Biting Nixie (31 page)

“
Cheese
balls. Hah. Like they're made out of cheese. That's as optimistic as school lunch mock-chicken legs.” I shook my head. “I watched my mother's church group make cheese balls one time. They use pus and mayonnaise, Julian. And that's just the base. Then they mix in the most disgusting things they can find—goat entrails and bull semen and heaven knows what else. Meiers Corners regulars avoid the LLAMA's cheese balls—even when they're drunk! Oh, those poor unsuspecting tourists!” Remembering the schedule, I slapped my forehead. “And the cheese ball tasting is already open. I have to do something!” I ran back toward the entrance, intent on getting to the Deli Delight before too much damage had been done.

Only to snap back as Julian caught my arm and tugged. “We can't worry about that now, Nixie.” He nodded toward the door.

Five huge guys had just entered, wearing ripped jeans and sporting enough jewelry to count as the national treasury of a small South American country. They were carrying instrument cases.

“They're a band.” Although I didn't recall which one.

Julian's nostrils flared. “They're vampires.”

“OMG.” The last band at auditions, when I was so desperate to get laid I would have signed up the Martian Kazoo Band. “How come you couldn't tell Monday?”

“They were downwind. And my senses were concentrated on a—different smell.” Julian's growl had gone to his chest, like some feral cold.

“Shit. Are they Lestats?”

“Maybe. I know all of Nosferatu's lieutenants, and those aren't his. They might be Ruthven's specials.”

“I thought Nosferatu and Ruthven were part of the same hinky group of suits. The Dove-ery.”

“The Coterie, and they are. But that doesn't mean they work together. Damn it, Ruthven himself was bad enough. We don't need his lieutenants on top of it.”

I was still trying to work it out. “So Nosy sends his gang to rough us up. But Ruthie sends a separate gang—why?”

Julian shrugged, but his stance was all aggression, and his eyes never left the five vampires. “Ruthven thinks Nosferatu is too soft on humans. Ruthven hasn't actually challenged Nosferatu for leadership, but it's just a matter of time. Oh, why the hell Ruthven, and why now?”

Ruthie was a vampire. Ruthie wanted to run the Coterie. The Coterie wanted Meiers Corners's blood. I stared at Julian while the pieces fell into place in my mind.

I turned the completed puzzle over in my head. It explained why Ruthven was here. It explained why his goons were here. It explained why now. It also predicted exactly when the attack on the Blood Center would be. But could it really be so simple? “You couldn't have told me this any earlier? Like, in time to stop thousands of tourists from coming tonight?”

“Even Ruthven's not insane enough to give us away to a large group of humans. The tourists are safe.” Julian watched the approaching vampires with the attention of a hunting tiger.

The five vampires, trooping menacingly toward the humans setting up the stage, caught sight of Julian and stopped. Dropping their cases (the cracks as the instruments hit concrete made me wince) they huddled to confer.

“That big one next to the guy with the mullet is Billy the Kid,” Julian said. “Definitely Ruthven's.”

I felt my eyes widen. “
The
Billy the Kid?”

“His father. Although he doesn't acknowledge it.” Julian's jaw clenched. “Damn. I wish I knew why Ruthven was taking such a personal interest in this.”

“
The
Billy the Kid's
father
?”

“He's one of Ruthven's best. Why is he here? Hell, why is Ruthven here?”

“You mean…you really don't know?” That surprised me enough to forget the Billster. Usually Julian was as quick, or quicker, than me. “Julian, think. There's only one answer.”

His head swiveled instantly toward me. “There is?” I had his full attention, and even though it wasn't
that kind
of attention, it made me shiver and lick my lips.

Down, girl
. I had some exposition to do. “Sure. Why is the Coterie trying to take over Meiers Corners?”

“Because of the Blood Center.”

“And Ruthven wants to take over the Coterie.”

“Yes, but—oh. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” Julian went on to swear in another six languages. I was impressed.

Ruthie's interest made sense if you knew Meiers Corners had a blood distribution center. It made even more sense when you factored in the big shipment of blood going out tomorrow.

Because that meant hundreds of gallons were sitting there
tonight
. “Wouldn't Ruthass be in a better position to challenge Nosferatu if he controlled three thousand pints of blood?”

Julian's answer was to swear even more. Which, I guess, was answer enough.

While he was reciting the Oxford Dictionary of Cuss, I phoned Elena. She put me on speaker phone and I relayed my theory to her and Bo. For a moment I heard stereo swearing, Julian in one ear and Bo in the other. Only Bo's swearing sounded more like
føkka bjeller drittsekk
.

“I'm sure you're right,” Elena said to me. “It all adds up.”

“Except one thing. With the Blood Center locked up tight, how does Ruthven expect to get in?”

“He can mist in,” came the stereo growls.

“Yeah, but the place is crawling with tourists. Not to mention the rent-a-fangs we'll have after sunset. How's he going to get the blood out?” There was a stunned silence on both ends.

That's when Ruthven's gang broke huddle.

Chapter Twenty-four

Ruthie's pseudo-musicians rumbled down on us like the Bears. A dozen fullbacks couldn't have been scarier.

Julian stood next to me, jaw working as if his fangs were barely in check. But nothing showed. There were still a dozen humans around, after all.

The Ruthven gang was fully armored and clawed, but their backs were to the warehouse. The only one to see them was me.

And, I realized after a squeak and a thud, Lob.

I'd have to worry about that later. The lead vampire, Billy the Kid,
the
Billy's dad if Julian was to be believed, was a rough-looking male. He was only a couple inches shy of Julian's skyscraper height, and a whole hell of a lot bulkier. The Kid flowed in until he was almost nose-to-nose with Julian.

Julian didn't back off a millimeter. In fact, he pumped up and leaned forward a bit. “What do you want,
yearling
?”

The vampire's eyes fired red. “I'm almos' two hunnerd,” Billy TK hissed.

Hunnerd meaning hundred, I translated. Two hundred years old was decent, but only Queen Victoria instead of Queen Elizabeth I.

“Yearling,” Julian said clearly. “Look me up when you're a thousand.”

Oh goody. My belt is longer than yours. Boys.

But the Kid's red eyes faded, as did some of the armor. “We want somethin'.” He glanced back at his gang, the wall of muscled plate behind him. That seemed to pump back some of his courage. “Not from you, oh semi-Ancient One,” he sneered. “From her.” He thrust a gnarled thumb-claw in my direction.

Julian jumped in front of me and pumped even bigger, his back radiating his fury. “You'll have to go through me.”

“This ain't your business, Emerson,” I heard the Kid say beyond Julian's bulk.

“The hell it isn't! You've got exactly five seconds to get the fuck out of here—”

“We got a contract!” There was a crinkly sound, the Kid thrusting paper into Julian's face. “You can't threaten us, Emerson, and you can't send us nowhere!”

“What…do…you…want?” Julian growled, so low and dangerous even I felt it.

“We want to be first,” the Kid said. “To play. We want to open.”

I jackknifed around Julian at that. “No. No way. You guys are awful. You'll freak out half the audience. And the other half will hurl beer at you.”

Julian hissed, shoved me back behind him, and glared—at me. “What?” I said, frowning. “Beer would short out the equipment. We don't have insurance.” Woofers 'R Us did, but BTK didn't need to know that.

“You'd better let us play first, blood-bitch. Because if we don't play, we chomp.”

Julian slid one hand slowly into his jacket. Anybody who'd ever seen a gangster movie would have recognized that threatening gesture. “Not on my watch, Billy.”

The Kid had the audacity to laugh. “How you going to stop us, Emerson? You don't want to frighten the
humans
so you can't fang up…
ack
.”

The
ack
was because Julian did his faster-than-sound thing, the one he did the first night I met him. The whistling flash of silver that sliced, diced, julienned, and spurted blood like a squirt gun. I peeped around his back.

The Kid's throat was sliced open. His head lolled awkwardly on his shoulder, held on by a few gristly bits. Blood spurted haphazardly over his tee, spattered the floor.

With trembling hands, the Kid picked up his head and plopped it back onto his neck. He shoved a little, like he was popping a doll head on. The muscle and skin reattached. With a crick of his neck, the Kid was as good as new.

He sneered at Julian. “Nice trick. But I'll be prepared for it next time. You won't…
ack
.”

Julian, without even moving very much, had done it again.

“Nice,” the Kid said when he'd reattached again. “But you can't…
ack
.”

“Okay,” said the Kid when he'd pulled himself together a third time. “Maybe you can. But you can't do it all…
ack
.”

This was followed by a blur and four more
acks
. When I blinked, the blur was gone and Julian was standing right where he had started.

And all the vampire guys were picking up their heads.

The guys assembling chairs and speakers stopped and stared. I peeked around Julian and smiled. “Magic act, folks. For closing night. The red stuff's Kool-Aid.” I nudged Julian with my elbow. “Psst. Do your Obi-Wan thing again.”

“My what?”

“I am so taking you to see
Star Wars
. Do the mind control thing.”

“It's called suggestion,” he muttered, but dutifully called out, “You only saw a magic act.” His voice was that weird hollowness that got inside your head and rang. Even I almost started believing it was all hocus-pocus.

By this time the vampires had gotten their heads back on. Julian faced them, discreetly tapping wicked, six-inch curved talons against his chest. Wow. What Dolly wouldn't give to have
his
nail technician. “Gentlemen,” he said in a cold, contained voice. “Please do not make me go through this all night. Because the next time, your heads may get lost before they can be reattached.”

The Kid's eyebrows tightened in a frown. “What do you mean, get lost?”

“You don't want to know.”

Which might have been scary and might not. So I suggested, “We could take them to the bowling alley. They'd be a little scuffed up after a few frames, but…”

“Thank you, Nixie.” Julian clapped his hand over my mouth. “But I'm sure Billy here can imagine for himself what I might do.”

“Just trying to help,” I mumbled into his palm.

“We'll go,” the Kid said. “But we'll be back.”

“Thanks for the warning, Terminator.” My clever remark was lost in Julian's hand.

When Julian finally released me, the gang was stalking out the door. He stared after them, his mind obviously working hard. “Why the hell did they want to play first?”

“To drive away the customers. Which is better than killing them.” I grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the door. “Which is what the Ladies Auxiliary's cheese balls will do unless we can get there fast!”

Julian didn't move. “But how does it fit with Ruthven and the Blood Center—”

“Come
on
, Julian! Save the world now. Brood later.”

He didn't like it, but he came.

 

When we got there, it was worse than I could have even imagined.

Three people were in charge of every event—a chair, a council producer, and a vampire protector. The chair for the cheese ball tasting was Twyla Tafel, conveniently out of town helping her sister with the new baby. Brunhilde Butt was the council member, but she was also doing the opening reception and couldn't be in two places at once, no matter how fast she shimmied. The vampire guard was one of the rent-a-fangs, who wouldn't arrive until dark.

Not a single in-charge person was there.

Zillions of LLAMAs were, however—including Mrs. Ruffles, Dirk the Duck's mom (picture a girl duck with big high heels, pearls, and an overbite). Lutheran Ladies were everywhere, feverishly laying out large, smelly balls. I couldn't call them cheese balls, not with what the Ladies did to them. Macbeth's witches couldn't have come up with nastier stuff.

Fortunately no tourists were there yet. I still might beat off disaster.

“Fire!” I yelled.

Mrs. Blau turned immediately. “Why, hello, Nixie. What a lovely party.” Mrs. Braun, Mrs. Gruen, and Ms. Gelb added their smiling concurrence.

Mrs. Ruffles waved. Friendly, except she had a cheese ball in her hand. The ball catapulted like a major-league pitch. I ducked just in time to avoid pus-ball face. The ball hit the door with a splat, sliding slowly down like snot. There's an image you don't want of something that's supposed to be food.

“Tornado!” I shouted. “Evacuate!”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Blau said. “Could you get a few more napkins?”

They were ignoring me. Could things get worse?

Sure. While I was trying to think of something else to yell, a bus from the retirement community pulled up. Thirty or forty little old ladies and a dozen little old men shuffled off, headed straight toward us.

I swore, but only in my head. There were church ladies here, after all.