Rob Thurman - Deathwish

Niko was silent just long enough that I knew he would bring this up later when we were alone—whether I wanted to or not—but then he said smoothly, “Promise wants to talk to us. She may have some work for us.” Most of our work wended its way through our favorite vampire. “That includes you, Robin.”

The brown head dropped into waiting hands. You could virtually see the hangover forming. “Why? I’m highly looking forward to the alcoholic coma due me, thanks so much.”

“Because with the Auphe reappearing, we all need to stay alert. And you”—Niko flicked the side of Goodfellow’s head with enough force that I heard the thwack that was usually reserved for me—“you are not alert. Shower and dress. You have fifteen minutes.”

“And we charge fifty an hour for babysitting,” I added, “so grab your wallet.” As green as Robin was when he swayed upright, I’d be happy just not to have a gallon of vomit hurled onto my shoes.

There was no vomit, but the fifteen-minute timetable went right out the window. Considering the shape and smell of him, I didn’t mind waiting longer for a clean and slightly more sober Goodfellow to walk back into the room. He was as pasty as the Auphe ass he’d been referring to earlier, but he was moving under his own power. That had to be a good thing. When we reached the street he hadn’t recovered any color and he had a faint wobble to his step, but that didn’t stop him from leering at a passing woman. “Well, hello.”

When she didn’t respond, he switched his gaze to the man behind her. “Well, hello.”

“Three days without sex,” I snorted. “I’m surprised your dick hasn’t deserted you for greener pastures.”

Goodfellow glared at me as he swayed. Niko reached out to steady him and said reprovingly, “I wish, especially now, that you had not done this to yourself.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure you take your Metamucil shaken, not stirred,” he griped. “But some of us like the grape.” He walked . . . weaved, whatever. “We need a cab before I fall on my face.”

By the time we reached Promise’s building on the Upper East Side—60th and Park, another place too expensive for my bladder—Robin had sobered up more. Pucks—they have one helluva metabolism. It didn’t stop Promise from taking a second look at him when we walked into her place. “You are well?” she asked dubiously.

“I’m alive,” he said tersely. “I think that counts, but ask me again later.” Trudging to Promise’s ivory couch, he collapsed. “Perhaps I could get a little hair of the canine?”

“No,” Niko replied firmly. Leaning in, he kissed Promise lightly. “If you have a key to your liquor cabinet,” he said to her, “this may be the time to employ it.”

She touched her fingertips to his jaw, and then turned to look at Goodfellow. She didn’t say anything further, but I could see the sympathy in her eyes. She knew. She’d been there with us when Seraglio and her clan had nearly killed Robin. She was often exasperated with him, more often pissed as hell, but she was still fond of him—although somewhat less fond after he’d once turned her apartment into the scene of an orgy.

Robin looked away from her gaze. It was bad enough, I knew, that Niko and I had seen him so vulnerable. One more was too much. “I’m not here for an intervention or the entertainment, and I do have my own business to run. Can we move this alcohol-free ordeal along?” Yes, Robin Goodfellow, Puck, Pan, the Goat in the Green, did have his own business that he ran with a ruthless hand. He was worse than any monster. Worse than any beast from a mythical hell.

Like I’d said, he was a car salesman.

Worse still, a used -car salesman, the type of man that bragged that he could sell a condom to a eunuch or life insurance to the undead.

“I’ll come to the point, then, so that you may return to fleecing the sheep.” With a parting kiss to Niko’s cheek, Promise walked to the darkly tinted window and pulled the curtains. In a gray silk skirt slit just above the knee and a scoop-neck sweater that was a soft shimmer of violet, she looked at us with equally violet eyes. Her hair, striped moon pale and earth brown, was pulled back in three braids, tumbling in loose waves at the crown and falling to the small of her back. “I have an old acquaintance. He wants to hire us.”

She was generous with the “us.” Promise, like the vast majority of vampires, didn’t drink blood anymore, but she had gone through five very wealthy, very elderly husbands in the past ten years. However, I was sure every one of them had died with smiles on their wrinkled faces and gratitude in their shriveled hearts. Consequently, she didn’t need the money we brought in; she did it for the love of the game . . . or the love of something else. Someone else.

“An old acquaintance?” Robin waggled his eyebrows. “The naked kind?”

Promise sighed, then ignored him. “Seamus. A vampire like me. He seems to have a bit of an interesting problem.”

“Huh. A vampire. What’s he want?” A vampire acquaintance, eh? Robin might not be so far off. Niko wouldn’t be annoyed. He wasn’t that possessive, and insecurity was only a word in the dictionary to him. But I was more than ready and willing to be annoyed for him. That’s what brothers are for.

“Yes, a vampire.” A finely arched eyebrow lifted. “As for his situation, this is something unusual, Seamus says. This is nothing completely . . . apparent. It’s a subtle thing, and perhaps nothing at all. But to determine that I think we’ll need a team approach.”

“There’s no I in ‘team,’ ” Robin pointed out, starting to get up, “There’s an I in ‘intercourse,’ ‘iniquity,’ ‘illegal,’ ‘intoxication,’ and did I mention ‘intercourse’? But there is no I in ‘team.’ And I’m all about the I , which means that I will see you later.”

“There’s also an I in ‘I’ll kick your ass,’ so sit down,” I ordered darkly. “Maybe if you’re lucky and finish sobering up, we’ll tag your ass and turn you loose in the wild.”

He gave a silent snarl, but by the time we got out of a cab at Seamus’s place, an artistically clichéd loft in the artistically clichéd SoHo, he was sober. Despite that, he made no move to go back home. He might have had only a reluctant interest, but reluctant or not, it kept him there. “Art.” He looked up at the walls of the loft, where the artist’s work was liberally displayed. Not seeing any paintings of himself, he gave a disgruntled snort. “Theoretically.”

Seamus slid his eyes toward Promise. “Humans and a puck. Mo chroi , I fear for your social standing.”

Promise had said Seamus’s problem was interesting, which was funny, because Seamus himself turned out to be just as interesting. Stick him in a kilt, paint his face blue, and he could’ve stepped into a Mel Gibson movie without missing a beat. Maybe because he’d actually lived through similar battles—the nighttime ones anyway. He wasn’t tall, although hundreds of years ago he would’ve been. About five-nine, he was built with broad strokes. Wide shoulders and chest, muscular arms and legs; he wasn’t your typical lithe and languid, ruffle-wearing vampire of pulp fiction. Except for one small braid that hung from temple to stubbled jaw, the wavy, deep red hair was pulled back into a short club at the base of his neck. That with the tawny eyes made him into a lion of a man, a giant cat walking on two legs. Which would make me a scruffy alley cat, an ill-tempered one who already had a headache from the Auphe situation. . . . It damn sure wasn’t improved by the surroundings.

Seamus was an artist. His massive warehouse loft was wall-to-wall with his work. He liked bright, vibrant colors. Very bright, and vibrating right through my goddamn skull. After the day I’d had, this was like an ice pick between the eyes. I groaned and dug into my pocket for Tylenol, as Promise discarded her ivory hooded cloak onto a battered old chair to embrace Seamus lightly.