Poison Promise

12

Beauregard Benson bowed to me, as low, gallant, and charming as any old-fashioned Southern gentleman. But his blue eyes were as empty as mirrors, despite his veneer of manners and civility.

The third man cursed and started to reach under his jacket for his gun, but Benson snapped his fingers, as though he were calling off a junkyard dog. The other man froze at the sharp sound.

“There’s no need for that,” Benson purred again, although his high, nasal voice ruined his smooth words. “Is there, Ms. Blanco?”

Instead of answering him, my gaze went to my friend. “Roslyn?”

She slowly got up from the table and stepped back, removing herself from the line of fire, should it come to that. “I’m okay, Gin.”

Benson gestured at the table. “Please, Ms. Blanco. Let’s sit and talk.”

“If you wanted to talk, you could have just called,” I said in a sweet tone.

“Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer face-to-face conversations.” His voice was as fake and syrupy as mine was.

He might as well have substituted confrontations for conversations, but I decided to play along—for now. Roslyn was unharmed, and I wanted to keep her that way. Going along with Benson was the easiest way to ensure her safety. Besides, part of me was curious about what the vampire possibly thought he had to say to me. Ah, that damned old curiosity. Going to get me stabbed in the back one day.

Maybe even right now.

“All right, then,” I said. “Let’s chat.”

I dropped my knife from Silvio’s throat and shoved him away. He stumbled forward a few steps before he managed to right himself. Silvio’s hand crept up to the cut on his neck, and then he pulled his hand away and stared at the blood glistening on his fingertips. I thought he might shoot me a dirty look for ruining his clothes, but instead, he sighed, pulled a gray silk handkerchief out of his pants pocket, and wiped the blood off his fingers and neck. Silvio went to stand with the third man.

Benson gave his minion another curious look, as though he were interested in Silvio’s wound, before resuming his seat at the table and gesturing at the empty chair across from him.

Keeping one eye on the vamps, I stalked across the bamboo floor to where Roslyn was standing. I touched her arm, and she nodded.

“I’m fine,” she said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Really.”

She turned away from Benson and made a show of smoothing her black hair back over her ears. Then she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Whatever you do, don’t let him touch you.”

Still looking at the three vamps, I kept my face blank, as though she hadn’t said anything, although I was wondering at that strange piece of advice. Did Roslyn know that Benson liked to feed on people’s emotions? I was going to heed her warning. After seeing what Benson had done to Troy last night, I had no intention of letting the vamp put his hands anywhere on me—ever.

“Roslyn, my dear,” Benson called out. “Why don’t you fix us a drink? You know what I like. And I assume you know what Ms. Blanco likes too.”

His words indicated that she did know him. I wondered exactly how well they were acquainted.

Roslyn nodded at no one in particular. “Of course.”

“Stay behind the bar,” I murmured to her.

She nodded at me this time, then went around the elemental Ice bar and out of my line of sight, since I was still focusing on Benson, Silvio, and the third man. The sharp tink-tink-tink of ice filling glasses sounded, along with the soft, steady splash of liquid and the rattle-rattle of bottles and shakers, as Roslyn mixed our drinks.

I slid my knife back up my sleeve, went over to the table, and took the empty chair across from Benson, being sure to keep out of arm’s reach of him. The vamp leaned back in his seat and crossed his right ankle over his left leg, once again giving me a view of his white-and-pink sock.

“So, Beauregard,” I said. “Why the elaborate ruse? I would have been happy to talk to you somewhere other than here.”

He smiled, the pearly glint of his fangs reminding me of a piranha’s toothy grin. “Please, call me Benson. I find Beauregard to be a bit of a mouthful. Makes me feel like I ought to be an old, white-haired gentleman in a seersucker suit drinking mint juleps out on the veranda. As for the location, I thought that it would be prudent to meet in . . . neutral territory, which is why I chose Northern Aggression. Well, that and the fact that I hadn’t seen my old friend Roslyn in quite some time.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really,” he replied. “I used to be Roslyn’s representative. Her business manager, of sorts.”

So he’d known her back when she’d been working the Southtown streets. It must have been years ago, because I’d never heard of Benson being involved with hookers before. I wondered how Roslyn had managed to get out from under his thumb. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to let anyone leave his organization, except in pieces.

Roslyn finished our drinks, and the bamboo floor creaked under her feet as she walked over and deposited two glasses on the table. A gin on the rocks with a fat wedge of lime for me and a Bloody Mary for Benson, complete with a tall, leafy stalk of celery. Roslyn stared at me, worry shimming in her toffee gaze, but I tipped my head, telling her that I could handle things. Then I casually dropped my hand down by my side, my thumb pointing back toward the bar.

Roslyn nodded at me, then at Benson, before heading back behind the bar. She moved far enough to my left so that I could see her out of the corner of my eye, and she made a show out of putting away the bottles of liquor, the lime, and the celery, although she kept one hand out of sight below the frosty surface at all times. She was ready to reach for the shotgun that Xavier kept under there if things went bad between me and Benson.

“Don’t worry,” Benson said, dragging his drink over to his side of the table. “There’s no actual blood in this.”

“It wouldn’t bother me if there were.”

“I assumed as much, given your reputation. But I must admit that I’m not like most vampires,” he said. “I find drinking blood to be a bit . . . messy. And it’s not nearly as interesting as other . . . pursuits.”

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking about his other pursuits. I was guessing that they involved a lot of screaming, violence, and death. Benson took a sip of his Bloody Mary and grinned at me. The tomato juice stained his fangs a pale pink. The color matched his shirt and argyle socks.

I took a sip of my own gin. Normally, I would have enjoyed the cool slide of the alcohol down my throat before it started its sweet, slow burn in the pit of my stomach. But not today. Not when faced with a monster like Benson. Not when Roslyn had been frightened and could still get hurt because of me.

“May I call you Gin?” Benson asked.

“Sure,” I said, raising my glass to him. “Like the liquor.”

He let out a pleased laugh. “Yes, that’s what I hear you tell people. How quaint.”

We sat there and sipped our drinks for the better part of three minutes. I didn’t mind the silence, as it let me speculate about what he could possibly want. Sure, Benson had sent some men to kill me over the past several months, like most of the underworld bosses had, but we’d never had any direct contact. So why the meeting? Why now? The obvious answer was that it must have something to do with Catalina. But Benson hadn’t seen her or me last night, and I couldn’t puzzle out why he would want to have a conversation, instead of just sending some of his men to kill me, and her too.

But the lengthy quiet also gave Benson time to study me, everything from Silvio’s blood staining my hand to the hard set of my mouth to the cold chill glinting in my wintry-gray eyes. But there was no lust in his gaze, only mild curiosity, as though I were a germ he was examining through the microscopic lenses of his glasses.

After a minute of that, he cocked his head to the side. He kept his eyes on my face, but I got the sense that he wasn’t looking at me so much as he was looking into me, if that was even possible. Either way, his unfocused, dreamy expression reminded me of the far-off look that Jo-Jo sometimes got when she was getting a glimpse of the future with her Air magic. But it was much, much creepier on Benson.

Finally, he blinked and focused on me again. “You are exceptionally calm, Gin.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? After all, we’re just having a friendly drink, right?”

A thin smile curved his lips. “Right.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and clutching his Bloody Mary between his bony hands. “Well, then, let’s get down to business. I do want to apologize for my actions regarding Roslyn, but as I said before, I thought it best to meet on neutral ground so my appearance would not be misconstrued and provoke an . . . unpleasant reaction. I have no desire to start a war with you, Gin.”

“Why not? It seems to me like you’ve already begun, given all the men you’ve sent to my restaurant to try to kill me.”

He shrugged. “It’s just business. I had to try, the same as everyone else. I’m sorry if you found it . . . upsetting.”

He said the last word with obvious relish, then paused and stared at me, doing that weird looking-right-through-me thing again. Only this time, something also brushed up against my skin—that invisible sandpaper I’d noticed in the garage when Benson was sucking the emotions out of Troy.

But the sensation was much more intense now than it had been last night, so intense that it almost felt like . . . magic. I’d thought that Benson’s emotional draining was some sort of special vampiric ability, but perhaps there was also an elemental component to it. If so, that would make him even stronger than I’d realized—and far more dangerous.

The phantom sandpaper rubbed and rubbed at my skin, as if trying to find a weak spot to bear down on and draw blood. I focused on remaining calm.

After several seconds, the uncomfortable sensation vanished, and Benson’s mouth puckered with disappointment that I hadn’t reacted whatever way he’d wanted me to.

“It takes a lot to crack that calm façade of yours, doesn’t it?” he murmured.

“It’s no façade.”

“No,” he murmured again. “It’s not—not at all. How . . . disappointing.”

I wouldn’t say that it was disappointing. I wouldn’t say that it was anything at all other than the way I was, but I had no idea what Benson was getting at. My gaze flicked past him to Silvio, searching for a clue to his boss’s meaning, but Silvio’s face remained as smooth as mine. The third man seemed a bit nervous, his arms crossed over his chest, his fingers tapping against his opposite elbows, but he wasn’t the real danger here—Benson was. Off to my left, Roslyn held her position, one hand still below the bar, ready to draw her shotgun.

“Regardless, you can rest assured that none of my men will bother you again,” Benson said.

“Oh, it’s not me that I’m worried about,” I drawled.

Benson frowned, but Silvio’s lips twitched up with something that almost seemed like amusement. I blinked, and the expression vanished.

“Of course not,” Benson said. “Your reputation does precede you.”

“What can I say? It’s the price of being famous. Or, rather, infamous in my case.”

Silvio’s lips twitched again, but Benson didn’t seem to get my dry, dark humor. Instead, he leaned forward.

“Well, then, let’s turn to the matter at hand.”

“Oh?” I asked. “And what would that be?”

“Your sister. Detective Bria Coolidge.”

Benson’s nasal voice echoed through the club before the red velvet curtains on the walls soaked up the sound, if not the danger that accompanied his words.

My fingers curled around my glass of gin, my jaw tightened, and my spine straightened. Small motions, but Benson’s eyes sharpened with interest behind his glasses.

“Finally, a reaction,” he said. “I was beginning to think that you were made out of the stone that you are rumored to be able to control.”

“Mild surprise is hardly a reaction,” I drawled again.

“Why surprise?”

I shrugged. “I would have thought that a cop, any cop, would be beneath your notice. Well, except for the ones you bribe to keep your drugs flowing into Southtown. But even then, Silvio handles all of those dirty details, doesn’t he?”

Benson shrugged back. “Of course he does. But your sister has come to my attention for her recent . . . interest in my activities.”

“You mean because you tortured and killed her informant, stuffed a rat into his mouth, and then drew Bria’s rune on his forehead with one of those pens in your pocket protector,” I said in a flat voice. “Hard to imagine why she’d be upset about that.”

He smiled. “I don’t often indulge in such . . . showmanship, but your sister has been quite persistent. I thought I had finally warned her off with that boy’s death, but then I heard a disturbing rumor this morning. That she has some witness who says that I murdered someone last night and that she’s actually going to get this person to testify against me.”

“How upsetting for you,” I deadpanned.

So this was about Catalina after all. Bria had told the higher-ups in the police department that someone had seen Benson kill Troy, and someone in the po-po who was on Benson’s payroll had given him a heads-up.

I stared at him, wondering if this was all some sort of twisted game, a feint to lure me away from the restaurant so he could send his men after Catalina. No, I decided. If he knew Catalina’s identity, he wouldn’t have bothered with all of this, and he would have already dispatched some men to kill her. But Silvio had seen her in the garage last night, so why hadn’t he told his boss that he could ID the witness? He hadn’t seemed interested when I’d mentioned blackmail before, which meant that money wasn’t his motivation. So why in the world would Silvio protect someone like Catalina?

I glanced at Silvio, but his face was as calm and composed as ever. He had to know what I was thinking, but his features were a perfect mask for whatever his true thoughts might be. Impressive. Then again, since Benson liked to feast on emotions, it would be best to keep one’s in check around the vamp, and Silvio had had years of practice.

Benson leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his skinny chest. “As I said, I have no interest in starting a war with you, Gin, and I’ve heard how very . . . protective you are of your sister. That’s why I’m here. A business associate suggested that it might be better to contact you directly to avoid any unpleasantness.”

Business associate? I wondered who that could be, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking.

“My terms are quite simple. Make this witness vanish, stay out of my way, and get your sister to do the same, and I will make sure that no one in my organization ever comes within a three-block radius of your restaurant ever again. How does that sound?”

I had to ask the question. “And if I don’t?”

A faint smile crinkled his lips. “I might not want to start a war, but I know how to finish one. You’re not the only one here with a reputation.”

No, I wasn’t. Benson hadn’t become the king of Southtown and held on to all that territory for all these years by asking nicely.

Maybe it was a moment of weakness, but I didn’t automatically sneer at and dismiss his offer. All things considered, it wasn’t the worst proposal I’d ever heard. Get Catalina to keep quiet, stay out of his business, get Bria to do the same, and he’d leave all of us alone.

But the most shocking thing was that part of me actually wanted to take his deal.

Maybe it was selfish of me, since I knew what a monster he was, but part of me still wanted to say yes, just so there would be one fewer underworld boss I had to worry about, just so I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder and wonder when his men would come after me next. Or, worse, Bria, Roslyn, and everyone else I cared about.

But part of me bristled at his smug tone. I’d never liked bullies, and Benson was trying to strong-arm me into backing down.

And then there was Bria. She would never, ever go for such a deal. The cop in her wouldn’t let her, especially not with her guilt over her informant’s murder still fresh and raw in her mind and heart.

But mostly, though, I thought about Catalina and how she was determined to do the right thing because she felt like she owed it to an old friend, the ghost of the sweet boy she had loved once upon a time.

And I knew what my answer would be, what it should have been all along: no fucking way.

But before I could tell Benson what he could do with his offer, one of the doors at the front of the club banged open, and a man rushed inside. It was the vamp who’d been stationed by the main entrance, the one who’d been keeping such a careful watch out for me.

“Boss!” he called out, hurrying over to the dance floor, his gun in his hand. “Boss! I just found Johnny by the back of the club. He’s dead—” The vamp skidded to a halt at the sight of me sitting with Benson. “She’s—she’s here!”

“Yes, Derrick, she’s here,” Benson said. “And you were supposed to warn me the second you saw her. Not let her kill Johnny and enter the club undetected. I am most disappointed with you.”

His voice was calm, but Derrick swallowed, his face suddenly pale. Benson got to his feet and straightened his glasses. Behind the bar, Roslyn tensed, as if she knew what was coming. So did the third man, who’d been standing behind Benson, but he lifted his gun, clearly ready to shoot anyone who dared to interfere with his boss. Silvio remained as stoic as ever, although a muscle ticked in his jaw and his eyes glittered with some emotion I couldn’t quite identify. It almost seemed as though Silvio were dreading what his boss was about to do next, even though he knew that he couldn’t stop it. I stayed in my seat, but I palmed a knife under the table.

Benson faced Derrick. He smiled again, showing off his fangs.

“Oh, shit,” Derrick whispered.

Apparently, he’d seen the horror show before, and he wanted no part of it. Unlike Troy, he actually tried to get away. Derrick raised his gun and fired off a few shots, even as he started backpedaling. But his aim was lousy, and the bullets zipped up toward the ceiling instead of thunking into Benson’s chest. I doubted they would have made a difference anyway.

Derrick didn’t get three steps before Benson was on him.

One second, the vamp was standing beside the table. The next, he’d leaped halfway across the dance floor, some forty feet, to where his victim was. Drinking blood gave most vamps enhanced strength and speed, but Benson’s long jump was truly spectacular. I wondered if the emotions he’d siphoned off Troy last night gave him even more power than drinking blood did. If so, that made Benson doubly dangerous.

Benson didn’t waste any time trying to soothe Derrick like he had with Troy. Instead, he latched onto Derrick’s arm, dragged the other man up against him, and buried his fangs in his minion’s neck. The poor bastard didn’t even have time to scream.

One, two, three slurps later, Benson let Derrick drop to the dance floor—dead.

I’d seen vamps drink before, and I’d had a particular nasty one take more than a few bites out of me, but Benson’s strike was supremely surgical—quick, brutal, effective.

And surprisingly neat. Somehow he had managed to avoid getting so much as a single drop of blood on his pink shirt and white pants. But his eyes now gleamed an electric blue behind his glasses, as his body absorbed the blood, the life, he’d just taken. I waited, wondering if his body, his muscles, would expand the way they had in the garage last night, but his figure remained lean and gangly. Perhaps that only happened when Benson ripped out someone’s emotions, instead of just his blood.

Benson stepped over Derrick’s body and strolled back to the table. Silvio held out his chair, and the vamp dropped into the seat again. Silvio stepped back, and Benson picked up his Bloody Mary and drained the rest of the drink.

“Refreshing,” he murmured, setting the glass back down on the table.

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the liquor or the blood. I didn’t really want to know.

Benson plucked the celery stalk out of the glass. The sound of his teeth tearing into the crisp vegetable was even louder than Derrick’s gunshots had been. Benson took two more big bites of the celery before he dropped the leafy remains back into his glass.

Once again, he eyed me intently, that faraway look glazing his face, even as that invisible sandpaper scraped up against my skin. But I ignored the horrid sensation, pushed my anger down, and concentrated on remaining calm.

Benson blinked, his features cleared, and the blue glow in his eyes dimmed, as though he were disappointed by my lack of shock, surprise, and disgust.

“Please think about my terms, Gin. I would hate for your sister to share Derrick’s fate—or, worse, that of her informant.”

Behind the bar, Roslyn let out a strangled gasp. She knew exactly what happened to people who threatened my family. They ended up exactly like Derrick—or worse.

Usually worse.

Still, Roslyn was my family too, and I wasn’t about to risk her safety to try to take out Benson. Not while he was riding high on all the blood he’d ingested. Not when he was purposefully trying to bait me into attacking him. Not when he wanted me to make a move against him, probably so he could use his magic to suck out my emotions and complete his afternoon feast.

If there was one thing I was good at, it was waiting, and there would be plenty of time to kill Beauregard Benson later.

“I don’t speak for my sister,” I said. “Although I can imagine what she would say to your offer. Starts with F, ends with you. You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”

Benson gave me a thin smile, his teeth rimmed with pink from his drink and Derrick’s blood. “Perhaps you should have a chat with her, then. Consider it a suggestion between colleagues.”

“We are not colleagues,” I snarled.

He waved his hand. “Whatever label you want to put on it, then. Anyway, I’m afraid I must be going. I have another appointment to keep. But do think about what I said, Gin.”

Benson got to his feet and snapped his fingers. Silvio stepped forward and reached into his gray suit jacket. I tensed, but he only produced a business card, which he placed on the table between me and his boss.

“If you need to reach me, Silvio can pass along any message,” Benson said, bowing low to me again. “Good day, Gin. It was such a pleasure to meet you. And let me be the first to say that the legend of the Spider doesn’t disappoint in person.”

With a final, bland, polite nod, Benson strode off the dance floor, stepped over his own man’s dead body, and left Northern Aggression.

Silvio and the third man stopped long enough to grab Derrick’s arms, then dragged his corpse out of the club, following along behind their boss and the death he’d left in his wake.