Chapter Eight
I stood inside Nieman’s Bar, trying not to feel how nice Seb’s strong arm was around me, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the low light.
Nieman’s was a shoe-box-shaped building. The front two-thirds was the bar room, the back divided into a smaller room with restrooms stacked along the side.
My sight cleared to the bar, running nearly the length of the room. A classic, long bar mirror graced the wall behind. Neon brew signs on windows and wall combined with low lights to create a relaxed feeling, the kind of place where you could kick back with your buddies after a hard day at work. The only thing upscale were the tall postage-stamp-size tables with cafe-style stools, bought recently. Of course, recently in the Corners was anytime in the last hundred years.
I waved to the two people behind the bar. Buddy nodded his silver head at me. The owner, Camille, blew me a kiss from plump ruby lips I’d have suspected were either well-smooched or collagen enhanced, but which were actually natural. Vampires. Looking that good should involve dangerous injections, a small fortune in cosmetics, or at least a gym membership. I felt only slightly inadequate around her lustrous blue-black hair, perfect skin, and gravity-defying continental shelf of a bosom, currently pushing out a pair of bravely straining embroidered straps on black leather lederhosen.
About that time I became aware that, because of his size, Seb’s arm around my body meant his fingers lightly brushed the side of my breast.
It made me think about that kiss, how hot it was. What would have happened if I’d let him settle me onto that honeymoon-suite bed? Shivers of lust coursed along my skin.
Seb looked down at me and caught it. His eyes, already near-black, darkened and began to gleam.
He opened his mouth, and I prepared myself for a “Let’s go back to Otto’s and get naked” or something equally tacky. Hey, my ex would have. But with Seb…
Damn. With him, strangely, the response cuing up in my brain wasn’t an immediate, unequivocal no.
I stoked my willpower. No. Say no. You’ve had practice. Just one more no.
He said, “Want to get a drink?”
“No—um.”
He pointed at the bar. “Nieman’s beers come highly recommended. Both punk-rock chicks and stuffy-suit lawyers like them.”
His tone was teasing, though there was a coaxing undertone and a hopeful light in his eye.
It wasn’t that hopeful little glint that decided me. Really. It was because I’d been born and bred on hops, and if he was trying to get me drunk and horny, he was in for some disappointment.
Besides, how bad could a couple beers be?
“Okay.”
Seb stationed me at one of the tiny tables. “I’ll go get us a round.” He left to stand at the rail.
Sera, laced into her working uniform of embroidered dirndl and puffy peasant blouse, her blonde hair in braids, came over, perched on the high stool across from me, and set her empty tray on the table.
“Are you on break?”
“I am now.” She twitched her eyes at Seb, waiting at the bar. “How’s that going?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Sure, it isn’t.”
I mulled it over for two seconds, but hell, I’d come here because Seb had thrown me and I needed to talk. “You can’t tell anyone this, not even your mate. It isn’t what you think because he’s a…” I chomped my teeth.
“No.” If anything, her eyes widened more. “Then it’s even more what I think.”
“No, it isn’t. After Duh-wreck, I don’t want another v-guy.”
She rolled her eyes. “So you took a fall with him. You need to get back up on the horse.” Her gaze switched to Rikare, his backside nicely outlined by his slacks. “And I can’t think of a better stallion.” She bumped her eyebrows.
“No. No way. I’m done with v-lovers.” Encouraging her would only stoke my libido.
Her mouth flattened, biting back a tart comment, from the expression on her face. After a moment, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “You’ll be ready when you’re ready, I guess.”
A group of people at a nearby table rose and left. Sera glanced at the litter of empty glasses. “Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“Thanks for the chat.”
“Should I bring you a beer?”
“No, Seb’s getting us a round.” My gaze found him again, leaning over the bar. I’d come here to talk with Sera and feel better, yet somehow I felt worse.
“Okay. I’ll see you later.” She picked up her tray and went to clear the table.
Seb was still talking with Camille, leaning closer. How long did it take to place an order? Especially, since no one was within a foot of them, with no other customers to wait on?
Chalking up my antsy feelings to being back in my stifling little hometown, I took out my sketchpad. I pretended various people were suspects, drawing quick likenesses while I waited for Seb to return. And waited. And waited.
They kept chatting. Head-to-head, tête-à-tête, intimately.
Rubbing my temples against a headache, I remembered thinking, How bad could a couple beers be? Not bad at all, considering I currently had no beers. In fact, some dark, buried portion of me had obviously been hoping this was really a romantic encounter, because I experienced an unexpected sour wash of jealousy when Rikare nearly merged with her puffy peasant blouse.
Any closer, he’d be a second skin like some really happy spandex.
Well, hell. I stuffed away my pad, hopped down from the stool, and sashayed over to Mr. and Mrs. Spandex. No way I was sitting there getting jealous over a couple of vampires.
Camille was shaking her raven head, her lips pursed in what a nice person would call a moue, and what a woman who’d waited too damned long for a beer would call a duck-face.
“No, Seb. You’re wrong. The Ancient One isn’t behind your murders. It’s not Elias’s style.”
He wasn’t chatting her up, he was working. That explained the airspace around them. Many Meiers Corners residents knew about vampires—many more didn’t. My heart inexplicably lightened, and my ears pricked.
Seb scowled. “Your vaunted Ancient One was a territory-grabbing glory hound when I knew him. If he’s decided he wants Lorenzo’s domain, taunting him with murder is well within his capability.”
The Ancient One—someone named Elias. I filed the facts away.
“People change.” Camille shrugged.
He made a disparaging noise. “Ephemerals change. We don’t.”
“No. Not Elias. Ask yourself who would profit from such a horrific thing as you describe.”
“Spoken like a true shopkeeper.” He shook his head. “Profit isn’t the only motive.”
“It is, if you look at it the right way. Even crimes of passion or horror have a payoff for the murderer, perhaps punishment for a cheating love or indulging the monster inside. In this case, though, I’d talk to the Braun boy.”
“Bruno?” I said. “Sera’s brother?”
She transferred her attention to me, not put out at all with my interrupting their tête-à-tête. “Yes, that’s the one. The big, muscle-y bear-boy. He was here for ‘Show Off Your Legs in Lederhosen’ night—don’t laugh, it’s become hugely popular—and on the last round, he set his phone down on the bar, and I happened to take a little peek.”
“Ignoring the invasion of privacy,” Seb said dryly.
“He was texting about a string of murders—he called them the bloodsucker killings.”
Seb went on point, a predatory smile slashing across his face.
I flinched. Though Bruno was a good guy and would never be involved in murder, even I had to admit that sounded suspicious.
“Who he was texting with?” Seb asked.
“A party called Survivalist025.”
“Right. They wouldn’t use their real names. Where would I find this Bruno Braun?”
She told him.
He set one foot on the floor and half raised from the barstool. “Thanks, Camille. I owe you.”
“You certainly do. You can pay me by buying your date a pitcher of beer.”
I perked up. Maybe it’d give me time to convince Seb that Bruno wasn’t really involved.
“Next time. We have to get going.”
I drooped.
“Your date isn’t happy with that,” she admonished him. “Fortunately, I have a solution. Seb Rikare, it’s your lucky day. We have beer to go.”
He grimaced.
“Here, I’ll start Gabriella off.” She set a six-pack on the bar and pulled out a couple amber glass bottles with one hand while she extended the other palm in a “pay me” gesture.
With a sigh, Seb extracted a gold card from his wallet. She snared it then held it between first and second fingers while she twisted off bottle caps with the subtlety of a candy-gram stripper. She passed me a bottle.
Before I drank, I read the label: Nieman’s Hoch Leben, or high life.
The house beer was one of the best. And priciest. Nice of Seb to pay. I lifted the bottle to her in salute.
She gave me a conspiratorial smile, processed the card, then handed it and the receipt to Seb.
I sipped. The beer went down cold and crisp and washed away the worst of my concerns. Surely I could talk Seb into being reasonable with Bruno.
We walked the couple blocks to Armageddon Three. Bruno’s store was smack dab in the middle of prime retail real estate, right across the street from the tourist-central trifecta of the Caffeine Cafe, the Fudgy Delight, and the Deli Delight. I finished my beer and slid the empty into the six-pack just as we arrived.
Seb opened the door for me, a cheery tinkle greeting us, then waited with a protective hover. Passing by him, I tried not to shiver at his lovely masculine scent and the size of him, like a guarding gargoyle.
“Welcome to Armageddon Three.” Bruno bustled out from behind a far counter. An ex-SEAL built like a strategically shaved bear, Bruno was a sweetheart. “We have stiletto knives to military-grade rifles to small cannons. Armageddon Three has only the best. What can I interest you in today?”
Sliding inside, Seb immediately froze with a growl.
I looked around, trying to see the store from his perspective. The ten webcam eyeballs immediately zooming in on us could be a bit unnerving. Or maybe it was the rows of military-grade weapons.
Most likely it was the bright silver ammo taking pride of place on the shelves.
Bruno stocked silver ammunition because he knew about vampires. He’d known almost from day one—though, ten years ago, everyone in town just thought he was a crazy conspiracy theorist. Hard to dispute when you nail the role in looks and act. Still, maybe that was why my roommates and I had believed vampires were real from the start, because Sera’s brother had paved the way.
Of course, now a quarter of the town knew. We all pretended we didn’t. Hey, they were monsters, but they were our monsters.
Their monsters, I reminded myself. I was a New Yorker now.
“Stand down, big guy.” Bruno raised his hands, palms out. “Nothing’s loaded or live.”
Seb set the six-pack on a nearby counter, slightly relaxing his ready stance. I relaxed, too. Maybe Seb wouldn’t accuse Bruno of murder. Maybe he was only after information.
Then Bruno blew it with, “You’re FBI, right? Am I right?”
In a blink, Seb stood nose to nose with Bruno. “How,” Seb growled low, mostly window-rattling vibration, “did you know that?”
“Come on, dude.” Bruno’s voice seemed calm, until he cracked the last word. “You stand as braced as a Marine. Plus Brie, who works at the FBI, coming home with a new fiancé she got in the last couple months? We’re folksy here in the Corners, not dumb.”
Seb’s eyelids clenched briefly before he stepped back. “I never thought you were dumb. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the FBI connection to anyone. I’m supposed to be an accountant. Tell me what you know about the bloodsucker killings.”
“The vampire murders?” Bruno enthused.
“Vampire?” Seb said sharply. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on. The official reports said ‘bled out,’ but I know exsanguination when I see it. Me and my survivalist buddies have a webcrawler looking for cover-up speak. A graph-perfect line of exsanguination murders from Chicago to New York lit up our chat board like a chain of firecrackers.”
“Yes, well, we’re looking for a more concrete cause than vampires. Like knowing about the murders.” Seb narrowed his eyes at Bruno in suspicion. My stomach flipped unpleasantly.
“Me?” Bruno’s mouth gaped in surprise. “You don’t suspect me, do you?”
“Give me a reason not to,” Seb retorted. “Where were you this past week?”
“Here! Right here, all week.”
“Can you prove it?”
Bruno groaned. “No… Wait! Yes. Two days ago I took a phone order. John Smith told me to pack up a carton of nitrous oxide canisters and take the box to Dawn Truck Lines last night. They’ll vouch for me.”
“Nitrous?” Seb frowned. “Little ampules, like boxes of sugar cubes? Popular as a recreational drug.”
“No, these were canisters, nearly ninety pounds each, eight-inch diameter and four feet tall.” Bruno spread his hands far apart to demonstrate.
At that, Seb’s gaze sharpened. “That doesn’t sound like a simple drug party. Dawn Truck Lines?”
“Yeah. They’ll tell you I was here.”