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 wounds, 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, fear 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.