When Will I See You Again (6 page)

Sarcastic much?
He turned and reached for the door, but it opened before he touched it.

A shaggy blond with hazel eyes and a cheerful countenance stuck his head inside. “Hey, Paolo—” He interrupted himself at the sight of the occupants of the room.

Alexx heard Miller’s sigh of relief, even as he too recognized the newcomer. He’d seen him around the
Chronicle
often enough, although he’d never really spoken to him. Foster Levine, son of the
Chronicle’s
owner—heir apparent and future newspaper magnate.

Alexx’s relief quickly changed to anxiety. What if Foster knew how old he really was? He couldn’t be sure one way or the other, but for the sake of argument, he had to assume he did. Would he out him to Raoul Marchand and his burly minion? Had they simply jumped from the frying pan to be scorched by the fire?

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Foster apologized. “I was just… There’s no problem here, is there?” He gave Raoul an inquiring glance.

“Foster, I’m glad you’re here.” Miller drew the blond’s
attention. “We’re having a slight issue with getting in. Can you vouch for us, please? You remember Alexx, don’t you? He just got his first assignment, and we’re doing a little research tonight. And a little celebrating.”

Alexx wasn’t sure how comfortable he was at having his intentions known, but there was no help for it now. He tried to wiggle free of the bouncer’s clutches, but the man only dug his fingers in, tightening his grip. Alexx stopped struggling, and waited for Foster’s reply.

“Of course, of course,” Foster said quickly. He turned to Raoul.

“I can vouch for both of them. Both loyal employees of the
Chronicle
.” He slashed one hand across his chest and held it up as if taking an oath, before laying the same hand lightly on Raoul’s shoulder.

Alexx watched the two men closely, trying to pick up clues to their relationship, as well as the current situation. He was an avid observer of the human condition, and he liked to second guess what he saw, pick up on details and vibrations. He thought these were qualities that would be useful to him as a crime-solving reporter.

To his disappointment, he received only mixed signals. Raoul shrugged away from the other man’s touch. His face was closed off, an unreadable mask.

“Fine then. Vouch for them,” he grunted. “Makes no difference to me. Feel free to babysit them for all I care.”

Alexx felt a sliver of disappointment shoot through him. Raoul never looked his way, as if he didn’t exist—he’d been dismissed.

“I will, I will,” Foster said quickly, tossing back the dirty blond hair that fell to his shoulders. “Why don’t I take care of this, and meet you—” He was stopped short by the black look that Raoul
Marchand threw him. A storm raged in his beautiful eyes.

“No!”

Alexx saw a shudder run through Raoul’s body. He was surprised at his desire to stop the tremor and soothe it away. Kiss it away, and make everything all right. It had to be time, or so close to it only mere moments separated Raoul from the change. What would happen now?

The bouncer was the first to react. “Go on, Raoul,” he urged him. “Go quickly! We’ve got this.”

Alexx held his breath, his gaze fixed on Raoul, waiting to see what he would do.

Suddenly, Raoul turned his head toward him and their eyes met. Alexx thought he saw something. A deep pain etched within those topaz eyes, a flash of torment illuminated there.

He swayed toward him, lips parting breathily, utterly unable to look away.

Then he blinked, the moment passed—and Raoul was gone.

Miller shook his arm, drawing him back. Foster was beckoning to them both.

“Come on, let me show you around. I know Charisma like the back of my hand.”

Shaking off his sense of disappointment, Alexx followed the two men from the small room. The bouncer had already disappeared. He was probably out front, controlling access into the club once more. The hallway seethed with moving bodies, most headed toward the exit. The exodus had begun.

Where did werewolves go during their time of the month?

Alexx had never considered the question before, but he found he couldn’t think about anything else now. This was information that would be useful in writing his story. Of course, his burning
desire to know where Raoul Marchand might be had nothing to do with his newfound curiosity.

Like hell, it didn’t.

They pushed through the human tide that surged about them, emerging into the center of Charisma—into the very heart of the nightclub, where most of the action took place. Alexx’s jaw hit the floor. He stared around him, trying to take it all in.

An overwhelming brightness surrounded them. Flashing colored lights bounced off platinum and chrome surfaces, while splashes of leather covered the barstools. The large circular bar dominated the room like a command post. It was sheathed in mirror tiles that were streaked with dark blue veins the color of night.

Looking upward, Alexx noticed an open gallery on the second floor. People lined the rails, peering down, while others chose to sit at tables.

“Let’s start here, why don’t we?” Foster suggested with a smile, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding music. He gestured vaguely. “Why don’t you grab us a table and I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like?”

The question was not unexpected, but Alexx’s acquaintance with alcohol was minimal and he was momentarily at a loss to know what to order. Luckily, Miller answered for both of them.

“Two screwdrivers, thanks.”

Foster nodded and walked off, and Miller nudged Alexx, leaning in to make himself heard. “Let’s go back there, away from the noise.” They threaded their way between glass-topped chrome tables and metallic chairs. Alexx could see some couples pairing off and leaving, while others seemed content to stay where they were. He wondered how many of the ones heading to the exit were
werewolves, but there was no real way of knowing. At least not until moonrise. He didn’t think he wanted to find out that way.

They picked a table and took seats on adjoining sides. Alexx perched at the edge of his chair, too excited to relax, absorbing his surroundings. Their table sat in the far corner of the room. A large dance floor lay across from them. It took up a quarter of the available space. Couples energetically writhed to the pulsing music. Alexx tapped his foot in time to the contagious rhythm.

“Just sip the drink when it comes,” Miller advised. “Vodka can be sneaky, but it’s a good beginner drink. We’re lucky Foster’s here tonight, and that he knows us. And is willing to admit it.

Otherwise, I don’t think we’d have got in.”

“I don’t think so either,” Alexx agreed.

Foster quickly appeared, bearing three drinks and napkins. He set them on the table, taking a seat. Alexx noticed the napkins bore Charisma’s logo—a large ornate dark blue C against the backdrop of a silvery full moon. In one corner were smaller maroon letters— M and E—in a less elaborate script. Marchand Enterprises.

“Don’t mind Raoul.” Foster sat back, obviously at ease with his surroundings. Alexx wondered if he came here often. “This isn’t a good night for him, as you can imagine.”

“I guess not,” Miller agreed. He took his drink, sliding Alexx’s closer to him.

Alexx picked it up. He removed the tiny umbrella and discarded it, taking a tentative sip. It tasted just like orange juice.

That wasn’t so bad. He could handle that. He took another.

Glancing toward Miller, he saw him mouth, “Slow down.” He set the drink back on the table.

“So, your first assignment, eh?” Foster clapped a friendly hand on Alexx’s shoulder. “A lot of great journalists started out in the
mail room, you know?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Where did you get your journalism degree?” Foster pressed.

Alexx hesitated. “I didn’t,” he said at last. “I never went to college. I came here straight out of high school.”

“Is that so?” Foster drank from a fluted glass that looked as if it might contain champagne.

“I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a pencil,” Alexx said defensively. “All I’ve ever wanted to be is a reporter.”

“And you’re getting your chance to do that. So what is it you’re supposed to be writing about?” the blond asked. “Or did Randy tell you to pick your own topic?”

“No, he assigned one.” Alexx pulled out a small notepad from his pocket, along with a pen, pushing aside his trepidations.
Stop
being paranoid,
he cautioned himself.
Stay cool.
“With Lupercalia coming up,” he replied, “he wants a couple of pieces on the local supernaturals, and how they’ve contributed to the economy of Crescent Bay.”

“Ah, then you’re definitely in the right place.” Foster nodded.

“The Marchands are the beginning and the end when it comes to Crescent Bay supernatural society.” He gestured with one hand.

“Philippe Marchand is the head of the family. He’s responsible for everything you see here. When he brought his pack to Crescent Bay, almost fifty years ago, the town was struggling to survive.

The tourist industry was nonexistent, and fishing was falling off.

Young people were leaving town in droves, seeking their fortune in bigger cities.”

“Fifty years ago? That’s a long time,” Alexx commented, taking notes as he talked. “Charisma’s been here that long?”

“Yes, but not the way you see it now. Originally it was a
supper club. Philippe bought it and renovated it and turned it into a thriving enterprise. He moved the restaurant across town almost twenty years ago and that’s when he changed Charisma into a nightclub. He put Raoul in charge of it, and it’s thrived ever since.”

Alexx could understand that. People probably here came just to see Raoul. He knew he would. That man
was
charisma personified, even when he was in a bad mood.

“Twenty years ago?” He was surprised. “How old is he?”

“Raoul? Forty. Doesn’t look it, does he?” Foster winked at them. “Must be in the blood. His father’s every bit as good-looking for his age, too.”

“I see. So, when did they all come out?” he asked. “The werewolves, I mean. Was there a time when they kept themselves hidden? I mean, a time when they weren’t open about being what they are?” He’d known all about supernaturals ever since he was small. He couldn’t imagine a time without them, but he also knew there must have been one. How that came about would probably make a good addition to his story, as well as how it affected the local economy.

Foster winked at him good-naturedly. “Can’t tell you everything, now can I? What point is there in doing that? That’s what good journalism is all about. Crescent Bay has a very fine library, as I’m sure you’re aware, and there’s always the Internet.

And don’t forget the archives of the
Chronicle
. Or…”

“Or…?” Alexx parroted curiously.

“Or you can talk to Raoul. I’m sure he’s a mine of information.”

Alexx thought he probably was too, and there was nothing he’d like more than to have a tête-à-tête with that very handsome man.

But he was afraid that put into a one-on-one situation with him,
he’d lose his nerve, and definitely his voice, and end up making a complete fool of himself.

“I don’t know…”

Foster reached into his pocket, produced a card. He slipped it into Alexx’s palm. “There’s my number. Call me when you’re ready and I’ll arrange a meeting. Like I said, don’t judge him by tonight. Besides, you’ll want to talk to him about the Ball, I’m sure.”

“The Ball?”

“The Lupercalia Ball. You do want to go, don’t you?”

Alexx hadn’t really given it much thought, but the idea was a logical one, considering what he was doing. And it held other appeal, as well.

“Well, he’s the man in charge.” Foster smiled broadly at him.

“If anyone can get you in, he can. As you know, it’s by invitation only. Not just anyone can get in.”

Alexx didn’t know whether to be encouraged or dismayed at the prospect. He knew the Ball was a highly sought after prize, one that even the supes fought over, much less the humans. He had his doubts that he’d ever be able to gain entrance into such an elite event. Unsure how to respond, he managed a weak, “Thank you.

I’ll let you know”

“Well, gentlemen,” Foster said, rising from the table. “I hate to cut the tour short, but I just remembered something, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a tab in your name at the bar. Just go to the bartender on the end there.” He pointed to the closest part of the bar. “His name’s Conall. He’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you again for all your help,” Miller gushed, holding out his hand. Foster clasped it good-naturedly. When Miller nudged
him, Alexx hastily put out his own. Foster’s hand was cool and dry, his handshake firm.

“My pleasure,” he said. “Well, have fun.” He left them, making his way through the thinning crowd. Alexx watched until he was lost to view.

“That was nice of him to do that,” Miller commented.

“Do you think he knows?” Alexx asked.

“Knows what?”

“You know. That I’m not…” He cleared his throat with meaning, so he wouldn’t have to say the incriminating words aloud.

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t worry about it. Hey, you want to go upstairs and see what we can see?”

Alexx wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He took another sip of his drink. The taste was definitely growing on him. He felt a pleasant warmness stealing through his limbs, emboldening him.