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Fucking vampires.
“Can we talk later?”
“Uh…” I wasn’t sure what to say, my thoughts obliterated in a tailspin.
A lush requesting a refill on his Wild Turkey saved me. I hurried over and reached under the counter for the bottle. I poured him a little something extra for the assistance. When finished, I stayed put, feet firmly planted, but I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I would have to speak to Disco at some point. I couldn’t have him showing up like this every night.
“Bartender!” Lonnie yelled.
I rolled my eyes. The most demanding of them all was the shittiest tipper to boot.
What I wouldn’t give to shove a bottle of Crown up his ass.
I unplanted my feet, rubber-soled boots squeaking against the wet plastic floor mats. I always wore my shit-kickers, even on nights like tonight. The laced-up boots were reminiscent of emo goth punk, but they did far more than help me seem fashionably depressed. The reinforced steel toe was great for shots to the crotch when I needed to exert a little extra bartender attention.
“What do you want, Lonnie?”
“When’s Deena coming back?” He didn’t bother looking at me. That would take too much ef
fort. Instead, his beady eyes remained locked on the stage. Typical.
“When she comes back,” I answered flatly. “Can I get anything else for you?”
He shook his head, and I rolled my eyes again.
Poor Deena. Her best client was a pot-bellied pig living in the bright lights of New York City. I hoped she was enjoying her time away from this clandestine hellhole while soaking up the cancer-laced rays in sunny Florida.
A surge of black snagged my attention and I chanced a glance. Disco was there, staring at me again. I couldn’t read his expression.
Shit.
My thoughts tumbled back, taking me into the past.
Why did his undead—and I mean un-dead—friend have to show up on the one night I decided to take a breather, shoot a game of pool, and serendipitously rub elbows with Disco and his partner in crime, Cash? I remembered our introduction all too well. I was on the nine, slinging the money, when I noticed someone standing over the pocket. When the eyesore in question didn’t move after a polite request, I lost my genteel sensibilities and yelled for him to get the fuck out of the way. I realized my mistake, of course, when I took a better look and could see the people directly behind his airy body.
The ghost had revealed my nature to Disco.
I had been at the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.
Necromancy—or as it is defined in the dictionary, divination by means of the spirits of the dead—is a bitch, and I hate the hell out of it. I see some pretty insane shit whether I want to or not. Since the state in which a person dies is the state they maintain in spirit, it’s a constant box of chocolates, and I don’t mean the momma always says kind, either.
Death by heart attack—just another day at the office. Death by electrocution—not so bad. Death by car, head sliced neatly open with brain matter galore—beyond all concepts of nasty.
I discovered my nifty talent when I was just a kid. I’d started seeing deceased neighborhood pets, followed by Mrs. Beaterman mulling over her neatly manicured lawn a week after the heart attack that killed her. I thought it was normal.
That all changed the day a drunk driver blew past a stop sign and plowed into my parents’ van. When Mom and Dad paid a visit to their own funeral, I knew I had issues.
“Bartender!” Lonnie yelled, his gaze remaining on the stage.
I bit my tongue—literally. The sharp edge of my incisor hurt, which was the point. I had to hold it in or I was going to blow.
“What can I get for you, Lonnie?”
“Will Deena be back next weekend?”
Count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Got your shit together? Okay, good. Answer the gentleman.
“I don’t know, Lonnie.” I smiled, speaking through my teeth. “She’s on vacation. An extended vacation.”
