Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge (7 page)

“You impressed the hell out of me. You really could’ve made—”

“Surely”—Garrett interrupted—“surely, Zane, you’re not intimating that your petite friend be inducted into our particular, peculiar way of life?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I am.” Zane looked at Bailey, eyebrows raised. “What do you say, Bailey? You’ve got the brains for it.” Earnestness radiated from him like heat. “You’ve got the guts. I mean, you accidentally mixed a perfect screwdriver on your first try. Hell, you’d probably be able to make some major breakthroughs in theoretical magic. You could help us try to mix the—”

“Zane,” Garrett barked. “Your friend more than likely has alternative, less dangerous plans for employment.” He looked at Bailey expectantly.

“What, that computer stuff?” Zane said.

“It’s an app, actually,” Bailey said. “For music.”

“You see? There.” Garrett smiled. “Very … exciting.”

“Divinyl’s a really hot start-up right now,” Bailey said to no one in particular. “And I’d get, um, dental benefits and stuff.”

Garrett laughed. “Well, that we can’t provide, I’m afraid. Frankly, Ms. Chen, this isn’t a career for everyone. It’s not for the, ah, delicate or faint of heart.”

Bailey tightened her jaw. She looked at Zane, but he’d gone tight-lipped and silent under his uncle’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Cheers, Bailey.”

It wasn’t a toasting cheers; it was a “see you later” cheers. That
was it. Just a good-bye. Not even a scrap of recognition for what she’d done, how goddamn well she’d killed that demon.

Underpromise, overdeliver
. No one had expected her to survive a tremens, let alone kill it. And yet here she was, alive and well and about to knock out cold any memories of the one time she’d been really, naturally good at something.

That did not sit well with Bailey Chen. Bailey Chen was not delicate. Or fainthearted.

She picked up the shot glass, immediately put it down, and knew she wouldn’t pick it up again.

“Is something the matter, Ms. Chen?” Garrett said.

“Yes.” She whirled back to face the bar. “I mean, no. Kind of. I don’t think I want to forget this.” She was barely able to believe her own mouth. “I guess this is probably unorthodox for these kinds of things, Your, um, Honors”—she gave the figures behind the bar a weird half curtsy—“but I’ve thought a lot about this in the last thirty seconds, and I’ve got a question.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. Zane rocked forward on the balls of his feet. Bailey took a deep breath.

Underpromise, overdeliver
.

“How much does a novice bartender make a week in this joint?”

Zane grinned.

And so, at two that same night—or the next morning, depending—Bailey set off for Nero’s Griddle on Belmont for what Zane had promised would be “an indoctrination session, but with pancakes.”

“You okay?” Zane peered at her as they descended from the Brown Line El. “You look kind of—”

“I’m fine,” Bailey said. But she couldn’t help casting a look down the two-way street and around all corners, looking for something … lurking.

“The streets are safe, Bailey,” he said. “Especially around these parts. Bartenders’ beats overlap by at least half a block in every direction.”

“I’ve killed a tremens,” she said. “I’m not afraid.” Still, she’d been immensely glad to see him when they met up at the train stop. He’d changed his tie and looked in better spirits than he had a few hours earlier.

“I’m not saying you’re afraid,” he said with a small smile. “I’m just saying you’re safe.”

In spite of herself, Bailey shivered. Zane noticed.

“So I’m going to offer you my coat,” he said. “And we’re gonna skip the part where you’re stubborn and say n—”

“
God
, yes,” said Bailey, reaching for it greedily. “Give it here.”

Clearly amused, he removed it, leaving him in just his shirt and vest. “I thought you weren’t one for chivalry,” he said.

“Chivalry is dumb,” she said. “But so’s being cold.”

Zane chuckled. Without his coat, his clothes traced the contours of his body quite nicely; amazing what could happen when a guy traded up from oversize band T-shirts to things with collars and buttons. “The East Coast made you weak. We’ll have to toughen you up.”

“I can go back to the cold, no problem,” she said. “You don’t forget that kind of thing.”

“Just like riding a bike.”

“I don’t think you actually know what riding a bike is like.”

“Of course not. I ride the El. What am I, a savage?”

Bailey laughed, and despite the autumn chill, she felt warm.

As they approached Nero’s, she saw a couple waiting outside. One was a small, handsome young man with an acid-green mohawk. His eyebrows, lips, and ears were studded with metal, and a bright silver ring dangled from the middle of his nose, fogging with each breath. He wore a heavy leather jacket, and Bailey felt that if he were to take it off, she’d see arms covered in tattoos.

The other was a woman a little older than Bailey. She was angular and dark, with sharp cheeks and sharper eyes. Pretty. She wore her hair in black dreads that fell down the sides of her face. With a jolt, Bailey realized she was the person who’d been standing outside the Nightshade the night before, the one Zane had sprinted to meet. The woman peeled herself off the wall as Bailey and Zane approached. The mohawk guy followed a step behind.

“Glad you could make it, babe,” Zane called to them, and it was all Bailey could do not to make a face.
Babe?
“I thought you had to work.”

“I work where I’m needed,” said the woman with dreadlocks. She almost smiled. “So I’m here now.”

Then she drew Zane close and kissed him.

Bailey gaped. She’d believed in alcohol magic, soul-drinking
demons, even memory obliteration in a shot glass, but Zane Whelan with a girlfriend? Did not compute. For most of their lives Zane had shown no interest in girls. She’d even wondered briefly if he was gay—not that there was anything wrong with that. But then came the graduation party incident, and he’d definitely shown interest in a girl, and it had been way too much.

But apparently not so much that he couldn’t get over her after four years. And make out with this gorgeous-looking stranger woman.

The mohawk guy coughed to grab her attention. “They’re better about it than a lot of the couples I’ve met,” he said. Something about the lilt of his voice sounded distinctly out-of-towny.

Bailey thought of her parents that morning and shivered. “Yeah,” she said faintly.
No
, she reminded herself,
this is good
. She didn’t want her grown-up friendship with grown-up Zane to be tainted with the remnants of his childhood crush. If only they made some kind of cocktail to make you feel better about stupid-bad romantic decisions.

Well, they do
, Bailey thought.
It’s called “any cocktail ever,” if you drink enough
.

The mohawk guy stuck out a hand. “Bucket,” he said.

“Haven’t got one,” she said.

He laughed. “No. That’s my name. I work up in Boystown.”

“Oh.” Bucket was rather a strange name for a person, but then again if anyone were to be named Bucket, it’d be this guy. “Wait. Boystown …” Bailey’s brain clicked. “Zane mentioned you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Bucket said.

“Oh, of course,” Bailey said. “I just didn’t realize there was a whole midnight breakfast club.” Her voice had a little edge, and she shot Zane a sideways glance. Just to remind him that,
ahem
, midnight breakfast used to be their thing. As in, just the two of them.

Zane must’ve noticed, or he just got tired of kissing, because he
broke away from his
girlfriend
and puffed out his chest. “Actually, we call ourselves the Alechemists.”

“The Alechemists?” Bailey said with a snort. “Do you guys even use ale?”

“I told you,” said the girl. His girlfriend. Her.

“I still think it’s a cool name,” Zane muttered. “And yup, that’s Bucket. He’s at Long & Strong in Boystown.”

“Not ‘Long’ like that, eh?” Bucket said quickly. “It’s the owner’s last name. But I also accidentally saw him naked once, so, yeah. Long like that, too.”

“And this is my girlfriend, Mona,” Zane said. “She works out on the West Side.”

Mona’s smile was faint as a fingerprint on glass. “How do you do?”

“Well,” Bailey said, “I just narrowly avoided gentle brain damage at a bar. So I guess not that different from a normal evening, right?”

Bailey grinned and cocked her head, but Mona didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look Bailey in the eye, instead gazing slightly lower at the coat draped over Bailey’s shoulders.

Zane gave Bailey a light punch, which annoyed her for some reason. Like he was suddenly her big brother or something.

“Oops.” He retracted his hand and held up his buzzing phone. “One second.”

“Zane—” Mona started to say, but Zane shook his head.

“It’s Garrett. I have to.”

“Can’t he just send you a textual missive?”

Bailey frowned but apparently Zane didn’t notice Mona’s weird phrasing. He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, his finger in his ear.

“So,” Bailey said, “how do you begin my training? Do you start with, like, types of drinks or do you just try to figure out a personal
combat style or—”

“Whoa, there,” said Bucket, who, being closest, was the one she’d chosen to barrage with questions. “First of all, Zane’s your boss, not me. Secondly of all, Zane, who is your boss, is—”

Bailey followed Bucket’s gaze to Zane, who was speaking animatedly and frowning.

“—busy. But I’m sure he’ll have an elaborate training regimen already planned. You know Zane.”

“Yeah,” Bailey said softly, her excitement fizzling as she watched Zane slowly shrink back and fold his arms. Whatever conversation he was having didn’t seem particularly warm and fuzzy.

“It’s fine,” Bucket said cheerfully. “I mean, probably. Garrett runs a tight ship, you know?”

“Old guard,” Mona said from Bucket’s right. She lit a cigarette. “They don’t like being told no.”

Bailey frowned; she was hardly old, but
no
wasn’t exactly her favorite word either.

“It’s probably because Halloween’s coming up.” Bucket said.

“And Garrett won’t let Zane trick or treat?” Bailey said. Bucket laughed.

Mona didn’t follow suit. “All Soul’s Night is one of the worst of the year for tremens activity,” she said, exhaling smoke. “It’s not just a holiday for children.”

“Children, or ladies dressed as sexy robots or sexy vampires or sexy Statues of Liberty,” Bucket said and then frowned. “Anyway, yeah. Costumed revelers drinking, plus extra creepy-crawlies out and about”—he pronounced it
aboat
—“means that we bartenders have extra monster mashing to do. Gotta plan our—”

“Hey,” Zane said, pushing past them toward the front doors. “Sorry. Let’s get a table.”

“Table?” Bailey said. “Don’t we have to train in a, you know, bar?”

“We’re not training you today.”

“Why not? I thought the best way to hit the ground was running.” A little jig of excitement coursed through her. She was doing something, finally.

“Have you ever actually tried hitting the ground running?” said Bucket. “Great way to break your ankle. And down here I don’t have access to my sweet-ass health care.”

Bailey frowned. “ ‘Down here?’ ”

Zane sighed. Bucket grinned.

“All right, let’s just get it over with,” Zane said. “As Bucket loves to remind us, he’s—”

“I am a proud son of the great nation of Canada!” Bucket trumpeted, pointing a proud finger in the air. Bailey got the impression this was something he did rather often.

Zane hung his head. Mona looked unimpressed.

“Ensurer of health care!” Bucket continued. “Guardian of the Great White North!”

“Bagger of milk,” Zane said, a smile returning at last.

Bucket lost a little of his composure. “Okay, why do Yanks get so caught up on this bagged milk thing?”

“In a weird country full of weird things,” said Zane, “it’s the weirdest thing.”

“
Tch
,” said Bucket. “It’s no different from bagged water.”

Bailey blinked. “There’s bagged water?”

“There’s nothing the Canadians won’t bag,” said Zane, “which we can discuss more inside.”

Despite its Roman-inspired name, the decor of Nero’s Griddle was all American. The seats were squashy booths. The floor was a giant chessboard of vinyl tiles, and neon signs hanging in the windows advertised
TAS-TEE DO-NUTS
. The only thing that stuck out was the jukebox: instead of playing pleasant, harmonic rock ’n’ roll from the mid-twentieth century, it pumped angry gravel-voiced death
metal into the air like smog.

“What’s the deal?” Bailey said, pointing to the jukebox as she sat down.

“Nero’s daughter runs the place now,” Zane said. He took a seat next to Mona, leaving Bailey to sit with Bucket.

Bailey grimaced. “And she thinks that music is adding to the ambience?”

Mona looked up, as if she could see clouds of jagged notes floating around her head. “Ironic juxtaposition,” she said.

“Zee!” From behind the diner counter, an aproned barista gave the table a wave. He was stockier than Zane, wore chunkier glasses, and sported a black apron folded to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a busty anime girl with bright blue hair.

Bailey froze. The barista’s eyes lit up.

“And Tokyo Rose!” he continued. “
Ohayou gozaimasu
, Bailey-chan!”

Then he bowed, because
of course
he did.

“Trent Fierro,” she said in a voice frigid enough to freeze the hottest latte. “You know I’m still not Japanese, right?”

“Oh, right,” said Trent. “
Gomennasai
.” And he bowed again.

Zane spoke before she could jump behind the counter and tear out Trent’s stupid neck beard, hair by hair. “Why don’t you showcase your espresso skills and whip us up a round of Americanos?”

Trent’s grin could’ve curdled macchiato foam. “For Zee and friends? On the house. That means you, too, Tokyo Rose.”

“What’s up with you and Trent?” Bucket said. His mohawk had wilted into a green curtain that covered one side of his face.