Isla, In the Splash Zone

"Well, that was weird," I said the moment we were deposited back in The Barbershop's classy interior. The vibe was much more relaxed and refined than outside. Muted even. Staff served their blood from IVs into fancy cocktail glasses. No paper cups. Only humans with fangs sunk into them were the ones the vamps brought from home. BYO-Bloodbags.

Instead of resuming our seats at the bar, Greg steered us to a golden velvet sofa between a fern and a patio door. The bartender sneered at us as we sat. But once our asses hit that cushion, Greg released a heavy breath he'd been holding for the last twenty minutes. Literally.

I wasn't feeling so relieved.

"Things in there felt clammy," I said, "in more ways than one."

Greg rolled his eyes.

"I just think, that, maybe, if we're going to criticize each other's methods of interviewing persons, we could at least address how easily you folded under that obvious bribe."

If I didn't actually, seriously, really, like need to find Lily, I'd probably be asking how much of that bribe I'd get a cut of for keeping my trap shut about the whole breaking and entering thing I was accomplice to.

Greg hailed a server. As they arrived, he laid a gentle hand on my thigh. He was cold and I resisted squirming. Vamp ordered us the same cocktails as before, all chill and casual, like he didn't just get clocked in the face and we didn't get threatened by some jelly bitch in a boy's locker room. This was shaping up like high school all over again, man.

The server left. Greg didn't remove his hand from me. Instead, he loosened his tie slightly with his other. He was silent for a while, chewing the inside of his cheek, obviously mulling something over in that head of his.

Contemplative silence is heckin' overrated. "And what's all this jazz about somebody's ex-wife?"

"Dmitri hired me."

Finally. He speaks.

"Yeah, kind of connected the dots on that one myself, thanks."

"When Dmitri hired me, it was to find Lily because he believed her to be his 'true love,' and wife, Rosemond reincarnated."

This I was also vaguely aware of from our chat last night. But, still... "Big yikes."

"Yes," Greg nodded. "Big yikes. Seems my old pal Dmitri forgot to mention his current wife, or that his side-dame danced in his own nightclub. His valet made clear to me he didn't want Lily found. Then Lily's neighbor saw a man fitting the valet's description the night she vanished, and you know, just before Curtis grabbed me on the dance floor, I ran into that valet again. He told me to meet him on the south side of the roof in," Greg checked his watch, "thirty minutes from now. Perfect amount of time for us to be milling about the place while we wait for Sloane to draw up a check."

"Oooh, how clandestine," I joked to hide the queasy feeling sloshing in my belly. Had Greg just agreed to meet Lily's killer out back like a pair of seventh graders planning their first big kid fight out by the flagpole?

"And if I were any sort of a professional, I wouldn't have told you any of that. Course I can't send you home now, can I? Not with the scene we've made. You'd be too easy a target."

"Mm, I'm a good runner in heels. Just ask my high school prom date." I made a face, "is that why you'd send me home?"

"Yes," Greg pinched his nose. "No. I'm angry with you."

Our server returned. Tiny of bubbles of guilt fizzed under my skin just like the ones floating in my champagne. Had things gone that bad with Britney? I thought we got a lot of useful stuff out of her.

"I was helping," I said between sips. "Britney wasn't opening up to you! But I gave her a gal pal and she spilled her guts like a soothsayer's goat. Without you having to brain melt her."

Greg took a generous gulp from his glass. "Follow my lead, I said."

"Yep."

"Let me, the professional, talk."

"You didn't talk much to Sloane."

"I was biding us time and trying not to get us kicked out before this meeting. Trust me, I wouldn't have let things get out of hand. You're safe...I'll keep you safe."

He didn't look at me. Didn't groan or chew his lip or run a hand through that thick, luscious, wavy hair of his. His stillness made the room chillier.

"Fine. Maybe I overstepped a tad. My b. But Britney talked 'cause of me, bucko."

"Nah, you're right."

"I said my b—huh?"

Greg exhaled, making a cute raspberry noise between his lips as he did.

"You overstepped, but she didn't trust me, and you got her to talk, without melting her brain, so," he lightly squeezed my thigh. "Nice work, Watson."

My cheeks felt all hot and tingly. "Oh. Thanks."

"Hey, what was Sloane talking about?"

"Being a jealous bitch?"

"You threatened one of her regulars with a two-century old Claim dispute, was it?"

I shifted awkwardly in my seat. "Might've been me, if I knew what that once."

"A Claim is, like, ah, going steady with an exclusive donor," he gestured subtly to our fellow patrons, "the official stamp of hands off to other vamps."

"Wow, the control issues with you vamps. You told Curtis I was your claim."

If vampires could blush, Greg would've been bright pink. "It's a good cover."

"Sure," I sipped my champagne. "Well, another vamp, sleazeball type, tried to woo me after you left the table. I may have channeled a spirit to get him to mind his business."

"How?"

"I lit thirteen candles and drew a pentagram in puppy's blood on the underside of the table."

The corner of his mouth gave the slightest quirk. "That must have been quite the show."

An uncomfortable prickle rolled down my neck, tightening up in my shoulders and chest. He didn't believe me. Still. He was right, on some level. So called psychics and mediums were pretty much, almost always, definitely humans faking supernatural abilities. Everybody in Society knew it. They almost never doled out shoddy Tourism and Entertainment licenses to self-proclaimed psychics. Lucky for me my usual clientele were gullible humans. Never expected I'd have to hang on to this schtick for a professional snoop of a vampire.

I threw a hand to my forehead and pretended to swoon.

"Fine, officer, you caught me bloody handed. I'm a lowly human playing pretend with my crystal balls and Hasbro spirit boards. I crack my toes and voila it's a ghost wrapping on my chamber door."

"Mm, I'll let you off with a warning. This time. But you should drive safer around these parts." Greg took a drink. "Seriously, Isla. You can't go spinning stories about vampires to their faces. Some of these suckers have lived so long, you could have said any cheap fortune teller zingers and you'd hit a nail in someone's coffin."

While Greg's voice was obviously laced with concern, I still couldn't decide if I was offended by all that.

Curtis materialized from the same door we came out of, taking a moment to scan the small crowd before spotting us. Smirking all smug and stupid like, he came over, dropping Greg's things (gun included) onto a coffee table in front of us.

"Sloane says enjoy your drinks, and feel free to, ahem, fuck the fuck off, because you won't be welcomed back after you set one foot in that elevator. Ever."

"In that case," I said, "another round? As a parting gift?"

Curtis walked away.

Greg calmly sorted all of his stuff back into his pockets. He shoved the gun back into a holster under his jacket. Wonder what a vampire needed a gun for? Was it all just part of the old timey private dick aesthetic? None of the other immortals seemed to bat an eye at him. Lead just doesn't carry the same weight as a wooden stake in these parts.

"How's your nose?"

"I'll unlive."

"Getting punched in the face a normal night at the office for you?"

"Hanging from fire escapes in the freezing rain taking pictures through a window, in the dark, of middle-aged sad sacks in unhappy marriages sneaking around to dirty hotels where they rut with someone else's spouse, is a normal night."

"Yeah, that does sound like you get punched in the face a lot."

Greg laughed.

He found Sloane's check already tucked into his wallet. Post-It stuck on top that read 'Must've misplaced those documents. Whoopsie.' I leaned against his shoulder to try and get a better view of the check's amount, but the vamp promptly tore up the pieces and dumped them into his empty champagne flute.

"My guy!"

"I was never going to accept her bribe. I'm a professional. Was just buying us time, remember?"

A server must have overheard my drink order to Curtis, because presto, another round arrived. Greg and I exchanged our empty glasses for full ones. I groaned at the sight of all that wasted money carted off on a literal golden platter.

"How much longer do we have to wait before your secret rendezvous?"

"Not long."

We were seated near a drafty, glass door. The chill seeped through, eliciting goosebumps down my arms. Greg draped his jacket over my shoulders without a word. On the sofa across from us, a vamp couple in leather chaps and corsets took turns drinking from their pet.

They caught my eye. The lady vamp winked. Greg pulled me a little closer, tenderly stroking my shoulder. I could feel his bony hip in my side. Was this part of the bit? Was sharing his jacket really enough to convince other vampires we were together? I doubted it. Maybe that soft little tug was genuine. It was nice, but... he's a bit red flaggy on the boyfriend material, right? Most would recommend you didn't fool around with the kind of guy that gets punched in the face a lot.

The vampire couple changed positions on the sofa. Their human mewled softly as they stripped and played with her.

"You like?" Greg said.

"I mean, I'm not that much of a contortionist, but I could make it work."

He choked. "I asked what's a day at the office for you like?"

"Oh," My cheeks burned. I took a long, cool drink. "Ah well, I sit in my living room and talk to sad people."

Something about Greg's utter lack of response to that worried me. So I continued.

"You would be surprised how many people come in for their pets. I mean, you know, not these pets." I gestured to the threesome in front of us. I also omitted that my best clients usually come in with their parakeet's corpse under their arm. "I offer... support, to them."

Greg twisted, turning to me, a funny look on his face. Maybe it was the drink, but for some reason, I was pleasantly lightheaded.

"Bet you're actually good at comforting people."

"What?"

"Pets. The stupid question about Lily's boyfriend's pet," Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "Why didn't you tell me he could have been a regular of yours?"

"I didn't know until Britney mentioned it! But I wouldn't say regular. Most of my regulars are old women, like this chick with her three pets."

I jabbed a thumb toward the woman who'd been stationed at the bar since we arrived. She was all done up in a hoop skirt and black lace veil. Gave off a real Miss Havisham vibe with her three little bondage pets leashed and kneeling at her side.

"Three?"

"Yeah the, like, pet people she's got on leashes."

Greg frowned. "I think you're seeing double. Did you drink too much already?"

I craned my neck looking back over at Miss Havisham. Hmm. One of those pets of hers may have been a bit less corporeal than the others, upon closer inspection. That inspection being that somebody just walked right through him. Crap. Have to be more careful about that. Parlor tricks are one thing, but a direct, open-air channel to ghosts? That kind of shit raised suspicion of dark magic.

Britney emerged from that same door behind the bar. Her makeup was smudged. More mid-2000s pop icon than mid-90s, but she pulled it off. Girl adjusted her cleavage, smacked her lips, and headed back out onto the floor. As she sauntered away from me and toward the North patio in the mini skirt, something in the elevator vestibule must have caught her attention. Don't know what. I didn't have a good view. But she stopped and jumbled her tray of drinks, barely managing to safely place them on an empty end table before the whole thing crashed on her. After ditching the tray, Britney took off in a run toward the elevators.

"Try following my finger," said Greg.

He waved his index finger inches from my nose. The lightheadedness was edging toward dizziness.

"Think I just need some air."

"Yeah." Greg rose and offered me his hand, which I took. And then let go to gather our drinks. He grabbed the door beside us. "We've got a clandestine rendezvous to catch."

"Right. Our super-secret hot date—fuck it's cold!"

A blast of frigid wind hit me so hard I bruised. I shoved Greg's drink back into his hand, downed my own, threw the glass, and pulled his jacket tighter.

"Watch it!" he said, catching the empty glass one handed before it went over a ledge. I hadn't even seen him move. "You're dangerous."

"Just keeping you on your toes." I winked.

He smiled back. Those fangs of his poked his bottom lip when he smiled like. It wasn't smug or clever, just a bit goofy. It was a smile like he was enjoying himself, his blue eyes brightening with it. "You certainly do."

Since I was standing and moving around, the alcohol finally decided to clock in and do its job warming my blood. A welcomed, fuzzy tingle embraced me, and, you know what, after the initial cold shock it was pretty nice up there.

This south balcony was smaller, clearly meant for more intimate parties. Only a handful of empty chairs circled around neglected firepits. Most of the light came from the bright windows of the bar, and the glow of South Philadelphia just below. The high rises and Ben Franklin bridge were beyond the wall behind us. But you could see the stadiums and across the river into Jersey, and even a couple of stars.

You could hear the music echoing over from the other side of the building too.

"Shit!" I clapped. "This is my favorite song!"

I bounced, ungracefully, along to the faint beats of TLC's No Scrubs.

"Time check on when your scrub's going to holler at us?"

Greg—apparently having finished his drink—placed both glasses on the wide, concrete ledge. He checked his watch. "Soon. He's probably hitching a ride on the passenger side of his best friend's ride now. Just, please, follow my lead this time."

"Kind of do wish we gotten to go dancing."

"You're shivering."

"It's cold."

Greg was in front of me. Just like that. Snap of my fingers quick. He grabbed both of my arms and rubbed them, frowning. "Does this help?"

My heart skipped a beat. How cliché.

"Your hands are also cold, you know."

He pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my back, gently holding me against his chest, my nose mere inches from his chin. I warmed. It had nothing to do with his body heat. Cause, you know, he had none.

I bumped my knees against his and laughed because I realized we were swaying still.

"This isn't really a slow dancy kind of song."

"Just trying to keep you warm. You should've worn a coat."

"Nah, I got yours."

That was supposed to be a joke, but Greg didn't laugh. He was looking at me funny again, his eyes glazing a bit. What was he staring at? My throat? Mouth? Tits?

"Definitely don't meet someone like you every night," he softly said.

"Good. I'd kill a bitch for stealing my vibe."

At that he laughed. It rumbled through his chest into mine. Deep and earnest.

"Listen, I may have been a bit forward, even for, you know, hypnosis, before. But you and your fangs really are cute when you laugh."

He pursed his lips. "Now you're making me self-conscious, darling."

"Well if you're worried people will see, you can just hide them in my mouth, if you'd like."

Yeah. Okay. That was dumb. Real lame shit. The worstest, trashiest, most embarrassing pick-up line ever.

And it worked.

With a cute little mmm squeaking up from the back of his throat, Greg crushed his lips against mine. Tongues and teeth crashed together. It was messy. And fantastic.

A sizzle ran through me from my tits to toes, frying all my nerve endings into goo. I clutched his shirt and returning the kiss with gusto. His arm around me tightened. That hot rush kept growing, pleasantly jellifying my bones, Greg's strong arm the only thing holding me upright. He ground his hips against me and my ass scratched the low ledge of the patio. But Greg's grip was sturdy, and I was already begging his lips to part with my tongue. He granted me permission, twirling his tongue around mine. I tasted champagne and iron and grazed the tip of his fang and he moaned, squeezing my ass and tilting my neck and—

Shatter. Splat. Crunch. Thud.

Greg shielded my body with his as the glass broke. What glass was that? The windows? Our drinks? Couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Cause after the glass came the body. It landed on the roof with a wet crack. Hot blood sprayed my cheeks.

Britney.

Her cheeks were bloody. Riddled with cuts from the glass that also tore out the braid in one of her pigtails. The fall had ruined one of her cherub cheekbones, completely smashing it flat on the pavement. The crack I heard was her bones twisting and breaking at horrendous angles. One leg lay beneath her back, her foot poking out just behind her hip. Her ankle bone had pierced through her heel on her other leg. Blood oozed out the wound. One arm was hooked around her shattered neck. The other had three elbows.

She was dead the second she hit the roof.

"Mother humper!" I screamed.

Britney was dead. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh no, was I six feet away? Somebody gimme a tape measure! I wriggled out from under Greg and scurried to the other side of the patio, pressing myself as far against the wall as I could, certainly tearing my stockings against it. My corpse alert anklet heated.

"Stay back," urged Greg, approaching the body.

"Yeah, you g-got it."

The vamp knelt beside Britney, as if checking for a pulse. Which was useless. Her ghost was already hovering over Greg hovering over her corpse. She sighed wistfully, just once, and with the next cold breeze she evaporated into a puff of light and sparkles. Great. So not only was super dead, she was also super crossed over into the Netherworld, and I was super squeezing my fat thigh into a corner, wiping the blood off my cheeks. I had to go. My bracelet would notify the Magistrate. Righteous witches riding their brooms all the way up their asses could swarm this place to cart me off to jail any minute.

Greg looked up and frowned. "Let's beat it."

"Yep."

A herd was forming. Greg wrapped his arm around me and hid us behind the opening door as the minotaur I waved at earlier rushed outside, screaming like a schoolchild. The bartender followed. Other vamps and witches and the like gathered. Greg didn't even stop to chat. We snuck out behind the minotaur, rushing toward the stairs (ugh, can't we retreat in an elevator, just once?) before anyone could stop us.

The screams of The Barbershop's more weak-stomached patrons echoed after us.

Fuck. Way to ruin the night. Greg was a heck of a kisser, too.