Lover Mine(14)

"Call me," she murmured to him with a confidence that would fade as the days passed.

Qhuinn smiled a little. "Take care."

At the sound of the two words, Blay relaxed, his big shoulders easing up. In Qhuinn-landia, take care was synonymous with I'm never going to see, call, or fuck you again.

John took out his wallet, which was stuffed with tons of bills and absolutely no identification, and peeled off four hundreds. Which was twice what the tat cost. As the artist started shaking his head and saying it was too much, John nodded at Qhuinn.

The two of them lifted their right palms at the humans, and then reached into those minds and covered up the memories of the last couple hours. Neither the artist nor the receptionist would have any concrete recollection of what had happened. At the most, they might have hazy dreams. At the least, they'd have a headache.

As the pair slipped into trances, John, Blay, and Qhuinn walked out of the shop's door and into the shadows. They waited until the artist shook himself back into focus, went over, and flipped the lock . . . and then it was time to get down to business.

"Sal's?" Qhuinn asked, his voice lower than usual thanks to postcoital satisfaction.

Blay fired up another Dunhill as John nodded and signed, They're expecting us.

One after another, his boys disappeared into the night. But before John ghosted out, he paused for a moment, his instincts ringing.

Looking left and right, his laser-sharp eyes penetrated the darkness. Trade Street had a lot of neon lights and there were cars going by because it was only two a.m., but he wasn't interested in the lit parts.

The dark alleys were the thing.

Somebody was watching them.

He put his hand inside his leather jacket and closed his palm around his dagger's hilt. He had no problem killing the enemy, especially now, when he knew damn well who had his female . . . and he hoped something that smelled like a week-old dead deer stepped up to him.

No such luck. Instead, his cell phone went off with a whistle. No doubt Qhuinn and/or Blay were wondering where the fuck he was.

He waited a minute more and decided the information he hoped to get from Trez and iAm was more important than knuckle busting whatever slayer was hanging back in the shadows.

With vengeance flowing thick in his veins, John dematerialized into thin air and took form again in the parking lot of Sal's restaurant. There were no cars around and the lights that usually shone up on the outside of the brick building were off.

The double doors under the porte cochere opened right away and Qhuinn stuck his head out. "What the hell took you so long?"

Paranoia, John thought.

Double-checked my weapons, he signed as he walked over.

"You could have asked me to wait. Or done it here."

Yes, Mother.

The inside of the place was done in old-school Rat Pack with red flocked wallpaper and plush carpeting as far as the eye could see. Everything from the club chairs to the linen-covered tables to the plates and silverware was a reproduction of what had been around in the sixties and the vibe was Dean Martin redux: smooth, rich, and Sands Casino classy.

Ol' Blue Eyes was even singing "Fly Me to the Moon."

The overhead speakers would probably refuse anything else.

The three of them walked past the hostess stand and into the bar room, where the pungent aroma of cigars lingered in spite of New York's antismoking laws. Blay went back behind the teak counter to fix himself a Coke, and John walked around, hands on hips, eyes on the marble floor, path delineated by the leather booths that were arranged around the space.

Qhuinn took a seat in one of them. "They told us to hang and make a drink. They're coming out in a sec--"

At that moment, from the staff-only room in back, a thump-thump and a groan cut into Sinatra's scooby-doo's. With a curse, John followed Qhuinn's lead and parked it across from the guy. If the Shadows were working some POS out, they were likely to be longer than a second.

As Qhuinn stretched his legs under the black table and cracked his back, he was still glowing, his cheeks flushed from exertion, his lips swollen from kissing. For a moment, John was tempted to ask why the guy insisted on fucking people in front of Blay, but he canned the Q as he stared at the red tear that was tatted on the guy's cheek.

How else was the bastard going to get laid? He was literally joined at the hip with John and all they did was go out and fight . . . with Blay a member of their team.

Blay came over with his Coke, sat next to John, and stayed quiet.

Awkward much, John thought as none of them said a thing.

Ten minutes later, the door marked STAFF ONLY swung wide and Trez came in from the back. "Sorry about the wait." He grabbed a hand towel from behind the bar and wiped the blood from his knuckles. "iAm's just dumping some trash in the alley. He'll be right in."