Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 Read online

  The phone was still buzzing. He dug it from his pocket and thumbed it live. Speak of the devil. “Limited progress, sir. The trail’s…obscured.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m calling.” Elias’s cave-deep voice was disturbingly potent, even over the phone’s tiny speaker. “Your quarry is aware that you’re a tracker.”

  Which explained the human clothes and water trick. Glynn snarled. “How? Is there a traitor?”

  “Not exactly. Mishela has been boasting of your prowess.”

  Glynn rumbled his disapproval.

  Elias made a clicking sound, an aural shrug. “She is young. She will learn. It does tell us the vampire is closely involved with the show.”

  Which narrowed it down—to several dozen people. Including one who smelled like heaven and made his fangs ache to taste her. That mind-blowing kiss… He shook himself, annoyed. He avoided humans in general and snippy little immune humans in particular. “Perhaps the vampire has a human minion in the show, sir. One of the cast or crew…or pit orchestra.”

  “You have someone specific in mind, Rhys-Jenkins?”

  “I don’t. Well, maybe.” He cleared his throat. “Junior Stieg was with us both times we were attacked.”

  “Unrelated. You told me she’s immune to mind-control. Ergo, not a minion.” A beat. “It does make her a potential mate.”

  “Not for me.” Glynn throttled back a growl. “She has no appreciation for home. I find her attitude irritating.”

  “I see.”

  Only Elias could imbue two simple words with such heavy sarcasm. Glynn blew air in frustration. “Sir, if I could get back to the point. Two attacks by rogues. Intel from the Watch indicates they’re related to the show, but not how. Did tonight’s trio talk before Strongwell shipped them back to their masters?”

  “They talked. Strongwell can be quite…motivational. But they didn’t know anything.”

  “Cock.” Glynn fought not to grind his teeth. “They may be after anything from kidnapping Mishela to simply disrupting the show.”

  “Perhaps the escaped rogue will know more.”

  The call ended.

  As Glynn clapped the phone shut, the tips of his fangs extruded, pricking his lower lip. The rogue who attacked tonight could have taken Dumas by mistake, could have really been after Mishela…or even Junior.

  The last thought pushed him to prowl the riverbank, seeking the rogue’s scent. Elias was right—Junior’s immunity made her a potential mate, attractive to many of his kind. Not him, of course. He could never live with someone so unappreciative of home and family. True, she was immune. True again, as both businesswoman and artist, she had depths to fascinate a male for many centuries.

  But she was not for him. No matter how…heavenly, sublime, incredible…good she smelled. No matter that he ached to taste her. He would never drink from her. Though the thought of anyone drinking from her other than him…

  He spun away from the bank, stalked toward the nearest bridge. The trail had gone cold.

  Bollocks. What did he do now? He couldn’t think. His two problems—who was stalking the show and for what purpose, versus what to do about his attraction…need, lust…for Junior—were jamming his brain.

  He knew he had to set the attraction aside and focus on the job. It was hard. No attraction had ever been this bad. He glided along at the deceptively fast pace of his kind and reminded himself that protecting Mishela was his first priority. He should concentrate on that.

  Right. Decision made.

  If only Junior weren’t so wrong for him. He’d grown up without a real home, had spent the rest of his eight hundred years trying to recreate one. And here she was, just a score and handful of years on this earth with the very things he craved. Home. Family. Love…

  Enough. Job at hand. Mishela. The attacks.

  It was just that Junior smelled so incredible. The softness of her lips, her sweet skin, her plush labia becoming slick with arousal…

  His brain wasn’t worth a sheep’s fart. Fine. He wasn’t going to resolve anything tonight, not about the attacks and especially not about Junior. He headed for Emersons.

  With the uncomfortable feeling that not deciding about Junior might be a decision in its own right.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday was busy with sales at the Wurstspeicher Haus. It put Mom in such a good mood she played Die Fledermaus and The Merry Widow, her version of opera pops.

  Visitors were hitting town for Thursday’s opening and they wanted hostess gifts. They’d be back before Sunday to buy take-home presents.

  I’d taped my cracked toes and ignored them. But I couldn’t ignore the door. Every time the bell tinkled, my body tensed, hoping for Big Dark and Dangerous and sorely disappointed by every tourist.

  Not disappointed. Relieved.

  Our dozen regulars came in too, including Hermy and her little one. Blonde, blue-eyed and vacantly pretty, Hermy could have been any of a hundred young mothers toting her infant in a front snug sack.

  She floated to the counter. “Hello, Junior. May I have my usual? What, Tiny?” She bent her head to the snug sack. “Oh, yes. Tiny would like some more of your homemade baby food. Did I tell you he got his first tooth? I’m thinking of weaning him off the formula.”

  “Ah. Probably a good idea.” I pulled down a couple jars of creamed Thüringer. Inside the snug sack, Tiny meowed his pleasure.

  Yes, meowed.

  Hermy’s baby was a cat. She talked to it like it was her baby, fed it like it was her baby. To her, it was her baby.

  Or at least made up for the one she lost.

  In the big city, carting a cat in a snug sack would have been a sign of mental instability. At best, Hermy’d be in an institution. At worse, she’d be a homeless bag lady.

  But in Meiers Corners…Mrs. Blau came in and glanced at Hermy’s snug sack. “I do believe Tiny’s gained weight, dear. What are you feeding him? I’d like to try it with my youngest.”

  Yup, in Meiers Corners people talked to the snug sack too.

  “Try the lovely organic baby food Mrs. Stieg makes.” Hermy handed Mrs. Blau a jar.

  Also only in MC. Mentally delicate but the Wurstspeicher Haus’s number-one promoter, at least for creamed Thüringer baby food.

  Mrs. Blau tucked the jar in her bag. “I’ll take three more, Junior.” As I got the jars she added, “By the way, who was that handsome young man Brunhilde Butt saw you with at Nieman’s?”

  Another of Meiers Corners’s interesting attributes. Secrets were shared with your closest friends—all seven thousand of them. For me, annoying and at times downright invasive. But for Hermy, a blessing. Everybody knew she’d lost that baby, so we treated her with a sympathy verging on town-wide empathy.

  When Hermy was ready, she’d rejoin us on the rational side of Main Street.

  Glynn came again that night…I mean picked me up…for the final dress rehearsal. Mindful of Mom’s history (sexual entrapment was probably too strong a term, but in connection with Glynn, it conjured up all sorts of exciting—I mean disturbing—images), I didn’t invite him back inside. I didn’t need the temptation.

  Then I fumbled for ten minutes packing up, not thinking about what Glynn could do with an actual bed, and we were late anyway.

  On the plus side, we missed the acting warm-ups.

  Tonight was final dress. The actors were forbidden to break proscenium—that is, corralled to dressing rooms and backstage. No calling for lines for the actors, no stopping for any of us, not even for a train wreck.

  So when Toto flopped down on stage and started licking himself, we kept playing. When he lost interest in his doggie danglies to start watering the potted plants, we kept playing.

  When Glinda stumbled asking Dorothy what kind of witch she was, saying instead “Are you a good bitch or bad bitch?” we kept playing. (Our dear Good Witch of the North was actually Lana the part-time Good Hooker of North Avenue. She’d gotten the part because her pimp was one of the show’s patrons. On
ly in Meiers Corners.) When she peeped her song like a toddler on helium, we practically doubled over playing into stands (to soften the volume as well as muffle our laughter), but we kept playing.

  At intermission, because the actors had to stay backstage, Rocky and I had the water fountain to ourselves. She pushed her wealth of hair from her face before holding the handle for me. “So I got a new part-time job.”

  “Another one?” I stuck my bottle into the stream. “What does that make, three?”

  “Four. Teaching lessons, the homeless shelter, the community symphony, and now rating for CIC Mutual.”

  “Insurance?” I stopped filling. “Don’t tell Nixie. She thinks buying insurance will lead to the heat death of the universe.”

  Rocky let go of the handle. “But she’s married to a lawyer.”

  “Julian also plays cello. That cancels out any lawyer cooties.” I grabbed the handle and cranked the water back on, resumed filling. “So do you like it?”

  “I’ve only been there a couple half days, but it’s pretty interesting. Did you know CIC insures a certain PAC?”

  I stopped filling again. “Our PAC?”

  “Well, I can’t talk about specific policies. Confidentiality, you know.”

  “Huh.” I turned on the stream again. “Speaking of confidentiality, a certain Wurstspeicher Haus insures through CIC.”

  “A lot of Meiers Corners businesses do. Theoretically, that is. The PAC, your store, the Sparkasse Bank, dozens more.”

  “You know all this how?” I capped my water. “Theoretically, that is.”

  She blushed. “I didn’t look up specific policies or anything. I just had to find some examples to use as templates.”

  “Right.”

  “I was surprised at so many. Usually Corners folk buy local.” Rocky unscrewed her water bottle.

  “We don’t have any local insurance companies. Besides, Twyla says local-only isn’t good for us anymore, thanks to the latest recession. Did you know there’s more riding on this show than getting to Broadway?”

  “Really?”

  “We’re the draw for tourists to flock to our Quainte Local Shoppes to buy quainte shite. No pressure. Hey, how many cellists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

  “None,” she shot back. “They’re not small enough to fit. Why shouldn’t you drive off a cliff with three viola players in a Mini?”

  “Because you could fit at least one more in. How many principal flutists does it take to change a light bulb?”

  “Only one, but that light bulb really has to want to change?”

  I snorted. “That’s psychiatrists. One is correct, though. The prima donna holds the light bulb in her hand and the world turns around her.”

  “Ha-ha. Why do violists get worried when they see the Kama Sutra?”

  “All those positions!” we said together, bumped fists and went back to rehearsal.

  The second half went better, mainly because someone had Palin’ed Glinda and written her lines on her hand. The bows came off perfectly, despite squirrelly kids up past their bedtimes, and when we played the runoff music, I nailed the last low B-flat. I was feeling pretty good as I hauled my instruments backstage to pack up (instrument cases in the audience also forbidden at final dress).

  So I was clipping along as I cornered into the back corridor, and nearly ran into the shady form in trench coat and mask.

  Instantly I backpedaled, but a tenor sax creates a fair amount of momentum. I almost face-planted into the trench coat’s shoulder—which was slung with a black sack.

  The kidnapper.

  I pulled up at the last second. Beyond the stalker about twenty feet, Dumas gave notes to Mishela.

  Shock burned the picture on my retinas. Skulking kidnapper foreground, Mishela background, Dorothy braids swaying as she nodded. Behind her, thick arms crossed over big chest, eyes like lasers on his charge, was Glynn.

  Slo-mo, his head swung up to stare right at me. Fear and fury leaped into his sapphire gaze. Fury at the stalker.

  Fear for me.

  It went fast from there. Glynn shouted “Mishela, drop!” at the same instant the stalker squeaked, jumped like a cat turning midair and ran. Mishela ducked, Glynn leaped. I realized belatedly that here was my chance to catch the stalker.

  Just as the stalker plowed straight into me.

  I fell on my keister, barely hanging on to my three instruments. The pain flaring in my coccyx hadn’t even hit when the stalker grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet. Flute and clarinet jarred from my hands, and I heard the clatter of several hundred dollars hitting floor. Dammit, that would leave dents. I tried to punch him (or her or it)—for justice, but also to leave a dent in return.

  With a muttered “Fuck,” the stalker shooped the bag over my head and my punch swept air.

  I shrieked. My cry gagged to an ack when the drawstring yanked tight.

  “Stay back,” the stalker hissed. “Or this one gets hurt.”

  And then I was flying, hefted onto a shoulder so bony it practically cut me in two. Air huffed from my chest at the impact, exacerbated as the guy/gal/thing kicked into a run and bounced me into near-asphyxiation.

  A bellow of rage sounded, Glynn, diminishing, like the skinny kidnapper was getting away fast. I scrabbled for a hold on bony shoulders, hoping like hell Glynn could track me—and wondered idiotically if I should be dropping breadcrumbs. I didn’t have breadcrumbs, but the way the stalker was rattling me maybe I could drop teeth. Or, like Toto, pee.

  Another bellow sounded. Closer. Glynn, athletic tracker Glynn, was gaining. The stalker’s breath rasped loud in my ears. Tired gasps, and no wonder. Not only was he/she/it lugging a hundred-some pounds of me, but my sax, tethered to my neck, was a-flopping against its back, whacking with loud, bony thuds. Never was I so glad for weighty and awkward.

  Glynn roared again, much nearer and supremely pissed. The trench coat under me squealed—and tossed me to the ground.

  Silly me, my only thought was my sax. I flipped midair and landed flat on my back.

  I hit the concrete so hard my diaphragm froze.

  “Getting the wind knocked out of you” sounds like simple inconvenience. But it’s a horror of can’t breathe. You suck air but nothing happens. Nothing. You think you may never breathe again. It’s all over but for the My Life video replay, hopefully with RiffTrax.

  I tried to inhale, really I did, but all I got was gak-gak-gak. I clawed hood. The sax weighted my ribs like a sandbag. I honestly thought I was dead. End of Junior, small fish in a small pond, never to grow to her full potential. Maybe a comedy instead of a tragedy, but now we’d never know.

  Big hands righted me. Warm, ripply muscles pressed to my spine. An intense male heat permeated my chest cavity, eased the straitjacket on my lungs. I sucked in air. Shuddered. Breathed again. Oxygen never felt so good.

  “Babi.” Glynn’s voice was threaded with worry. I felt a plucking at my neck. “Are you all right?”

  Not really, but I was better so I just nodded. He shifted me to get to the tie from the front. I cradled the sax in one arm and lifted my chin to give him better access. The tie came loose, his fingers a lot more nimble under stress than mine. When the hood came off, the first thing I saw was his face, gorgeous blue eyes tight with concern for me.

  Second was the yellow glow of a street lamp. We were outside.

  “Mishela,” I croaked.

  “Bloody hell.” He scooped me up and whizzed back inside, whipping so fast it blurred the walls like hitting light speed. I hugged my tenor like a teddy bear.

  In the women’s dressing room, Mishela, dressed in a robe, was calmly removing her makeup. Her costume was draped over a nearby chair.

  “I can take care of myself, Glynn.” She smeared cream on her cheeks. “I keep telling you and Mr. Elias that, but you never listen.”

  Glynn set me down. I unhooked my sax and cleared off a section of the makeup counter to put it on. Not best practice but I was trembling from ad
renaline and not up to carrying its weight.

  Around us, trees and Emerald Cityites and other adult females stopped what they were doing to stare at this powerful invading male.

  Glinda started doing a little striptease.

  To his credit, Glynn ignored them all, even Little Miss Part-time Hooker. “Is anyone missing?”

  Mishela stopped smearing, showing she wasn’t as unconcerned as she wanted to seem. “I’m sorry?”

  “Anyone from the cast or crew not here? Slim build, a bit taller than you, missing right after the bows?”

  She paled as the implications struck. “No. But things were pretty chaotic as the curtain closed. Jazzed.”

  “Who did you see for certain? Lion’s too hefty, but what about Tin Man?”

  She nodded. “Both were here.”

  “The Gatekeeper? Captain of the Winkies?”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  He pressed. “Steve? Our friend the Scarecrow?”

  She went white. “Not Jon. You can’t suspect Jon, Glynn. He’s a Broadway star.”

  “Everyone is a suspect. And Jon hasn’t had a hit in years.”

  She flinched.

  Glynn was scaring her, for no other reason than he was angry. With himself probably, but Mishela looked young and frightened, and I felt for her. Spine snapping straight, I stepped between them. “Oh for heaven’s sake. Why stop at actors? Half the pit is the right size and build. Why pick on insiders when it’s most likely a stranger? This is just scaring Mishela—who is fine.”

  He whirled on me. “But you weren’t. You were in the clutches of that maniac, and I had no idea what he wanted with you or if I would get to you in time!”

  I gaped at him. “We barely know each other. Why should you care?”

  His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Why indeed?” He shoved out of the dressing room and disappeared.

  “I think you hurt his feelings,” Mishela said.

  She’d turned back to the mirror, toweling off cream and makeup. Trying to seem unaffected, but her hand trembled.