The Taste of Night (29 page)

“They’re pretty good, Momma,” Cher said, saving me for answering. She held out the manual to her mother. “Here, try one.”

Suzanne drew back, looking from Cher to me as if we were patients in a psychiatric ward. “You know,” she said,
backing away from the bed, “come to think of it, I bet a day trip to a nice little sex club would do us all some good. Olivia, you in?”

I thought about it, still not liking the idea of them accompanying me, but at least I’d be around to help if anyone tried to murder, infect, or draw them into a threesome. It looked like Troy had already planted the seed, as it were, anyway. And now that I thought of it, if Troy was so interested in sampling other people’s partners, what’s to say he wasn’t already a carrier? I could keep an eye on him, as well as my friends, plus have a pretty good cover for attending in the first place. There was power in numbers, as they say, and this time the power happened to be anonymity. Just what I needed. “Sure, I’m in.”

“You, Cher?”

“Only if I can dress up like an evil, murdering whore.”

Suzanne smiled, a look of great relief passing over her face. “It’s practically required. I’ll go call Troy now to get us some tickets.”

“Okay, so when and where?” I asked.

“Saturday night, where all the great parties are held,” Suzanne said, tossing the answer over her shoulder as she glided from the room. “Valhalla, of course.”

I smiled wryly. Of course.

It was seven o’clock, just two hours before the swingers’ ball officially opened. Troy had gone down earlier in the day to register us for the event—apparently you couldn’t just show up and hand over your spouse—and I was preparing for an evening of blatant flirtation and sex games like I was going to war. Of course, a real soldier wouldn’t be caught dead in my battle attire; a snug halter top that criss-crossed over my chest in shiny black satin, and a flowing knee-length skirt with a slit nearly to my waist, each step providing a healthy flash of thigh. This was all courtesy of my mother’s abandoned closet back at the sanctuary, so the lightweight satin was made of a material stronger than chainmail, but just as important, the length and slack in the skirt allowed me to wear a flesh-colored holster on my opposite thigh, providing a place to tuck extra ammo and a steel stiletto. The only paranormal help I was getting these days was in the form of my conduit and the ring still pulsing reassuringly on my right hand, and both of those needed to be saved for just the right moment. The additional weapon, though mortal, might come in handy. I just had to be extra careful while sitting down.

After I blew out my hair and applied more makeup than Paris Hilton on an insecure day, I gave myself a critical once-over and, satisfied, tucked my conduit in my black Gucci bag. Thus armed to the proverbial teeth, I strode out of the bathroom and into Cher’s sitting area to grab the mask I’d picked up at a costume store. It fit less perfectly than my shield had, but looked similar enough to make me feel more myself, and most importantly, helped conceal my Olivia identity. Joaquin hadn’t discovered it while he’d had the chance, a failure I was sure he was kicking himself for now. It was one of the few tools I had left, and I wanted to keep it that way.

But my mask was missing. The antique writing desk, where I’d left it prior to entering the shower, was empty. I looked beneath it, in the wicker trash bin next to it, and in the drawer, just in case I’d put it there for safekeeping. Nothing.

“Cher!” I yelled, trying to keep the rising panic from my voice. I must’ve failed. Footsteps pounded down the hall, and Cher appeared in a bathrobe with her hair in rollers, face bare, eyes wide as she looked at me.

“Livvy, darlin’, are you okay? You yelled so…” She trailed off, taking in my attire, and her face altered from an expression of alarm to one of sheer admiration. “Oh my God! Turn, baby, turn!”

I swallowed down my impatience and turned as she circled her finger in the air. The skirt swirled, my right thigh showed practically up to my neck, and the whole thing settled with a soft flutter against my skin. I posed, as Olivia would.

“Fantabulous!” she squealed, clapping her hands. “And those are muscle shoes if I ever saw ’em!”

I glanced down at my wedged, calf-high boots. Not perfect seasonal attire, I’ll admit. There had to be some sort of fashion rule against wearing leather boots in the summer, but I figured I could get away with it as just another outlandish part of my “costume.” There were more important
issues at stake tonight than being fashionable. Like being alive.

“Thanks,” I said to Cher, “but I seem to be missing part of my costume. Did you happen to see something lying on this desk?”

“Did I?” she repeated, her conspiratorial smile making me swallow hard. She reached into the pocket of her robe and produced my mask. “Here.”

I sighed, taking it. “What did you do?”

“I just gussied it up a bit,” she said, waving her hand in the air like I shouldn’t bother thanking her. I didn’t. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but I’m a devil with a hot glue gun.”

She certainly was. Lustrous crystals studded every spare inch of the mask, and false eyelashes were affixed just above the eyeholes. I sighed again and pushed against one of the gems. It was glued solid. “It…it’s…”

“Swarovski crystals, yeah,” she said, misunderstanding my speechlessness. “I decorated it Mardi Gras style. Just because you’re a bit shy at the idea of anyone knowing who you are doesn’t mean you can’t be fashionable.”

I sighed, not just because there was no use arguing with that but because I was beginning to understand her reasoning. Besides, if Joaquin were there, the last thing he’d be expecting would be a showdown with a showgirl.

“Well, thanks,” I said to a beaming Cher. “What are you wearing?”

She made a show of turning around and stripping off her robe to reveal a black mini-dress cut from neck to navel, and—from what I could see—sliced in tiny bits to cover the choicest of body parts. She whirled as I had earlier, the strips of cloth flying dangerously about her body. “Is that legal?”

“It’s designer,” Cher said, grabbing a strand of shiny beads from the bureau and looping them over her head multiple times so that they too draped her body. She caught my eye through the mirror. “By Imitation of Christ.”

I made a face. “Why, because he had such great fashion sense?”

She only laughed. “I’m going to finish getting ready. Meet me downstairs in ten?”

“Sure,” I said as she flounced from the room, her stride runway perfect despite the lack of a catwalk or music. I glanced back down at my altered mask and sighed again, hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew from either of my realities.

Though that was the point, I reminded myself. Track down Joaquin. Sneak up on him. Put an arrow through his black heart. If that required dressing up like a spoiled, jet-setting porn star/heiress, then I’d do it. Still, as I grabbed my handbag from the table to head downstairs, I couldn’t help but think that Carl was going to have a field day drawing this one.

“Suz, baby. I’m so glad you called…all of you.”

Troy spared a glance for Cher and me in the back of his Escalade, a glance, I noted, that lingered a little longer than it should have. Cher ignored him completely, staring into her compact as she applied gloss on lips that already shone like waxed chrome, and I merely rolled my eyes and looked out the window as we pulled into Valhalla’s long drive. We followed it past painfully manicured landscaping with bright flowers and bushes never meant for the desert, beyond fountains depicting the feast of the gods, complete with winged Valkyries serving golden goblets to fallen Vikings.

The taxi stand was full, a line of cabs waiting to be called to the front doors by whistle-carrying doormen, like restless stallions at the Derby. Limos were wedged in slots near the entrance, waiting—in most cases, for hours—for their charges to finish the night’s partying. A few Hummers and exotic sports cars were showcased up front, a hefty tip ensuring they’d be there when their owners returned, but I had a feeling Troy wouldn’t spring for such a luxury, even with three stunning women in his charge, and—no surprise—he didn’t. Our doors swung open and polite valets ushered us beneath the arching portico.

“Shall we?” I said as soon as we were all assembled, noting the looks we were getting from the other hotel patrons, men and women dressed for dinner or shows or a night at the tables, none of whom looked like they’d done any swinging since elementary school. I already had my mask on, relatively certain the spiked lashes would scare even the most dogged security guard from insisting I remove it. A bellman, eyes wide, held the door open for us, and Troy took the other, ushering us through, making sure to touch each one of us in some proprietary way as we passed.

The good thing about spending the entire evening with Troy was his predictability. He’d keep an eye on all of us like we were his personal harem, and that was an almost comforting thought…at least where Suzanne and Cher were concerned. I’d ditch him at will, though I promised myself that if it came down to taking out Joaquin or protecting these two women from harm or infection or ghastly death, I’d choose them. They were innocents, and my first priority. And besides, I thought, watching the swish of Cher’s skirt in front of me, they were all I had now.

Nine o’clock was apparently still early for the swinger crowd, though there were enough people in the east ballroom to begin the evening’s fun. In the event that Joaquin was one of them—knowing he was never one to turn down a willing victim—I linked my arm with Cher’s so we could make our first round of the room, decorated in acres of black leather just for the occasion. I hoped.

First, however, we had to register and receive our armbands.

“Got anything in pink?” Cher asked the receptionist sitting behind a long draped table just to the right of the door. Pamphlets touting regional, local, and national conferences were splayed out before her, but Cher was busy studying the red, blue, yellow, and green plastic bands taped to the table in front of us. “Pink’s my favorite color.”

The woman only stared.

“I’m more of a purple-lovin’ kind of girl myself,” I added,
smiling down into the woman’s round face. Besides, purple was almost black, and I thought Olivia would consider such a detail.

The woman just blinked and turned her cold gaze on me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Hunh? “Well…purple is traditionally the color used for royalty. It’s also really great with my coloring, though it has to be the right shade. Lilac would be best.”

Troy, who’d been listening behind us from his guard post next to Suzanne, edged his way between us and the table. “I think she means what does the color signify for the purposes of this event. In this case, purple and pink mean nothing.” He turned back to the greeter, and his lips drew up in pure saccharine smile. “I’ll take a green one, please.”

The woman blushed all the way down to her graying roots. As she fumbled with his wristband, I noted she too had a green one fastened over her own pudgy wrist. I held out my hand for one as well. She ignored me. “And your name is, Mr….?”

“Just call me Troy.”

“Troy,” she said breathlessly, her eyes traveling up to his lips. What the hell was going on here? Was there some sort of mental telepathy at play, or had I completely missed the nuances of a new form of speed dating? “That’s lovely, but I need your full name so I can give you your name badge.”

“Ugh.” Cher shuddered beside me. “Name badges?”

That seemed to wake the woman from her lustful reverie. She was all business as she flicked through a box to find Troy’s badge. “It makes the introductory process less inhibiting, and it’s a good conversation starter. Your place of birth is printed below it as well, ah…Mr. Stone.”

As she handed it to him I held out my arm. “Green, please.”

Suzanne put her hand on my shoulder. “Um, Olivia, maybe…”

The woman—her badge said Mary Malone from Topeka—snapped the green over my wrist. Troy nodded ap
provingly. I lifted my mask, smiled at Mary again, and used my sister’s sweetest tone—and the dimple I knew resided in her left cheek—to try and win her over again. “Thank you, Miss Malone.”

This time she responded warmly. “You’re very welcome…?”

“Olivia. Olivia Archer,” I said slowly, my brows drawing together at her quick change of heart. My dimple wasn’t that cute. She handed me my name badge, fingers lingering over mine, and I drew back quickly. I heard a muffled snort behind me, but when I turned Suzanne’s face was straight, absent of all humor.

“And for the rest of you?”

Cher held out her wrist. “I’ll take—”

“Maybe we should find out exactly what each color means first, dear,” Suzanne said, stilling her stepdaughter. “Mary?”

Mary blinked at us in surprise. “Oh, are you first-timers? All right then, welcome. We have a color-coded system that’s used nationally, so if you attend any soirees in other parts of the country, you’ll know what to ask for. It’s very simple, though. A red wristband means ‘women only.’ Blue means you prefer to be approached only by men. Yellow means ‘only couples,’ and green means…”

My brain scrambled, trying on the remaining options. I didn’t have to, though, because Troy lifted my hand high, kissing the fingers just below my own green wristband before murmuring, “Anything goes.”

Before I could respond—i.e., barf all over the reception table—both he and Mary shot me meaningful looks. I ripped my hand from Troy’s and lowered my mask over my own burning face. The giggle came from beside me again, and this time when I looked over, Suzanne’s face was alive with merriment. She turned to Mary, still smiling. “I’ll take a blue one, please.”

“Red for me,” Cher chimed in, merrily.

I turned to Cher. “Red?”

“Sure. Women are always easier to talk to, and if I don’t want to talk to someone, I’ll just stick close to you or Momma.”

Now why hadn’t I thought of that? I turned back to change out my wristband, but Mary was already ushering us aside for another party of four. Their eyes dropped furtively to our wrists, lingering on mine, before scanning my body. I pulled my mask down tighter.

“Suzanne! Cher! Over here!”

I glanced behind us to see a man winding past half-dressed mortals like they were an obstacle course and we were the finish line. His eyes lit on me, and he picked up his pace with renewed fervor, nearly bowling over a man dressed as a woman escorted by a man. I sniffed, scented out printer ink and nerves, and turned to Suzanne with narrowed eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said nervously, “but my friend Ian has been asking about you.”

“Momma!” Cher hissed, and batted her stepmother with her Fendi bag.

“He’s a nice guy!” Suzanne whispered, hitting her back. “and they have that whole computer expert thing in common.” She turned back to me with pleading eyes. “If you just give him a chance—”

She was babbling, and though the last thing I needed was another mortal to babysit, I cut her off with an understanding smile. “It’s okay,” I said, as Ian—harmless and guileless and hopelessly uncool—came to a halt in front of us.

“Hi,” he said, breathless, though I didn’t think it was from his trek across the ballroom. He seemed like a breathless sort of guy in general. “Am I late? Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”

Ian seemed not to hear her, and was running a hand over his head, muttering, “Traffic, and I couldn’t figure out what to wear…”

He had a lanky runner’s body, strong, with long muscles, which made it totally incompatible with his face, lined and freckled from the sun. His head was topped with thinning
blond hair that looked like chopped plumage, but knowing how deceiving looks could be, I inhaled deeply like I did whenever I met someone new.