The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge (24 page)

“You have no idea.”

* * *

Two hours later, Fergus O’Malley nodded to the doorman as he entered the Charles Hotel. He carried a battered overnight bag over one shoulder and a heavy shopping bag from Cardullo’s. Not wanting to risk being even a little late, he’d bribed the cabby with an insane amount to get him to Harvard Square; then, being a gentleman, or at least knowing what was good for him, stopped at Cardullo’s to buy a bottle of champagne. Then, thinking of his own proclivities, threw in a loaf of bread, smoked salmon, and crème fraiche. But since it was a celebration of sorts, he threw caution to the wind and asked for a tin of Sevruga, not bothering to inquire about the market price. But perhaps Claudia was more of a sweets girl—? He tried to remember whether she ordered dessert when they saw each other, and realizing time was wasting, grabbed a box of chocolates from Fauchon and some outrageously expensive apples.

The clerk observed the telltale groceries, the little bag from the pharmacy sticking out of his pocket, the burning desperation in Fergus’s eyes and the impatient tapping of his foot, and decided that wishing the gentleman “good hunting” would be too cheeky.

“Have a good evening, sir.” And he meant it. There was something about the guy . . . he usually went for blonds but had to resist the strongest urge to lean over the counter and run his fingers through the customer’s dark hair. And a man with an Irish accent was almost too good to resist.

Fergus resisted looking at his watch again, while he waited for the elevator. He had no idea why he was so nervous: either Claudia would have sex with him tonight, or she wouldn’t. He had been willing to follow her lead so far, and didn’t think she was the kind to punish him for being a few minutes late, but he was not taking any chances.

The elevator door opened. A wretched thought hit him, and suddenly, Fergus’s world came crashing down. Claudia wasn’t inviting him to consummate their relationship, he realized. She’d asked him over to help wrap up the loose ends of the gig, deal with the aftermath, cover their tracks. He was acting like an adolescent idiot, and she—she of all people—would be able to tell.

Oh, God.

Then he braced himself. It would be hideously awkward, but maybe he should bring up the subject . . . they were both adults, they could . . .

He entered the elevator, and practiced what he’d say.
I don’t want to rush you, and I’ll wait as long as you want. You’re worth waiting for. But I think we’re both ready to try this—

He practiced all the way down the hall; it sounded more and more lame, and he resigned himself to his lame-ness. The door to the hotel room opened. Claudia stood there in a white robe, her hair wet from the shower, the light of madness in her eyes, her fangs glinting.

He stammered, but started his speech. “I don’t want to rush you—”

She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him toward her.

“You want to have sex?” Her voice was uncharacteristically husky.

He nodded quickly. “Uh, yes, please.”

“Good. I want sex. Let’s have sex.”

She pulled him all the way into the room, her lips fastening on his. His overnight case and the bag of groceries hit the floor. The apples rolled across the floor as, in between kisses, Claudia promised to repay him for the shirt she’d just ripped off him. The door slammed shut.

* * *

Three days later, they joined Justine back at her B&B. Justine entered the room to find Claudia and Fergus sitting on the bed, their fingers entwined. The box containing the vase, recently liberated from the safe at the Charles, was at their feet.

“Well.” Justine gave Claudia a pointed look.

“Here’s the plan,” Claudia said, ignoring her. “Tell me if you have a better one, because this is pretty weak. We’ve tried everything from a junkyard car crusher, to acids, to explosives, and nothing’s worked on the vase. All I can think to do now is take my brother Gerry’s boat out as far as we can, load this thing down with weights, and lose it off the coast. With any luck, it won’t be rediscovered until we have some way to combat it.”

“But we need it! We need to take it to the Family,” Fergus said.

The argument went round and round: if they couldn’t destroy it, they couldn’t trust anyone with it. Even involving Gerry was a risky move.

“It just can’t be that hard to destroy,” Fergus said, picking up the box.

He had it opened before either of the women knew what he was doing.

Claudia and Justine lunged toward him at the same time. “No!”

A voice came from behind the door. “Doesn’t that look nice?”

Claudia, Justine, and Fergus turned. The innkeeper, Mr. Dow, was behind them. They exchanged uneasy glances; this was going to get messy. At least most of the guests were gone for the day—

“Just the thing for a little nosegay, right there in that corner.”

Claudia was as astonished to hear him say so much, so positively, as she was to learn he knew the word “nosegay.” She could only nod.

“I really like that,” the innkeeper continued. “I’d be happy to buy it from you. Is it Chinese? Or an English copy?”

The vase seemed to have no effect on him, save one. For the first time since Claudia’d met him, a shy grin cracked his face.

She sputtered. She recalled the leader of the gang, who’d also shown no effect from the object. Maybe some people were just more resistant to it than others.

Justine said, “I don’t know. I picked it up at a little shop in Boston.”

“Well, it sure is pretty. They don’t happen to have another, do they?”

“It was the last one,” Claudia said.
I hope.

“Oh, well.” The innkeeper did not withdraw into his habitual taciturnity. He just whistled tunelessly, plucked a curtain back into place. “I guess I have to stop decorating some time. It’s only that I’m about to retire, and my son will take over. He’s a lot like me, and I thought if they had another, he’d like it. In any case, I’ll be happy to bring you more towels, if you need them, Mrs. Nash.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, Mr. Dow. You know,” she glanced at Claudia, who nodded. “You know, now that I’m looking at it, I don’t think it will go with my living room. The color’s not quite right. I’ve had such a good time here that I’d like to give it to you.”

Claudia stepped closer to him and pushed the flimsy story with a little blast of chemical conviction. Would that be enough to get him to take it? She even reached out to the vase for a little help, but there seemed to be a hollow place in the world, now. In Mr. Dow’s presence, it was just a vase.

“Why, that’s lovely of you!” he said. “Thank you!”

Fergus met Claudia’s eyes. “I’d only ask that if you decide to sell it or give it away, you’d give us first refusal.” Claudia nodded and kept encouraging the impulse.

“I’d never think of letting go,” Dow said, and he meant it. “It’s just too lovely.”

None of them felt anything but relief.

* * *

A few months later, Claudia received an email from Justine, who reported that the vase was safe and sound. A temporary solution, hiding it in plain sight, they’d all agreed, but if it was neutralized by Dow and his family, it was the best they could do for the moment. Justine checked up on it periodically—just business, she’d told Claudia—but each time she’d brought her husband Ben and now they were expecting their third baby.

“Thought you’d get a kick out of this,” Justine had written. There was a link to a “Hidden Treasures in Massachusetts” website. Blue Harbor Inn was voted “most romantic.”

In addition to her award-winning archaeology mysteries,
DANA CAMERON
’s short stories have been nominated for the Edgar and Anthony awards and have won the Agatha and the Macavity. Dana introduced the Fangborn in “The Night Things Changed”; her second Fangborn story, “Swing Shift,” is set in 1940s Boston. Dana lives in Massachusetts with her husband and benevolent feline overlords. She is hard at work on a Fangborn novel. Learn more about her at www.danacameron.com.

When I asked for an afterword, she supplied the following:

I knew I had to use my Fangborn world to write “Love Knot” because I wanted to address the notion of a vampire’s hypersexuality and I wanted to do a story with Claudia, who first appeared in “The Night Things Changed.” She’s a good girl; she’s smart, she’s tough, and although I don’t know entirely why she is so concerned about self-control (that may be another story!), I thought it would be fun to put her in the situation of having her considerable power enhanced. What would you do if you knew you had to be careful with your powers, but then came across something that increased them in a very . . .
rewarding
. . . fashion? The other thing that inspired the story was the idea of magic, or rather, the lack of it in this world. Claudia would tell you the Fangborn aren’t magic, just as yet unexplained by science. What does a scientist do with something that seems to defy physics and logic? Sex may be one of the most basic urges in nature—explainable in biology, chemistry, and physics—but there’s still some magic in it.

BEAUTY IS A WITCH

JOHN LAMBSHEAD

“Beauty is a witch, against whose charms faith melteth into blood.”

—William Shakespeare,
Much Ado About Nothing

Rosalynne sighed. Here we go again, she thought. Fortunately, she had come prepared. She pulled a straw from her bag and raised it to her lips. She blew through the straw into Smith’s face, enveloping him in a cloud of shimmering dust. Smith sneezed and looked puzzled.

“You have an important engagement elsewhere,” Rosalynne said, locking eyes with him. “And you are late.”

“Is, ah, that the time?” Smith asked looking at his watch. “I, er, have to go. You’ll have to let me take you out to dinner another day. Let me know when you have the stuff.”

Smith rose, clutching his briefcase like it contained his rich grandmother’s only will. He almost ran out of the pub, tripping over another customer’s legs in his rush.

“Bye,” said Rosalynne, raising her glass to the bald, flabby, middle-aged, retreating figure.

The thought of a romantic dinner with Smith gave her goose pimples. She smoothed down her leather skirt over long and, even though she said so herself, slim and elegant legs. Rosalynne was far too curvy to be a fashion model but she had inherited blonde hair, high cheekbones and pale blue eyes from her Saxon forebears.

Magic came in many forms. Rosalynne could work the oldest spell of all on her clients when she dressed to impress, especially when those clients were men of a certain age. The only drawback was getting rid of them after they agreed to her terms.

The pub was like any other East End drinking hole that had yet to be gentrified. A large varnished bar dominated the room. Pint mugs hung from a wooden screen running along the top. A huge mirror behind the bar proclaimed the merits of Gordon’s London Gin. Tables were scattered around and screened alcoves along the bar’s walls allowed patrons to drink and converse with a degree of privacy.

East Londoners have a saying: “On the seventh day God rested by popping down the Whitechapel Road for a swift half at the Blind Beggar.” The pub was built in the eighteenth century on the site of an even older coaching inn, which had itself accreted around a toll booth charging travelers on the old Roman road to Colchester.

Whitechapel was one of those places where the walls of the world stretched and thinned. Thoughts and more tangible things could slip through. Sensitives were attracted to Whitechapel and inspired to do great and terrible things, releasing powerful bursts of psychic energy that further distorted reality. The Blind Beggar was at the focus of this whirlpool so year by year, decade by decade, century by century, the pub slipped deeper into shadow.

Rosalynne finished her drink, feeling suddenly at a loss. The night was too young for her to return to her flat but she had nowhere else to go and no one she wanted to go with. She rose from her table and walked up to the bar.

“Hey, Henry, has that fat poufter been in tonight?” asked a customer perched on a barstool.

“Not yet, George,” said the barman.

“Buy you a drink, love?” George asked.

“Thanks, Mr. Cornell, but I prefer to get my own,” Rosalynne replied.

He laughed, “Your loss, love.”

George Cornell was a powerful, heavy-set man, who would never have been considered handsome. He might have been sexy, in a thuggish sort of way, but for the ragged bullet hole in his forehead. He flickered slightly, outline blurring.

“Another, Rosalynne?” asked Henry.

She indicated assent and he poured a generous measure of gin into a glass.

“Not too much tonic, Henry,” Rosalynne said. “My dentist claims the sugar content is bad for my teeth.”

Henry nodded as if he had never heard the hoary old joke before. He moved methodically but surely, despite the sepia-stained bandage that completely covered his eyes.

“What’s he doing in here?” she asked, indicating the other drinker with a swivel of her eyes. “I thought he had wound down.”

Henry shrugged. “He appeared again just before you came in. There must be magic in the air tonight.”

Henry gave Rosalynne a pointed look.

“Has that fat poufter been in tonight?” Cornell asked.

“Not yet, George,” said Henry.

Rosalynne ignored the exchange. Eidolons tended to go around short loops. It was dangerous to interact too closely with one. You could get inserted into their pocket of reality.

Ronnie Kray, the fat poufter in question, had unsurprisingly taken great exception to being described as such and had expressed his displeasure with a Mauser 9 mm parabellum. This all happened in the Blind Beggar, one rainy night way back in the sixties.

“I wanted to have a word with you, Rosalynne. I’ve had to warn you before about using magic in the Beggar,” Henry said.

Rosalynne cut across him, impatiently. “And I’ve had to warn you before that I do as I please, where I please, when I please, and anyone who has a problem with that can do the other thing. That goes double for some loser who has risen to the dizzy heights of bar staff in a naff East End boozer. Got that, blind man?”