Demons of Good and Evil by Kim Harrison

            “What about the tomatoes?” she asked, rightly worried.

            “Don’t tell his dad, but he eats them,” I said, and she squinted at me in doubt. “Glenn pushed his way into Piscary’s one night with Ivy and me and was forced to try one of Piscary’s own creations. When he enjoyed it, everyone in the place sort of took him in. I think Piscary gave him a protected status hoping that Ivy would bind him to her and forget about, ah, me, but Ivy didn’t want to, so while they are not platonic friends, they are bloodless.” Probably.

            “Oh.”

            She was thinking, and I eased us to a halt, waiting for Glenn. “Thanks for getting the pack calmed down. Glenn won’t mind me sensitizing an amulet in his office.” I think. Yes, we knew where they were, but an amulet would be helpful in fine-tuning the assault.

            “Great. Thanks. Don’t leave for the chop shop without me. Promise.”

            “Promise,” I said, but I frowned as I watched her walk through the open offices.

            “You want me to follow her?” Jenks said from my shoulder. “Make sure she doesn’t do something brave but stupid?”

            “No,” I said, deathly worried for her. “I want you to follow Martie.”





CHAPTER


            7

            I held my breath as I edged past the living vampires clustered inside the door of Piscary’s. It wasn’t that the surrounding people smelled bad. Quite the opposite. Everyone waiting was chatty and in a good mood, most with a glass of something already in hand, just after noon or not. The scent of vampire incense was heady as it mixed with the intoxicating aroma of hot tomatoes, bacon, peppers, and mushrooms. But mostly tomatoes.

            “Excuse me. I need to leave my name,” I said, and a slim man in gray shifted to give me access. Glenn was tucked in behind me, oppressively close. He wasn’t cowed, but people had begun to notice him, and by the number of raised eyebrows, most didn’t know his favored status. I wasn’t sure what bothered them most, that he was human, or that he was from the FIB.

            The host stand was empty. Impatient—and a little uncomfortable with Glenn breathing down my neck—I scanned the large, open floor for Ivy. The restaurant/bar was mostly dark wood. Tables in the middle, booths against the two walls. I’d accidentally blown out the wall common with the parking lot last July, and Pike had put in three garage doors. They were closed at the moment, but come sundown, the parking in front of them would shift to overflow tables. Bright spotlights showcased the tomato theme, and the red fruit was everywhere.

            Ivy was working the art deco bar against the wall, the svelte woman moving competently as she filled drink orders and took the political temperature of Cincinnati at the same time. Pike’s logo of a twined M and W was front and center on the mirror behind her, the decorative swoops and swirls done in a classy gold paint. Ivy’s long, enviable straight hair hung in a black sheet, swinging as she moved before it.

            She was trim and tall, and her mix of European and Asian heritages gave her an almost ethereal look. She could have been a model if her temperament wasn’t so . . . Ivy, and my skin tingled as she gave a patron a rare smile, flashing her small but sharp canines. She was a living vampire and wouldn’t get the extended versions until she died. She didn’t need blood to survive, but like most living vampires, she enjoyed it with her sex.

            And with that thought, Ivy’s head lifted, finding me through the noise and commotion as if sensing my ripple of remembrance, the delicious feel of her teeth sliding cleanly into me, bringing me alive.

            “You okay?” Glenn said, and I gave myself a mental slap, even as I made a “kiss-kiss” gesture across the bar to say hi. Ivy smirked and turned away. I’d always known when Ivy was in the room, and she me. Sort of a creepy super-sense sort of thing.

            “Fine,” I said, then coughed to get my voice out of that whispery, come-hither lilt. My gaze went across the room to a familiar laugh, and my tension eased at Pike chatting up a mixed table of witches and Weres. The early-thirties man might have once been classically handsome: tall, good build, light complexion, dark wavy hair. But years of abuse had left their mark, and scars covered him—not the fun bedroom kind, but the torture, trying-to-kill-you variety. Even so, he took no pains to hide them, preferring to wear a lightweight, short-sleeved shirt when the weather allowed. The truly ugly scars remained hidden.

            Pike’s nose was lumpy from being broken too many times. His hands were the same. His hip tended to give him trouble, leaving him with a limp that he tried to hide. And yet . . . I thought him all the more attractive for it all. I appreciated the marks of his past struggle. It gave me hope that I could survive my life.