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And found them in the lounge playing pool.
Well, two of them. The third was visible through the sliding doors to the living room, which were open again. Maybe because Marco had decided to turn on the charm. Or possibly to get himself a date; the jury was still out.
But he was talking to one of the witches, anyway, who I immediately christened Jasmine, because she looked like the Disney character. You know, if Jasmine had worn Armani and had her hair cut in a short, swingy style that framed her beautiful face. She was as lovely as a vamp, which might explain why Marco was chatting her up over by the bar. I couldn’t tell if he was getting anywhere, because her sultry eyes were half-lidded, and the faint smile on her dark red lips could have been amusement or scorn.
But the other two witches were definitely veering toward amusement.
One was standing on a stool beside the pool table, cue in heavily beringed hands, lining up a shot. The stool was needed because she was maybe four foot eight or nine, if you didn’t count a truly magnificent Afro, which must have added an extra five inches. She was wearing a green silk muumuu, had long nails painted a glittery gold, and had on a bunch of matching gold chains that clinked together as she took the shot. And sank the eight ball, causing her companion to say a bad word.
The tiny witch cackled and got off her stool, reclaiming a beer she’d left on a side table. Her opponent racked up another game, since she’d just lost that one. It didn’t appear to faze her. I had the impression that there wasn’t a lot that did.
She was the one who had attempted to talk to me in the lobby. I was kind of amazed that I’d just blown her off now, since she was maybe six foot two in her hose and easily six-four in the short-heeled black pumps she was wearing. The pumps complemented the rest of the look: hair short and gray, eyes piercing and steel-colored, suit pin-striped and more serviceable than stylish. She didn’t look like a witch. She looked like an aging Valkyrie. And more than a bit like Eugenie, my old governess, which probably explained why my stomach had started to hurt.
Since they weren’t paying me any attention anyway, I went to the kitchen to find something to settle it down. And instead found another witch. At least, I guessed so, although it sort of messed up the Macbeth thing the trio had going on. But I guess you couldn’t stick to that stuff all the time, especially if you thought you might need backup.
Not that she looked likely to provide very much.
She was young, for one thing, maybe five or six years younger than me. Or maybe even that was optimistic, because while the body was that of an adult, she was wearing a long white, high-necked gown that Eugenie would have called “genteel” and I called a nineteenth-century nightgown. It was one of the reasons I’d gone to miniskirts and thigh-high boots as soon as I got away from Tony’s and acquired a paycheck: I’d spent my youth dressed like Wendy Darling.
Eugenie would have liked the girl’s hairstyle, too, which was long and light brown and rippled down her back in a strangely familiar way. I could see it because she partly had her back to me, struggling with something on the counter. I recognized it about the same time I recognized her, or rather, who she reminded me of.
“Agnes?”
The brown head whipped around, but of course it wasn’t her. I hadn’t really thought so, since this chick was an inch or two taller than me, and Agnes had been a tiny little thing. But the overall look was similar, and her face was familiar, although I couldn’t place it. She was also looking a little stressed, which had been Agnes’ default, although it usually took more to get that expression on her face than a misbehaving coffeepot.
“It’s one of those pod things,” I told the girl helpfully.
She didn’t say anything.
“You know, with the little cups?”
She obviously didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t care. She had turned around, and was plastered against the sink, staring at me blankly out of a pale face and huge brown eyes. I decided there was a chance she didn’t speak English.
“You need a pod,” I repeated, slower, and sketched a pod shape with my fingers.
Nothing.
“Here,” I told her, getting a box of coffee pods out of a cabinet and handing them to her. Or trying to. But she just stayed where she was, flat against the sink, hands gripping the counter and eyes big and freaked-out.
Only no, I realized, she didn’t look freaked-out.
She looked terrified.
I whirled around, box of pods in hand, because you never knew around here. But no one was there. Not even one of the vamps, who tended to have an effect on sensitive-minded guests. But they were obviously traumatizing people elsewhere, because the doorway was empty.
I turned back around, but the horror-movie-victim pose hadn’t changed, and it was starting to freak me out. I slid the pods onto the counter. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. I backed slowly out of the door.
And ran into Marco, who was coming in. “Let’s do this,” he told me quietly. “I’m running out of jokes.”
“You could always feed them.”
A lip curled. “If we feed them, they’ll stay longer.”
“Not if the quality of the cuisine is anything like last time,” the Valkyrie said, from across the room. “Or was that deliberate?”
She sank a ball.
Marco looked at me.
