Dark Passions at Death's Door

7 - The Word Is...

The Crooner was a perfect hole-in-the-wall night club. It was a pretty wide-open place, two story, but the second story opened to the bottom. That allowed the center stage to be seen from above, showcasing the night’s singers.

The dance floor was in the center, and booths on the sides of both floors. VIP rooms were left in the second floor, but those were maintained for the nymphs.

It had decent side meals, and of course, it was Lorean friendly. Owned and operated by a few feys. Mortals who wandered in were often too trashed to even remember the place.

Those mortals that did catch a glimpse through the glamour would end up remembering more beauty than they would evil or insanity.

But they’d never be able to pinpoint exactly where it was. Unless you were a local, it was always the kind of story that started, “what was that one place with that girl/boy?”.

And the name would change. Just enough to make most folks go on wild goose chases elsewhere.

Byron hadn’t had that in his mortal life. In his immortality, he didn’t mind knowing what was under the surface.

One of the sirens was up tonight. Golden-haired, short, but lithe. Her ethereal beauty and her voice was being dimmed with glamour from a witches' spell, to ensure she couldn’t enthrall any mortals or immortals.

She’d just finished a set and was stepping down for a momentary breather.

Not that she needed it, but a few mortals were in. It was best to keep up appearances.

Someone accidentally bumped the jukebox. Johnny Cash’s “God’s Gonna Cut You Down” began beating out. A few various faces – he clocked two feys in particular – turned with repugnance at the jukebox, but since it was left in place for the mortals, touching it was forbidden.

For him, the music was perfect.

“Damn I love that one,” Byron sighed while he slid against the bar, nodding over to the tall brown-haired fey bartender.

Ardo slid him his regular. Two fingers of Scotch single malt, two ice cubes.

"Go tell that long tongue liar, Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler, The gambler
The back biter, Tell’em that God’s gonna cut’em down…"

Byron grinned. Now that’s a song for me to get with.

He scanned slowly. Koli was in a side booth on the first floor, tapping out rhythmically on the phone he’d gotten her. A cream-colored halter top and jeans clung to her curves, and she had a few studs in her ears. Her skin was cafe au lait and mocha mixed perfectly.

He took a single sip of the Scotch and slid in opposite her.

Koli looked up from the phone. Full lips turned down. “You’re late.”

Oh boy.

Really? She was going to give him that number tonight. Lord God and Grim, help him. He shrugged and threw up a hand.

“You didn’t give very specific directions.”

Koli set the phone down. The screen showed a message board that was Lorean-specific.

“You’re still late, Byron. And what’s this I hear? You’re talking with the mortals? Warning them off Pravus snares?”

Hm. Must’ve been a kobold wandering after Mike and the boys. He’d have to make some inquiries. Mike was good people. Hands off for the kobolds.

And why was Koli worried about Pravus? Were they making moves?

“Sorry,” he apologized sarcastically, “I figured our job was to blend. Not call attention to ourselves by murdering innocents.”