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“I never do,” she whispered softly, then fol owed Chrysandra out of the room, her skirt swishing in a way that drove me crazy. I wanted to slip my hands under the hem, to run them up her golden thighs. For so long, after Dredge had gotten through with me, I’d repressed my sexuality, but Nerissa had woken it up, ful steam ahead, and there was no putting the djinn back in the bottle.
I put my feet on the floor and straightened the papers on my desk. Inventory time was heading ful throttle toward us; we were coming up on the end of the year, and I needed to do a ful accounting of everything in the bar.
I also was preparing to open the Wayfarer to overnight travelers. We’d cleaned out the rooms upstairs, redecorated and sanded and painted, and now I had space for seven guests, with three communal bathrooms.
But opening to overnight guests meant hiring a maid. I’d also have to find someone to run room service, carry bags, and, in general, take care of the needs of our Otherworld patrons. For the most part, that was who I expected to see. I already had decided that I wouldn’t rent to goblins, ogres, or anybody likely to cause trouble.
Since the Wayfarer technical y belonged to an OW resident—me—it was considered sovereign territory. I could discriminate for whatever reason I wanted. And letting creeps and miscreants stay in the bar wasn’t my idea of equal opportunity. Especial y not when my sisters and I were waging a demonic war.
The door opened, and a man cleared the archway. As I glanced at him, looking him up and down, I found myself suitably impressed. I had no doubt the man could chuck people out of the bar.
Brawn, he had. That much was clear. He only stood five eight, but his biceps were works of art, and his thighs looked strong enough to crack a skul . His hair, jet black with a white streak, was held back in a thick ponytail, hitting about midshoulder. It set off eyes as green as my sister Delilah’s. He looked to be around his midthirties, but if he was Supe, who knew how old he real y was?
And that was the second thing: Supe, he was. I could tel right off that he wasn’t human. This dude had some seriously powerful energy rol ing off him. Even I, about as headblind as you could get for someone half-Fae, could feel it.
“How do you do? I’m Menol y D’Artigo. And you are . . .?” I stood and walked around the desk.
Compared to my five one, he seemed tal . But I could take him out without blinking an eye. One of the perks of being a vampire: exceptional strength that belied any lack of visible force. Motioning him to a chair, I hopped up to sit on the corner of my desk.
“Derrick. Derrick Means.” He took the chair and leaned back, eyeing me closely. “You look like a vamp,” he said.
I blinked. Nobody had ever said that to my face, but what the hel . He didn’t sound like he was insulting me.
“Good. Because that’s what I am, and anybody that works for me has to not only tolerate it, but actual y accept the fact. What about you?”
He arched an eyebrow and folded his arms. “I’m one of the Badger People. I’m a friend of Katrina’s. She said you might be open to me applying for the job, even though you’re a vamp.
Said you hired a werewolf before.”
Badger People? So they’d moved into the city now, too?
But I understood why he might be wary. Weres and vamps didn’t always get along. However, I wasn’t just any vamp—I was half-Fae as wel as half-human. And Katrina was a friend. She was a werewolf who had started to fal for my former bartender before he ended up having to leave Earthside for Otherworld to protect his sister.
I frowned. I’d never met anyone from the badger tribes before and had very little clue what they were like, in general. Though if he matched his namesake creature, Derrick wouldn’t have any hesitation about tossing problem people out on their asses.
“Tel me about your past experience. And are you part of a clan or a loner?”
“Used to be in a clan, until I decided to hit the city and see what life here is al about. I like Seattle, but there’s not much chance to interact with my family since I moved here. We keep in touch via e-mail, but I don’t get to see them much.” He let out a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like a huff and relaxed back into the chair.
“And your experience?”
“I’ve got fifteen years bartending under my belt, I double as a bouncer no problem, and I’ve never been fired.” He handed me a piece of paper. To my surprise, it was a résumé. A detailed résumé. Usual y people just came in and asked for a job. Or at best, an application.
“Why do you want to work at the Wayfarer?” I glanced over his CV. Everything seemed in order.
No immediate alarm bel s going off in my gut.
“Because I need a job. You need a bartender. And I figure you won’t get in my face about taking off the nights of the ful moon.” He leaned forward. “I’m good at what I do, I’m loyal, and I’l be here, sober, whenever you cal . I don’t hit on the women—at least not on duty. If you want to cal some of my references, the numbers are there.”
I stared at the list. Applegate’s Bar, Wyson’s Pub, the Okinofo Lounge . . . not upscale bars but not seedy dives, either. They were solid taverns with good clientele. I let out a long breath and glanced up at him. “Wait out front in one of the booths.”
After he nodded and swaggered out of the office, I put in a few cal s. Nobody had anything bad to say about him, and several of the bars praised him, though I could feel a definite tension there.
But that was easy: I chalked it up to FBHs dealing with Supes. Making my decision, I headed out front.
Derrick was nursing a Diet Coke.
I slid into the seat across from him. “You drink? Do drugs?”
