Death Metal (Eastwind Witches Book 2) Page 6

  She listened closely, nodding along, and when I was finished, she leaned back in the booth, her eyes still locked onto mine. “Bruce and I worked together for years at Medium Rare, him as owner, me as a manager.”

  “And how’d that work for you?” muttered Grim. I gave him another boot in the haunches.

  Although, he did have a point. It didn’t work out well for either of them. They’d divorced when Jane suspected Bruce of cheating, she’d been forced to leave, Bruce had been murdered (unrelated to the split, of course), and now Jane was back at Medium Rare.

  So, not taking into account Bruce’s murder, Jane’s story did have a happy ending, I supposed.

  She interpreted my silence the right way, and amended with, “Yes, we did end up divorcing and it got messy and blew up in our faces, and I ended up here.” She motioned broadly to Franco’s Pizza. “But I liked it here. And more importantly, you shouldn’t plan your life around worst-case scenarios. At least, I don’t think so. For one, whatever you think the worst case may be—for me it was divorce—it can always get worse. I never, in a million years, thought Bruce would be murdered in the restaurant we built together.” She shook her head and swallowed hard, and then the brief glimpse of emotion was like it never happened. I appreciated that about Jane, that she could manage her emotions so expertly, but I also felt bad that she thought she had to around me.

  “More importantly, building your life around worst-case scenarios doesn’t actually help protect against them and leaves you unable to enjoy things while they last. Say you and Tanner date and you have three great years, then something happens and you break up. Sure, you may have to leave Medium Rare, but that’s three years you had with a man you loved.”

  “I’m not in love with Tanner.”

  She smiled slyly. “Not yet, maybe.”

  I laughed. “Stop.”

  “Do you get my meaning, though?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I do.”

  “Good,” she said. “To sum up, Tanner is a decade too young for me. Otherwise, I’d have hunted down that sweet prey ages ago. Which means, as my friend, you’re required to go for it if you’re interested—and I know you are—so I can live vicariously through you.”

  I laughed. “Wait, how old are you?” I’d assumed she was maybe a few years older than me, in her mid to late thirties, but maybe not.

  “A bitch never tells.”

  I flinched without meaning to.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I just hate that word.”

  “Which word?”

  “The B one.”

  “Bitch?” She looked at me incredulously. “That’s just what a female werewolf is called.”

  “I know. And where I come from, it’s the word for a female dog, but it’s also a rude thing to call a woman.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, chewing her bottom lip, pausing for a second before saying, “Patriarchal?”

  “Huh?”

  “Was your world patriarchal?”

  “Yes, for the most part.”

  “There ya go!” she said. “When women aren’t venerated, calling someone a woman is an insult. It’s all part of men maintaining control. I’ve read about how it works in some of the other worlds. Not fantastic. In Eastwind, though, being a bitch basically means you get to run the place … even if the Coven has long since taken over.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Still, I’m one proud bitch.”

  “So, are there words for men that are insults? Like the opposite of my world?”

  Trinity brought over our drinks, including two cocktails we hadn’t ordered. I looked over at Donovan behind the bar. He nodded pleasantly at our table, and I knew it was intended solely for Jane. Whatever. If I could get a delicious cocktail on the house out of it, who cared what Donovan thought about me?

  Jane sipped her drink, savoring that first taste, and I did the same. The Spiced Yeti he’d whipped up back in the winter was incredible, but it wasn’t appropriate for June. This drink looked much clearer—no cream—and when I held it up to the light, I spotted muddled basil and blackberries.

  I took a sip.

  Ugh. I hated how good Donovan was at this. It made it so hard to hate him.

  Setting down her drink, Jane jumped back into the conversation. “To answer your question, no, we don’t have any derogatory terms for people that are based on the notion that men are lower than women. That’s the beauty of matriarchy, I guess.” She grinned mischievously. “We’re benevolent rulers. Makes sense for us to run things. Honestly, I can’t imagine how it would work in a world run by men.”

  I shrugged. “It kind of doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t what?”

  “Work.”

  We laughed. “Then I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Bitch, me too.”

  We clinked glasses and I was happy we were finally past the talk of Tanner that made me feel like I was running a fever. “So what about you and Ansel? How’s that going?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched; she was suppressing outward signs of her inward girlish obsession. (I could tell because I’d just made the same face when talking about Tanner, I was fairly sure.) “It’s good.”

  “That’s what the necklace says at least.” I nodded at the black crystal hanging on a chain around her neck. It was the werewolf equivalent of an engagement ring. Tandy Erixon, the xana who’d killed Bruce and tried to kill me, told me once that Ansel had bought Jane a ring and was waiting for her to move on from her ex-husband before proposing. Goes to show how gossip can distort the truth, because apparently the shifter and werewolf tradition was a necklace since it would remain on when they shifted, whereas a ring would either fall off or cut off the circulation, depending.

  “The necklace doesn’t even show the half of it.” She winked at me. “If things with Tanner don’t work out, might I suggest a werebear? They don’t leave the voracious appetite in the woods, that’s for sure.”

  “Make her stop,” Grim said. “I don’t want to think about Ansel that way.”

  So, of course I said, “Oh, Jane … do go on.”

  While Grim put his massive paws over his little floppy ears to block out the details, I sipped my drink and indulged in the first down-and-dirty girl-talk I’d had in longer than I could remember.

  Chapter Six

  Veronica Lovelace responded to my owl the next morning, saying that she was unable to meet until later that evening. I couldn’t imagine what pressing matters someone like her had to attend to, and I suspected the span of time was due less to a busy schedule and more to preparing to meet a stranger who wanted to speak about Heather, which was about all the information that was included in my owl.

  My guess, though, was that by the time I arrived that evening, she would already know a little about me, who I’d spoken to, and the true motivation of my visit. You didn’t maintain such money and power without connections that could dig up information on anyone who presented a threat to said money and power.

  The conversation would be a chess match, even if she wasn’t the murderer. Someone like her—and I’d encountered many in my former life—whose reputation was so carefully crafted, would have things to hide regardless. I bet most of the people in the Hightower Gardens community, for instance, weren’t aware of her mistreatment of Heather after the marriage to Lucent.

  It’d been a busy Saturday at work, and, truth be told, I was a little hungover from drinks with Jane at Franco’s Pizza the night before. Since I’d been working at Medium Rare, Tanner and Anton had allowed me a few creative liberties with the menu, and while it allowed the menu prices to increase slightly and drew in more curious customers as word got around (like all gossip in Eastwind, it didn’t take long), it often meant getting slammed on the weekends when those who lived in the city or north of it had more time to venture down into the Outskirts for a meal. The truffle fries were a favorite, but I’d conscientiously decided against rolling out my migas and queso until we could hire more servers. Eastwind didn’t hav
e queso. Anywhere.

  While there was no magic where I came from, white queso with guacamole, black beans, pico de gallo, and chorizo was basically magic. This town wasn’t ready for the revolution. Soon, but not yet.

  So the menu update was both a blessing and a curse, and as I walked the long distance from Medium Rare to Hightower Gardens, Grim trotting along fresh after a twelve-hour nap behind the counter, it was feeling more like a curse.

  “I’m basically working two full-time jobs,” I said, less because I expected sympathy, and more because he was the only one around to listen. Sure, there were plenty of people enjoying their weekend in downtown Eastwind, but they mostly ignored me, focusing their attention on shopping or drinking or eating or anything that was more exciting than an exhausted medium shuffling up a never-ending incline toward the rich part of town with a fluffy death omen in tow.

  It was so typical that the wealthy would build their settlement at the top of a hill where they could literally look down on the rest of Eastwind while also figuratively looking down on the rest of Eastwind. What I disliked most about it was that I’d had the same impulse back when I had money. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but sure enough, when my lease was up on my old apartment and I was making the big bucks, I bought the first penthouse condo I could find in downtown Austin and spent evenings surveying my culinary dominion from my living room window, a glass of shamefully expensive pinot noir in hand.

  Alone. Always.

  Thinking back on those times made my aching feet bother me just a little less. Hard work around people who respected me and who I saw as my equals was better than any six hundred dollar bottle of wine (I told you it was shamefully expensive) enjoyed alone.

  Large stone wolves with their hackles up guarded the long driveway leading to Lovelace Manor. I paused before passing through them as a scene from The NeverEnding Story involving two sphinx statues came to mind.

  Nope. Not gonna think about that. The odds of these wolves waking up and zapping me to a crisp or otherwise harming me as I passed between them were slim, even in Eastwind. Shout out to unnecessary childhood trauma, though, for staying with me even through death.

  What worried me even more than the statues was Lovelace Manor had no front gate. It had a wrought iron fence marking the boundaries of the land, but the fact that there was no gate for protective purposes indicated that something deadly might live within the fence that had no need of a gate for protection.

  All the werewolves I’d encountered thus far had either rejected the more beastly inclinations of their kind, like Jane and, supposedly, Lucent, or were dead, like Heather and Bruce. There were plenty that came into Medium Rare to eat, but eating your server is not the best solution to getting good service, so I didn’t particularly worry about being mauled on the job.

  The Lovelaces, though, were different. From what I’d been told explicitly and read between the lines, they were old Eastwind, a family who used to be in charge around here and had withdrawn from public power without conceding the social power that mattered. The way people spoke of them made it seem like they were a separate entity from Eastwind proper, a power and jurisdiction unto themselves, one that only paid lip service to Eastwind laws and lawmakers when absolutely necessary to continue being left alone and unmolested.

  I cut between two intricately carved columns and inhaled deeply on the front step before knocking.

  An older man answered the door, dressed in a red silk robe tied at the front. “Can I help you?”

  I’d expected a servant of some sort to open the door, not … Veronica’s lover? It sure looked like the man was ready for action with a quick tug on his belt, if the opportunity arose. I’d assumed that Veronica was a widow, due to the fact that no one had mentioned a Mr. Lovelace, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was Mr. Lovelace.

  “I’m Nora Ashcroft,” I said, unsure whether I should offer a hand to shake or not. “And this is my familiar, Grim. We have an appointment with Veronica.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “She informed me, but it slipped my mind.”

  “And you are?”

  “Bartholomew. Veronica’s personal assistant.”

  I bet you are.

  “Nice to meet you, Bartholomew.”

  “Come on into the sitting room and I’ll notify Veronica that you’ve arrived.”

  The place was an icebox, and if Bartholomew hadn’t already called it a sitting room, my guess would have been “art gallery.” The space was built as a rotunda, framed artwork covering almost every inch of the gold-leaf walls. When I gazed up, the ceiling was hand painted like some sort of Sistine Chapel knock-off, except the scene depicted wasn’t so much about creation as it was destruction. Wolves with their fangs bared charged against an army that appeared human, but, based on the wands they held, were witches. Though the painting didn’t move, it felt like it did. The image had captured the frenzy of a battle, and in doing so, reminded me that at some point, witches in Eastwind had done wrong by the weres, and such transgressions hadn’t been forgotten, or forgiven, by people like the Lovelace pack.

  “This was probably a bad idea, coming here,” I said to Grim, who sat with his back to me, his eyes locked onto the doorway.

  “For once I agree with you.”

  When I was able to pull my eyes from the ceiling again, I noticed the framed photographs on nearly every surface. They were all easily visible from the tall armchair to which Bartholomew had directed me and where I now sat. Was I intended to notice how staged this all was, or was the obviousness an accident?

  I didn’t recognize any of the faces in the first few photographs, but then my eyes landed on a familiar one. Heather. Like most of the photos, the subject of this one was posing rather than caught in a candid moment. She looked younger, perhaps in her late teens when it was taken. She was beautiful, regal. The frame on the photo of Heather was the gaudiest of all—thick, ornate, with gold sparkles. I was meant to see it and keep it in mind, that was clear.

  The small clock on a side table indicated that it was twenty minutes past our agreed upon meeting time when Veronica Lovelace decided to grace us with her presence. She wore a long royal blue form-fitting dress that hugged her well-maintained figure, and over her shoulders hung a fur shawl that was totally inappropriate for the weather outside but justified by the unreasonably cool air inside.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me for the wait. When I saw Bartholomew in that little robe, well, I couldn’t resist.” She grinned at me like I would understand.

  “Oh sweet baby jackalope,” Grim said. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  “At least my suspicions about Bartholomew were right on the nose.”

  “Small consolation for the mental image seared into my brain.”

  “It’s alright,” I said. “We’ll just have to make it short.”

  Truthfully, I had nowhere to be, but I didn’t want her to dictate the interaction with her tardiness. In the days of Chez Coeur, I’d been in enough business meetings with potential investors and banks and rivals who wanted to see my livelihood go up in flames that I knew how to play this game. She was trying to take control by arriving late. She wanted to keep me off balance, and the lewd comment about ol’ Barty was intended for that specific purpose. Who knew if they actually partook in what she’d not-so-subtly hinted at. That wasn’t the point.

  I needed to let her see that I wouldn’t be adjusting my whole plan to accommodate her.

  “Ah, yes. Busy, busy,” she said, settling into her seat opposite me and adjusting the fur on her shoulder. “I’ve heard it’s quite a rat race out there for the working class nowadays.”

  Man, oh man, I did not like Veronica Lovelace. She was turning out to be as bad as Lucent had made her out to be.

  “Yes. But I much prefer it to just sitting around,” I said. “Now, Heather, I’ll cut to the chase here. There are some who don’t believe that your daughter Heather committed—”

  “Oh!” wailed Veronica. “Oh, dear me! My poor,
sweet Heather!” She grabbed the framed photo I’d noticed earlier, which was conveniently placed on the table next to where she’d sat, and clutched it to her bosom. “The agony of losing a child. I hope you never have to go through it, Eleanore!”

  “Nora,” I corrected, fully expecting her to ignore it. “Mrs. Lovelace—”

  “Oh, please call me Veronica.”

  I cleared my throat, trying not to let her constant interruptions get under my skin. “Of course. Veronica, I have reason to believe Heather’s death was not a suicide.”

  “Of course not!” she said quickly. “I knew that the second I heard. Oh … my poor baby. She was such a good girl and simply fell in with the wrong crowd. It’s probably my fault. I must have failed her somewhere along the way.”

  I knew she was fishing for reassurance, but she couldn’t possibly expect that, right? We weren’t friends, and what I knew of her was that she was beyond manipulative. Maybe her haphazard flinging of emotions from one direction to the next would work on a man, but I could recognize disingenuous nonsense when I saw it. “Who do you mean when you say she ran with the wrong crowd?”

  She sat up straight, replacing the photo on the side table so that Heather’s shining face stared at me along with Veronica’s penetrating gaze. “Lucent, obviously. All of the Scandricks and their mangy cousins. They go around moping about how the witches stole their land and homes and displaced them to the Outskirts. Ha! They were useless nobodies and scummy addicts long before the Coven took over. The sense of entitlement. It’s just too much!” She fanned her face with her hand before ringing a small bell.

  Bartholomew arrived in the doorway looking flushed and satisfied. Maybe Veronica’s excuse for being late wasn’t completely fabricated.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lovelace?”

  “Bring some cold water, please, Barty. I’m afraid I’ve worked myself into another frenzy. Our guests look like they could use some hydration as well.”