corners hostess. She would be hospitable, even to a Braun, if it killed her.

Half an hour later, after the fastest supper on record, Bruno pushed back his chair, dabbing genteelly at his beard with a paper napkin. “That was awesome sauerbraten, Mrs. Schmeling. I haven't had food like that since my Granny Butt took us to the parish Sheepshead Tournament and Sauerbraten Smorgasbord.”

“The parish? You aren't…Roman, are you, Bruno?”

“Me? Naw, I go to Our Savior. Every Sunday, regular as clockwork.”

This was good. My mother was a charter member of the Lutheran Ladies Auxiliary Mothers Association, and church was very important.

She nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Bruno had passed number three (Good Lutheran) on the Mother Test. We were two for three. “Will you be seeing Dietlinde again, Bruno?”

“Dietlinde?” Bruno asked, looking confused. “I don't think so.” He gave me a “Who's Dietlinde” look and I discreetly pointed at myself and mouthed, “Daggy name.”

But it was too late. Bruno had failed both number four (Thoroughly Enthralled by My Daughter) and number five (Has a Brain).

To be honest, Bruno had failed the last on my own private test, too. Not that Bruno was dumb—he wasn't. But he was smart only about certain things. And I simply wasn't into any of the things he was smart about. Like conspiracies, or guns, or hand grenades—or even stiletto heels.

Julian Emerson is smart
, a little voice in my head whispered.
Very smart
.

Shut up
, I whispered back.

He's so smart
, the voice whispered,
he can read your desires in your eyes
.

Yeah
, my pussy murmured in agreement.

Both of you shut up
, I hissed mentally.

“Nixie—is something wrong?”

I blinked. Bruno and both my parents were staring at me with some concern. “Uh, no.” I sprang up. “I'll just go start the dishes.” I grabbed up plates and utensils and sped off to the kitchen.

Bruno did not follow. Too bad. He failed the most important test, one both my mother and I had. Number six: Helps With The Housework.

By the time I finished rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher, Bruno had gone. To be fair, he had his store to run. To be catty, Bruno had no regular hours and could have opened at nine as well as eight.

But it left more dessert—German chocolate cake with to-die-for homemade cooked coconut frosting—for me. We sat at the table, my mother, my father, and I, and savored cake. It was the one part of the meal where no one talked. Like being in church. You don't chat in the presence of the Holy.

“Well,” my mother said after we'd finished the last crumb. “That was an—interesting—young man.”

“Bruno's a nice guy,” I said. “More of a friend, though.”

My father, who had not said a single word during the whole meal, put down his coffee cup. Patted his lips with his napkin. Folded it neatly and set it on the table.

From living with him so long, I didn't need subtitles. My father's words were in his actions. He was relieved.

So was my mother. Enough to try to set up Bruno's replacement. “You'll never guess who I ran into at the deli today. Denny Crane! And guess what? He's taken on a new partner in his law firm. Just out of school. Graduated top of his class at the East of Chicago University.”

I didn't point out that east of Chicago meant Lake Michigan.

“Bart is his name. Isn't that nice? Bart just moved to Meiers Corners.”

I grimaced. Oh, no, I thought. Here it comes.

“Mr. Crane says Bart doesn't know anyone here. I bet he's lonely.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lonely. And probably bored, too, after the hustle-bustle of the big city. I bet a nice law school graduate would like some company. Don't you think so, Helmut?”

My father was reading the paper. Smart.

“I bet a nice law school graduate would like the company of a sophisticated young lady.”

I felt my eyes roll, slapped my hand over them. “And
I
bet a grown man can find something to entertain himself, even in Meiers Corners.”

My mother
humphed
. “Mr. Crane agreed with
me
. He thought Bart would like a little companionship.”

Danger, danger, Will Robinson. “Mother, what have you done?”

“It's only one meal, Dietlinde. Not even a date.”

“Mother—”

“Friday night. Dinner here at the house. We'll have chicken and dumplings.”

I gritted my teeth. “Mother, I can't.”

“Saturday, then. We'll have pot roast.”

“Mother, I work weekends!”

“That
band
?” my dear, sweet mother scoffed. “That is not work, Dietlinde. That is a hobby.”

We'd been having some variation of this conversation since I was thirteen. Arguing was just a waste of breath. I rolled my eyes and didn't cover it this time. “Yes, Mother.”

“What kind of paycheck does playing in a rock-and-roll band bring home? You can barely live, much less raise children.”

She'd have an even bigger fit if she knew I sometimes only got paid in pitchers of beer. “Yes, Mother.”

But she was just getting started. “And how can you interest any kind of decent husband if you will not be home weekends to take care of his
needs
? You mark my words. A man won't stay with the cow if she doesn't give him any milk.”

Gosh, and other girls got lectured about giving the milk away for free. I should consider myself lucky. “Yes, Mother.”