Biting Nixie (7 page)

But my quarrel wasn't with his tie. Well, it was, but right now I was picking a fight with him. I tilted my head so I could glare directly into his eyes. My neck started to kink. I ignored it. “You don't have to stunt, Emerson. I can walk by myself. I am not a child!”

Brightly, Dirk said, “You look like one, Nixie. A child, that is. Next to Mr. Emerson. Him being so tall and you only reaching up to his armpits. Well, not even his armpits—”

“I am not a child!” I said, stomping my foot.

My cheeks burned like a fire when I realized what I'd done.

It was all Julian Emerson's fault. Damn the man! His cool arrogance brought out the very worst in me. He was everything I hated. Puritanical and rigid (which my parents called stability). Pigheaded stubborn (which my parents called tenacity). Stifling anything creative (consistency) or fun (soberness). Julian Emerson was the epitome of rigid, stubborn, boring old male. Sober. Conscientious. Reliable.

No—pigheaded! Pigheaded Julian, fixated on my not being alone at night. Feening on walking me to the auditions, like I was some little kid who'd lose her way.

“Nixie…think about what happened earlier,” Elena said reasonably. “You really should let Julian walk with you.”

“Safety in numbers,” Bo agreed.

Julian, damn him, simply grabbed my elbow. “Are you finished here?” It didn't help that, with our extreme differences in height, he had to look down his nose to see me.

But here was a drama-llama question. Did I defy Julian's smug arrogance and stay? Or did I escape with him—before Dirk cornered me into putting him in charge of something?

In the meantime, Julian's square, competent fingers were branding a hole in my skin.

“I'm finished.” I yanked my elbow loose. Julian, unfazed, simply put his strong hand on my waist.

Even though I wore layers upon layers of clothes, his heat burned.

It propelled me into motion. “I'll get back to you later about the pageant,” I called to Bo and Elena as I escaped. Dirk I ignored. Hope springs eternal.

Only to be dashed. Dirklet followed us out, chattering. “So what do you want me to do for the fundraiser, Nixie? I could run a kazoo contest. Or should I book the polka bands? You are having polka bands, aren't you? Well of course you are. This is Meiers Corners. Is Guns and Polkas playing? Well, of course they are, it's your band. But will the Elvis impersonator be singing? I like him, though I wish he could play accordion like that nice Lawrence Welk. Do you think Oprah plays accordion, Nixie?”

Julian took his burning hand from my waist to hold it out like a traffic cop in front of Dirk. Still yammering, Dirk ran forehead first into Julian's palm and bounced like he'd hit a brick wall. “Detective Ruffles. You have work to do.”

Dirk's muddy gaze met Julian's blue one. “I…I have…”

“Work to do,” Julian repeated patiently.

To my amazement, Dirk said, “I have work to do.”

“You need to return now.”

“I need to return now.” Dirk turned slowly around and disappeared back into the detectives' office.

“OMG!” I stared after Dirk. “That was so Jedi.” I waved my hand in the universal Obi-Wan. “You don't need to see his identification.”

Julian frowned at me. “I beg your pardon?”

I circled my palm at him. “You know.
Star Wars
. Obi-Wan and the Storm Troopers. Before they go into the cantina and meet Han Solo.”

His frown deepened. Total incomprehension.

“For goodness sake. Where have you been the last thirty years, Emerson? A coffin?”

Julian blinked. “Do you ever speak English?”

“You're so daggy. Come on. Let's get this over with.” I put his hand back on my elbow (better than the waist, and who knew where he'd burn if he couldn't reach that?). And then, because he wasn't going to leave me alone, I started off to band auditions.

Besides, I could grill him on the way about Cutter and his gang.

Slowly, I wormed my fingers through Julian's, anchoring him to my elbow. When I was sure he couldn't get away I launched my offensive. “So what was that back there, with all the fighting and falling bodies and stuff?”

Julian gave an experimental tug. Found himself well and truly hooked. Grimaced. “Dirk looked fine when we left.”

“Not Dirk, you moron. Cutter. Remember? Scary gang guys, male chest-beating, ancient blah-blah-blah?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that. What was that all about? Who were those guys? How do you know them? And how'd you make yourself look taller? Oh, and your hands. Did you put something on to make them look like claws? And did you really chop off that Cutter guy's head, and was that a machete you pulled out of your pocket and—”

“Nixie, please. One question at a time.” Julian's eyes closed like he was developing a headache.

“Well…how'd you do the snarling cat thing? You puffed up about half a foot and I could have sworn you had claws. And you moved like lightning.”

“Snarling cat thing.” His eyes opened, tracked like he was thinking hard. “Yes, cat thing. How apt. You see, I study kung fu. A form based on animal natures. I appear larger by pumping up muscles, much as a body builder does. Cat-style kung fu also uses something called claw hand.” He demonstrated, his fingers becoming rigid curves.

I squinted at his hand. I remembered his fingers looking sharper, but that could have been the light. “Okay, say I believe that. And the foot-long knife in your coat pocket? Or was it a sword?”

“Chef's knife. I do a bit of cordon bleu cooking in my spare time.”

“Uh-huh. And you just happened to carry a foot-long thing in your clothes.”

Both black eyebrows raised.

“I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“I'm sure you didn't.”

“Yeah. Well. Um, what about Cutter? It looked like you chopped off his coconut.”

Julian shook his head. “Nixie. Think how unlikely that is. A human neck has bone an inch thick. Tough muscle. Tendons and cartilage. And I sliced through that with a chef's knife?”

“Well…I saw blood.”

“Yes. I hit Cutter in the head with the hilt of my knife. To knock him out. Head wounds bleed a lot.”

“Oh. And the thing you tossed to the rest of the gang?”

“A bundle of cash. A bribe. Good heavens, Nixie, I'm a lawyer, not a superhero. You didn't think I physically threatened a dangerous gang, did you?”

I flushed. “No, of course not. Oh, look. There's the club.” Conveniently, for my embarrassment. “Time for auditions.”

The
Kosmopolitisch
was the Meiers Corners equivalent of the Bronze in the Buffy universe. It had live music all the time. Most of it was pretty lame, but when you were a high schooler, who knew? And really, who cared? For most non-musicians, clubbing was all about drinking and getting laid. The music was just what got you in the mood.

Tonight was normally open mic night at the club. With less than two weeks until the festival, I'd strong-armed the manager into slotting my bands in instead, not that any of the dozen couples making out would notice.

Julian and I got there just as the first band was setting up. It was a group called Death Turkeys—two guys and a drum machine. You can see why I needed to do auditions.

Before they could strike their first chord there was a
click
and the lights went out.

The blackness was so absolute I could
feel
it. Like black cotton balls in my eyes. I remembered the last two times the lights went out and grabbed for Julian's arm. I clutched fine worsted wool. “What is it?” More attackers? More…blood?

“I don't know. Stay here.” He rose.

I clutched tighter. No way. No way he was leaving me when there might be muggers, or attackers, or…or something worse.

Julian's warm hand slipped over mine. Gently, he worked my fingers loose. Before he could get away I grabbed on with the other hand. “My dry cleaner is going to hate me,” he complained mildly, sitting back down. “I don't suppose I can convince you to wrinkle onto something other than my suit?”

“I can't see.” Except I was beginning to be able to see a little. A thin beam of moonlight was just dusting the surroundings into shadowy shapes. The band guys milled in confusion on the stage. Or maybe they were trying to play. They strummed their guitars, getting little toy guitar twinkles for their efforts.

The
Kosmopolitisch's
manager, Cary Grant, was hopping around like a crazed monkey, pointlessly flipping light switches. Yeah, I know. And if anyone was
less
like the debonair actor it was this guy. He was short, he was hairy, and he could have played Gimli in Lord of the Rings. But Cary Grant wasn't the manager's real name. He was born Archibald Leach.

Anyway, Grant was flipping hard,
click-click-click,
but nothing was happening. So he dashed to the bar so fast he did a half-gainer over the edge. “I'm okay!” He jumped up and frantically tried various appliances. Empty clicks told me he had no greater success than he had trying to turn on the lights.

Surprisingly, the couples making out didn't seem to notice anything was wrong. Or maybe that wasn't surprising, considering their preoccupation. “I can see a little,” I amended. “But not enough.” Not enough to see if bad guys were coming.

“All right. Hang on.” Julian rose again, this time taking me with him.

We wound our way through tables to the bar. Cary Grant had given up pushing buttons and flipping switches in favor of more brute force. Right now he was shaking the blender.

“Excuse me,” Julian said in Grant's ear.

“Shit!” Grant squealed. Half-blended frozen daiquiri shot up onto the ceiling. Little snottules dripped onto my cheek from above. I wiped them off, absently licked. Hmm. Needed more lime.

“Who's there, and why are you trying to scare me to death?”

Grant wouldn't know Julian, so I spoke up. “It's Nixie, Cary. What's wrong?”

Deprived of the blender, Grant started on the dishwasher, poking and prying. “No phones, no lights, no motor cars. What do you
think
is wrong?”

I
thought
we were under attack. But I said, “Electricity out?”

“Well duh, Sherlock.”

“Have you checked the circuit breakers?” Julian asked.

“Um…no.” Grant stopped his frantic poking. “I, um, don't know where they are.”

“Could they be behind this plate on the wall?” Julian indicated a hinged metal door.

“No, no. That's just the…safe. The safe where I keep receipts…and bills…”

But Julian had already opened the metal door. “You keep your receipts in the circuit breaker box?” Sure enough, rows of black switches were revealed, along with a pile of paper and envelopes. Julian removed the stack and started sifting through it.

“Hey! Those are private!” Cary Grant snatched at the papers but Julian was too quick for him, pulling away at the last instant.

“This could be part of the problem.” Julian held up one of the envelopes. I could just make out the Meiers Corners Electric Company logo. He extracted two sheets of paper.

Grant snatched at them. Julian simply raised them higher until Grant couldn't reach. Julian tsked. “How long has it been since you paid bills?”

“None of your business!” Grant jumped. When he realized Julian's height made even pole-vaulting for the papers impossible, he added petulantly, “Besides, it's winter. They're not supposed to cut off your electricity even if you don't pay.”

“I believe that's heat.” Julian handed Grant his stack of unpaid bills.

“Oh. Yeah.”

I put fists on hips, disgusted. “No electricity, Now how will the bands play?” Even if they had their stuff memorized, they'd need power for their amps and keyboards. And, looking over at the Death Turkeys, their drum machines.

“You could pay the bill, Nixie. Since you're the one who needs the lights.” Grant pushed the electric bill under my nose. That close, all I saw was OWE in big red letters.

“
Pay
? Me?” My wild take number thirty-two was lost on him in the sketchy moonlight. “I barely have enough money for my chewing gum habit. Why don't you ask the golden idol Godskrilla here?”

“Can't.” Julian gave a curt shake of his head. “My cash is tied up. Long term investments.”

I blinked. “You understood that?”

“‘Golden idol' is universal. We might as well go, Nixie. Since the bands can't audition tonight.”

I meant Godskrilla, but let it ride. “Yeah, but when? I need to audition the bands like
yesterday
. The festival's less than two weeks away!”

“You'll find a time, I'm sure.” Julian dragged me out the door of the
Kosmopolitisch
. The moonlight etched his flared nostrils and sharp eyes.

“What,” I said as he dragged me down the street.

His eyes were so intense they must have pierced every shadow. When he answered, he sounded distracted. “What, what?”

“You're doing your Elmer Fudd imitation. Do you think the lights-out
wasn't
because Cary didn't pay his electric bills?”

His eyes closed briefly, as if in pain. “Do you ever speak a known language? Sanskrit, perhaps?”

“Look, it's a simple enough question—”

I was interrupted by another streetlamp blowing a bulb. The sharp pop made me jump. “What is it with these cheap-ass lights? Or did Meiers Corners forget to pay its electric bill, too?”

Julian's fingers tightened on my elbow. “Don't blame the city.” The hunter face was back in spades. His eyes were bright violet, like Bo's when he got really angry. And he was working his jaw like he tasted something nasty. “Apparently some people don't know a warning when they hear it.”

Four figures swirled out of the dark. Three long coats and a suit.