never been to Atlanta, and our quick taxi ride from the airport to the bar didn’t provide much opportunity for sightseeing. What I noticed most was how modern it was. It looked, well, it looked like a northern city, very high-tech, very efficient, very un-southern. I’d expected something like Savannah or Charleston, but I saw little that reminded me of either. I suppose if I’d considered my history first, I’d have known better than to expect much Old South in Atlanta. General Sherman took care of that.
The taxi drove us to a neighborhood best described as working-class, with row houses, postage-stamp-size lawns, and streets lined with ten-year-old cars. The driver pulled up in front of a bar sandwiched between an auto-supply store and a Laundromat. The sign on the door read LUCKY PETE’S BILLIARDS, but the BILLIARDS part had recently been stroked out.
Cassandra paid the driver, stepped from the car, looked at the bar, and shook her head. “Aaron, Aaron. Two hundred years old and you still haven’t developed an iota of taste.”
“Seems fine to me. Hey, look, the sign says Fridays are Ladies’ Night. Cheap beer after four. Is it past four?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I spotted Aaron on my first survey of the bar. I would say, with some certainty, most women would spot Aaron on their first survey of any bar. He’s at least six feet two, broad-shouldered, and tanned, with sandy blond hair and a ruggedly handsome face. Aaron sat at the end of the bar, engrossed in a beer and a cigarette, and ignoring the glances of a secretarial quartet behind him. As Cassandra approached, she took in his muddy work boots, worn jeans, and mortar-dust-coated T-shirt.
“How nice of you to dress up for me, Aaron,” she said.
“I just got off work. You’re damned lucky I even agreed—” He saw me and blinked
“This is—” Cassandra began.
“Paige,” Aaron said. “How’re you doing?”
“Good.” I slid onto the stool beside his. “How have you been?”
“Keeping out of trouble.” A quick grin. “Mostly. And watching my back a little better. Still damn embarrassing, getting kidnapped like that. Beer?”
“Please.”
He motioned to the bartender. “I won’t ask you, Cass. There’s nothing here you’d touch. Probably not even the patrons. Are you going to pull up a stool or just stand there?”
“This hardly seems the place for a private conversation,” she said, then wheeled and headed for a booth near the back.
Aaron shook his head. I ordered my beer and he took a refill on his. As he pushed aside his empty glass, he noticed his cigarette in the ashtray and stubbed it out.
“It’s not enough that I’m a vampire, I gotta kill people with secondhand smoke, too.” He pushed the ashtray up beside the empty beer glass. “I heard a rumor about you hooking up with the Cortez boy. That true?”
I nodded, took my beer from the bartender, and laid down a five. Aaron waved it back and exchanged his fresh beer for a ten, with a murmured “no change.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I owe you more than a cheap beer. Now, this Cortez, it’s Lucas, right? The youngest? Doesn’t work for the family?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s good, because someone was trying to tell me it was the next older one. You don’t wanna get mixed up with those Cabal guys. But, now, Cassandra said she wanted to talk about a Cabal situation, and since you’re here, I’m assuming you’re involved. But if you’re with Lucas, and he doesn’t work for the Cabals…”
“Let’s go sit with Cassandra and I’ll explain.”
I told Aaron the story. When I finished, he leaned back and shook his head.
“Fucking unbelievable. We need that kinda trouble like we need a stake through the heart. You find this loser, you make sure the Cabals know the rest of us had nothing to do with it.” He took a gulp of beer. “I guess you want to know whether I have any idea who might be behind it. I’m also guessing you’ve already checked out John and his gang.”
“John?” I said.
“John, Hans, whatever he’s calling himself today. You know who I mean, Cass.”
“Oh,” Cassandra said, lip curling. “Him.”
“Well, you’ve told Paige about him, right? His little anti-Cabal crusade?”
My head snapped up. “Anti-Cabal crusade?”
She frowned. “When did he start this?”
“Oh, only about a decade or so ago.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Aaron shook his head. “No, it’s just the first time you’ve heard it and paid attention.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Aaron turned to me. “Guy’s name is John, but he calls himself Hans;