Vayl had reserved the penthouse, so we took elevator 6A to twelve. At that point I did a little soft-shoe—the semi-claustrophobic's version of the I-gotta-pee-dance—until Vayl figured out which way to slip our key card into the metal slot on the elevator's control panel so the door would open. After I'd leaped out and regained a somewhat steady pulse, I took stock. We stood in a small enclosed entryway decorated with a massive flowery mural that involved all four walls, including the elevator doors, and half of the ceiling. Tiles in the pastel pink so common to Florida covered the floor.
I wrinkled my nose at the color. Something about pink makes my stomach churn. Maybe it's the resemblance to Pepto Bismol. Personally, my taste runs toward bolder colors. That's why I currently wore an emerald green silk shirt under my black jacket. Unlike Vayl's coat, which reached his knees and looked like it could comfortably hide a shotgun, or a sword, or possibly a small pony, mine stopped just below my waist and, because it had been tailored to mask my shoulder holster, fit superbly. My black slacks felt a little loose, probably because I'd missed lunch all month. And since the Weather Channel had warned of a cold spell hitting Florida at the same time we did, I'd worn my new boots. Hopefully they'd hold up longer than my last pair, which had fallen apart the first time I'd stepped in a puddle of blood.
I tugged my trunk through a set of white French doors that opened into a sunken living room furnished with flowered couches and chairs, glass tables and Pepto-pink carpeting. On the opposite end of the room, next to ceiling-to-floor curtains in Elvis velvet, sat a bigger glass table surrounded by chairs. I noticed it mainly because the chairs had rollers, which keyed a memory from my childhood.
My brother, sister and I were staying with our Granny May at her farm for the summer. Her kitchen chairs had wheels, so we spent part of each day either pushing each other around the room or having spinning contests to see who fell off first. Good times. I felt a throb of homesickness for those few golden moments when my sibs and I were friends, teammates and co-conspirators. Why couldn't it have lasted forever?
'Never mind,' I whispered, 'it's over now. Move on. Move on. Move on.' I caught myself in the litany and clamped my lips shut, imprisoning the words before they could betray me.
Still carrying a suitcase, our laptop, his garment bag and cane, Vayl strolled into the room and took inventory. His eyes rested momentarily on a cut glass vase full of white orchids and moved on to a silver bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne.
'Nice,' he said, nodding with approval.
'Yeah, it's uh,' I struggled to put some of the expected enthusiasm into my voice, 'grrreat!' I skirted the rim of the living room bowl, rolling my trunk after me. I liked it because it looked the way I felt most of the time, battered and old. Right now it appeared sorely out of place, and if the furniture could talk I was sure it would shame my low-class luggage right out of the building. The pack on my back wouldn't score any points either. Despite the fact that it dressed in basic black, it too had seen better days. But it worked, carrying my weapons in well-padded pockets along with my ammunition and cleaning cases. So rather than run to the nearest Motel 6, I just kept walking, taking my most treasured possessions toward another set of French doors to my left which no doubt led to a grossly sumptuous bedroom.
'Come now, Jasmine,' Vayl chided me. Already across the room, he set the laptop on the table, and moved to the curtains, which I expected him to stroke like a pet panther. Instead he flicked them back, peered out the window. Satisfied, he looked over his shoulder at me. 'I bring you to the most exclusive hotel in Florida and the only reaction I get is your Tony the Tiger impression?'
I felt like slumping against the wall, at which point I would bang my head repeatedly until I passed out. But no, the bell had dinged, forcing me back into the ring for Round 14 of the Never-Ending Battle. Nope, no blows traded, damn it all. Our struggle was just a continuous conversation during which Vayl tried to figure out how I'd grown to adulthood without acquiring the slightest refinement, and I continued to be baffled that a man old enough to remember when bathrooms were windowless shacks built above deep stinkin' holes could be fooled into thinking that ugly flowers and crappy-tasting liquor
'Look, Vayl, we've got a
For a minute I thought he was having convulsions. Then I realized he was laughing. Depositing his stuff on an end table, he collapsed on the nearest couch and heaved with barely suppressed merriment. He looked… now why would the word 'yummy' come to mind? Under his coat he wore a dark blue sweater that hugged his torso as if they'd been reunited after a long separation. On the plane he'd mentioned his gray slacks had been tailored by a guy named Lawrence Clay who spoke with a lisp and sewed like a savant. His shiny black shoes had come straight off the shelf—in Italy. Since he'd assumed the identity of a high-end antiques dealer named Jeremy Bhane, his elegance was called for. It baffled me that such a thing could come so naturally. Or that I should find it so… delectable.
'Jasmine?'
'Huh?'
'Are you all right? You suddenly look… haunted.'
'Oh, yeah. I mean, no,' short, fake laugh while I fished for something to say, 'I was just wondering why you don't smile more. And I thought maybe it's because your fangs would show.'
'Would that bother you?' he asked sharply.
'Not at all. We had two vamps on my Helsinger crew. Stellar people.' Now
'I suppose you find this room a bit over the top,' said Vayl, making me jump and squeal.
'What is the
He shrugged. 'I am, how do you say, feeling my oats, perhaps?' He'd let a trace of his original accent creep into his voice. His left eyebrow moved upward a couple of notches. I forgot to breathe as I wondered just how many
