numbers, the man’s plate was clean and Damien had placed one in front of Craig. It was double the size of Alun’s and everything on it smelled delicious.
“Thanks, man.” He made a point of trying the bun first and he didn’t have to fake his delight. “Fantastic. Would you mind giving me the recipe?” he asked between bites. “I’ll see if I can sweet-talk my mama into making them for me.”
As he slid off his chair with his empty plate and utensils in hand, Alun smiled—not a big one, but genuine, to Craig’s way of thinking. “You don’t bake, then? Of course not, you’re a warrior.”
It was silly, but something about Alun referring to him in that medieval way made his chest puff up. “It’s not that. I would like to cook but my efforts have proved disastrous. It’s in everyone’s best interest if I stay out of the kitchen.”
Alun’s smile increased. “I’ll be happy to make them for you any time.” With that, he hurried to help Damien.
Craig grinned like a maniac, pleased with that small gesture of—dare he think—affection? An arm slung around his shoulders unexpectedly enough to make him jump.
Willem bared his teeth in a mockery of the smile that was now wiped off Craig’s face. “If you hurt him, we’ll rip out your throat.”
Craig only had to cough once to find his voice. Really, this was another good sign. These aliens were protective of Alun. He appreciated the threat, actually. “I hear you, man. You’ve got no worries on that account.”
With a nod and a pat, Willem stepped back. “Good. Eat up quickly. We’ve been doing some satellite recon of Dracul’s hidey-holes and have a meeting planned for right after breakfast. We could use another set of eyes and some brain power to plan our next move. We assume you’re here to help, not ogle.”
Serious now, Craig went into cop mode. “Damn right I am.”
Chapter Two
Craig felt as if he’d been welcomed into the inner sanctum of a star chamber—or perhaps the office of the head of the CIA or some other federal alphabet agency. The commanding alien, Alex, had outfitted his space with the best of everything, which included buttery-soft leather, shiny hardwood and a TV screen that nearly filled one entire wall. Val—the enforcer—as Craig thought of him—was hooking up his laptop so that he could display the images he’d taken from one of their nemesis’ bolt holes. The room was filled with the who’s who of alien warriors, plus Trey, Anderson, the sister who ran the bar—or used to when the club was open—and himself.
Oh, and the whole meeting was catered, as if they hadn’t all just eaten breakfast. One thing he understood about these creatures from another world was that they could pack away a lot of food. The head chef, Emil, piled platters on the spacious coffee table and handed out mugs of coffee. Craig accepted one with a smile of thanks because, under the circumstances, he needed any boost he could get. And there was always room for a freshly made chocolate croissant, although it didn’t hold a candle to the buns Alun had baked. That was his story anyway, and he was sticking to it.
Man, how did I get in so deep already?
Fortunately, that was a question for another time. As they waited for the show to start, two of the aliens—Malcolm and Christos, by Craig’s estimation—hustled a stranger member of their species in. It was someone Craig had never met, but he assumed it was the fabled Petru, who the rest had spoken of. His wrists were manacled in front of him and he was buck-naked. Craig took a moment to admire how generous God and the universe had been to this particular species before turning away. No one else seemed uncomfortable with the guy’s state of undress, not even the bartender.
The guards guided the creature to an empty chair and pushed him into it. “Keep your traitorous arse put.”
The guy beamed at the Scottish wannabe. “How can I not, given how delightfully soft it is?” He wiggled while he spoke. “I don’t suppose I could have some of that coffee?”
“Fuck no!”
The captive pouted over at the leader, who gestured toward the chef. Emil didn’t so much as sigh as he complied with the silent command. When he handed a mug to Petru, he got a smug smile.
“And perhaps a pastry?”
Emil’s expression turned sour. “Don’t push your luck, Petru. However much we all hated you a few days