Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(59)

“Is there an American working here, red hair like yours, but with tattoos on her forearm?” he asks. And the specific nature of that query creeps me out instantly. He’s come looking for me but is obviously a stranger, or else he would know that I’m the one he’s looking for. Someone told him to look for a redhead with tattoos; the cloak that the sisters put on them may have just saved me more than a minor annoyance at work.

“She’s not here yet but should be any minute,” I say, grabbing a bar napkin and placing it in front of him. “I can get you something while you wait.”

He looks uncertain, then lets loose with a sheepish snort and a grin. “I’m not much of a drinker.” His head turns to the man sitting at the bar next to him, enjoying a dessert that I wish I could find in the States. “What’s he having?”

“That’s beer pudding,” I tell him. “It’s outstanding. Shall I get you one?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Sure,” he says, and pulls up a seat next to the other customer, whose name is Maciej. He’s become my first regular, a metalhead with a scraggly blond beard and a studded leather jacket. Occasionally his head will bob up and down in time to some sick riff he has looping in his head. He thinks I’m of his tribe because I know who Yngwie Malmsteen is and can even name a few of his songs.

“What’s it taste like?” I hear the newcomer ask as I turn to punch in the order on the computer.

Maciej pauses to answer. I’m sure he’s considering something epic, because he’s given to excess when it comes to description. I’m expecting him to say, “It tastes like the sweet desperate cries of your enemy as you burn down his house and then dive headfirst into a lake of his tears,” but apparently he’s decided the posh man wouldn’t appreciate it. “It’s plum pudding cooked in stout, so you get a little bit of that chocolate malty flavor mixed in with the plum. Very good.”

“That was a nice description, Maciej,” I say, flashing him a smile as I grab a glass of water for the newcomer. Maciej’s eyes look a bit worried when they meet mine. He’s getting a bad vibe off the new guy too, and he didn’t give me away when I lied about some other American girl with tattoos working here. Maciej had asked me where the tattoos went when he came in tonight, and I told him they were concealed because I was getting too much unwelcome attention from them. He hadn’t thought that would be possible—tattoos were a good thing!—but now he understands perfectly.

I use the noise of scooping ice to cover the fact that I’m casting magical sight under my breath. I don’t have a store of energy on me at the moment, but it’s not a high-energy binding, so I figure it’s worth taking the dip in my own reserves to figure out what I’m dealing with.

Maciej has a multicolored aura that suggests a preoccupation with sex and violence underneath a thick film of loneliness. Nothing surprising there. The handsome newcomer, however, has a dull gray aura with two pinpoints of red: one in his torso and one in his head. Which means he’s a vampire. And he has exactly one day to get out of Poland for good. The treaty we signed with Leif Helgarson in Rome states that starting tomorrow I can unbind any vampires I find in Poland on sight.

I place the water down in front of him, already knowing he won’t touch it or the beer pudding he ordered either. “What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask him.

“Bartosz.”

“I like it. Can I call you Bartosz with the Good Hair?”

He looks helpless at my question. He’s obviously not a Beyoncé fan, which means he’s out of step with most of the world. But I’ve seen that expression before: It’s exactly what Leif Helgarson looks like when he doesn’t understand what young people of today are talking about. Bartosz is from another era. “If you wish,” he says, waving slim fingers to dismiss something unimportant. “What did you say the name of your co-worker is?”

“I didn’t. What do you need from her, if you don’t even know her name?”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. “I am merely a messenger. I’m supposed to give this letter to the redheaded American with tattoos on her forearm.”

He places it on the bar: classy linen stationery in an ivory cream, not addressed to anyone. “Oh. Well,” I say, adopting what I hope is a casual, helpful tone, “I can give it to her if you want, no problem at all, if you’re in a hurry.”

“A kind offer. And what is your name?”

I don’t want to give him my real name or my current alias either, so I make one up: “I’m Delilah.”

“Delilah. Excellent. Delilah, please look at me.” I do, and he immediately uses eye contact to attempt to charm me. I know what he’s up to, because the cold iron talisman resting out of sight beneath my shirt presses against my chest, warding off this direct attack. And I do consider charms an attack, something I’ve discussed at length with the sisters: They’re a subversion of the will, a mental assault, no matter how benign they’re supposed to be.

“If I give this letter into your care, you will be sure to give it to your co-worker as soon as she arrives, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, and nod for good measure, doing my best to play along and sound dazed. But I mess up somehow, because he doesn’t believe me. His head tilts to the side and he frowns.