on.
“I’ll bet.” It was more reflex than anything else at that point and Sevarin sighed impatiently.
“It has been a long time since I’ve had to seduce a woman in such unpleasant surroundings. I promise if you are still interested later, I’d be happy to attend to the business properly.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why not? I believe we would both very much enjoy it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and the space between us got both smaller and warmer without either one of us moving a muscle. “Or are you afraid, Charlotte Caine?”
I did not ease away from Sevarin. That would have been more of an admission than I was ready to make. “I’m not sleeping with a dining critic. It would look bad when Nightlife reopens.”
“How disappointingly businesslike of you. Well, we shall continue this discussion later.” He straightened up, eyeing the street as he tugged thoughtfully on his hat brim. “Now, it is also clear that stealth is not your métier. I propose that you go to Post Mortem and interview the proprietor about his staffing strategies. I will wait here and follow Mr. Watts when he leaves. It is probable he will be going from here to work his shift. If that’s the case, I will meet you there. If not, I will call and let you know where he has gone.”
“You are not going anywhere near Chet,” I told him.
“Not until I know more about what’s going on.”
It wasn’t the assurance I wanted, but it had the virtue of being honest.
“You have my number?”
“I am ancient among my kind.” Sevarin’s voice dropped into that dangerous vampire rumble. “So ancient, indeed, that I remember how to use a phone book.”
Against all the odds, I had to hd back a laugh. “You are ever so slightly insane. Do you know that?”
He smiled and my heart tried to retreat against my spine. “Ever so slightly. Do we have an agreement?”
I wanted to say something about just for this and just for the moment, but considering the directions my little comments had ended up taking us, I decided to shut my mouth. Besides, he had his eyebrows quirked in a way that in the living and the dead indicates a quip in the chamber, ready to fire.
“We have an agreement,” I said.
“Then I suggest you leave before you are seen. Until later, Chef Caine.”
“Yeah.”
It had been years since I’d been this uncertain about what I was doing, much less what I was feeling. But I walked out of that stairwell and down Bleecker without looking back. Not even once.
Really.
PM was already swinging when I pushed open the dungeonesque door. A hyped-up hip-hop tango instantly overwhelmed the traffic noises. Out-of-towners in heavy goth rig-out shook whatever they had on a dance floor lit primarily by the jumbo video screens flashing video clips from Midnight Moon . I averted my eyes to scan the rest of the room.
Licensed vamp bars—sorry, nightblood clubs—come in two flavors: modern goth and traditional goth. Both go heavy on the crimson velvet. There’s plenty of lace, leather and mascara on the staff and cheap red wine in the glasses. The difference is that one plays thrash metal and has a lighted dance floor and the other goes in for Carmina Burana and chaise longues. Here, however, is the dirty little secret: most New York vamp bars are not run by vampires. They are run by humans, and mostly for the tourist trade. Some of them even pay nightbloods to put in an appearance. As far as I knew, the owners of Post Mortem didn’t stoop that low, but they did lean very heavily on the atmosphere.
A waifish, hollow-cheeked young woman behind the polished black bar deftly handled both cocktail shakers and cow-eyed boys in black who lined up for legal absinthe and dirty martinis. Either I’d beaten Taylor here, or he was on his way somewhere else. I thought about getting a seat at the bar, but decided against it. If at all possible, I wanted to see Taylor before he saw me. I don’t know for sure what good I thought this would do
“I’ll bet.” It was more reflex than anything else at that point and Sevarin sighed impatiently.
“It has been a long time since I’ve had to seduce a woman in such unpleasant surroundings. I promise if you are still interested later, I’d be happy to attend to the business properly.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why not? I believe we would both very much enjoy it.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and the space between us got both smaller and warmer without either one of us moving a muscle. “Or are you afraid, Charlotte Caine?”
I did not ease away from Sevarin. That would have been more of an admission than I was ready to make. “I’m not sleeping with a dining critic. It would look bad when Nightlife reopens.”
“How disappointingly businesslike of you. Well, we shall continue this discussion later.” He straightened up, eyeing the street as he tugged thoughtfully on his hat brim. “Now, it is also clear that stealth is not your métier. I propose that you go to Post Mortem and interview the proprietor about his staffing strategies. I will wait here and follow Mr. Watts when he leaves. It is probable he will be going from here to work his shift. If that’s the case, I will meet you there. If not, I will call and let you know where he has gone.”
“You are not going anywhere near Chet,” I told him.
“Not until I know more about what’s going on.”
It wasn’t the assurance I wanted, but it had the virtue of being honest.
“You have my number?”
“I am ancient among my kind.” Sevarin’s voice dropped into that dangerous vampire rumble. “So ancient, indeed, that I remember how to use a phone book.”
Against all the odds, I had to hd back a laugh. “You are ever so slightly insane. Do you know that?”
He smiled and my heart tried to retreat against my spine. “Ever so slightly. Do we have an agreement?”
I wanted to say something about just for this and just for the moment, but considering the directions my little comments had ended up taking us, I decided to shut my mouth. Besides, he had his eyebrows quirked in a way that in the living and the dead indicates a quip in the chamber, ready to fire.
“We have an agreement,” I said.
“Then I suggest you leave before you are seen. Until later, Chef Caine.”
“Yeah.”
It had been years since I’d been this uncertain about what I was doing, much less what I was feeling. But I walked out of that stairwell and down Bleecker without looking back. Not even once.
Really.
PM was already swinging when I pushed open the dungeonesque door. A hyped-up hip-hop tango instantly overwhelmed the traffic noises. Out-of-towners in heavy goth rig-out shook whatever they had on a dance floor lit primarily by the jumbo video screens flashing video clips from Midnight Moon . I averted my eyes to scan the rest of the room.
Licensed vamp bars—sorry, nightblood clubs—come in two flavors: modern goth and traditional goth. Both go heavy on the crimson velvet. There’s plenty of lace, leather and mascara on the staff and cheap red wine in the glasses. The difference is that one plays thrash metal and has a lighted dance floor and the other goes in for Carmina Burana and chaise longues. Here, however, is the dirty little secret: most New York vamp bars are not run by vampires. They are run by humans, and mostly for the tourist trade. Some of them even pay nightbloods to put in an appearance. As far as I knew, the owners of Post Mortem didn’t stoop that low, but they did lean very heavily on the atmosphere.
A waifish, hollow-cheeked young woman behind the polished black bar deftly handled both cocktail shakers and cow-eyed boys in black who lined up for legal absinthe and dirty martinis. Either I’d beaten Taylor here, or he was on his way somewhere else. I thought about getting a seat at the bar, but decided against it. If at all possible, I wanted to see Taylor before he saw me. I don’t know for sure what good I thought this would do
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