Night Shift (Kate Daniels #6.5)(76)

Ian’s attention went to the bar. He swore. And worse, he stopped.

“What?”

He disengaged himself from me. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to our contact.”

“I’m going with you.”

“He’s undercover, so am I, and you’re not.” He indicated Mike, Steve, and Elana’s table and tuffets near ours. “Go. Stay. I’ll be right back.”

I grabbed my purse and scurried on over. “Psst, Elana.”

“What?”

“Go to the bathroom with me.”

“What?”

“I have to pee. Now. I’m not going anywhere by myself. Come with me.”

Steve stood. “We’re all going.”

Huh? “Won’t that look weird?”

The three of them just stared at me.

“Right.” Weird was relative in a place where people were getting cozy in groups all over the place. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”

We walked by Ian in a pack, and I mouthed “Bathroom.” My partner gave me a curt nod.

That Bacchanalia had clean bathrooms was an understatement.

I could see myself even in the surfaces that weren’t covered in mirrors. Mike and Steve stuck their heads in and determined that Elana and I would be the only people in here.

“We won’t let anyone in,” Steve assured me.

Mike glanced around nervously. “And hurry.” Standing outside a bathroom in a goblin sex club was bound to make a pair of elves nervous. That made all of us.

Elana snorted. “I’ll stay out here and protect your virtues,” she told them.

There were five stalls, and they were huge, polished black marble, and even more mirrors. At least half a dozen people could fit in here. I ignored everything that implied and was even more motivated to take care of business in record time.

I lined the seat with more toilet paper than I knew was necessary, but considering where I was, who had probably been in here, and what he, she, or they could have been using this Stall Mahal for . . . a little paranoia equaled a whole lot of peace of mind.

Besides, it was quiet in here, and while my headache from the first club had stopped pounding in time with the music, the music was softer in here, and as a result, so was the pounding. I wondered how long I could stay in here without Ian or the others coming to look for me. Probably not nearly long enough.

I unzipped my pants and froze. If the tables were bugged, then what would they have done to a room where women got naked from the waist down? There could be a camera filming me right now and posting live to YouTube. Or what if stall number three in the Bacchanalia ladies room had its own channel on Perv-Per-View?

The door handle clicked on the stall next to mine. Holy shit, someone was in here. They must have been standing on the toilet when Steve had checked for me. I heard the click of a lighter, and two blinks later I smelled it.

I debated what to do. I had no problem with two guys sneaking off to smoke a little weed, and they obviously didn’t care if I knew they were doing it or not, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to come out of the ladies’ room smelling like pot and sit down next to my new partner, a former NYPD detective who might still be looking for any excuse to get out of being my partner, even if it meant getting me fired from SPI.

I reached for the stall door, and the smoke really hit me.

It wasn’t pot. I knew from prior experience that one whiff of pot would fling open the doors to the mother superior of all migraines.

Instead the pounding in my head stopped. Completely.

I was awake and alert.

And I felt good. Damned good.

Any hesitation I’d felt about confronting the midnight tokers vanished just as fast as my headache.

I flung open the door on the next stall.

And stared. I think my mouth fell open.

It was two tall, skinny white guys—one in jeans, the other in khakis, both in Polos—and both were glamoured leprechauns.

I’ve been told I should never play poker. I can’t lie, and my emotions are all over my face.

The leprechauns instantly knew I knew.

I was in danger, my team was in danger, and the financial stability of the supernatural world’s entire banking system was in danger—all because these leprechauns and their friends wanted to get high and get lucky.

Before I’d gotten a snootful of that smoke, I’d have yelled for help.

Now I just wanted to pound the crap out of them.

A human stare could capture them. I couldn’t lock eyes with both of them at once, but there wasn’t a rule that said I couldn’t take them down the old-fashioned way.

They turned and scrambled for the door, but not before both of them blew smoke in my eyes, breaking my stare and burning my eyes.

Sons of bitches.

Half-blind, I launched myself toward the sound of scuffling loafers on tile, and grabbed a handful of whatever I could get—the belt of one, the waistband of the other. If they were gonna make a run for it, they’d have to drag me along with them.

I didn’t think the leprechauns would want to draw attention to themselves.

I was wrong.

They started screaming for help like a pair of stoned banshees.

“Rape!” squealed the one with my fist death-gripped in the waist of his khakis.