Blessed (20 page)

Due to a clothes-shopping trip with Miz Morales, I didn’t make it to Sanguini’s until almost sunset. She dropped me off in my newest work outfit — a classic little black dress with sheer black hose, black-and-white checked pumps, and a pillbox hat that Miz Morales had said reminded her of Jackie Kennedy.

In the kitchen, Nora’s staff was in full prep mode, and she’d put Zachary to work churning vanilla ice cream. The chef exclaimed, “My, don’t you look spiffy!”

“Freddy around?” I asked.

“Not yet. I expect we won’t see him until after ten.”

Maybe Freddy or Zachary knew more about demonic magic than Nora did. But I’d have to wait to catch one of them alone later.

The chandeliers sparkled, Sinatra crooned, and the staff looked succulent, but so far at a half hour past sundown, Yani had seated only four tables, including the six-top dressed as the Sopranos. According to the reservations roster, we were booked solid.

“Where
is
everybody?” I muttered, wandering into the foyer.

“Surprise!” exclaimed a guest with long black hair, wearing a long black dress with a plunging neckline accented by a simple pendant.

“What do you think?” asked her date, turning to greet me. He sported a pin-striped suit, white shirt, black tie, and a vaguely familiar dark mustache. With his hair combed down and over —

“Gah!” Meara and Roberto! “What are y’all doing here? Like that?”

“We’re Morticia and Gomez,” she replied. “From
The Addams Family.
”

“It’s supposed to be ironic,” he added, which did not help at all.

They were here. At Sanguini’s. For dinner. Which technically would’ve been fine, fine, fine, except that werewolves hated vampires and something at Sanguini’s was wacky tonight and Kieren’s parents should not dress like that. It was almost worse than seeing Meara naked in the kitchen. Almost. “Oh, too bad! We’re all booked up.”

Dr. Morales leaned to peek into the dining room. “I see a few free tables.”

There had been a big question mark in that statement. Even though only one of them was a shifter, they were both parents. They could both smell trouble.

Yanira glided back in. “Welcome to Sanguini’s! Are you predator or prey?”

From the she-wolf and the king of the grill, their “predator” answers came as no surprise. “Zachary’s section?” Yani asked me, leading them into the dining room.

“No, are you kidding? Give them to Xio. She knows what she’s doing.”

With that, I waved cheerfully at the Moraleses and made a beeline to the bar area. “Xio?” She was flirting with Zachary, who looked politely bored. “Xio!”

As they turned toward me, I said, “Xio, the restaurant is practically empty. My new guardians were just seated, and you have to go out there and be perfect so that they don’t think I need any more of their ‘help’ here at Sanguini’s.”

She fluffed her hair. “Not a problem.”

Zachary said, “You don’t think they’re just trying to show their support?”

I frowned up at him. “Of course they’re trying to show their support. But they’re also checking up on me, and —”

“Quincie,” Sergio called from the dining room, “can I have a word with you?”

From the sidewalk, Sergio and I tried to look nonchalant as we cased the eco-activists who’d set up camp in our parking lot. Two or three blocked each space. They wore black mesh ponchos with prominent BADL logos.

The Bat Anti-Defamation League.

The world’s largest urban bat colony made its home under the Congress Avenue Bridge, a few blocks north of the restaurant. BADL had been suspicious of Sanguini’s negative PR effect on the city’s beloved eco-mascots since before we’d first opened.

It was unfair and vexing. I personally considered myself bat-friendly.

Back in the day, Uncle D would’ve asked Vaggio to handle it, and Vaggio would’ve just slipped ’em a fifty and told them to get lost. I suggested that strategy.

“They’re trespassing,” Sergio countered. “Let’s call the cops.”

“If it goes live on the police scanners, the media will be —”

He gestured at the news van. “BADL already sent out a news release.”

Just then, I noticed Miz Morales stolling toward us in her Morticia getup. “Do you need any help?” she asked Sergio, like I’d become invisible.

That’s when I realized that, owner or not, I wasn’t getting full blame or credit for anything at Sanguini’s, which was fair enough, considering the fact that, day to day, when it came to most of the management stuff, I wasn’t the one in charge. Except . . .

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Sergio has the situation under control. Don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he assured her. “Thanks for the offer, Meara, but I’d hate for your wasabi-deviled quail eggs to get cold.”

“They’re already cold,” Miz Morales countered. “I —”

“You’re the top wedding planner in the city,” Sergio said, “and I’m so pleased that you and Roberto could join us tonight, but this isn’t the Junior League crowd.”

Not everyone could get away with reprimanding her like that, however gently. But, to my surprise and relief, Miz Morales made a nonapology apology for overstepping her bounds and headed back toward the restaurant.

Eyeing the BADL protesters, I suggested, “Talk to Aimee.” She did have that
KEEP AUSTIN BATTY
sticker on her school locker. “I suspect she speaks their language.”

By 8:30
P.M
., I’d failed to catch Freddy alone, but thanks to Aimee, Sergio had agreed to designate all proceeds earned tonight from table seven to a more reputable and reasonable local bat-preservation organization.

Meanwhile, Clyde had needed help with the dishes. So I’d covertly taken a picture of the Moraleses with my cell phone and then ditched the pillbox hat and little black dress for an old T-shirt and jeans that I’d stashed in the office filing cabinet for just such an occasion.

“Hey, Quincie!” Zachary called over the din of clanging pots, water sprayer, and frantic chatter. “You free after work?”

Clyde leaned closer to me. “Remember, a Lion is still a Cat. Shifters can be dangerous, too.” He was obviously thinking of Ruby.

I nodded, not wanting to rehash last weekend’s argument. “Yeah, but . . .”

Brad had caught me off guard. He’d been older — much older, utterly diabolical, and he’d had Uncle D on his side. Plus, I’d been more vulnerable after Vaggio’s death, especially given that Kieren had been a prime suspect.

My consequences had been more dire than most, but a lot of girls had trusted the wrong guy once. I didn’t intend to make a habit of it.

“Quincie?” Zachary called again, his tray held high.

“But what?” the Possum prompted me.

“I’m not that naive human girl anymore.”

After clocking out, Zachary retrieved a sword that had been stored with a White Sox cap in his break-room locker. He left the cap where it was.

I made sure no one else was around and asked, “Is that a costume prop or the sword you stole from the cops?”

He looked offended. “It was mine in the first place.”

Fair enough. “And it’s in your locker because . . . ?”

He winked at me. “If I wore it in the dining room, I’d bang the scabbard into a table every time I turned around.”

Sergio had abandoned his scythe and hooded robe for similar reasons.

On one hand, it made me nervous that Zachary was capable of stealing something out of wherever they kept evidence at APD. On the other hand, it suggested that maybe he could be useful in ways that went beyond waxing poetic about my jeopardized soul.

Outside, the sidewalks had nearly emptied, but one last appreciative whistle trailed Zachary down South Congress.

“It doesn’t seem to faze you,” I said. “All the attention, I mean.” I admired that about him. A lot of guys — Brad, for example — would’ve soaked it up.

“My heart is spoken for,” Zachary replied.

Miranda again, poor guy.

The warm air felt sticky, like the sky ached to rain. Central Texas had been suffering from a drought since last spring.

Making our way past renovated motels, neon-lit storefronts, and music clubs, Zachary and I talked shop. About BADL, the customer whose hoop skirt wouldn’t fit between the tables, the drunken grad students singing “Mamma” along with Pavarotti.

Zachary teased, “I didn’t realize restaurant owners washed dishes.”

“My mother always did whatever needed doing,” I explained, shifting the backpack strap on my right shoulder. “And I do, too.”

“You talk about your mom a lot,” he said. “Not so much your dad.”

“It was always easier with him.” I glanced at a newspaper kiosk. According to a headline, some teenagers had gone missing outside San Antonio. I paused, wondering briefly if Bradley had something to do with it. Shaking off the thought, I added, “I never felt like anybody expected me to be an archaeologist when I grew up.”

“Do you really want to run the restaurant someday? Or was that your mom’s —?”

“People always ask that. I guess . . . it’s harder now. With Sanguini’s vampire theme, smelling all the food I can’t eat, it’s like I never have a chance to forget what I’ve become. But the restaurant isn’t work to me. I never dread going or feel sorry for myself because I’m there so much. I guess I’m not really the wannabe-homecoming-queen-where’s-the-party-this-weekend-will-you-sign-my-yearbook type.” There was more to the social side of high school than that, but he didn’t argue.

“Basically, it’s your whole world.”

“Basically.” At least without Kieren, my family, or a heartbeat, but I didn’t say so out loud. Mama had hated whining as much as she’d loved Fat Lorenzo’s, and I’d inherited that, too.

Faced with the boisterous late-night crowd outside All the World’s a Stage — the costume-shop owners had decided to stay open around the clock through Halloween — Zachary led me to the other side of the avenue.

We stepped up on the curb, and I brightened when Mitch appeared directly in our path from behind a giant yucca. Tonight his cardboard sign read:

All of the words were spelled right, too. He seemed fine, for him, anyway. Apparently, I’d been worried about nothing. “This is my friend Mitch.”

Zachary extended his hand. “Good to see you, buddy.”

Mitch batted it away. “Where did you come from?”

“Zachary’s new at Sanguini’s,” I explained, suddenly wary. “He’s a waiter.”

“Golden boy.” Mitch spat at Zachary. “Leave, leave her alone.”

“Mitch!” I exclaimed.

He dropped his sign and ran into the street, almost knocking down a Harley rider, then blending into the costume-shop crowd.

“Alone,”
echoed a voice only I could hear.

I frowned. “He’s not usually like that.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s a sweetheart of a guy. Or at least he was before.”

As we resumed walking down the hill, past more funky shops and restaurants, I asked, “How do you know Mitch? You just moved here.”

“We’ve met in passing a few times. I’ve lived in Austin before. I was homeless myself back then.”

“You?” I asked. From their clothes and the way they carried themselves, I’d figured all three Chicagoans were pretty well off. “You were homeless?”

Zachary shrugged. “It can happen to anyone.”

Like I hadn’t known that. “Well,” I began, peering at him sideways, “you don’t have to sound so damn pious about it.”

He laughed. “I don’t, do I? It’s strange. Being with you brings back a lot of memories, not all of them good. You’re more assertive than Miranda was. You know, before the vamp took her. But she’s not much older than you. She’s also from Texas — Dallas. She bossed me around all the time, too.”

You’d think we were the only two girls he’d ever met.

We rounded the corner of a sprawling gated stucco apartment complex before escaping into the quiet of the old Fairview neighborhood, headed toward the Moraleses’.

As the sidewalk dead-ended, I bent to retie my new Nikes. “It was awfully coincidental,” I began, tentative, “you and Nora and Freddy all moving to Austin, fitting in perfectly to those open jobs at the restaurant —”

“Coincidences are rare. I’m not sure I even believe in them anymore.”

Straightening, I asked, “What do you believe in?”