Page 24 of Perfectly Perfect Pixie

“Johnny,” I sighed, “I do not think Alpha Voss will be pleased to know you intend to get his mate rip-roaring drunk.” Honeysuckle mead was a pixie delicacy, one of the few alcoholic beverages we didn’t regularly carry, mostly because few, if any, pixies brightened Dusk’s doors. As a general rule, Dusk didn’t discriminate toward pixies, but my bar wasn’t their typical venue. Pixies liked dancing, but their version entailed a lot of flying, and with pixies, flying meant dust.

Few other patrons could stand pixie dust, and a room full of it would make the bar inhabitable for others to enjoy. For that reason, pixie bars were a business apart from others. They tended to congregate together. I’d been to a few pixie bars over the years, and their atmosphere was distinctly brighter than what Dusk offered.

Slapping a hand on the counter, Johnny’s grin didn’t diminish. “Then Sedrick needs to lighten up. This is some damn fine mead, and Phil and Peaches are gonna love it.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I offered Johnny a grateful, if slight, grin. “As always, your consideration is appreciated.”

Johnny smiled wide enough to show teeth. The stomp of his hoof was loud, and his laughter jubilant. “I can’t wait to see Phil’s face when he takes a sip of this. I doubt he’s even tasted honeysuckle mead before.”

Most likely, Johnny was right. Good honeysuckle mead was expensive.

“Again, thank you for your consideration, Johnny. I appreciate your—”

“Lucroy.” Leon’s toneless inquiry stopped further comment. That flat voice rarely meant anything good.

When I turned, Leon’s paler-than-usual skin met my vision. Leon’s body was still, not even bothering to take an unneeded breath.

“Leon, what—”

My words abruptly stopped when I glimpsed the distinctly unwelcome envelope clutched within Leon’s fingers. The gold filigree edges caught in the overhead lighting, glinting with malice.

“Come,” I ordered, leading Leon to my quiet corner booth. The evening was too young for Dusk to be busy, and only a few lone stragglers sat at the bar. The music was turned down lower than it would be later this evening. Privacy was still available.

Neither Leon nor I sat. Instead, we stood next to the booth. I held out my hand, and Leon dutifully handed over the toxic piece of paper insult. The seal was still in place, just as I knew it would be. Leon didn’t need to read what was inside to know who it was from. Only the vampire council would send something this gaudy and ostentatious out.

Breaking the seal, my eyes narrowed to the equally dramatic script. Vampires had come into the modern age just like all other species, but we clung to some traditions, especially the oldest of us. And the oldest of vampires tended to belong to the council.

I hissed, lips curling back and exposing fangs.

“Lucroy?” Leon’s voice was still devoid of tone. “Are they coming?”

Closing my eyes, I willed my body to stillness. It was unbecoming to be emotionally reactive. Pulling on every ounce of control age lent me, I forced back my instinctual change. With precision, I refolded the carded envelope, lining up its golden decoration and sealing it closed, as if that would negate the words written inside.

Inhaling, I filled my lungs with enough air to speak. “Not yet, but I am under investigation.” I was proud of how reasonable I sounded.

Leon struggled to do the same. “For what? What in the hell would they have to investigate you about?”

“Apparently,someonefound an issue with the werewolf I slew at the Voss custody hearing and has petitioned the council to look into the matter.”

It was Leon’s turn to hiss. “That wolf threatened Peaches. He was going to kill him as a distraction to a lawful werewolf challenge.” Leon hadn’t been there. He only had my word regarding what happened. Regardless, my second had never doubted my version of the tale.

“I doubt the council shares our concern regarding pixie health.” I raised an eyebrow while mulling over the issue. “They may not see my actions as justified.”

“Alpha Belview.” Arie’s name garbled through Leon’s elongated fangs. “He’s the one that’s petitioned the council. He has to be.”

“Most likely,” I readily agreed. “If it wasn’t him directly, then I’m sure the council will consult with Alpha Belview, and his version of events will be . . . distinctly not in my favor. Even if Arie does do the unexpected and speak the truth, I doubt the council will look at my actions fondly.”

Leon’s black eyes twitched, flicking back and forth with thought. Finally, he asked, “What do we do?”

I shrugged. “What can we do? It is the vampire council. They will reach their own conclusions and make their own decisions. At most, they could force me to make restitution to Arie Belview. It would need to be monetary as there was not enough of the werewolf leftover for zombie resurrection.”

Unable to fully school his features, Leon jerked back. “You think Arie would have stooped that low if there had been enough of him left?”

“I have no doubt,” I easily answered. “Arie Belview enjoys power, even if it isn’t consensual in nature.”

Most species considered zombies a tragedy. They were a fate worse than death. The human penal system regularly used zombieism as a sentence. The worst of the worst unfortunate souls were sentenced to this less-than-ambitious fate. Companies like Muriel’s Zombie Cleaning Service recruited these fresh zombies, placing them into servitude, their actions licensed under a sole master. Zombies were forced to do the most menial of labor—those tasks no other wanted to do. The cost was minimal, given that zombies required no paycheck beyond brain tissue. They were housed together in large groups of constant wandering, bumping into each other in cramped quarters, and only allowed out to work.

As I said, a zombie’s fate was worse than death.

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