Rob Thurman - Deathwish

And quite definitely no ordinary woman.

“I’m not sure if I’m impressed or afraid she’ll eat you as a midday snack,” I murmured as the door closed behind us.

Almond eyes of pale copper that showed the Asian blood in her were already on us. I probably didn’t smell much different than your average human, but the wolves could smell the Auphe in Cal from the metaphorical mile away. They hated it, except for Delilah. She hadn’t minded when we had once hired her to heal Cal with the benefits of wolf saliva, and she obviously didn’t mind now. It was that presence again. Delilah had a quality about her—she was completely fearless. Unfortunately, a little fear was often what kept you alive.

“Promise could go off the wagon anytime,” he snorted as he moved off. “Then it’s just you, her, and a giant twisty straw.”

The vast majority of vampires had been off blood for sixty years now, thanks to a few hematology advances on their part, but he had a point. One way or the other, we were all food for something else. Every creature on the planet.

As he sat next to her, Delilah tapped a disapproving finger on his knee. “Playing with Auphe. Not smart. Come with me.” She tilted her head, lips curving. “Play better games.”

And that was the only sign Delilah wasn’t a high breed. Her vocal cords were somewhere between human and wolf. Her brother had it as well, although his was much worse. Delilah sounded as if she had a strong accent, was just learning the language. It was as exotic as the rest of her, something the patrons of her bar would’ve enjoyed thoroughly . . . if it hadn’t been a gay male strip club. And I doubted when she tossed the drunks and troublemakers out onto the concrete that she wasted many words on them.

I went over to the far end of the bar, giving Cal some privacy to tell Delilah that the sex games were over temporarily. He’d only met her just over a week ago. She wouldn’t be an Auphe target yet. Fearless or not, it was best she stayed that way.

Ishiah came up as I sat. “I heard what happened last night. Going on a trip?”

“No. We’ve learned the hard way that there is nowhere we can go that the Auphe can’t follow.” I didn’t ask how he knew. Peris were the grapevine of the supernatural world, but that quickly? He could only have gotten it from Goodfellow. I suppose that tipped the Ishiah scales more toward friend than enemy . . . at least for today. I accepted a bottle of water he offered and rolled the blue glass between my palms. “But Cal won’t be back here until this is taken care of.”

“Business will boom.” Beneath the gruffness, I heard a reluctant sympathy. “He blames himself. He snaps and snarls as much as I do, but I’ve been around a long time. I see.”

My face didn’t move, but whatever he saw behind it was the end of the conversation. Without further word, he put a glass before me on the bar and left.

Cal blamed himself . . . as if I didn’t know.

The Auphe had given Cal every reason to blame himself. It was part of their game. It wasn’t enough to kill us or him. There had to be suffering, agony . . . torment. Months ago, before Cal had killed the Auphe in Florida, they had told my brother they would save him for last as we were torn to pieces before him. They wanted him to blame himself for every one of our deaths. They would be happy to know he already did. Cal had already lived that moment hundreds of times in his head, I knew. Would live it hundreds more before this was all over. And no matter what I said or did, that wouldn’t change.

My grip tightened on the bottle and I put it down with exquisite care before I shattered it. I couldn’t change it, but I could make sure he only lived the nightmare of it, not the reality.

The first step would be to stay together as much as possible. Robin would take some persuading, but I was rather in the mood for some persuasion. I’d missed my workout this morning. Dragging him kicking and screaming from his den of debauchery could be a substitute.

I stood as Delilah gave Cal something to remember her by. As she turned her back on him, I waited for him to walk over before I commented on the bright red handprint on his cheek. “Things went well, then.”

He gave me an irritable glance and rubbed his face gingerly. “Funny, it doesn’t feel like it did.”

Delilah slapped her hand on the bar, snapping, “Pigeon! Whiskey. Now.”

Amusing though it might be, I didn’t have time to see the fun and games that were going to start with Ishiah. Herding Cal toward the door, I said, “She could’ve broken your neck with one blow if she’d wanted. That’s the tap a mother gives her cub.”

“Being smacked by a she wolf,” he muttered, “it gives new meaning to ‘bitch slap.’ ”

“Don’t complain.” I opened the door and shoved him out just as I saw Ishiah pull his sword from beneath the bar. “You could’ve stopped her.”

“Maybe.” He scowled, then let it go. “Relationships. I never claimed I was good at them.”

“When you actually have one,” I advised, “we’ll return to the subject.”

Coincidentally, as we arrived at Robin’s, he was in the process of not having relationships as well. Standing on black-and-white marble in tastefully subdued lighting, I wondered not for the first time how Goodfellow had managed to weasel his way past the co-op board of this place. They couldn’t have any idea what went on behind that door. I’d only seen glimpses, and as much as I appreciated education, that was one no one needed.

After several minutes of Cal’s pounding, we were finally let in by a shirtless Robin. His pants were still on, though, and that was something. Not much, but something.

Tapping a bare foot impatiently on the floor, he asked, “What? What do you want? It’s never-ending with you two. I would think a giant eel attack would have you taking at least one day off.”

“We’re . . . oh, hell. What are you doing now?” Cal asked as we both caught sight of the rumpled clothes on the living room floor—a Salvation Army uniform, a sweatshirt that read ABSTINENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a Shriner’s fez.

That was the type of day it was going to be, then. I pinched the bridge of my nose at the oncoming headache.

Robin folded his arms and raised his eyebrows as if it were obvious. “I’m trying to change my ways. I’m helping the poor, the deluded, and the medically needy. Who could find fault in that?” he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

Trying to change. More like trying very hard not to change. His brush with death as a result of similar behavior had him trying to prove to the world that he was fine the way that he was—and trying even harder to prove it to himself.

“You . . .” Cal started, then gave up immediately. I didn’t blame him. This was Robin as he was and as he would no doubt always be. Which was fine. I liked him . . . well, I was used to him the way he was. Semantics.

“Just don’t tell us the cat is involved as well,” I said. “There’s a line to be drawn, and necrophiliac bestiality would be it.”

“The cat.” He gritted his teeth. “Do you have an idea what my life is like now? No, you do not, and why? Let me tell you. Yesterday she got out and . . .”

“She?” Cal interrupted before inhaling. I could smell the cat in the apartment as well, and my sense of smell had nothing on his. The mummifying spices of cinnamon and ginger floated on the air, winding about us. “Hey, that’s nice,” Cal grinned. “You can’t beat a walking undead deodorizer for that domestic touch, can you, Nik?”

“She?” I prompted, returning to the subject at hand and giving his ribs the reprovingly sharp point of my elbow. The sooner Robin vented, the sooner we could get on with it.