Tantalize (6 page)

That spring, I kissed someone else, and it tasted like nothing.

For a time, I thought I’d lost Kieren, but the following winter my parents died and he was right by my side. He’d more or less stayed there ever since.

“You hungry?” Kieren asked, drawing my attention back to the present as he rejoined me in his room.

He was always hungry. I lifted
Malleus Maleficarum
from the water bed, trying to sound normal. “I thought you said this was God-awful sexist.”

“Sexist, anyway,” he acknowledged.

Then . . . it was weird. Kieren gestured as if to offer me his desk chair but then dropped his hands like he’d changed his mind. I took a couple of steps closer, pausing, unsure whether he would welcome a hug.

We didn’t have time to figure it out. I reached for him, and he froze for a moment. But then he relaxed, his gaze softened. My hand hovered in midair. I let it fall. We swayed, nose-to-nose on the white Berber. He wanted to kiss me, didn’t he? God only knew I wanted to kiss him.

“My mother —”

“Went to have a little talk about the birds and the butterflies.”

“Meghan —”

“Sleeping.”

“Papa —”

“At U.T.”

“Brazos —”

“I don’t think Brazos would mind.” I could hear the dog in the backyard, barking like crazy. Miz Morales must’ve let him out before she left.

I leaned in, but Kieren did this back-step dodge, a sort of nonavoidance avoidance maneuver. Stung, I began, “Unless, you . . .”

His foot nudged a book on the carpet. Damn sheepish for a Wolf.

I retreated, tripping over a yellow highlighter, landing in a sprawl on the sloshing water bed, knocking off three or four priceless ancient texts. I felt myself flush, humiliated. “I, I wasn’t trying to —”

“Quince.” He took my hand, pulling me up to sit, wavering a bit, on the denim comforter. “It’s not you. You’re . . . I just . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

A werewolf bite could kill. Big jaws, big teeth, big claws like with Grandma and Little Red. But it couldn’t make me into a wereperson. Wolves were born, not made. Natural. Not spooky, not demonic, no matter what The Right Wing might say. I tried teasing him, ran my thumb across the back of his hand. “I might enjoy being bitten.”

Kieren didn’t reply. He let go of me and crossed to his window to check on Brazos, who was still making a lot of racket. Stayed quiet too long. Changed the subject with a whisper. “I think vampires killed Vaggio,” he said.

“U
m, Kieren,” I began, choking up. “I was in the kitchen. It looked like —”

“A werewolf kill.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Yeah, I know. I was there, too. But that’s just it. In a Wolf attack, we go for the nose, the buttocks . . . the throat
only
in the case of smaller prey. And, this may not sound pretty, but we don’t leave much of anything behind. What happened to Vaggio, it was staged to fit a human misconception, a Hollywood misconception about Wolf behavior. Besides, humans aren’t prey. They’re our natural enemies. They’re to be avoided.”

Said the half Wolf to his human best friend.

I crossed my arms, exasperated. “What about vampires?”

“They’re dead people too selfish to lie down. There’s nothing natural about them.”

I felt adrift on the water bed. “So, you’re saying a vampire shifted —”

“Changed.
We
shift.
They
change.”

Whatever. “
Changed
into a wolf, mauled Vaggio, and then . . . shrank . . . dissolved into mist . . . just before you arrived?”

“Exactly. Quince, the restaurant, the new theme is dangerous.”

I stiffened as I realized what he was getting at. “You’re saying Sanguini’s is attracting real, homicidal vampires? That it’s Sanguini’s fault, my family restaurant’s fault that Vaggio was murdered? That now Vaggio is going to turn into a vampire or something?”

“No, Vaggio’s . . . he’s dead, not undead.” Kieren went into lecture mode. “It takes about a month after first exposure — by ingestion or transfusion of vampire blood — for a human being to become one. Werepeople can’t be turned, though, so —”

“You know,” I said, rising from the denim comforter, “I road-tripped to the outlet mall in San Marcos last week with Uncle D, and there was this interview on the radio about vampires. I didn’t want to listen to it, but he did and, anyway, it was about how they’re so low-profile in modern times because they don’t have to hunt anymore. They can buy blood or pilfer it. And it’s not like they’re —”

“Animals?” he asked.

“I was going to say ‘eager for attention,’” I replied.

“Look, they’ve managed to manipulate humans for centuries.”

“Will you
shut up
about the goddamned vampires?”

“They are,” Kieren said, “damned.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, calming himself. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re upset —”

“I’m upset because your mama just told me that you’ll be leaving soon to join a Wolf pack. Leaving your family. Leaving me. Leaving forever.” There, I said it.

Kieren didn’t meet my eyes. “A pack is not a prison.”

Funny, that’s not what it had sounded like downstairs.

He had a map of the Western Hemisphere mounted on his wall, various cities marked by color-coded pins. Was that where he was going? I wondered. Someplace marked with a pin?

“You’ve been holding back on us,” I said, “because you’re leaving. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

The five feet from me to him, littered with Wolf lore, seemed like a gulf.

“I belong with a pack, Quince.”

“You belong with —”

“I could
kill
you! Don’t you get that? I almost did kill you once.”

“You wouldn’t!” My voice softened. “You won’t. I, I trust you.”

“I want you to be safe,” Kieren countered. “Safe from me, safe from everything bad in the world. Why can’t you understand that? Yes, I’m leaving. That’s about me, not you. I guess . . . I don’t trust myself. If I shift and lose control, a Wolf pack can handle that. You can’t. I was going to tell you —”

“When?”

He raised a finger, turned his head. “I hear someone outside.”

How could he hear anything over Brazos? The dog was going ballistic.

Kieren brushed past me. “Stay with Meghan.”

“Wait!” I called.

But he was gone. It was amazing how fast he could move.

I jogged down the hall to check on the cub.

Meghan was curled up in her wicker bedroom, her white sheets and waffle-weave blanket kicked off. I pulled one sheet over her, swept curly bangs from her warm forehead, turned on her ceiling fan. It wasn’t a fever. Werepeople had a higher body temperature than humans, most of the mammals anyway.

Meghan twisted, nostrils flaring, settling deeper into sleep. My familiar scent had reassured her. She pulled Otto, her toy white rabbit, closer to her chest. For just a moment, it reminded me of the wolf documentary I’d seen the night of Vaggio’s murder. The blood-covered muzzle, raw chunks of prey. Then I noticed Meghan’s collection of Barbie dolls, lined up on a shelf. Not one in need of electrolysis.

After five minutes or so, Brazos quieted, and I decided it couldn’t hurt to peek outside. I couldn’t see anything from the upstairs windows, though, so I crept downstairs and opened the front door.

Kieren and Brazos looked alike in posture, poised on the front step, their noses to the wind. “Male,” Kieren said. “Smelled like some kind of spice. Gone now, I think.”

On more than one occasion, Kieren had confided to me that being half human meant that his senses weren’t quite Wolf-sharp, or at least not as sharp as his mama’s. I looked around, trying to see, smell for myself. Heat, humidity, somebody barbecuing. Meghan’s tire swing flew in the wind.

“Or maybe it was a she . . . ?” Kieren trailed off. “Or a Cat?”

“A cat?” I asked.

“Dogs and Cats don’t get along.”

H
iring staff had been a no-brainer, already handled for the most part before Vaggio’s death. The vast majority — the pastry team, prep and line cooks, bartenders, servers, and busers — had worked here when it was generic Italian and fang-free.

In strategic makeup and the retro Euro duds Uncle Davidson had bought at All the World’s a Stage, every last one could entice the soul from B. B. King or lure Elvis back into the building.

All Uncle D needed them to do was hock food and liquor. Trouble was, with no chef, neither food nor liquor had been lined up for the hocking.

Uncle Davidson’s monitoring of incoming applications had revealed that hardly anyone viable wanted to replace Vaggio while his killer was still at large.

I took a breath and held it until I felt the burn. At the moment, Kieren and the headlines kept talking about vampires. From the questions Detective Bartok had asked me, it seemed like the cops suspected a shifter, which didn’t necessarily mean they were ruling anyone or anything out. It could’ve been a human, playing on prejudice against werepeople. It could’ve been anybody. Nobody knew yet what had happened.

At the back door to the restaurant, the same one the murderer likely used, that thought prompted me to glance over each shoulder, keys clenched tight in my fist, their jagged and pointy metal bodies sticking out like claws from between my curled fingers.

That Friday night, the parking lot was full of pickups, sports cars, two rather cute side-by-side purple PT Cruisers, and a red VW bug painted with black polka dots whose owners had all ignored the Sanguini’s
PARKING ONLY
sign.

At the tiny turquoise-and-pink cottage on the nearest cross street, two men — longtime neighborhood hippies — sat in rocking chairs, smoking weed on their front porch, jamming to classic Willie Nelson and the tinkle of wind chimes. I could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. Could they be inhuman? Could they be talking about me?

A German shepherd — bigger than Brazos — lay curled on the walk leading to their entry stairs, his jaws open and panting. Was he really a dog? I wondered. Was that what Kieren would look like if he could fully shift?

Half past 8
P.M.
seemed safe in theory, but . . .

No matter. I’d volunteered to get into the office to register at every single help-wanted website on the Internet. The pay kind that supposedly would get results Uncle Davidson’s freebies hadn’t. I couldn’t do it at home. I’d left both my day planner and my laptop in the office. That’s where I normally did my homework and my
work
work.

I had considered waiting until the next day. But it was already Friday, August 16, counting down fast to Friday, September 13’s debut party, and if that wasn’t bad enough, this Monday would be the first day of school. Best to get in the queue ASAP.

I jammed the oversize key into the lock, and the force pushed the door open a crack. Unlocked, I realized. Light on. A radio piped out Eartha Kitt at top volume.

Still standing on the outside step, I swallowed hard, thought fast. Uncle Davidson had the one other key, and he’d left home over three hours ago to take Ruby to a Death Jam concert in San Antonio.

Still, someone was in the kitchen.

I inched the door closed, maneuvering the knob to mute the latch as it slid back into place. Then, barrier restored, I exhaled, and that’s when the huge, filthy hand landed on my shoulder and squeezed.

With a yelp, I jumped aside, revealing a sixty plus man, tanned skin, gaunt and scabby, tobacco seeding his left jawline, peering at me with blue eyes that twinkled like Santa’s. He was carrying a hand-lettered, dirty cardboard sign. It read: