Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 Page 7

  “A bit bigger. The Pentagon and White House.”

  That sounded more like bazillionaire Elias. So what was he doing playing around with a neighborhood watch? “Does Elias—”

  “He’s a very private person. That’s all I know.”

  It cut off that topic, at least for now. I switched motions and subjects. “So you bodyguard in Iowa for a living?”

  “I do a variety of things, of which guard is one. And I’m only based in Iowa. I work all over the world.” He mirrored my new gesture, a taffy-pulling motion. It made his pecs dance under the wedge of T-shirt revealed by his jacket.

  My tongue lolled. Oh, for the jacket totally off, so I could see the whole chest ballet.

  His tongue poked out. Oops, apparently my tongue-rolling wasn’t purely mental. I sucked my lust—and tongue—back in.

  But it reminded me. “Why the jacket all the time? You don’t strike me as the cold type.” In fact, the times we’d touched, he’d struck me as very, very hot…yeah.

  “I’m more comfortable with it on. Are you done with the interrogation?”

  “Interro—” I stuck fists on hips. “And what does that mean?”

  His fists hit his hips at exactly the same instant. “Interrogation. To ask questions, or a formal examination. What would you call it?”

  “Having a conversation.” I frowned.

  He frowned in exactly the same way. But something, maybe the quirk of a black brow, made me realize he was teasing me, confirmed when he added, “Such a cute pout.”

  “I do not pout.” Sweet, strong and funny. I was closer than I’d ever been to throwing aside duty and dreams to clamp on to his ass or chest and never let go. If I had to endure much more of this enforced closeness…but it had to end, hopefully soon, and then I’d run away. Permanently. I’d never again be close enough to feel…to smell…to kiss…

  “Stop, people, stop-stop-stop!” Dumas clapped. “That was terrible. Clearly we need to go back to the basics. Report tomorrow at six for a half hour of drill. Everybody.”

  I jerked back. There was a general groan, but I groaned loudest.

  I was such a schmuck.

  If you’ve got the job, do the job. I wanted to grab Glynn and never let go. I wanted to run away and never come back. But I trooped down into the pit, took up instruments and played my very best. Tomorrow I’d come back. I’d try like heck to get out of acting drills, but I’d return. Sometimes the personal code of honor thing sucks.

  Rehearsal went better with the local fill-in actors not so spooked at trumpets and drums coming from the pit. Even the dog playing Toto, a little terrier belonging to my uncle (everybody is related in Meiers Corners, even the livestock), stopped trying to hide behind the scenery.

  Dumas staged the final bows, and when the house lights came up, he clapped his hands. “Good job, people. Sit down for notes.”

  Mishela slid to the edge of the stage, her ankles dangling over into the pit. Her expression was a poignant combination of eager and hesitant. “Hey, Junior. Where’s Rocky?”

  “She’s at another rehearsal tonight.”

  Her face fell. “Oh. Well. Meet you at Nieman’s?”

  And chance her shadow? Not. “I would,” I began, and her face fell further. Still I plowed on. “But money’s a bit tight—”

  “Glynn could pay.” She smiled at the dark essence back in the wings. “Right, Glynn?”

  He couldn’t have possibly heard her, but he nodded. Or rather the top of the shadow folded once like a nod.

  “So, Nieman’s?”

  Her face lit so hopefully. I remembered she was lonely and sighed. If Glynn could suck it up and do what was needed rather than what he wanted, so could I. “Sure. Nieman’s.”

  “Mishela.” Dumas trotted up to the pit wall, a frown on his thin face. “As the star, you need to be in top form.”

  “Glynn will make sure I don’t stay out too late, Mr. Dumas.” She nodded toward the big shadow.

  “Ah, Glynn.” Dumas repeated the name like my dad would say “profit margin”. “Well, all right. But just to make sure—I’ll come along.” After dropping that bombshell, he raised his voice. “Let’s go, people. I want to get these notes done before I expire.”

  Chapter Four

  At Nieman’s, Glynn sat between me and Mishela. Then Dumas wedged a stool between me and Glynn. My head knew that was a good thing, but my body wanted to shoot him. Then Dumas monologued on Method acting until I wanted to shoot myself.

  One drink of that was about all I could take. “I’d better get home. The store opens early.”

  Glynn rose too. Maybe he was as bored with the lecture as I was.

  But I was trying to keep my distance from him, so I waved him down. “I’ll walk myself home. It’s not like Meiers Corners is dangerous.”

  His stance, muscular arms over jutting chest, said quite firmly we were leaving together or not at all.

  Mishela rose. “Might as well give in. Glynn’s made up his mind.” As we headed out she added. “And sausage doesn’t sell itself.”

  “You sound like my dad.” I’d probably be okay with Mishela chaperoning.

  “No, this sounds like your dad.” Adopting a booming, jolly voice, Mishela said “Sausage doesn’t sell itself, ja?”

  “Whoa. That’s uncanny.”

  “Wait,” Dumas’s tenor whined from behind us. “I haven’t finished telling you about Strasberg’s students. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe—”

  “Anybody in this century?” I tried to derail him. “Allison Scagliotti? Seth Green?”

  Dumas sniffed. “Method acting is continuing to evolve.” He strutted east on Main.

  Which wasn’t my way home, but I was curious, so I followed. “Meaning they’re not?”

  “Meaning it doesn’t matter. All of today’s stars are Method’s philosophical descendants.”

  We passed Bob’s Formalwear and Ritsa’s Pizzas. (The owner’s name was actually Rita, but the sign maker messed up and gave it to her for free. She liked it better and kept it.) Dumas was talking at a clip that would make any fine-print announcer proud.

  I had to trot to keep up. Behind me, Glynn kept pace merely by stretching his long, muscled legs. I wished he’d lead the way so I could watch his glorious glutes, but he insisted on covering our rears—just sear me to seal the juices. What about the man made me think body parts? Rubbing, heating, damp body parts… I refocused on Dumas, expounding on how Method acting revolutionized American theater.

  Mishela was trotting alongside me, her face confused. “Where are we going?”

  “Otto’s B&BS, my hotel,” Dumas said. “Now the Method was actually created by Konstantin Stanislavski, who—”

  “BS?” Mishela grinned. “I’ve heard of a B&B, but what’s a B&BS?”

  I said, “Bed and breakfast smorgasbord. Uncle Otto runs it.”

  She turned to me. “Isn’t smorgasbord Swedish?”

  “Uncle Otto isn’t restricted by geopolitical boundaries. Surely you’ve heard of such traditional German favorites as dumpling pizza, sauerkraut egg rolls, sausage-fried chicken—”

  Dumas gave a pointed little ahem. “Interesting tangent—if you like complete irrelevancy. As I was saying…”

  He started in on sensory-memory exercises. That led into the tale of the anorexic actress, who recalled what she ate so clearly that she revomited it. Yeah, good times.

  Dumas was describing the regurgitated orange juice in loving detail as we passed the stone edifice of the Sparkasse Bank, when Glynn snarled and grabbed him by the collar.

  I thought maybe he’d finally had enough of Dumas’s babbling. But Glynn tossed Dumas behind us, then barred Mishela and me, his powerful arms thrust out like a special forces crossing guard. Skidding to a stop, I peeked under his jacketed arm.

  Three men were running across the bridge toward us.

  Nylons smashed their faces, but their eyes glowed like red coals. Two waved knives. The third brandished a black cloth bag.

&n
bsp; They zoomed in, over the river and on us before I could even gasp.

  And I thought, well hell. Meiers Corners was dangerous after all.

  I considered what to do. I’m a black belt so it might seem obvious—just kick and punch my little heart out. But while Joe Shmoe could kick and punch and even scratch, my training required my response to be reasonable and appropriate. It’s counterintuitive, but the martial arts don’t train you to fight—they train you so you don’t have to fight.

  If these guys were only thieves wanting my wallet, they were welcome to my buck ninety-five. I pulled my cash and tossed it onto the sidewalk, the pennies clunking like plastic.

  They didn’t even look. So, not after money. Then what? Or who? Their red eyes made them look like Star Wars Jawas.

  Or zombies.

  Ooh. I could go all Jackie Chan on their asses if they were zombies. Zombies couldn’t sue. I bent into ready stance just as Glynn reached into his jacket and pulled something out with a menacing ka-click.

  A dagger sprang into his hand, scary-long and gleaming silvery-white. He held it steady, its sharp point angled slightly up. Serious. Deadly.

  I nearly peed my pants. But at least now I knew why he wore that leather jacket, even indoors.

  It hid his long, elegant weapon.

  Dammit, looming danger. No time for naughty thoughts.

  Glynn surged forward, met the first goon. His left fist knocked the man back even as his long leg came up, snapping a kick through the goon’s head. Muscled lightning snapped back for a second hit, bam-bam. With a crack of bone the goon’s jaw sagged, white shards poking through skin and stocking. His eyes rolled back, his knees folded and he collapsed in a dead heap.

  As he fell, Glynn rammed his knife straight into the second goon’s breastbone.

  I froze in shock.

  It was them or us, but the casual violence stunned me. Bone is the human equivalent of concrete, but the knife embedded to the hilt, goon blood blossoming. The thug fell to the pavement with a thud, a second dead heap. Glynn’s dagger stuck up from his chest like a flag planted for king and country.

  The third man flashed by, a bag ready, headed straight for Dumas and Mishela. Mishela jerked Dumas away at the last instant and the bag swished air. The thug pivoted, spun in for another try.

  That unfroze me. Reasonable and appropriate went poof. I snapped a roundhouse kick into the third attacker’s ribs.

  And hopped back, shrieking. I’d just kicked Frankenstein. Or a flak vest, but I’d cracked my fricking toes, at least two of them. I’d broken them before, knew they’d be numb in seconds, but it hurt.

  A roar split the night, louder than ten lions. I was seized by huge hands and pushed gently back. Glynn. He grabbed the goon by the neck, his long fingernails digging into goon throat, squeezing hard…the goon’s neck snapped, head flopping like a rag doll.

  I sucked air.

  Glynn released the attacker. The body fell to the sidewalk with a sick whump.

  “Oh my God.” Dumas backed away, face sickly yellow.

  I whirled toward grass. The horror…and my soda…came up in acid rivers. Glynn caught my shoulders, steadied my head until the waves of nausea passed. When I was done, he gently wiped my mouth with a soft cloth, another surprise from his jacket.

  I looked up. Mishela was inspecting the bodies, going through pockets with a cool professionalism that struck me as profoundly at odds with her seventeen-year-old innocence.

  “Chicago,” she said. “But we expected that.”

  “Wh…what did they want?” I found myself clinging to Glynn, had to consciously release him.

  “Dunno. But they tried to bag Mr. Dumas.”

  And now they were dead. My eyes found the first man, his horribly mutilated jaw… The holes were still there, but I couldn’t see the shards. I tried to get a closer look. “Something’s wrong. Look at that guy’s—”

  “Time to go.” Glynn grabbed my arm, hauled west.

  “Come on, Mr. Dumas.” Mishela reached for the director.

  A black-gloved hand got him first.

  The hand was attached to a figure that materialized from a dark cleft between the bank and a yarn shop. Average height, slim, wearing a trench coat, a full mask obscured his…her—its features. It threw Dumas over its shoulder and disappeared between buildings before I was even fully aware of him/her/it.

  Mishela sprang after, her face like a raptor’s.

  “No.” Glynn’s voice rang with stark command. More—with mastery.

  She yanked up like a puppet. Her raptor face disappeared but I’d remembered why it was familiar. It was Diana, Greek goddess of the hunt.

  Demons, monsters—gods? Had Nixie soaked my reeds in vodka again? Just what was going on here?

  “Mishela.” Glynn’s voice eased back to musical. “Before we pursue, we must see Junior safely home.”

  “No time,” I said. “Every second counts in an abduction. We need to call the police, get them on Dumas’s trail.”

  “We don’t need the police.” A smile crooked the corner of Mishela’s mouth. “Not when Glynn’s the best tracker there is.”

  “Okay.” I believed her. After all, he had that whole nature’s king/druid vibe going. “But the police have equipment and manpower. And a ton of paperwork to start, so we need to let them know.”

  But Mishela wasn’t listening, and Glynn was absorbed by the dark cleft between buildings where Dumas had been taken, touching the brick, sniffing it. When he moved off, Mishela followed.

  If I didn’t want to be left behind with three bodies, I needed to leave too.

  Normally I wouldn’t have worried about staying by myself. But we’d been attacked on Main Street—safe-as-cottonballs Main. Attacked by three thugs whom Glynn had not just fought but annihilated. Dumas had been abducted. It was a nightmare.

  Hmm, we were standing one block north of Elm Street.

  None of it made sense, and I needed it to. What you don’t know can hurt you—and worse, can seriously reduce your profit margin.

  So when Glynn and Mishela disappeared between buildings, I ran after.

  Or rather, limped. Broken bones are screamingly painful. Numb cracked toes are just awkward.

  I found them behind the bank, in an employee picnic area bordering the alley. Glynn was examining the landscaping hedges, Mishela watching closely. While they were absorbed, I pulled out my phone to call the cop shop.

  Glynn took off again, west down the alley. I clutched the phone and followed. Hitting sidewalk on Second, he dropped to his hands and knees and put nose to concrete.

  Like a hunting dog…or wolf.

  He got to his feet, brushing off his hands. “This way.” Nostrils dilated, he loped off, going north on Second.

  Very cool, slightly scary and another note stacked onto the weirdness chord.

  As I shuffled behind, I punched in the phone number for information and got myself routed to the cop shop. As it rang I wondered what I would say. The police needed to know, but what Glynn had done…what could I tell them?

  Alice Schmidt, nightshift dispatcher since the Kennedy administration, and recipient of so many bowling 300 rings she wore them on her toes, answered immediately. I still hadn’t decided what to say so I just asked for Elena.

  Maybe I’d say that it was self-defense. It had been. Mostly. Yes, Glynn had killed three goons, but they’d been trying to hurt us. I listened to the phone ring, trying not to remember Glynn’s deadly precision, his destructiveness well beyond reasonable response. With the last thug, Glynn had been almost brutal. Just after I’d cracked my toes, when I shrieked…

  Hey. Glynn hadn’t thought I was in danger or hurt, had he?

  “Strongwell.”

  Elena Strongwell was Meiers Corners’s top detective. I took a deep breath and reported. I tried to downplay the worst, but had to tell the truth.

  She seemed strangely unconcerned by the dead goons. “Junior, the important thing is that you’re safe. But I doubt Gly
nn actually killed those guys.”

  “You didn’t see it. The embedded knife, the blood…” I lowered my voice. “Elena, they were dead.”

  Glynn paused to scent the air, paying no attention to me. Beside him, Mishela closed her eyes and sniffed it too.

  Elena said, “Well, I’m on-site now. You said three? Only two here, so at least one’s alive.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Hubby and I were in the area doing our neighborhood watch thing. Bad news, Junior.”

  “What?” My fearful gaze shot to Glynn’s broad back. It had been self-defense, but did killing those men mean jail for him? Or worse? “They’re…they’re…”

  “Going to be fine.”

  “What?” I couldn’t help it, I squealed. Glynn gave me a brief glance. I grinned with a thumbs up. Turning, I lowered my voice. “Elena, one was knifed in the heart and the other’s neck was snapped…” I petered out as I realized just how bad that sounded.

  “Choked unconscious, maybe. The guy’s neck is fine.”

  “But I saw his head flop!”

  “People do a rag doll when going unconscious. And really, it’s a lot harder to poke through bone than it looks on TV.”

  “I know that.” Was I going insane? I’d seen three men struck with killing blows. Could I have imagined it?

  “Junior, you’re a businesswoman. Practical, right? Bottom line is, these guys are going to be fine. Facing stiff charges for assault, but fine.”

  Nothing had happened, just like the “wolves” last night. Good news, except now I was possibly going nuts. I clipped the phone shut and stowed it. I couldn’t go insane. If I checked in as a permanent guest of the MC hospital’s Arkham psych wing, who’d run the register?

  Wait. Dumas had been kidnapped. He’d validate me.

  Glynn headed east. We were nearing Settler’s Square when he said, “There he is,” and broke into a run. Mishela was right behind. I limped along, finally catching sight of the saffron, lime and pink heap on the park bench.

  Dumas wasn’t moving. His face stood out white as a sheet. I said, “Is he…?”