Mystic Jive: Hand of Fate - Book Four (5 page)

The truck idled there for a full minute, the number four piston ticking in perfect time with the pounding of my heart. I squeezed my eyes shit against the glare of the headlights and wrapped my leg around Lou’s hip, pulling him closer. A few more long seconds ticked by, then the truck turned left and moved slowly up the dirt drive we’d just walked down.

Lou released me, his eyes focused on the truck’s retreating taillights. “That was too close. Let’s get out of here.”

CHAPTER 5

ON WEDNESDAY, I stopped by Aapex Bike and Auto to pick up my car.

“Sorry, Mattie, ignition system was shorted out,” Doc said. He and my brother Lance used to own the business together. Doc was like one of the family. “Never seen that in a Honda before. It’s going to need to be replaced. The parts are special order.”

“Oh come on. I can’t keep taking the bus.” I hated not having my own wheels. Doc would never understand how humiliating it was for me to take bus in my city parking control uniform, carrying my helmet under my arm. The sly comments and jibes weren’t funny anymore. “Can’t you give me a loaner?”

“Hah! You forget I’m the one who has to keep putting that piece of shit you call a Honda back together all the time. No way.”

“Oh, man, that’s not fair.” It stung like hell to admit it, but in the last year, Doc had seen more of my car than I had. “You said it yourself. It wasn’t fault. Not this time.”

He wiped his hands on a faded shop rag. “Tell you what. I can let you borrow the Vic for a few days.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You’re giving me my bike back?”

 Trusty Rusty was my transport, but the Victory Hammer S motorcycle was my pride and joy. I’d traded it to Doc for the repairs on Rusty last time around. It had been a gift from Lance. The bike is built a little wider and lower to the ground than most road bikes—making it perfect for women like me. Doc is too tall for it, and his wife prefers her Harley, so it was just sitting in his glass-walled showroom, as shiny and clean as the day I brought it in.

A totally kick-ass bike. I wished I’d never let it go. “Oh man, that’s great. Thanks, Doc. You’re the best!”

He handed me the key, a near-smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “If it snows, bring her right back.”

I kissed the key. “Of course.” No one in their right mind would let a bike like that out on the road where the salt could hurt it. October already, and we hadn’t seen our first snow yet. The whole region had been experiencing a long run of good weather. Maybe Rhys and I could take a road trip out to Letchworth State park on the weekend to see the fall colors.

I strapped my helmet on and walked the bike out of the showroom, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. I threw my leg over the bike and a moment later, the thrum of the Vic’s engine purred between my legs. For the first time in months, I felt strong and sexy and ready to conquer the world.

* * *

That night, Rhys and I arrived at Maestro’s Dance studio a little before 8pm. The studio, located in the warehouse section of Germantown, was two blocks down from the meat-packing plant. Eight-foot-tall picture windows faced the street. The interior walls were all mirrored. The ceilings and open ductwork had all been painted dark maroon. Polished wood floors and amber soffit lighting made the large space seem warm and intimate, rather than intimidating.

This was our fifth of eight lessons in the Dancing for Lovers class. Rhys and I showed up in our usual tee-shirts, boots, and jeans. The other five couples there were dressed more formally; the men in sports jackets and the women in skirts. Aside from the part about Rhys being a couple of thousand years old, we were younger than the five other dance partners, most of whom were in their mid-forties and fifties.

Tonight, Mr. Maestro’s assistant, Stella, greeted us wearing a skin-tight black leotard, fishnet tights, and spike heels. Trim and curvy, without an ounce of jiggle, she was always cheerful and welcoming. Every inch of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair had been shellacked in place with hairspray.

“Welcome, welcome. I hope you’ve all been practicing.” She checked our names off on the attendance sheet.

As if by some secret signal, Mr. Maestro entered the studio. He clapped his hands for our attention. He had an interesting, if ageless face. His sharp eyes scanned the room, restless and predatory as a wolf looking to spot the weakest in the herd. He wore his usual, skin-tight black stretch pants, with a white shirt open to his waist over a black turtleneck, and white spats on his shoes. Smarmy guy. If you looked up the word, lothario in the dictionary, that was Mr. Maestro.

But after our first lesson, Rhys and I both knew he was a hell of a good teacher. He and Stella were both vamps, but Rhys told me that Mr. Maestro was a different kind of vampire, in that he fed off people’s emotions. The more powerful, the better.

“Listen up children,” Mr. Maestro announced, his restless fingers fluttering in the air. “Tonight we will put the steps we’ve been working on to music. Please watch and learn as Stella and I demonstrate the music of love, Tango Jive.”

With that, he struck a pose and lifted his hand to Stella. She hit the ‘play’ button on the remote, and moved gracefully across the floor to take his hand.

A heavy base drumbeat filled the room—the studio had a great sound system. The pair went into action, a palpable vibe of sensuality between them. The couple moved as one, starting out slow, wrapped in each other’s arms, twisting and turning in perfect harmony, then, as the music changed tempo, they matched it perfectly. Stella and Maestro stared deeply into each other’s eyes, never once looking at their feet or where they were going—they were totally focused on each other. Watching them together, moving to the hot beat of that music had me wanting to be part of it, too. The beat transitioned again, and there was daylight between them, but it was only so that they could move like a pair of dervishes—back and forth, crossing and twirling, separately, yet both of them in perfect synchronicity.

I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Dancing—at least the kind of dancing that Mr. Maestro and Stella taught—required utter trust between the partners, because at any one time, one or the other partner would be in total control of the couple’s forward movement. The music grew to a climax, and everyone in the room could see they were enjoying every second of it, and that for them, the world had faded away—save for the music, the beat, and each other.

Rhys and I had both gone into the whole dance lessons thing as a bit of a lark, but watching these two was no joke. Every time they demonstrated the steps for us, they looked so effortless. Watching them dance made me feel a bit like a voyeur—like what they were showing us was too private, too personal, and too risqué to stare at openly.

I was envious of them. I wanted that. And after the first lesson, Rhys confessed to me that he envied them too. We’d made a pact to take it seriously, and discovered that Dancing for Lovers with Mr. Maestro and Stella was a blast.

When it ended, the class broke out into wild applause. The pair bowed and I caught another glimpse of fang from Stella.

“And now it is your turn,” Maestro addressed the class. “When we started, I guaranteed that each and every one of you would be able to perform the steps we’ve demonstrated here tonight.” He blotted a bit of moisture from his brow with a handkerchief. “And that and your partner would reach a higher level of intimacy every week. Tonight, you are going to show us how far you’ve come.”

For the next forty-five minutes, he and Stella ran us through a warm-up of three different combinations of steps, strung out in a line across the dance floor. Each of the three series of steps required our utmost attention to the count, foot placement, and body position. The first week had been rough, but Rhys and I moved through the warm-up easily now, moving both backwards and forwards to the beat. It was a great workout.

Mr. Maestro then cleared the floor of all but one couple and started the music. Each couple danced to a different song, one we hadn’t heard before. At the end of each couple’s routine, he offered suggestions for improvement.

I felt more than a little nervous when it was our turn. Rhys led me to the center of dance floor. He slipped his hand around my back and pulled me close. He was warm and so was I, and as we waited for the music to begin, we both grinned with anticipated pleasure. Rhys was every bit as happy to have me pressed up against him as I was to be there.

The sound of drums in the intro built up into an irresistible, throbbing beat. We weren’t perfect, but as we rock-stepped, triple-stepped, triple-step, rock-stepped around the room, and the muscle memory that Mr. Maestro had been telling us about for the past several weeks kicked in—I didn’t even need to think about what I was doing. I followed Rhys’s every move, and his steps mirrored mine. I loved the sensation of sliding my hands across his rock-hard stomach and cupping his great ass. His hands were bold—stroking my thighs, my hips, and the small of my back. He threw me away and caught me—by my fingers, my waist, and neck. The beat of the drums thrummed in our bones until that was all there was. The rest of the class faded away, and it was just me and Rhys and the beat and the heat and a spark between us that hadn’t been there before.

When the music stopped, it caught us both by surprise. Even Mr. Maestro joined into the applause, saying, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done.”

CHAPTER 6

THURSDAY NIGHT WAS Henri’s bon voyage party at Growlers Pizza, a werewolf joint out on Five Mile Road in Penfield. Even by werewolf standards, the bar was a dive, but they did allow vampires, and the pizza was supposed to be good.

The pub was a long, low brick building with a bright green door—utterly lacking any sort of character. The parking lot was already full, so Rhys parked the truck right along Five Mile, right behind Lou’s white Subaru. We dodged heavy highway traffic crossing Five Mile, arriving at the restaurant a little breathless.

The scent of pizza and beer greeted us at the door, along with the usual din of the jukebox, pinball machines, and the too-loud banter of customers. Henri, Juno Rockover, Ray Mackie, Mike Weyland and the rest of the Rogues and their roadies were already seated at a long table set up against the back wall. Lou was there, and I recognized Herman the German, and Dr. Jensen, the crypto-vet.

“Mattie, Rhys, over here!” Henri waved us over. He was positively exuberant. Even the vamps seemed in good spirits. The vamps didn’t eat or drink, but that didn’t seem to stop them from enjoying themselves. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a roomful of vamps wearing silly paper crowns.

Winters in upstate New York are brutal, and a lot of local vamps spend their winters in Florida. Juno had rented a big house for the band in Clearwater. It was going to be like one big winter-long party, and Henri was looking forward to his first big adventure. Rhys had warned me that all new djenies go through long phases of wanderlust, and that I shouldn’t try to change his mind about leaving. After seeing how happy he was in his relationship with Juno, I didn’t have the heart to do anything but wish him good luck.

The waitress brought over another large pepperoni, still hot from the oven, and set it down right in front of me. Before Lou could grab it, I snagged the first slice--the gooey cheese strings dragged all the way to my plate. Thin crust, my favorite.

A sudden hush fell over the bar. The jukebox went silent. Two women stood in the entrance, looking stiff and out of place. Both were dressed in jeans, Buffalo Bills team jackets, and heavy steel-toed boots. The taller of the two wore her long brown hair bound up in a topknot, while the shorter sported a spiky blue Mohawk and a dozen or more silver rings pierced the edge of each ear.

They stared at our table with open hostility. Belinda the waitress looked terrified. Everyone at the table seemed just as mystified as me.

A low rumble sounded from the guys shooting pool. One of the pool players began to boo, and the other patrons picked it up, until the sound rose to a howl.

Kevin, the bartender yelled, “Enough!” The howling stopped immediately and rowdies quieted. He grabbed a baseball bat from behind the bar and stalked toward the women.

“We don’t serve your kind here,” he said. He wasn’t shouting, but in the dead quiet of the bar, his voice carried.

“Good, ‘cause we sure as hell didn’t come for the food.” Blue Mohawk sneered. “We’re looking for somebody.”

The crescent-shaped scar on the palm of my hand began to tingle.

“Get out.” Kevin shifted his grip on the bat.

“Better watch your mouth, Kev,” the tall one said. “If you know what’s good for you.”

“You threaten me in my own place?” Kevin’s voice dropped to a low rumble. He set the bat carefully on the bar.

The air went out of the room. A wave of adrenaline and testosterone from the dozen or so werewolves at the pool table rose to palpable levels. Without a word, the guys at the pool table stepped up behind Kevin.

“Where is he,” asked Blue Mohawk.

“I told you, we don’t serve your kind. Get out while you still can.”

The taller of the two women gave our table a long, last look. “We were misinformed. Come on, Joyce. Let’s go.”

Without another word, the two women slipped out the front door. Belinda burst into tears and ran into the kitchen. Kevin shook himself, then picked up the bat and followed Belinda through the swinging doors. The were-guys went back to the pool table. A Tom Waits tune blared out from the jukebox and the sound levels returned to normal.

“What was that all about?” I asked, to no one in particular.

Herman shushed me. “Penfield witches.”

Lou’s seat beside me was empty. I hadn’t even noticed he’d gone Guess he wasn’t kidding about staying away from witches.

Even after the women left, the atmosphere in the pub remained unsettled. The party broke up soon after. Humans and vamps alike drifted off. Rhys and I lingered in the parking lot to say our goodbyes to Henri and the rest of the band.