Blessed (15 page)

Sergio led me down the hall to where most of Sanguini’s staff had gathered in the dining room. He’d dressed in a black hooded cloak, complete with scythe.

“That’s an ominous look for you,” I said.

“I’ve never been management before,” he replied.

As soon as we parted the crimson drapes, Mercedes and Simone pulled me into a comforting hug. Both were Fat Lorenzo’s veterans, and they’d each left unreturned messages on my cell while the restaurant was closed.

“Oh, Quincie!” Mercedes exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“Not that you have to talk about it,” Simone added. They exchanged an uncertain glance. “I mean, you can if you want to, but you shouldn’t feel like you have —”

“I’m okay — really.” I’d heard from Sergio that the staff had been buzzing nonstop about Uncle D and Brad. I also suspected that Sergio had asked everyone to keep it out of my earshot, which was fine by me. “You two look amazing!”

Simone pivoted, showing off a crushed black velvet baby-doll mini with a chunky satin bow across the bust and fringe along the skirt line.

Mercedes, who’d streaked her dark brown hair a midnight orange, glanced down at her three-inch spiked boots like she already regretted them. Mercedes, the adventurous one who’d tried the chilled baby squirrels.

As Sergio launched into a welcoming pep talk, I scanned my eerie, come-hither-looking staff, counting five new unnatural hair colors — onyx, glittery navy, deep purple, bloodred, bone-white — a few new tattoos, a few new piercings.

Xio wore a silver corset and black slit skirt with fingerless silver gloves and fishnets. Yanira — also among the unknowing infected — modeled a long nude slip with a crimson netting overlay, accented by a sheer crimson scarf. By apparent agreement, the bussers wore leather on leather and the bar staff wore chains on leather.

Jamal had won Sergio’s old job as expeditor, running the food from the kitchen to the dining room. But two of the new waiters had called in that day to quit — no notice.

After Sergio introduced Nora and Freddy, I stepped to the center of the small dance floor. I had no intention of interfering with Sergio as manager, but this I had to say for myself. “I just want to thank everyone for the cards and messages. Your love and prayers were appreciated. I’m sorry I haven’t been great about getting back to you. We had to focus on reopening the restaurant ASAP. I hope y’all understand.”

“That’s what Vaggio would’ve wanted,” Xio called.

And Mama, too,
I thought as the staff burst into whoops, hollers, and applause. Forget Uncle D. Forget Bradley. I’d fret the future tomorrow. Tonight was ours!

Now and then, I’d catch sight of a tall, slender, fair-haired man and pause to make sure he wasn’t Bradley. Sometimes it would take an extra beat because of the guests’ makeup, because of the almost uniformly goth posturing. But no. Except for me, all the vampires here tonight seemed to be make-believe — at least for another two weeks.

By nine thirty, Ol’ Blue Eyes was singing “Strangers in the Night,” Sergio had ditched the flowing Grim Reaper robe to better navigate the tables, and I was running an order of spit-roasted doves to the bar. I grabbed three more tickets from Sebastian and strode — projecting calm — toward the kitchen.

Talk about an obstacle course! Many of the guests had gone to greater lengths with their wardrobes than the staff. I dodged an open bloodred umbrella, almost tripped over a raven-head cane, and nearly stumbled at the sight of a busty and bare-bellied Vampirella sporting red spandex wrapped around her torso like a slingshot.

As Xio rushed out with javelina chops, I called to Nora, “How goes it?”

“Catching up,” she replied. “By the way, we donated the meat in the freezer to a local homeless shelter.”

That made sense, and given that the squirrels had been delivered frozen and were never unwrapped, I wasn’t worried that Bradley had had a chance to contaminate the leftovers. “Any sign of Mitch?”

“Not since Tuesday,” Nora replied.

Three days ago. The media had been quiet. No new killings.

How was Mitch getting by?

Later, I scooped vanilla ice cream, topped it with brandied peaches, and, tray held high, scooted from the kitchen to the dining room.

All the tray tables had been snatched up, but I’d been running food since fifth grade. In the chaos, I decided to wing it. After blowing a quick kiss to Vaggio and Sergio’s poker buddies, the Sunday Night Sinners, at table six, I grabbed a flame lighter from the wait station and stepped carefully around the thumping tail of a Seeing Eye dog resting beneath a nearby four-top.

The midnight-blue carpet, crimson velvet drapes, and black leather all helped for sound dampening, but the dinner crowd had still become loud, well lubricated, and guests had the annoying habit of straying from their seats.

Pivoting, I accidentally bumped into one of our massive bouncers. Olek Zaleski, or maybe it was Uri, was hauling away a wannabe Nosferatu in an off-white bodysuit that looked like something out of a black-and-white movie.

The crazed customer flailed his long, pointed fingernails, screaming, “Blasphemy! Blasphemer! You’ll pay penance to the master!”

Backing around, I stepped to table nine, where two blue-haired women in their seventies were dining in full-length black gowns with high necks, long sleeves, and lace-trimmed cuffs and collars.

“Evening, ladies.” Raising the flame to the first bowl of brandied peaches and ice cream, I noticed what looked like a real human finger bone — complete with a gold wedding band — mounted on red lace and pinned to a bodice.

“It’s rude to stare,” scolded the woman wearing the macabre brooch.

As the brandy caught fire, the Nosferatu broke free and barreled past me. One of his waving arms slapped my tray up, out of my control.

As the bouncer yelled, “Look out!” I angled to catch it, only to be accidentally knocked off balance by a guy I’d noticed earlier wearing a
MY NAME WAS LESTAT
name tag.

Falling to the carpet, I shut my eyes and flung my left arm over my head to try to protect myself. Once the flames hit my hyper-sprayed retro ’do, it would ignite like a torch. Now debuting on Sanguini’s menu — vampire flambé.

But the impact never came. Instead, the crowd gasped, loud and awestruck, and then burst into applause. Mystified, I opened my eyes.

Standing above me was the young hunter from the neighborhood park — the one I’d sent flying into the chain-link fence and who’d slipped away from the hospital. He’d somehow caught my tray on his fingertips. “Nice crucifix,” he said.

Without missing a beat, the personable stranger delivered the flaming desserts to the
Arsenic and Old Lace
grannies, who twittered at him. Then, as I smoothed my chiffon skirt over my knees, he handed the tray off to Jamal and offered me a hand up.

Back on my feet, I found myself confronted by piercing green eyes. A strong jaw and cheekbones, full lips that almost crossed the line to pretty. I’d guess twenty-two years old. Just over six feet tall in a silky white, long-sleeved shirt with a banded collar, black brushed suede pants, and black cowboy boots. He had a bandage over his temple where it had been scratched by the chain link.

The dining room was still at a virtual standstill. Gawkers peeked in from the foyer and bar. Somebody whistled, and Lestat whispered to his date, “Mount Olympus called. They want their Greek god back.”

I focused on the newcomer. “What’re you doing here?”

His gaze was cautiously friendly and like he was weighing me somehow. He let go of my hand. “I’m Zachary. I’m here about a job.”

Sergio stepped between us and hired him on the spot.

Two minutes later, I’d dragged Sergio to the manager’s office.

“Are you crazy?” I asked. “Who is this guy?” So much for my vow not to armchair-quarterback business decisions.

“Zachary is a good friend of Nora and Freddy’s. He used to work with Nora in Chicago. Freddy called him tonight, saying that we were shorthanded, and asked if he could pitch in.” Sergio slipped his cloak back on. “I forgot to mention it earlier.”

“You forgot?” I was still stuck on the used-to-work-with-Nora part. In Chicago? For the vampire? But . . . I’d assumed he was a hunter. At least it had looked that way in the park. “Don’t you think he’s too charismatic, too good-looking?”

Bam!
Sergio brought the end of his scythe down hard on the concrete floor. “Lamb chop, Clark Gable was charismatic. Montgomery Clift was good-looking. We could auction off tickets to see this boy.”

As Yani seated Zachary’s first table — Lady Macbeth with three fellow Shakespearean-looking types I couldn’t specifically ID — I moved to the trainee’s side. I liked Freddy well enough and had begun to trust Nora’s judgment, but Sanguini’s was mine and no way would I just turn this rookie loose on the public unsupervised.

From just beyond the far side of the dance floor, I gestured toward his station. “That party, they’ll be predators.”

“You can tell just by looking?” Zachary asked.

I reached to adjust my fascinator headband. “Can’t you?”

He pointed at a slender girl in a nouveau Gap dress, being escorted on a leash by a macho guy with a fondness for hair gel. “She’s prey, right?”

“Don’t even get me started on the Little Red Riding Hoods.” Handing him a notepad and tray, I added, “You want to tell me what you were doing in the park? Or would you rather talk to Detective Zaleski at APD?”

“Did you
not
want me to save you and your friends from the vampire?” he countered, which pretty much put an end to that conversation.

For all of Zachary’s mystery-man persona and splashy looks, the other night Clyde had confirmed a pulse, so he was probably still a living being. It also seemed obvious that if Nora knew what I was, Freddy and Zachary did, too.

I only hoped that the new hire restricted his hunting to
bad
vampires.

Zachary made a few newbie mistakes — confusing the Chianti-marinated wild mushrooms with the lamb’s liver (which, granted, was served with mushrooms of a different variety), forgetting who’d ordered what at table ten, briefly hitting the weeds once his fourth party was seated.

Nobody complained. Zachary’s tips were outrageous. He seemed good-naturedly resigned to all the attention, even when a petite dark-haired girl (who he later referred to as “a one-night lapse in judgment”) slapped him hard across the face.

By midnight, five women, two men, a zombie of ambiguous gender, and a couple in their midfifties had all propositioned him, shamelessly and in front of me.

It was entertaining, watching the restaurant swoon. But frankly, I preferred my men with a little more hair on them.

Because of the distraction that was Zachary, I’d worried that Freddy’s debut entrance as Chef Sanguini would be anticlimactic. I shouldn’t have.

It wasn’t just the black silk suit and fake fangs. It was in the curl of Freddy’s lip and the come-hither aggressiveness of his stride. He had a cynical edge that Zachary didn’t. An impishness juxtaposed with high-brow breeding that Bradley could’ve only hoped for. Freddy projected nefarious charm and unapologetic regality.

He didn’t prattle on. He didn’t spout hypocrisy about entering freely or of one’s own will. He raised his wineglass as if it were a challenge.

“Welcome to Sanguini’s,” Freddy began. “To the prey, I say, welcome to your last night among the living.” He met my eyes. “To the predators, I say, welcome home.”

Then Sergio fired up the instrumentals to “Nessun Dorma” on the speakers, and Freddy burst into song — gorgeous,
soaring
song — and brought down the house.

Swinging a heavy arm around my shoulders, Sergio leaned in. “We did good?”

I laughed and kissed his cheek. “We did terrific!”

A half hour or so later, a young woman in a navy suit flagged me from a nearby two-top. She had one of those (probably fake) artfully placed moles over her upper lip that supermodels referred to as a beauty mark. Her similarly dressed companion wore his light brown hair in an outdated mullet, much in the fashion of a ’90s country pop star.

“May I help you?” I asked, realizing that they matched Detective Zaleski’s description of the couple that had been asking around about Brad.

The woman gestured to Freddy. “That’s not him, and he’s not in the kitchen.”

“Who?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Where’s Bradley Sanguini?” her companion demanded, grabbing my hand.

And there it was: the lingering question.

What with my own superpowers, I didn’t feel especially vulnerable. But I didn’t appreciate the attitude, either. “Bradley Sanguini was make-believe. The individual who played that role is no longer employed here.”

“Let go of her,” Zachary said from behind me.

“This is why we have bouncers,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder. “The big, burly, hairy men — go fetch them.”

Yanking my fingers free, I addressed the table in a grown-up voice that would’ve made Kieren proud. “Sanguini’s strictly forbids any touching of the staff.”

In fact, Sergio had instituted the policy earlier this evening because it had become a hassle trying to discourage guests from running their fingers through Zachary’s hair.