Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [64]
There was a line outside the door. Although humans hadn’t been allowed in the House, Tate hadn’t extended the ban to the bars. Colin and Sean had gotten creative, installing neon signs above the door to help visitors keep track. Tonight, the HUMANS and CADOGAN lights were lit, which meant vamps from Navarre or Grey were out of luck.
The human part was fine by me, as it would help us accomplish part one of my Temple Bar Infiltration Plan, or T-BIP. Unfortunately, the ban on Grey and Navarre vamps wasn’t going to help. I’d hoped I could use the night to get info from the other Houses about the raves and drugs. Oh, well. Jonah could get me into Grey House. As for Navarre, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
Christine, Lindsey, and I sauntered in like we owned the place, then stood in the front of the bar for a moment . . . to see and be seen.
I took a moment to appreciate the locale. Temple Bar was practically a shrine to the Cubs, my favorite sports team. The walls were lined with uniforms and pennants, and Cubs memorabilia covered every free spot in the bar. The bar was run by two redheaded vampires, also brothers, Sean and Colin. They kept all things Irish and Cubbie alive and well in Wrigleyville.
“First stop in T-BIP,” I told my accomplices, “identifying humans who might have gotten an invite to a once or future rave so we can identify the host.”
“Or hostess,” Lindsey added. “Let’s not forget the Celina possibility.”
“Can we please stop calling it T-BIP?” Christine put in. “I get that you enjoy acronyms, but that sounds ridiculous.”
“Unfortch,” Lindsey said, “I have to agree. Unless the acronym is a helluva lot more rugged. Like ‘DANGER’ or ‘KILLFACE’ or ‘STUN GUN’ or something.”
I slid her a questioning glance. “And what, exactly, would ‘DANGER’ stand for?”
“Um.” She looked up at the ceiling while she made up an answer. “‘Dedicated, angsty Novitiate girls examining risk’? Or maybe, ‘drugs are never good entertainment, right?’”
“Lame,” I muttered.
“Aw, sadface. I came up with that totally off the cuff. No props for off the cuff?”
“Ladies,” Christine said, holding up a hand. “Let’s act our ages and stay on target.”
Lindsey and I exchanged a guilty glance. I’m honest enough to admit that sarcasm and silliness were my preferred methods of dealing with stress. But I had a lot of it, and it wasn’t like I could just break out a Mallocake mid-katana-fight.
Coolly, Christine surveyed the crowd like a lion eyeing a herd of water buffalo—dedicated to finding the weakest link. We figured any humans at a vamp bar were more likely to remember a socialite turned vampire and trust her with their vamp-party information.
“There,” she finally said, pointing with a carefully manicured finger to a couple of human guys in fraternity shirts who, by the look of the empty pitcher on their table, had already done some imbibing.
“I start there,” she said, then sauntered across the room toward her unsuspecting victims. The guys’ heads lifted as she neared them, their eyes going a little glazy, although I wasn’t sure if that was because the two of them had finished a pitcher or because she was throwing out some serious glamour.
“Strong Psych?” I asked Lindsey. That was the measure for a vamp with a lot of glamouring capability.
“Nope,” Lindsey said. “Those dopey expressions are one hundred percent about her lovely lady lumps.”
If so, those lumps were proven winners; one of the boys hopped up and offered Christine a chair. She took it, demurely crossing one leg over another, then leaning forward to chat with the boys. If they had any pertinent information, I had no doubt she’d ferret it out.
“She is surprisingly good at this,” I said, glancing over at Lindsey. “Is Luc interviewing her for a job?”
“I’m not sure she works,” Lindsey said. “She’s more the trust fund type—which comes in very handy in situations like this. On the other hand, no complaining if we start having dinner in the Dash Dupree Memorial Cafeteria a decade from now.