Silver-Tongued Devil (3 page)

Earl, Vein’s fanged barkeep, was busy filling drink orders for the large crowd who’d turned out for Pussy Willow’s New York debut. I waved to get his attention and held up three fingers. Earl wasn’t exactly the chatty type, but he did deign to nod vaguely in my direction. The move was both a greeting and an acknowledgment that he’d send our drinks over to the table. After the night I’d had so far, I briefly considered changing my regular beer for a double Bloody Magdalene, but knew the move would only earn me The Look from Adam. On the bright side, the beer would go a long way to help scrub the chemical taste of coagulant from my tongue, courtesy of the pint of bagged blood I’d chugged earlier.

Adam beelined for our usual spot—a booth along the back wall that gave us a perfect view of the stage. I scooted in and opened the canvas bag. Giguhl leapt out and onto the vinyl banquette, the move knocking his blue cap askew.

“Ahem?”

“What?”

“You don’t really expect me to hang out in this hairless carcass, do you?”

I removed a set of sweatpants from the bag and rose again with a sigh. “We’ll be right back.”

Carrying the cat under one arm, I made my way through the crowd toward the bathrooms. Ignoring the speculative glances from the females in line for the ladies’ room, I went to the men’s door. I pushed it open and tossed the cat and the pants inside. Leaning against the wall, I crossed my arms. “Giguhl change forms,” I called out loud enough to be heard inside to the john.

Two seconds later a pop sounded. Green smoke wafted under the door, bringing with it the scent of rotten eggs and urinal cakes.

“What the fuck!” a deep male voice shouted from inside. “Keep that thing away from me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Giguhl responded in a bored tone. “You couldn’t handle The Pitchfork.”

The door burst open and a very large, very pissed-off werewolf exited. As the door swung closed, I was treated to an unsavory view of naked demon ass as Giguhl pulled on his sweatpants. And here I was thinking I was clever for making him change forms in the bathroom. If I didn’t know better I’d think Giguhl enjoyed flashing me. Which was likely, considering he was a Mischief demon.

Two seconds later, the seven-foot-tall, green-scaled, black-horned demon emerged. He wore a pair of faded black sweatpants that ended a good six inches above his hooves. He looked ridiculous, but it was better than sitting next to a naked demon all night.

“Did you have to antagonize the werewolf?” I asked.

“That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed his shoulder. “C’mon, the show’s starting soon.”

As we walked back to the booth, I bumped shoulders with a familiar mage. He stopped when he recognized me. “Oh, sorry, Sabina.”

I waved away his apology. “Hey, Marty. No worries.”

“What up, homeslice?” Giguhl raised a claw to high-five the mage, who we knew casually from around Prytania Place. He was some sort of low-level administrator for the Council, but a nice enough guy.

Marty smiled and slapped Giguhl’s claw. “You up for another round of hoops, G? I want a chance to win back that twenty you took off me last time.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Giguhl said, and laughed.

We said our good-byes to Marty and headed back to our seats. Cinnamon, one of Slade’s nymph waitresses-slash-prostitutes, had delivered our drinks while we were gone. Giguhl dropped onto the bench and chugged down half his beer. When he paused for a breath, a loud belch escaped his black lips.

“Nice, G.” Adam raised his own drink to cover his smile.

“I can’t help it,” the demon said. “I’m so nervous for Pussy Willow.”

“Why?” I asked. “She performed all the time in New Orleans.”

Giguhl shot me a bitch-please look. “Yeah, but that was lip-synching. She’s been practicing her vocals but she’s still really nervous.”

“Wait,” I said. “You mean she’s actually going to sing?” I exchanged a worried look with Adam. He shook his head slightly. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought there might be a very good reason PW used to lip-synch during her drag shows.

The demon nodded and took a nervous sip of his beer.

“So how’s the Roller Derby stuff going, G?” Adam asked, deftly changing subjects before Giguhl could work himself up into a frenzy like an overprotective stage mother.

Giguhl sat forward, warming up to the new topic. “Pretty well. I’ve recruited six chicks so far.”

Up until a few weeks earlier, Giguhl had been the reigning champ of Demon Fight Club. The setup had been simple: Two demons faced off in a fight pit located in Vein’s basement. But an incident involving a Lust demon and a mage with attention deficit disorder brought that to a screaming halt. Luckily, I’d missed that ordeal, but according to Giguhl, the whole thing was quite upsetting. “Sabina, some things cannot be unseen,” he’d said. Apparently, several of Vein’s patrons agreed and Slade was forced to shut down DFC for good.

Never one to let a little difficulty prevent him from making a fast buck, The Shade, as Slade was known in the Black Light District, started looking for new ideas to entertain his customers. Giguhl suggested he bring Pussy Willow up from New Orleans to sing at the club one night a week. The suggestion hadn’t been without ulterior motive. Ever since we’d returned to New York, Giguhl had been moping about missing the changeling.

When she arrived, Pussy Willow admitted she’d been looking for a chance to get out of the Big Easy. “Everyone there still thinks of me as Brooks,” she’d said. “Even Zen had a hard time remembering I’m a full-time lady now.”

Brooks was the changeling’s given name. He used to live his life as a full-time male and part-time drag queen. But after an attack by a group of crazy cult members, Brooks had decided he felt safer behind a wig and stilettos. That’s when he became Pussy Willow full-time. And, since everyone in New Orleans knew Brooks, the changeling believed coming to New York would give her a chance at a fresh start among people who didn’t know her past.

“I feel just like Mary Tyler Moore,” she’d exclaimed the night she arrived. “And Giguhl is my Rhoda.”

Anyway, after the success in bringing Pussy Willow up, Giguhl went to Slade with the Roller Derby idea after watching some movie. And that’s when the idea for Hell on Wheel’s Roller Derby Night was born.

I leaned forward to look past Adam at my minion. “I didn’t realize you were already recruiting for the team.”

The demon nodded, his enthusiasm palpable. “I convinced Slade to host the first match here next week.”

I blinked. “Wow. How many team members do you need total?” This wasn’t an idle question. Ever since he’d first brought up the idea of putting a team together, I’d been waiting for my invitation.

“I’d like ten. That way we’ll have plenty of subs. So far I have three mages, two of Slade’s nymphs, and, of course, Pussy Willow.”

“No vamps?” I asked. “Or weres?” I added at the last minute so it wouldn’t look like I was digging.

Giguhl pulled the label off his beer bottle and started shredding it. “That’s the problem. I don’t know any vampires in the city. And all the weres I know are dudes.”

I stilled. He didn’t know any vampires? “Um, Giguhl? Not to point out the obvious or anything, but… I’m a vampire.”

“You don’t count.” He waved a claw.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “You’re not going to be on the team.” He said this like it was the most obvious statement in the world.

I set down my beer with deliberate slowness. “And why not?”

Adam tensed. He knew I’d been waiting for Giguhl to ask me to be on the team.

“Don’t give me that look, trampire,” Giguhl said. “It’s nothing personal.”

“You just told me you need warm bodies for the team. And in the next breath, you say you don’t want me. How am I not supposed to take it personally?”

Giguhl finally noticed the sharp edge to my words. He shot a look at Adam. “Um, I’m not asking friends to be on the team.”

“But you just said PW is on it!”

Giguhl cradled the beer between his claws and sighed. “Look, Red, no offense, but you’re not exactly a team player.”

My mouth fell open. “How can you say that? What happened to us being Team Awesome?”

Two dubious male stares greeted that statement.

“What?” I demanded. “I know I had some problems remembering the team thing in New Orleans but I’m much better now. Right?”

Adam shifted uncomfortably. “I think what Giguhl means is that since he’s your minion you won’t take coaching from him seriously.”

I grabbed my beer and sat back with a huff. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“See?” Giguhl said, looking at Adam. “She’s already undermining me.”

The lights dimmed. Giguhl’s eyes widened and he swiveled toward the stage. But if he thought this conversation was over, he was sorely mistaken. How dare he imply I couldn’t be a team player?

“Here we go,” Adam said under his breath. He tried to pull me closer but I remained stiffly distant. He sighed and leaned in. “Oh, come on. You didn’t really want to play Roller Derby anyway.”

He was right, of course. I thought the costumes and nicknames the teams used were silly. Still, Giguhl’s rejection stung more than it should have. But none of that was Adam’s fault, so I scooted closer.

Onstage, spotlights flashed and a machine belched smoke. PW’s backup band appeared and took their positions, accompanied by lackluster applause from the crowd. A few moments later, they began to play a swingy baseline.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Pussy Willow’s voice came from the speakers. She stood just offstage in the shadows with her mic. “Vein is proud to present the Black Light District’s newest musical sensation—Pussy Willow and the Catnips!”

Giguhl looked over his shoulder. “The band name was my idea!” He looked so proud that I smothered my urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I shot him two thumbs-up. When the demon turned back around, Adam squeezed my thigh and smiled.

With the lights still down, the Catnips switched the melody into the opening notes of the first song. Instead of the upbeat dance songs PW performed at Lagniappe in New Orleans, this had a jazzy lounge sound. Sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t call the title to mind.

In the shadows, Pussy Willow’s silhouette rushed across the stage to take her place. A few seconds later, a single spotlight illuminated the piano. The faery draped across the top like a mink stole. She wore a long, blue-sequined gown and Lana Turner waves spilled over her shoulder.

She lifted the microphone to her bright red lips like a phallus. The first words were something about making it through the wilderness but not knowing how lost she was. I frowned. Where had I heard this song before? The words were familiar but the bossa nova beat threw me off.

But then she got to the refrain. With her false-lashed eyes groping the audience, she sang, “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time.”

A snort escaped my mouth. I couldn’t help it. Adam bit his lip. Giguhl shot a glare over his shoulder.

It’s not that Pussy’s singing was funny. She actually was doing a pretty good job. But her choice of song was hilarious. I had to give her some credit, though—she was a pretty sexy woman… for someone with a penis.

I looked around to gauge the audience’s reaction. The crowd at Vein was used to screaming for blood at Demon Fight Club. But I was pleasantly surprised to see most of the patrons enjoying the performance. Especially the nymphs, who gathered in a clutch near the back of the bar. The nymphs usually didn’t take kindly to other hot chicks getting male attention on their turf. After all, they made their living seducing Slade’s patrons. But that night a few of them even sang along with the changeling.

As I watched, Marty approached Tansy, one of Slade’s most popular nymphs. She was known for providing services to more adventurous johns, like a certain Mischief demon who shall remain nameless. Marty spoke to her briefly and handed her something I couldn’t see. She palmed what he offered and took his hand to lead him to the back rooms.

Dismissing the exchange, I started to look back at the stage, but a familiar auburn-haired male near the bar caught my eye. My stomach did a little dip. “Shit.”

Adam turned and followed my gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Crap. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Oh, nothing.” I shook my head. He’d already seen who caused my reaction so there was no use in lying. “Just surprised to see Slade. I thought he was still in California.”

Adam shrugged. “Cinnamon said he got back this afternoon. It’ll be interesting to hear what news he has about how Tanith’s doing as Despina.”

I nodded absently. As much as I wanted to know what was going on now that Tanith had taken over the leadership of the vamp race, I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it from Slade. Ever since we’d returned to New York, I’d managed to avoid much contact with him.

My avoidance had less to do with his personality and more to do with our shared, very personal history. As far as Adam knew, that history was old news. I’d told him about how back in Los Angeles in the late ’70s, Slade and I had partnered on a case that went south. And when I say “partnered,” I mean in more ways than one. But what Adam didn’t know was that Slade and I had repeated history just before Maisie was kidnapped. It was only one night and the mancy and I weren’t together at that time, but I’d kept that mistake to myself because I knew it would hurt Adam. Okay, it would hurt me to tell him, too. Regardless, I tried to avoid Slade as a rule to avoid any chance the truth might come out.

Unfortunately, Slade hadn’t gotten that memo. Because he saw me looking at him and headed our way. I tensed. I couldn’t very well escape the booth with the show going on. Besides, I couldn’t think of a way to justify avoiding Slade that blatantly to Adam. So I just sat there and prayed I didn’t look as uncomfortable as I felt.

By that point, Pussy Willow had moved on to an acoustic version of “Papa Don’t Preach.” I glued my gaze to the stage, pretending I wasn’t counting down the steps until Slade reached us. So when he tapped me on my shoulder, I performed a pretty convincing startle.