This was my last chance to back out of this bad idea. I didn’t take it.
“Do you know an Ilona St. Claire?”
“In fact, I do. However, if you want to find out what I know, you’ll have to come down here.”
“Now you’re just playing games.”
“And you’re blocking my view.”
I bit down on a whole set of anatomically unlikely suggestions about what he could do to himself down there, gave it up and trotted down the steps. Sevarin made a half bow and a mischievous light sparked in his green eyes.
“So, how do you know Ilona St. Claire?”
“All in good time, Chef Caine. If you would just step back here where it is darker—to avoid attracting attention, you understand . . .”
Riiiiight.
I met Sevarin’s eyes, turned sideways, sucked, tucked, and slid into the corner without touching the trash bins or him.
He looked surprised. And disappointed. I smiled pleasantly. “You were saying about Ilona St. Claire?”
“May I inquire, Chef Caine,” murmured Sevarin. “Simply for my own information, not to pry, what is your interest in Ilona?”
“You like long sentences.”
“It’s my Russian upbringing. We are a voluble and flamboyant people.”
“Come off it. You don’t talk like any Russian I know.”
“How many eight-hundred-year-old nightblood Russians do you know?”
There he had a point, and it was his turn to smile pleasantly. “You were saying about Ilona?”
“O’Grady asked both me and Chet about her.”
“Interesting. Now, I wonder what could she have done to draw the attention of Little Linus and his merry band this time.”
“This time?” My eyes were adjusting to the shadows, but Sevarin remained little more than a promise in the dark. There was no way to tell what was going on behind that calm remark.
Instead of answering me, he murmured, “And here comes another question.”
Across the street, a man swung himself onto the stairs in front of Chet’s building and hit the buzzer. He was tall and filled with that particular arrogance of someone who knows exactly how good-looking he is. His profile showed a chin that could crack granite.
I’d fired that chin three weeks ago.
The buzzer must have sounded, because Taylor Watts pushed Chet’s door open and vanished inside.
“What does the bartender from Post Mortem want with your brother?”
“Wha—!”
Sevarin pressed two cold fingers against my lips, and I remembered we were on a—for lack of a better term—stakeout. I shut my mouth and did my best to glower at him to indicate he should stop touching me now .
“I sense you are disturbed.” He grinned, but he did remove his hand.
“That guy—Taylor Watts—he used to work for us.” And he had so tried to turn on the cut-rate charm when I’d called him out back to fire his tight little waitress-grabbing butt.
“And now he works for Bertram Shelby. That is terribly interesting.”
“But he . . . but . . . why . . . ?” If Chet’s going to Post Mortem regularly, why didn’t he tell me Watts is working there? My nerves were shriveling up, like they’d been left out in the cold for too long. “I’m going to kill him.” I muttered.
“Which him?” Sevarin asked.
“Ask me tomorrow. I’ll probably have it figured out by then.”
My vampire sidekick settled back against the wall, his expression under the sloping hat brim both appraising and skeptical. “I take it you were not aware of Mr. Watts’s current place of employment.”
“No.” This was bad. This was taking me to all the wrong places via all the wrong streets. I could dig up and screw up way too much doing this.
“And perhaps Detective O’Grady neglected to mention it?” Sevarin cocked his head. “Or was it your brother who neglected to mention it?”
Chet might not have known. Watts couldn’t have been working there that long. Chet doesn’t go to the bite-easy often. Probably he’s never been there while Watts was on shift.
“I have a suggestion,” Sevarin went
“Do you know an Ilona St. Claire?”
“In fact, I do. However, if you want to find out what I know, you’ll have to come down here.”
“Now you’re just playing games.”
“And you’re blocking my view.”
I bit down on a whole set of anatomically unlikely suggestions about what he could do to himself down there, gave it up and trotted down the steps. Sevarin made a half bow and a mischievous light sparked in his green eyes.
“So, how do you know Ilona St. Claire?”
“All in good time, Chef Caine. If you would just step back here where it is darker—to avoid attracting attention, you understand . . .”
Riiiiight.
I met Sevarin’s eyes, turned sideways, sucked, tucked, and slid into the corner without touching the trash bins or him.
He looked surprised. And disappointed. I smiled pleasantly. “You were saying about Ilona St. Claire?”
“May I inquire, Chef Caine,” murmured Sevarin. “Simply for my own information, not to pry, what is your interest in Ilona?”
“You like long sentences.”
“It’s my Russian upbringing. We are a voluble and flamboyant people.”
“Come off it. You don’t talk like any Russian I know.”
“How many eight-hundred-year-old nightblood Russians do you know?”
There he had a point, and it was his turn to smile pleasantly. “You were saying about Ilona?”
“O’Grady asked both me and Chet about her.”
“Interesting. Now, I wonder what could she have done to draw the attention of Little Linus and his merry band this time.”
“This time?” My eyes were adjusting to the shadows, but Sevarin remained little more than a promise in the dark. There was no way to tell what was going on behind that calm remark.
Instead of answering me, he murmured, “And here comes another question.”
Across the street, a man swung himself onto the stairs in front of Chet’s building and hit the buzzer. He was tall and filled with that particular arrogance of someone who knows exactly how good-looking he is. His profile showed a chin that could crack granite.
I’d fired that chin three weeks ago.
The buzzer must have sounded, because Taylor Watts pushed Chet’s door open and vanished inside.
“What does the bartender from Post Mortem want with your brother?”
“Wha—!”
Sevarin pressed two cold fingers against my lips, and I remembered we were on a—for lack of a better term—stakeout. I shut my mouth and did my best to glower at him to indicate he should stop touching me now .
“I sense you are disturbed.” He grinned, but he did remove his hand.
“That guy—Taylor Watts—he used to work for us.” And he had so tried to turn on the cut-rate charm when I’d called him out back to fire his tight little waitress-grabbing butt.
“And now he works for Bertram Shelby. That is terribly interesting.”
“But he . . . but . . . why . . . ?” If Chet’s going to Post Mortem regularly, why didn’t he tell me Watts is working there? My nerves were shriveling up, like they’d been left out in the cold for too long. “I’m going to kill him.” I muttered.
“Which him?” Sevarin asked.
“Ask me tomorrow. I’ll probably have it figured out by then.”
My vampire sidekick settled back against the wall, his expression under the sloping hat brim both appraising and skeptical. “I take it you were not aware of Mr. Watts’s current place of employment.”
“No.” This was bad. This was taking me to all the wrong places via all the wrong streets. I could dig up and screw up way too much doing this.
“And perhaps Detective O’Grady neglected to mention it?” Sevarin cocked his head. “Or was it your brother who neglected to mention it?”
Chet might not have known. Watts couldn’t have been working there that long. Chet doesn’t go to the bite-easy often. Probably he’s never been there while Watts was on shift.
“I have a suggestion,” Sevarin went
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