Black Magic Woman (4 page)

“I’m a little disappointed,” he heard her say to her companion as she scanned the crowd around them. “It looks just like any other club. I thought it would be more … I don’t know … exotic.”

The imp shrugged, his shoulders bobbing up just over the edge of the table. “What, you expected black robes, flaming torches, and a sacrificial goat? It’s just a bar. Folks don’t come here to entertain the tourists; they come to unwind.”

“I guess so. What is that group over there? Are those scales?”

“Shh! Don’t point, for satyrs’ sake! Do ya want to get our faces eaten? Who taught ya yer manners?”

“My parents,” the woman shot back, lowering her hand and raising an eyebrow. “But I don’t think they covered what to do in a room containing a contingent of lizard people.”

“Oy, yer gonna get us killed. They’re not lizards. That’s a lamia and her court. And for your information, they usually only shed their own skins, but if you tick ’em off bad enough, they’d be happy to shed yours, too.”

Asher followed their glances across the room to the table near the bar. The imp was right. Saskia Rughal had the sort of temper that fitted her rattlesnake cousins. Even Asher himself was inclined to give her wide berth.

“Lamia? What’s a lamia?” the woman demanded, her expression fascinated. “Is that some kind of snake person? I mean, snakes are the ones who shed their skins, right?”

In that moment, a shout of raucous laughter burst from the group of patrons in the opposite corner of the bar, obscuring the imp’s answer. Asher had to fill it in from his imagination. If it had been him doing the educating, he’d have pointed out that far from being simple “snake people,” the lamia had once been worshipped as fierce, blood-hungry goddesses. In fact, he was aware of at least two modern cults whose members still did, hence Saskia’s devoted entourage; he was also aware that people didn’t decide to worship you unless you had some pretty damned impressive powers to inspire them. The human woman would do well to keep that in mind.

“‘Snake person,’” the imp mocked, burying his face in his chubby red hands. “Damnation, how you humans have survived as a species I will never understand. Yer like retarded puppies—constantly getting yerselves into trouble and then lookin’ confused when something bigger than you smacks ya over the head with a roll of newspaper.”

The woman fixed the imp with an impressive glare. “You try to smack me with anything, little man, and I’ll show you the kind of self-defense moves that make it safe for a woman traveling the world on her own.”

“Ya see, yer provin’ my point. Ya think that just because yer bigger than me, ya can just stomp on me without any problem. You humans are always lookin’ at the surface of things. Ya never bother to think about what’s underneath. That’s just stupid. Didn’t anyone ever tell ya that size isn’t everything?”

“Sure,” the woman said with a shrug, “but I told him to put his pants back on and go home.”

Asher winced and buried his involuntary chuckle in his beer. That she was stupid was not one of the impressions he’d gotten of the attractive human. She might be naïve, and she was clearly out of her element—and probably out of her depth—but she didn’t strike him as stupid.

“This ain’t gonna work,” the imp growled, slapping his hands down on the table and shaking his head so hard that his Mohawk undulated like the crowd at a football stadium. “There ain’t enough root beer in New York to make me risk takin’ on the entire bar full of the Others
yer
gonna piss off tonight if ya keep this up. I’m outta here.”

The woman laid a hand over the imp’s and pushed back her seat. “Oh, relax. It can’t be healthy to wind yourself up like that. Let me buy you a drink. Maybe that will settle your nerves. Of course, you look like that’d take half a bottle of tequila at this point, but what the hell. It’s a special occasion.”

The imp snorted. “Tequila? That human tap water? Fat chance. My nerves need something stronger than that if I’m gonna put up with you. I want a root beer. High-test. And tell them it’s for you so they’ll give ya a full glass. One shot ain’t gonna cut it tonight.”

Asher stifled a groan. A greater imp on a full glass of root beer? He’d rather shoot up an entire platoon of armed human soldiers with meth. It would be less messy. And less dangerous.

He heard the woman chuckle. “Root beer? You got it, you rebel. I’ll tell them to make it a double.”

Naïve. Yes, very definitely naïve.

The imp grabbed her by the wrist as she was about to leave the table. “Don’t talk to anyone but the bartender, Daphanie. I ain’t had time to tell ya who ya gotta avoid or who might get pissy at ya just for bein’ human.”

The woman, whose name Asher now knew was Daphanie, eased her arms away from her “guide’s” grip and raised her eyebrows. “I got it, Quigley. Relax. I might be out of my element, but I’m not a complete idiot.”

The imp watched her for a moment, then shrugged and released her to slump back in his seat, either satisfied or unconcerned.

Or up to something.

Asher felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle.

Daphanie stepped away from the table and began to weave a path through the growing crowd to the bar. Asher watched the imp watching the woman and saw a hint of speculation on the little creature’s face. Whether it was speculation over the likelihood of the woman keeping her word or speculation over how any of her missteps might benefit him was harder to figure out. Imps tended to prioritize themselves on an entirely different level from the rest of the world, but they also tended to view every situation from the perspective of how much mischief they could cause in it.

In unison, the Guardian and the imp watched the woman’s progress as she made her way to the shining, black lacquer expanse of the bar. The bartender should be safe enough. Tonight, the taps were being manned by Christopher, a young vampire who still found it amusing to play to the stereotypes. He maintained a wardrobe entirely of black, favoring black jeans and black button-down shirts that he left open significantly too far down his pale, scrawny chest. A computer geek in his previous life, he had the sort of pallor that proved how long it had been since he’d seen the sun, and he wore his dark hair slicked back like Bela Lugosi’s Dracula. His own widow’s peak might be slightly less dramatic, but points for effort. He also liked to affect a reddish tint to the corners of his mouth through the strategic use of lipstick. Apparently, the employment of cosmetics with the intent of titillating the masses excused any threat to one’s masculinity. At least, that seemed to be Christopher’s perspective. Still, it would make any impulse Daphanie had to question his identity fairly ridiculous. He might as well have stitched the word “vampire” above his breast pocket.

The vamp had no trouble identifying Daphanie as human, and therefore as potentially edible. When she reached the bar, Christopher leaned onto the counter and flashed her what was probably his most charming grin. Asher watched carefully as the woman bellied up to the glossy surface and returned the gesture with a casual smile. Located on the other side of the room, the bar was too far away for even him to overhear the conversation between the two figures, but Asher kept a close eye on Daphanie’s expression. She appeared to be looking directly at the bartender, but her eyes never took on a glassy appearance and her smile remained friendly and slightly flirtatious rather than becoming fixed and plastic, or fascinated and adoring. So she wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with the Others. She knew enough about vampires to avoid being charmed by one, even with Christopher making an effort at it. Good girl.

The realization did make Asher pause, though. Judging by her conversation with the imp, he had thought her to be completely ignorant of Other culture. That was certainly the way Quigley had made it sound, and her questions about the lamia had clearly shown a lack of awareness of the danger presented by certain members of nonhuman society. That all pointed to a lack of practical knowledge. But very few humans would have known to be on their guard against someone like Christopher, even if his appearance warned them of his true nature. They wouldn’t have known the tricks of avoiding eye contact while still maintaining the appearance of it, or how to shield their minds against subtle probing or more direct attempts at influence. So Daphanie must know about vampires. Why, then, did she know so little about everything else?

The surge of curiosity took Asher by surprise. Since when did he care about a human not assigned to him? Hell, even the ones he was assigned rarely piqued his curiosity. They were a duty, his job, not something to affect him in his off-hours. He protected them from harm at the hands of the Others and tried to untangle them from whatever situations had put them in jeopardy in the first place. He usually couldn’t have cared less about them, personally. The most common feeling he experienced for a human was exasperation, followed closely by annoyance, and occasionally pity. He never found them interesting.

And he sure as hell never found himself wondering if their skin felt as silky, warm, and smooth as it looked.

Damn it, this was ridiculous. Asher drained his beer and pushed away the empty glass. This Daphanie person was none of his concern. She wasn’t his assignment; she wasn’t his responsibility. It didn’t matter to him one way or another if she ended up as a midnight snack for someone like Christopher, or a sacrificial offering on Saskia’s minions’ altar. It was none of his business.

Tearing his gaze from the tempting curve of her shoulder, he slid from his chair and plotted a course for the exit. A direct line would take him in front of the bar, which would put him way too close to the woman he’d just resolved to put out of his mind. Better to skirt around the back of the room and weave through the crowd opposite the temptation.

Carefully averting his eyes, he started forward, casting a last glance in the imp’s direction. The creature still had his eyes trained on his human companion. A slight smile curved his lips.

Asher had made it less than a quarter of the way to the door when the mischief behind that smile registered and slowed his steps. The bellow stopped them.

Reflex made him look. Loud noises drew attention, which was why every eye in the club seemed to have turned in unison to the scene a few feet away from the spot where Daphanie had just stood, and fixed on the spot she currently occupied. Directly in front of her towered a huge, angry, and visibly glowering witch doctor.

Asher took his measure at a glance, with the keen and accurate eye of a Guardian. The magic the man practiced left its mark on him, making him an easy read. His character was shallow, everything about him painted on the surface like descriptive text. At least, for one of Asher’s talents.

The man stood just under six feet tall with a barrel-chested build augmented by a love of rich, heavy soul food. He dressed—habitually, Asher would guess—in the bright colors and intricate patterns of African cloth and was happy to lecture for hours about his native West Africa and his hereditary connection both to there and to the New World, where his uncles had lived since the time of slavery. Never mind that his “uncles” were about six generations removed. As a man like that would point out, they existed on his mother’s side, so naturally in the matrilineal society of his homeland, they still counted. And if not for that, he surely would have come up with another reason. Heritage was very important to his sort.

Since he was a man who liked to reference his long family history of shamanism and priest- and priestesshood, the witch doctor would have every reason to cling to his relationship with such figures, however distant they might be. Having African witches and Caribbean voodoo priests in his background would bolster his claims as a man of power in Other society, despite those who would feel he was more talk than talent.

He amassed around him a following to make any cult leader envious, and an entourage of acolytes without whom he would go nowhere. He also sported a group of blank-eyed lackeys whom he would claim to have bound to him by making them into zombie slaves through the use of his dark magic.

Asher could read all this in an instant, and what wasn’t written in the man’s aura was easy to guess at. He wasn’t the sort who could be expected to behave rationally.

“You stupid girl!” the offended and dripping witch doctor bellowed. Unless Asher was very much mistaken, that was the imp’s root beer running off the man’s heavy, beaded necklace. “How dare you offer such insult to my person? I am Charles Antoine D’Abo! Have you no respect for your superiors?”

As Asher watched, he saw Daphanie’s expression slowly morph through a range of emotions. It had started out with embarrassed regret but shifted quickly through surprise and on to effrontery. By the time D’Abo had called himself her superior, she pretty much just looked pissed.

To her credit, though, she kept her head and betrayed her feelings through no more than narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “I apologize for spilling the drink on you, sir, but maybe if you looked ahead of you while you were walking through a crowded room, you could avoid bumping into people carrying liquids.”

D’Abo snorted and gestured angrily, clearly for the benefit of his disciples. “Do not presume to instruct me on my behavior, girl. It was you who insulted me. I am the injured party.”

“No, you’re the
damp
party,” Daphanie corrected. “I apologized, but there’s no permanent harm done, so let’s both just move on with our lives, shall we?”

She gestured with the glasses in her hand and turned as if to make her way back to the bar, but D’Abo shifted his bulk back into her path.