Greg, Adjusting to Falling Beams

"Julian called. Dmitri's invited you to dinner. BYOB. Sorry. Must have slipped my mind since I was so busy gossiping about how big your—" I bit my tongue. No. I'm skipping that bit. "Big smiley face emoji."

Said it once, I'll say it again. Phoebe was a lousy secretary. Late messages, poorly filed paperwork. But I couldn't exactly let the dame go. Not when she died on the job for me. But we had boundaries, my gal and I. She made promises. Swore she wouldn't eavesdrop or spy on this paranoid old bat because we had a relationship, a partnership built on respect and did I mention boundaries?

Glancing up, I caught Isla peering over my shoulder, holding her hands out in front of her, palms parallel. She raised brow and inched them further apart, mouthing what appeared to be more?

Ghosts. The dame saw ghosts. Without some fancy ritual or spell work or nothing. Plain as day. And she lied about it. Easy as pie. Even when such a talent sure would sure help speed things along in murdered blood donor department. I didn't like whatever game Madame Margherita was playing at anymore.

But I didn't like the game Julian—clearing his fragile throat over there—was playing at either. What's it Phoebe was always telling me? Priorities.

"Ahem, well," Julian pulled at his boxy tie. "You're underdressed, but better that than being la—"

His sentence ended in a strained gargle. My fault. I launched myself at him, throwing us both out the door and pinning the scrawny valet to the (now) dented side of his van.

"You set us up, you cowardly snake," I growled, squeezing his throat a little tighter, his flesh squishing under my fingers. Felt good to channel my agitations into something physical. Like exercise, or something. Don't give me that look. It was just a nudge. Not like that raging itch in my veins would make me forget myself and sink my teeth in his soft, tender jugular till he burst open like a bloated tick. Nah. I'd never lose my cool that much. He'd be fine. "You were supposed to meet us on the roof. 'Stead we got a dead girl dropped on us like a steel beam on the sidewalk."

Behind me, Isla lit up a cigarette. "Ah, so that's the guy." She inhaled deep. Smoke scratched at my throat. "Prick."

"Why Britney—Taylor?" I continued. "She tell us too much about sweet, innocent, barista Lily, huh? The illegal blood escort."

Julian gurgled. A bit of spittle popped out onto his lips as he tried to speak, accompanied by a borderline manic gleam in his eyes. As he choked for air, his pulse spiked excitedly. His limbs swung almost aimlessly at the side of the van, not even bothering to put up a fight. Snotrag hadn't even broken a sweat. That wouldn't do.

I bared my fangs at him. Extended them slowly, deliberately, allowing saliva to drip onto the sleeve of his thrifted suit.

He moaned in response. A longing, needy sound from deep in his throat as his feet and arms twitched—oh for fang's sake. Bastard already had a tent pitched in his trousers.

How do I keep snagging the perverts?

I dropped the roach. Course, I was hoping he'd at least roll an ankle on the landing. Rats that he didn't.

Julian, all smug, cleared his throat, patting it gently, and not so subtly palming his crotch to reposition himself. "I've lived with vampires for twenty years. Your foreplay doesn't scare me."

Heard a flick and next thing I knew, a burning cigarette slapped Julian in the face. It bounced off. "Ow!" He yelled. But he was mostly fine. Mostly. Just a little eyebrow singe I certainly didn't notice.

Isla pulled a fresh cigarette from her pack.

Then, as if an afterthought, she leaned in close (mulled wine and coffee and cigarettes) and whispered: "If you want, we could take this van down to the river and, you know," she made a falling gesture, a splash noise, a choking nose, what I think was her idea of a jerking off motion, and then jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Julian. "I know a couple mermaids who'll swear they don't know me, you feel?" she winked.

I nodded. "Hmm tempting, but I still need an explanation for his stunt last night."

"Oh, yeah, totes, my girls can pump," she annunciated the final p with a pop, "any man for information."

"And they're discreet?"

"You don't hear about bodies washing up on the banks of the Delaware every day, do you?"

"I do not, no."

"I'll take you to Lily!" Julian blurted.

The smirk curling up my lips faded. Right. Stay on mission. This wasn't the time for fun little sidebars. I highly doubted Isla actually knew such rambunctious mermaids anyway. I think. Hoped.

Isla turned from me to Julian, cigarette falling from her lips.

"No chance," I said, stomping out the cigarette.

Ground my teeth as hard as my heel on the pavement. Tension coiled in my shoulders and bones and veins so tight and suddenly I'm surprised Isla didn't hear them crack under the strain. First Isla's nonsense. Now this nonsense. Can't I get just one night, just one sensible night?

Julian couldn't be trusted. Obviously. Pleading puppy eyes are the oldest ruse in the book. Dead waitresses falling like raindrops where he was supposed to be standing ain't no coincidence.

"Fuck it," said Isla.

By all the saints in hell, the woman was jumping into the van, you don't jump into a stranger's van, let alone the servant of vampire's van, for fang's sake!

"No," I growled. "Unfuck it. Unless you're looking to be the next body in this case's count."

Isla pouted. Pursed lips. Batted lashes. Glistening eyes. The full works.

Bit the inside of my cheek. Hard. The flesh tore and burned. Nearly poked a tooth all the way through—actually, wait a moment. I touched my jaw. Tongued my own thumb. Yeah. Put a hole straight threw it. A little one. Just my luck. At least it should heal by morning. Probably barely noticeable.

"Nice piercing," said Isla. "Get your ass in here to make sure my body doesn't wind up on that pile, 'aight?"

"Thank you. Somebody has some sense," Julian said, trotting around to the driver's seat.

As the engine puttered to life, I gave one last look into my seemingly empty apartment. "I'm not finished with you," I muttered to the foyer, presuming Phoebe was still loitering, or floating, or whatever it is ghosts did, about, and locked up. Guess I was getting back in that van tonight.

The real mystery of Isla would have to wait the evening.