Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

“And how many of those have you defended?”

“Enough to know we have no business being there.” Ben might have been a few steps up the moral and social ladder from Cormac, but that still left him a few steps down from normal. Many steps down from normal.

“Rick’ll look after us.”

“Like he looked after the rest of his people?”

“You don’t have to come if you feel that way.”

“You’re not going there alone.”

His vehemence gave me a warm feeling, even in the midst of the argument. He likes me . . . We hadn’t stopped the catty back-and-forth for days, it seemed like. We were learning each other’s sore spots, and we were both the kind of people who would pry at those spots. I didn’t know how to stop.

The place was in an old brick storefront, and it didn’t have a sign. If you didn’t know it was here, you didn’t belong. That kind of place. I felt like I’d stepped into a gangster movie, and that didn’t comfort me at all. Bars covered the windows. The entrance even had a set of bars on a storm door. A weedy lot next door served as a parking lot, which was full of a mix of old model beaters and shiny new pickups. A few Harleys occupied the sidewalk in front. No sign of Rick’s BMW. But Rick was too smart to bring that car. Or maybe it had already been stolen.

This wasn’t a setting I’d ever imagine finding Rick in. This wasn’t the kind of place I’d expect to find any vampire in. They tended to prefer sophisticated, elegant. They didn’t spend centuries practicing their charm and accumulating their power so they could hang out in places like this.

Ben insisted on entering first, pulling me in behind him while he scanned inside. My eyesight adjusted to the gloom, while my nose worked. The place reeked. Alcohol, mostly stale beer. Working-class sweat. Tobacco and harder drugs. Meth, maybe, not because I recognized it but because it was a smell I didn’t recognize, and that was one I hadn’t encountered. And more—the vomit may have been scraped off the floor, but the smell was still there. I didn’t imagine health inspectors ventured near here too often. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

A loud TV over the bar to the left showed a baseball game. Rickety tables and chairs filled the rest of the tiny space. The floor was concrete. Most of the tables were occupied, and a crowd lined the bar, chatting, laughing, and watching the game. A group sat in a corner, watching the TV and sharing a couple pitchers of beer. Another group was playing darts in the back. The bartender was stealing a glance at the game while he wiped down the counter. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad, even if it did seem like rock-bottom. Even gangsters needed to chill out sometimes.

One of the hunched figures at the bar was Rick, transformed. The Rick I knew wouldn’t have fit in here. He’d have gotten hostile, sideways looks from everybody here, and he probably would have been mugged on his way out. But Rick was smart, and he knew this.

This Rick hadn’t washed his hair in a couple of days, and it hung limp and slightly greasy. He wore a worn-out flannel shirt over a plain black T, frayed jeans, and work boots. He looked like someone who’d spent all day working at an unpleasant construction site, the kind where workers got paid under the table. Listlessly, he watched the game and gripped a mug of beer in both hands.

If I hadn’t scented the undead chill of vampire, I’d never have spotted him.

I approached, and Ben followed a step behind—taking my back. He was close enough for me to elbow his ribs the minute he said something snide. Rick glanced over his shoulder as I reached him.

“See,” he said, “I knew if you met me here, you’d be serious.”

“You’re a bastard for bringing her here,” Ben said.

Rick quirked a smile at me. “I think he likes you.”

This was impossible. They were impossible. “Are we going to talk or just bitch at each other?”

“There’s a table.” Rick nodded and made to get up.

“Ah, since you’re not going to be using that, I’ll take it.” I took charge of his beer. Rick didn’t argue, and Ben rolled his eyes.

The table was already occupied by a tall blond man, burly and scowling. Both his skin and his hair looked sun-baked. He leaned back against the wall and had a view of the whole place. Rick was standing next to him before he looked up and smiled. It was a hard-edged, cold smile. I didn’t think he could smile any other way.

“I think you’ve met Dack,” Rick said.

He did, in fact, have the same scent as the creature in the warehouse. I could almost see the spindly, big-eared dog-thing behind his eyes. Both his incarnations had a watchful air.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. “Nice to see, ah, the rest of you.”

He smirked. “ ’Ullo.” Even in the single word, an unidentifiable accent came through.

“You want to keep an eye out?” Rick said, taking his own seat.

“Can do.” Dack pushed off from the wall and stood, his movements slow and deliberate. Like he had a powerful body and used it sparingly. Without another word he picked up his beer and moved to take Rick’s seat at the bar. He was also dressed in denim and flannel. Unless they’d been watching, people might not notice the two had switched places.

Rick gestured for me and Ben to join him.

“Can you trust him?” I asked Rick. The lycanthrope seemed to be watching the game, unconcerned. I wondered if he could hear us from here.