“And stuff,” he repeated with a slight smile. He waited a moment, then said, “Well, even working women need food. Are you ready?”
“Yep. Do you have the key?”
He stood, then pulled the key out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was still warm from his body, and she was tempted yet again to ask him about vampire body temperatures. But something about the night didn’t invite intimate questions like that. Or maybe the opposite was true—the night was already far too intimate and she didn’t want to go there.
She walked back to lock the door, then returned and held the key out to him.
“You keep it,” he said. “In a little over an hour, you and that door will be the only things standing between me and sudden death. I’d rather you have the key.”
Lana blinked in surprise as she digested what he was saying. She’d known all along that he would sleep during the daylight hours, but now that the time was upon them, it frightened her a little. She really would be his only line of defense.
“Don’t worry, querida,” he said, tugging at the braid that still lay across her breast. “I’ve stayed with Marisol many times over the years. We’re among friends.”
“How long’s it been?” she asked suddenly.
“How long’s what been?”
“Since you’ve stayed here,” she said, then felt her face heat as she rushed to explain. “I only mean that things have changed in Mexico over the last few years. Places that were once safe might not be anymore.”
“You’re right. But Marisol is well connected and, frankly, so am I. The forces behind the recent violence, what your government calls TCOs—”
“TransNational Criminal Organizations,” Lana provided, her brain already conjuring up conspiracies between vampires and the cartels who controlled most of Mexico.
“Yes, exactly. They enjoy what you might call a detente with the vampire community. They don’t touch what’s ours—people or businesses—and we don’t rip the beating hearts from their chests.”
Lana frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not a bit,” he assured her.
“So, you do business with the narcos?”
“Not me personally, and none of my people either. But I can’t account for everyone else. That’s Enrique’s job.”
Lana found that barely reassuring. But since she wasn’t here to go into business with Enrique or even Vincent, she let it go. Once this job was over, she’d go back to Arizona and probably never see Vincent again. That should have made her happy, but it didn’t. And since she didn’t want to examine why it didn’t, she let that go, too.
“If we only have an hour until sunrise,” she said, changing the subject, “we should get going.”
“By all means.” He gestured down the curving walkway, then fell into step beside her. As they came around the low building separating them from the main cantina, the mellow sound of guitar music began to drift around them.
“Is that the guitarist you talked about?” she asked in surprise. “Is he still playing?”
“His name’s Chencho, and that is his music, but it’s a recording.”
“How can you tell?”
“For one thing, he never plays this late. For another, the sound is too cold. That’s a CD. An LP would sound better.”
“LP. You mean an actual vinyl record? They were all scratchy and stuff. Digital sound is cleaner, it’s supposed to be nearly perfect.”
“It is, and some people prefer that. But art is human expression, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that humans are far from perfect.”
“But vampires are?”
“Are what? Perfect? Hell, no. Perfection is boring, Lana. Perfection is death.”
“You know, you never answered my second question,” she said thoughtfully, struck by his philosophical musings on the human condition.
“Which one’s that?” he asked, even though she was certain he remembered.