The Better to Eat You With: The Red Journals (2 page)

Skeeze.

“You know
it’s what I’m good at, Gray,” I said in a sing-song voice with a grin, blinking
my best adorable look for him.

He rolled
his baby-blues and lifted the bar flap, almost knocking me off my feet.
A
bruise to match the other cheek? No, thank you.
Gray crooked a finger at
me, then turned away and headed for the kitchen. Beaming even brighter,
bouncing on my DC’s after him, I rubbed my hands together at the prospect of
what he might have.

I stopped
dead and turned, eyes scanning sharply over the bar. Tilting my chin up
slightly, I inhaled deep and slow, scrutinizing the crowd.
Yes…there it
is…like coffee, ice and exotic spices.
I exhaled slowly through my mouth,
coating my tongue with the flavor of expensive coffee, mist, ice, and a touch
of…liquorice? No, wait…anise.

My breath
came out in a shuddering sigh as my gaze locked on one of the booths near the
crowded dance floor. Immortals always smell good, almost as if their scent
alone could lure in an unsuspecting mortal, enticing images of dark sensuality
and shadowed promises of pleasure. And it could…for a time.

With my
enhanced sense of smell, this particular immortal smelled damn near
irresistible, making my inner-wolf sit up and purr, sending shivers across
every inch of skin, and raising it to the point where even
I
wanted to
touch myself. If L’Oréal could bottle that scent, I’d buy shares; shit would be
canned orgasm.

With the
main lights off and the disco lights going, the booth seats were shrouded in
shadow, nothing visible but a hand from mid-forearm down, pale, elegant fingers
lightly tracing the base of a tumbler. I may not have been able to see who was
there, but I could smell him, and his power all but clung to my skin like
sweat.

Sweet,
delicious, lickable, irresistibly hot, dirty monkey sex sweat.

“Red?” I
jumped as Gray appeared next to me, my cheeks heating as I watched him follow
my gaze before he frowned, as if he didn’t see what I saw. And technically, he didn’t.
Mortals never see until it’s too late—bar a select few. I was once one of the
select few.

 “Do you
know who that is?” I asked, inclining my head in the booth’s general direction
as I looked up at Gray.

His eyes briefly
flicked up, then returned to me with a frown. It’s little things like that, which
made me
certain
he was something more, before he was ever a grouchy bar
owner.

“He’s
been in here the last few nights. Orders a few whiskeys, sits on his lonesome
in the same booth, doesn’t cause trouble…” His eyes narrowed at me. “Now, Red,
don’t go scaring off my customers.” I spluttered for a response and his scowl deepened.
“Red!”

I
swear my Gramps used to use that exact same tone.

“Fine.” I
rolled my eyes. “Not my fault you cater to all sorts,” I mumbled.

He
snorted, “That’s the only reason I let you in.”

I gave
him an exaggerated affronted expression, complete with gaping mouth and long
shocked gasp. “That hurts, Gray.” Pressing a hand to my “wounded” heart, I
added, “What would your wife say?”

“That
your skirts are too short.”

My lips
twitched despite themselves, trying to keep a straight face and not tug on my skirt
as Gray turned back to the kitchen.
She probably would tell me that too.

 I
twisted back to the booth. “Shit.” It was empty. The guy was just…gone, nothing
left but the tumbler and the remnant of canned orgasm.

Well,
I feel dirty
.

Striding
across the floor, slipping past floppy dancers, I snatched up the tumbler and
walked back the way I’d come. I slipped it into my jacket pocket, and prayed no
one slammed into me and broke it. Glass in my side was
so
not what I
needed.

Popping through
the kitchen door, I strolled in to see Gray piling a baguette with glistening
strips of steak. Cue the tummy rumble and drool.

“Nummy-nummy.”
I plopped down on my elbows in front of him and watched with avid anticipation
as the rest of the kitchen finished cleaning up. Must have been a busy night,
they were usually done by now, the scent of garlic and red wine steaks was still
strong as hell, indicating they’d been at it until just recently.

Maybe I’m
onto something with this bottling smells thing. Although, I’d probably be
starving all the time. Good thing they can’t bottle it, then, eh? Otherwise,
I’d see random women walking down the street, one whiff, and they’d be a juicy
rump steak on legs. Beef Baguette to go?

Clearing
my throat, I peered up at Gray as he piled on lettuce, red onion, gherkins and
cheese—the spicy kind—
drool
—and wondered why he did this each night I came
in. He plays it all rough and cranky, but deep down he has such a warm heart.

“Bet your
wife don’t know how you cater to strays, huh?” I smiled warmly as his brow arched
up.

His dark
eyes flashed up to mine, sparkling. “If I don’t feed you, she’ll hit me with a
newspaper again.” He grumbled, and I barked a laugh.

According
to Belinda, Gray’s wife, I was far too scrawny and obviously under-nourished,
but then she was a curvy Greek goddess. Gray was under strict instructions to
pile me high with calories whenever I came in. Probably why he slid the steak
baguette over to me then went straight to the fridge, lifting out the
three-tiered chocolate fudge cake and slicing off a hefty portion before adding
a dollop of cream.

My mouth,
poised around my first bite of the baguette, watered. He caught me gazing
hungrily and grinned, mumbling something that sounded distinctly like “cow-eyes
for chocolate, but never a man.”

What’s
that supposed to mean?

After
demolishing the juicy steak baguette, I gave Gray the customary hug he hated,
listened to him bitch about it before I told him we couldn’t mess with
tradition or I’d tell his wife. I left him shaking his head and wandered back
out into the night, checking the time.

A quarter
to three, and a text message from Jade—the Shifter best friend I never see, but
is always there like unicorns and multiple orgasms.

Jade: Yo chic!

Me: Yo
Puddytat. Working. Why? Miss me?

As if she
was waiting for me, the reply was instantaneous.

Jade:
Duh! You’re like my favorite doll, if only you wouldn’t wonder off!

Always
picking on my height! Freaking glamazon.

Me: Ha-ha.
Where are you?

Jade:
Chicago. Overseeing new club opening

What? Ah
okay.

Me: Is
the windy city mighty pretty?

I was
grinning. Jade and her brother, Fletch, owned paranormal bars all over the
country, and after making a name for themselves, just kept on opening them.
Female’s worth more than I am!

Jade:
You’ve been watching Calamity Jane again! What have I told you about that crap?

I
snickered.

Me: Doris
Day is epic. You swinging by to see me when you’re done?

Jade: Doris
Day is not epic. And duh. I will let you know when. Love you, chic!

Me: Love
you, puddytat.
  

 
Sighing, I slipped my phone back in my
pocket, and glanced around the empty street. Kicking my heels, I wandered around,
doing another sweep of my territory before dawn, and then headed home as the
sky started to glow pink.

I didn’t
get even a whiff of the guy from the booth. His trail just…stopped at the door
of the bar. I’d wandered up and down the streets for an hour looking for any
trace of him.
Even after topping up my scent boxes with a sniff at the
rim of the tumbler, I still couldn’t find him.
I went bouncing to a couple rooftops and sniffed around,
wondering if maybe he went hopping too.

Nope.

Nothing.

Nada.

Was I
disappointed? Maybe a little, but it had nothing to do with how good he smelled.
Really.

Sighing,
I trekked the few miles back to my truck—a Dodge Ram fifteen-hundred in a
pretty blue with chrome trim, and yes, it makes
me
purr. Hopping—literally—into
the cab, I started her up, and began the silent drive on to route twenty-six to
Goose Creek.

The
neighborhood is good, quiet and private. I used to live in the busier part of
town for convenience, but I couldn’t take the noise. Even for a small city, it
kept waking me. Add to that, the scents during the day that were muted at night
were too much to bear. When my clothes, hair and even bath towels started to
smell like greasy food and car fumes, I knew it was time to consider moving. The
constant scowl from scent and sound was making me cranky.

A cranky
Red is a total bitch, not even
I
like her.

Hopping
back out of the truck in a cloud of the new blueberry scented air-freshener I had
bought, I shuffled quietly across the circular, gravel drive. I followed the
path to the quaint, two-tone, red brick sprawling bungalow porch while digging
my keys from my pocket.

Entering
my home is a mission in disabling my custom security system. I have a sensor
around the door that was designed by a very special friend of mine who happens
to be a technological
god.
A genius who is a cutesy, purring wrapper of
hot-damn!

Anywhoo,
I digress. The sensors are spread throughout my home like a grid, and detect
all supernatural beings, be they big enough to walk through my walls or small
enough to crawl up my drain. Unless I’ve cleared them, of course. Can’t have
guests’ brains turned to mulch in my entryway. The key pad beside the door is
deactivated only by my hand print and a twelve digit code known only to me. I
also have a retinal scanner, but only use it when my house is on total
lock-down.

When set
to maximum, every surface shimmers with a shield sensor, burning anything that
tries to pass through it. When set to minimum, cross-hatched laser-lights beam
around the rooms, constantly moving. If, by some miracle, someone does get past
the windows, doors, or walls, a screeching alarm goes off. I then have thirty
seconds to get into my ‘command room’—or get whoever I don’t want in there out,
before the rooms go into lockdown, effectively shutting anyone inside in, and
anyone outside out. From there, I have complete coverage of the entire house
and whoever entered. All I have to do is wait for the reinforcements notified
by my alarms.

Cue
evil-witch cackle.

My
cutesy, purring genius person made me some pretty epic toys to play with if
ever someone was stupid enough to try to get into my house. I will always love
him for these personalized, toys.

Setting
the alarm to active neutral—
set, but don’t kill the owner
—I tossed my
keys in my little, deep blue china bowl and scanned the shadows of my home.

I’d bought
the house on a whim, if I was honest. I had checked size, condition, location
and price, but that was it. I had my priorities and good-looks weren’t one of
them. Yet, in the last few months I’d lived here, I’ve come to think of it as
mine, and had even started putting my own little signature on the place: fresh paint,
new couch, revived the kitchen, knocked down a wall and expanded the bathroom.

What can
I say? Bounty hunting paid well, and I have a terrible nesting habit.

The only
thing missing was pictures. Photos. Life.

I had
vases from Syria and wall hangings from India. I had bed spreads from France
and a ceremonial mask or two from Africa. Hell, I even have a pale, opalescent
silk kimono with cherry blossom trees lovingly etched into it from a very
grateful Japanese Ghoul Goshuujin, after I had returned his wayward, newly-made
Ghoul child.

Creepy,
yet appreciated.

The main thing
that was all me in the house was the extensive kitchen, baking equipment and
the floating shelves in the lounge filled with small carved animals. The
knickknacks were pieces of my heart, lined up on a shelf, polished and cared
for lovingly, despite the painful memories they held.

Anything
else about my life was all but buried in a two-century old trunk at the bottom
of my bed, containing too many memories that made my heart ache with raw need. It
was a trunk I never opened. I wasn’t going to open it up for anything or
anyone.

Flipping
on the study light, I headed straight for the laptop and popped it open,
setting the tumbler down to the side as I slouched into the smooth, cool
leather chair. The fan fired away as the screen lit up. Pulling up my inbox, I
rifled through the latest emails on my just-disposed-of-bounty, and replied
with a brisk, business-like note about the success of the job and where the
bounty was located. Once they found the unfortunate fellow in the ravine, I’d
get paid the other half of my fee.

Woohoo!

Hitting
send, I watched the little animation flutter the envelop away and then checked
the inbox for any more jobs. Only two really caught my eye. One was a mass
request for information, and possible apprehension, of a Vampire going by the
name of Ambrose. I snorted.
Presumptuous much?
Ambrose means ‘immortal’
in Greek. I shook my head, Vampires are so arrogant. This Ambrose was wanted
for murder, suspected kidnapping of multiple races and inciting rebellion
amidst the clans. He was last seen in Illinois.