I turned to Roman. “I should get home now. This is one hell of a situation. We’re all having a hard time dealing with it. And after today . . . I’m afraid I’m beginning to lose some of my hope.”
“I have feelers out on the missing and presumed dead. We’ll see what we can find out. But I’m pretty sure nobody on that list was away on vacation. Let’s just hope some were caught at friends’ houses and had to sleep there through the day instead of returning to their apartments.” He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on my lips. “Go now, my love. I am going to talk to Mother, and I’ll be back in a night or so. Give Nerissa my best.”
And with that, he turned away and headed back to his office. I gathered my coat and checked out at the front desk. It was close to eleven thirty and I had a lot to do.
*
I had no sooner started my Mustang when my cell phone rang. A glance at the Caller ID told me it was Derrick, the bartender in charge of the Wayfarer. The bar had first been my cover when I came over from Otherworld, and now I owned it outright. I punched the speaker.
“Go ahead.”
Derrick was a brusque man—werebadger, really—and he was never offended with my lack of chitchat. “Boss, you need to get down here now. We have a situation.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I hated it when people *footed around.
“We’ve got a group of the Earthborn Brethren in here stirring up trouble. I’ve asked them to leave, but they have a few bikers from the Freedom’s Angels with them and I’m afraid things are at a standoff right now.” Derrick was whispering, so I knew that it had to be bad.
“I’m on my way. Hold them at bay as long as you can and please, please don’t let them tear up the joint. But if it looks like they’re going to start tossing things or people around, clear the place—that’s top priority. People’s safety. Capiche?”
“Capiche, boss.” He hung up and I gunned the engine and headed toward the bar. Along the way, I put in a call to Delilah. “I just talked to Derrick. Big bad going down at the bar. Hate group there, looking for trouble. Can you and the guys meet me there?”
“Camille and Smoky left for the Dragon Reaches, but the rest of us will be there as soon as we can.” The line went dead and I focused on driving.
By the time I reached the Wayfarer, I could see that there was, indeed, a problem. Outside the bar, a large group of people were picketing. They were dressed in long, navy robes, hoods pulled over their faces, and they were carrying signs that ranged from mild insults to inciting hate crimes.
FAGGOT VAMPS DIE.
NO SUPE RIGHTS!
GO HOME, FAE FUCKERS!
THE ONLY GOOD VAMP IS A DEAD VAMP!
BLOODSUCKERS, ROT IN HELL!
I screeched into a parking spot that contained several motorcycles I recognized as belonging to the the Freedom’s Angels, knocking them over like a stack of dominoes with my car. Smiling grimly, I leaped out of the car and headed toward the door. Two of the picketers tried to stop me and I bared my fangs, my eyes turning crimson with bloodlust. I hissed at them, deciding to let them know just who they were dealing with. Reaching out, I placed a hand on each of their shoulders and shoved as hard as I could. The two men let out shouts as they went flying back, knocking down several of their buddies as they slammed into the brick wall of my bar.
“You really want to make trouble in my bar, boys?” I headed for the door as the rest of them backed away from me. “That’s right, let Mama through or you’re going to fucking wish to hell you’d stayed home watching reruns of What Not to Wear. Because, dudes, you have some serious fashion faux pas going on.” As I finished my little speech, I slammed through the door, almost knocking it off the hinges.
As I entered the bar, I took in the situation with a single glance. Derrick was standing in front of the bar, holding one of the two sawed-off shotguns we kept behind the counter. Digger—a vampire and one of my bartenders—was standing on the bar behind him, holding the other shotgun. Around the room, the customers were backed up into the booths and corners, while a group of about fifteen of the Brethren and FAs had spread out, some of them carrying crowbars and baseball bats. The bikers were dressed in leathers, the Brethren in their hoodie robes.
I moved to stand between Derrick and the front of the group. “Whatcha doing, boys? You might want to put down those batons of yours before somebody—and by somebody, I am referring to you—gets hurt. And by hurt, I am referring to being beaten to a bloody pulp.”
The leader of the group, or at least he seemed to be the leader, stepped forward a half step. I hissed, showing him my fangs, and he retreated again. “We don’t want your kind in our city.”