Great Neptune .” She swiped the cup out of my hand, dumped the contents in the sink behind the bar. “There’s a fresh pot almost done brewing. You will drink from that one.” She wagged her pointed fingernail under my nose. “Or else.”
I pushed my nose right in her face. “Are you threatening a police officer?”
She laughed full out. “Hell, you ain’t no police officer, Morgan, not any more. You’re a—what is the term?”
“Paranormal investigator,” I said, with a dignified air. At least as dignified as I could muster after about eight beers.
“Ghostbusters,” Dorrie bobbed her head up and down. “For pity’s sake, you don’t even carry a gun anymore.”
“And it’s probably a good thing too,” I said. “There’s far too much temptation around Central City to shoot it.”
The weretender leaned across the counter, her yellow eyes raking me up and down. “Something else is goin’ on here. What else is eatin’ at you? Besides not wanting to do the case for your oh so personal reasons?”
I drummed my fingernails across the countertop. “Nothing. Is the coffee ready yet?”
“Aha,” Dorrie crowed with delight. “I’ve struck a nerve. So, give. What’s got you all aflutter?” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Could it be your new almost-partner? What is he, incredibly good looking or something?”
“You could say so. He seemed…almost godlike,” I responded. “Like one of those paintings you see in museums.”
“No shit?” Dorrie pursed her lips and folded her arms across her ample bosom. “He must have been a were. Everyone knows weres are the hottest things going.”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“What?” She poured me a mug from the fresh pot and held it out in front of me. “He couldn’t have been a vamp. They’re too pale, too see through and besides, most of them can’t go out in daylight.”
I reached for the mug but she held it just out of my grasp. My nails scraped along its side and I groaned. “Cripes, Dorrie, you are a real pain today. Bartenders are supposed to listen to their customer’s problems.”
“What in Hades do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour and a half?” she swished the mug under my nose. I sniffed the aroma like a starved Rottweiler. “So, tell. A Simbali daemon, perhaps? They aren’t half bad looking in human form? Or a Chrysalis warlock?”
“Wrong. He’s a vamp.” As Dorrie wrinkled her nose I added, “An Inheritor.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that breed.” She set the mug down and I grabbed it, raised it to my lips. “They blend in well with the human population. They eat, drink, go out in the daylight, everything.”
“Ah--hot!” I set the cup down, picked at my tongue. “Yeah, they’re more human than us. Except they’re pretty much impervious to harm, and can live for hundreds of years. Otherwise, they’re just like a regular human.”
“Hm,” Dorrie put her chin in her hands. “So, let’s see. Good looking, like a god, right?” She shut her eyes. “I bet he’s about six two, a hundred eighty pounds, with an impossibly perfect face, a strong, square jaw, soft chiseled lips, and long hair black as night.”
I let out a low whistle. “Wow, what have you been doing? Taking up mindreading, or scrying in your spare time? You’ve just given a very accurate description.”
Her full red lips parted. “So I’m right?”
“Cole St. John to a t,” I took a sip of the coffee. “Of course, I didn’t describe his personality—cocky, sure of himself, supercilious bastard. A week’s salary says he got his cushy job via nepotism. I’m probably much better off not working with him.”
Dorrie chuckled. “Maybe so.”
I set the mug on the bar. “I’m curious, though. How did you manage to guess his appearance so accurately?”
“Very easily, as a matter of fact,” she leaned across and whispered in my ear, “He’s standing right behind you.”
Ouch.
Cole St. John slid onto the stool
I pushed my nose right in her face. “Are you threatening a police officer?”
She laughed full out. “Hell, you ain’t no police officer, Morgan, not any more. You’re a—what is the term?”
“Paranormal investigator,” I said, with a dignified air. At least as dignified as I could muster after about eight beers.
“Ghostbusters,” Dorrie bobbed her head up and down. “For pity’s sake, you don’t even carry a gun anymore.”
“And it’s probably a good thing too,” I said. “There’s far too much temptation around Central City to shoot it.”
The weretender leaned across the counter, her yellow eyes raking me up and down. “Something else is goin’ on here. What else is eatin’ at you? Besides not wanting to do the case for your oh so personal reasons?”
I drummed my fingernails across the countertop. “Nothing. Is the coffee ready yet?”
“Aha,” Dorrie crowed with delight. “I’ve struck a nerve. So, give. What’s got you all aflutter?” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Could it be your new almost-partner? What is he, incredibly good looking or something?”
“You could say so. He seemed…almost godlike,” I responded. “Like one of those paintings you see in museums.”
“No shit?” Dorrie pursed her lips and folded her arms across her ample bosom. “He must have been a were. Everyone knows weres are the hottest things going.”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“What?” She poured me a mug from the fresh pot and held it out in front of me. “He couldn’t have been a vamp. They’re too pale, too see through and besides, most of them can’t go out in daylight.”
I reached for the mug but she held it just out of my grasp. My nails scraped along its side and I groaned. “Cripes, Dorrie, you are a real pain today. Bartenders are supposed to listen to their customer’s problems.”
“What in Hades do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour and a half?” she swished the mug under my nose. I sniffed the aroma like a starved Rottweiler. “So, tell. A Simbali daemon, perhaps? They aren’t half bad looking in human form? Or a Chrysalis warlock?”
“Wrong. He’s a vamp.” As Dorrie wrinkled her nose I added, “An Inheritor.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that breed.” She set the mug down and I grabbed it, raised it to my lips. “They blend in well with the human population. They eat, drink, go out in the daylight, everything.”
“Ah--hot!” I set the cup down, picked at my tongue. “Yeah, they’re more human than us. Except they’re pretty much impervious to harm, and can live for hundreds of years. Otherwise, they’re just like a regular human.”
“Hm,” Dorrie put her chin in her hands. “So, let’s see. Good looking, like a god, right?” She shut her eyes. “I bet he’s about six two, a hundred eighty pounds, with an impossibly perfect face, a strong, square jaw, soft chiseled lips, and long hair black as night.”
I let out a low whistle. “Wow, what have you been doing? Taking up mindreading, or scrying in your spare time? You’ve just given a very accurate description.”
Her full red lips parted. “So I’m right?”
“Cole St. John to a t,” I took a sip of the coffee. “Of course, I didn’t describe his personality—cocky, sure of himself, supercilious bastard. A week’s salary says he got his cushy job via nepotism. I’m probably much better off not working with him.”
Dorrie chuckled. “Maybe so.”
I set the mug on the bar. “I’m curious, though. How did you manage to guess his appearance so accurately?”
“Very easily, as a matter of fact,” she leaned across and whispered in my ear, “He’s standing right behind you.”
Ouch.
Cole St. John slid onto the stool
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