I rest an elbow on one of my knees. “Oh yeah?”
“At least in Houston they have,” Max says, opening a second packet. “We had an Ozark Howler attack The Mercury Room a while back. During the dinner rush. Granted it could’ve been drawn there by my pureblood buddy, but it’s still weird.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I suppress a grunt when the wipe slides over one of the cuts. “Powerful vibrations might be strong enough to attract a howler, but that’s pretty far from their usual stomping grounds. Strange.”
Very strange, actually. Chaotic or not, paranormals like howlers and werewolves usually stick to deserted places, never traveling far. Like wolves or bears, they aren’t likely to leave the safety of their mountains or forests. The only reason Sam lives in a city is because of Hank. For one of them to actively and aggressively attack in a highly populated area isn’t normal even for abnormal creatures.
I tuck this thought — full of worry and paranoia — into the back of my mind and set my thoughts onto our current mission as Max finishes dressing my wound. Again, following my GPS, we set off down the sidewalk toward the restaurant at the very end of the street. The sound of laughter and music reach us before we reach it.
Customers surround the wood tables out front, lounging in brightly painted chairs, chatting, eating, drinking in the green glow of a neon sign crowning the building. Waitstaff bustles in and out between them with the kinds of smiles that sell full bottles of tequila. A man with a sticker covered guitar croons into a microphone.
Inside, his voice floats through speakers mounted in the corners of the ceiling and the smell of citrus and sizzling meat permeates the air. As we approach the bar along the left side of the restaurant, I eye the liquor along the wall, craving a shot of tequila to numb the pain in my shoulder.
A young woman with a vibrant koi fish tattoo swimming up her shoulder smiles at us. Cylindrical wood beads clink at the ends of a few fine braids scattered throughout her long, teal-dyed hair and the low lights flash off her hoop nose ring as she greets us in a language I don’t understand. When Max responds, she nods and shifts to English, her accent smoothing out into something surprisingly neutral.
“Welcome to Machados, what can I get you?”
“Information, actually,” I say. “I’m on an old missing person’s case, and this was one of the last places he was seen. It’s a long shot because it was a while back but we’re exhausting every possibility. Could we talk to the owner?”
Tapping the bar with a hand, the woman slides her gaze between Max and me. “No problem. Give me a sec.”
She swings around with fluid movements, leaning into the kitchen to shout again in Portuguese. A few seconds later, a man with a white flecked black beard and the kind of lashes women glue to their lids walks through the open doorway. His welcoming grin reveals a small gap between his teeth.
“Boa noite. I’m Carlo Machado.” He shakes our hands as the bartender goes back to serving up drinks. “Nicholya tells me you’re looking for information about a very cold missing person’s case. I’m happy to do what I can, but if it was a long time ago, I’m not sure I’ll be much help. My bartenders or one of the managers might be a better resource. Do you have any idea if this missing person was a regular?”
I look to Max, but he lifts his shoulders. “Based on what he said, maybe, but I’m not sure. I definitely never came here with him.”
Pulling up the article about Joel on my cell, I flip it around and show the owner the article. “He may have also come in with a woman. Though I don’t have a picture of her, unfortunately.”
Stroking his jaw with a pointer finger and thumb, Mr. Machado studies my screen. The shadows created by laugh lines stretch as he scrunches his face. “I’m sorry. Others have been here asking about him as well, but I’m afraid I don’t remember him. It isn’t often that I’m out in the restaurant. I spend most of my time in the back.”
There’s a reason I don’t hold too tight to hope. Even clutching it loosely doesn’t fully protect me from the disappointment that now drops with a thunk in my chest. Max sags against the bar, letting his head drop into a hand. We both knew it might be a dead end — especially since other hunters have already come down here — but that doesn’t make it sting any less.
I rub my hairline with a knuckle, sucking in a sharp breath when the cuts on my shoulder sting. “Maybe we should go with plan B,” I say under my breath to Max.
Lip curling, Max drums his fingers on the bar, still focused on the owner. “You mentioned managers or servers. Maybe one of them would remember?”
“Yes. It’s possible. A good portion of my staff has turned over since then,” Mr. Machado says, then pats the bartender’s back. “Except for Nicholya. Though she wasn’t exactly employed at the time, she might remember better than I. See if you can help them, meu docinho de côco. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“So am I.” Max mumbles something incomprehensible as the owner turns back to the kitchen. He only allows his expression to sag for a moment though before flashing that smile at the bartender. “Think you can help us out Nicholya?”
“Call me Nic.” Wiping her hands on a ratty, white washcloth, she rests her elbows on the countertop. “How long ago did you say it was?”
“Four years,” I say, showing her the article with Joel’s picture.
Nic’s pale pink lips part and she presses a hand to her throat. “I know him,” she says in a whisper I barely hear over
