ELEVEN
Benedict didn’t quite know what to expect when Oz invited him for dinner, but it wasn’t … this.
The dark wooden beams and dingy interior of this place were honestly more Benedict’s speed than some of the splashier spaces around Kateria, but it almost looked like it was falling to pieces. Some of the patrons seemed similar, and Benedict couldn’t deny that he felt almost nervous as they walked through the crowded dining area, past scarred and battle-worn aliens clinking tankards around wooden tables.
“Where are we?” he whispered to Oz as they took up seats at the bar—also wooden, also worn with age and spilled drinks.
“The pub,” Oz replied, right before the bartender swooped in with a gappy smile and a hug. Oz practically squeaked as he was squished—and he did squish, right out of the bartender’s arms, before resolidifying.
Benedict had half a second to contemplate how weird it must be to be a shapeshifter before the bartender flipped a hand through Oz’s hair, cooing, “Ozzie, sugar baby, where ya been! It’s been too long since we saw the likes of you down here.”
Benedict wanted to tell her to get her paws off Oz, but the growl building at the back of his throat made it difficult.
Oz coughed into his hand, saying, “Yeah, sorry. Things have been busy.”
“Oh, I get it.” The bartender leaned back, putting her hands—all six of them—on her generous hips. “You’re too busy serving up fancy cocktails to the hoity-toity at Savor.”
“Saveur,” Benedict corrected, but he was ignored.
Oz deadpanned at her. “Hardly. We’ve been trying to sort out the whole La-Chef-is-dead thing.”
“Huh.” She looked distinctly unimpressed. Then she leaned over the bar, letting her chin rest in one of her hands. “You solve anything yet? Some of the suppliers won’t talk to us no more, we keep running out of shit.”
“Wait,” Benedict said, glancing around. “This is another of my aunt’s restaurants?”
The bartender snorted. “If you can call it that.” Then she did a double-take at him, gaze raking over him. “Your aunt ?”
“Mig, meet Benedict. Our new boss.”
Benedict wanted to protest that title—he didn’t think of himself as the kind of guy who was in charge, and even if he had been, he would have liked to be more like … a leader or even someone like Abbot Bartholomew, who was mousy but wise.
Mig’s eyes—all eight of them—widened. “The boss-man, huh? I got a bone to pick with you.”
Benedict shrank back at bit; he wasn’t entirely sure where Mig hailed from or her ancestry, but she was an imposing creature. “Do you now?” he asked, hoping for a smile. “We’ve only just met?—”
“Is it your first day on the job?” she asked, leaning over the bar, so that they were almost nose to nose.
“Well. No, but?—”
She jammed a finger against his nose. “Then you got a lot to do. Things have been going to shit around here. Suppliers won’t supply, and that piece of shit bean-counter won’t issue any statements! Everyone’s goin’ rangy, not knowing where they stand. We’ve had some runners.”
“Runners?”
Oz sighed. “Workers … who run away.”
“Oh.” Benedict stared at him. “Can’t they just quit?”
Mig barked a surprised laugh, and Oz just stared at him. Finally, the Vetruvian said, “No. No, they can’t, because they’re slaves, Benedict.”
“Oh.” Benedict felt like someone had punched the air out of him. “Right.” He looked at Mig. “Are you …”
She folded four of her arms and huffed. “What do you think?”
“I think you would have run if you were,” Benedict told her. “You don’t seem like the type to let an opportunity like that pass you by.”
The corners of Mig’s mouth twitched, like she didn’t want him to see her smile. “Save your butter for your bread, hun,” she told him. “I stuck around because not everyone’s brave enough. Someone’s gotta keep the lambs safe from the wolves that are knocking at the door.”
“Wolves?” Benedict hadn’t seen any wolves on Kateria—nor had he seen any lambs, now that he thought about it.
“Figure of speech,” Oz said. “Guys like Vito.”
Mig’s shoulders went back, and she straightened up. “Yeah,” she growled, “like that asshole.”
Something in her tone made Benedict’s ears prick forward. “He’s been around then?” he asked.
Mig’s lips curled up, revealing fangs. “Yeah, he’s been sniffing ’round here, the creep. I had to kick a buncha his goons out the other day, they were acting like they owned the place.”
Benedict shared a glance with Oz. “Like they owned it?”
“Yeah,” Mig snorted. “Coming back here behind the bar, getting whatever they wanted, kicking other patrons out, harassing the staff.”
Benedict glanced at Oz again, who nodded. He was thinking the same thing then—whatever Aunt Belladonna owed Vito, it was big . Big enough that she might lose her businesses over it.
Benedict’s throat closed up. He didn’t like what his aunt did, and he’d been thinking about closing it all down anyway, but he couldn’t stand the thought that someone like Vito would take it over, take it away from him. First and foremost, it was his—the legacy his aunt had left him, however bloodstained and marred.
And second, he could guarantee a guy like Vito wouldn’t close things down and let the slaves go free—or even pay them living wages.
Benedict couldn’t lose the businesses. He had to find out what his aunt owed Vito, and he had to do it soon. They’d already wasted almost a week trying to sort out her ledgers and find any clues about what she owed Vito.
He tightened his grip on the wood of the bar, letting his claws dig into it.
“That’s good to know,” Oz said. “We’ll keep an eye out for him around Saveur. You let us know if he comes sniffing back around here, yeah? Farq’s working on new security.”
“Huh,” Mig snorted. “Farq can’t find his way out of a wet paper bag.”
“He knows security better than me or Benedict,” Oz said, which was fairly gracious of him.
That seemed to satisfy Mig, who said, “We’ll let you know if there’s any trouble. And you tell me if that slimeball gives you trouble, yeah? La Chef wasn’t the only one with networks.”
The warmth of Oz’s smile shook Benedict from his stupor, and he had to swallow another growl. He didn’t want Oz to look at Mig like that. He didn’t want Oz to look at anyone like that.
“To tell the truth,” Oz was saying, “we just stopped in for a bite before I take the boss up to Saveur, so he can see how that runs?—”
Mig grunted but handed them menus anyway. “I’ll get ya a couple of pints,” she said, turning away, and Benedict let himself sink back below the surface, deeper into his thoughts.
He didn’t have long to think on it, because they ended up at Saveur again after that. Benedict still didn’t love the host club, with its low lights, flickering various colors, glinting off the shiny uniforms of the hosts. It looked like an old ad he’d seen when he was a child, probably for some bar or lounge now that he thought about it. At the time, it had seemed glamorous, all moody and neon, but now it seemed … cheap.
Maybe that was because he knew what went on here now. He stood surreptitiously behind the bar, watching Shakes as she greeted patrons at the door with a broad smile and a wave of her hand. Then she led them across the dining room floor, the lights glinting off her shoes, the sequins on the tight bodysuit she wore, the sheer tights that encased her shapely legs, all of it accentuating the petite alien’s curves.
He glanced at one of the occupied tables, spying Sassa leaned over, her cleavage nearly spilling out of her top, her tail flicking high above her, curling like she was particularly pleased.
In another dark corner was one of the other hosts, Nzx. They were a blue-green alien with eyes similar to Benedict’s own. Right now, their luminous gaze was fixed on their patron—a rotund alien who had a cigar clamped between stubby, stained teeth. He looked like every bad stereotype of a businessman Benedict had ever seen—not that he’d seen many. He vaguely recalled watching cartoons on a TV with Aunt Belladonna, before she’d sent him to the monastery. TV wasn’t something the monks indulged in. They didn’t even have electricity at the abbey.
Across the room was yet another host—Arden, Benedict thought—who was perched in the booth beside the patron, laughing lightly. The smile on the host’s face seemed genuine; the laughter wasn’t forced. Almost like Arden actually … enjoyed this.
Benedict had to say, his own shift the other night hadn’t been … terrible. Yes, there had been some untoward comments, some leers, and he got the strangest sense the clientele was of the same ilk his aunt had apparently been, which made his skin itch. He was tempted to close the place down, throw them all out—let them go find their kicks somewhere else, but not under his roof.
But he looked at Arden again, at Nzx now running their hand up and down their patron’s arm, and something in him quailed.
Where would his hosts go if he shut everything down? What would they do?
He supposed they’d find other jobs. Perhaps other jobs under other employers who were worse. He’d definitely passed a couple of strip clubs and brothels while he’d been bumbling around trying to find a supermarket the other day.
A thump beside him drew his attention back to the bar. Oz peered up at him. “Are you gonna stand there and gawp all night, or are you going to get out of my way?” the barkeep asked, and Benedict glanced around to find he was parked pretty much right in front of the taps. Oz nudged him with an elbow, and Benedict stumbled to his left, sputtering an apology.
Oz shrugged, and Benedict watched the shapeshifter for a second or two, turning his worry for his employees on Oz, then slowly forgetting it as he watched the Vetruvian shapeshift into a veritable octopus so he could better sling drinks.
He must have heard Benedict’s breath hitch, because he glanced over his shoulder, one brow quirked. Benedict looked away hastily, busying himself with looking for … something.
He came up with another one of those skimpy host costumes, like the one he’d donned the night before. Swallowing his pride, he shed his shirt, then pulled the collar and the bow tie around his neck, and finally buttoned the cufflinks.
He didn’t miss how Oz paused ever-so-slightly, then dropped his gaze and picked up his pace. Nor did he miss the burnished color of the bartender’s skin under the low lights.
He was … blushing, Benedict realized slowly, brow furrowing.
“Heya boss-man!” Shakes almost shouted in his ear as she strolled up. “Oh, are you waiting tables tonight?”
“Er,” he said eloquently.
She didn’t wait for more. Instead, she slung an arm around his shoulders and pointed across the room. “Table Three—they’re a coupla regulars, nice and pretty easy-going. Good tippers too.” She winked.
“He doesn’t care about tips,” Oz grumbled, pushing a tray of drinks toward the tiny hostess, without spilling a drop.
“Oh yeah,” she said brightly. “You’re the boss and all!”
“Yes,” Benedict agreed, wondering why the boss was waiting tables in a host club. Then again, there was nothing wrong with the work, he supposed. If Shakes and the others could do it, then so could he.
With that thought, he picked up a tray and headed across the dining room toward Table Three.
He plastered on his best smile, noting he was under scrutiny as he approached. The three aliens watched—one with wary eyes, one with an unreadable expression, and one with something that approximated appreciation.
“Good evening,” he said, placing the tray down. The drinks were all the same, he realized with relief. He didn’t need to sort out who had ordered what, so he simply passed them out. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“Mostly,” said the easy-going one with the smile. The other two remained silent, picking up their drinks and sipping.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Benedict replied, finding he meant it. He wrung his paws together, suddenly nervous. He supposed he needed people to like the business if he was going to keep the lights on. “Is there anything we can do to improve your evening?”
He hated the words the second they were out of his mouth, realizing with horror exactly what they sounded like.
Good Heavens, was this place corrupting him?
That got some laughter from his table, and the smiley alien leaned forward, their smile turning to a smirk. “As a matter of fact,” they said, their voice going low.
Panic knotted itself in Benedict’s gut, and he felt his eyes widen. “Well,” he started, then jumped when the alien grabbed his hand, twining their fingers. It took everything he had not to jerk away.
The alien looked up at him with imploring eyes, and he opened his mouth to stutter some apology, but the alien said, “Join us for karaoke?”
“O-oh,” Benedict said, slowly withdrawing his paw and waiting for his pounding heart to calm. “Um. I’m a terrible singer, I really?—”
“Can’t be any worse than Shakes,” said the stoic alien, tipping up their glass and downing the entire drink. They slammed the glass back on the table. “Another?”
“S-sure,” Benedict choked out, then whipped around and marched himself back to the bar. He felt like he was going to melt.
Oz quirked a brow at him. “Something happen?” he asked.
Benedict shook his head, glancing surreptitiously at the table. “No,” he murmured. “They asked me to sing.”
Oz blinked, then ducked down to fish out another martini glass. “No surprise there,” he said. “They’re in here pretty much once a week for the karaoke bar.”
“Right,” Benedict said.
Oz gave him another curious glance, then shrugged and finished fixing the drink. Benedict reached for the stem at the same time the bartender lifted it to place it on a tray, letting their fingers brush together.
An electric thrill raced down Benedict’s spine, and his pulse ratcheted back up. He grabbed the tray and whirled around, nearly spilling alcohol everywhere.
He marched back to Table Three, now caught between two panic-inducing situations: karaoke with three aliens and dealing with Oz.
He wasn’t sure why Oz made his chest tight and his head light. He should have been comforting, a welcome relief to dealing with the unknown.
He took a breath and handed the glass to Mr. Stoic. “So,” he said, smiling. “Karaoke?”
Mr. Smiley tilted his head. “Sure, sugar, but you need a drink first.”
“Right. Of course.” He did absolutely need a drink, but he didn’t know that he should have one.
He went back to the bar. Oz quirked that eyebrow at him again, and he nearly choked on his own heartbeat. “Drink,” he stammered. “For—for me.”
Oz frowned. “Okay,” he said slowly, reaching for a glass.
Benedict glanced back at his table. “Uh—can you make it … not alcoholic?”
Oz gave him a sardonic look. “Of course,” he said. “The hosts always get virgin drinks.”
The word virgin rang around in Benedict’s ears, making him blush. “Right,” he said, leaning on the bar, trying to look casual. Maybe it would help him relax. “Of course. That makes sense.”
Oz continued looking at him, even as he slowly began to mix the drink. Benedict grabbed it from him before he was done and downed it. “There,” he said.
“You’re supposed to drink it at the table,” Oz said slowly. “With the patrons.”
“Ah,” Benedict started, but Oz was already mixing a second.
“Thank stars they’re not alcoholic,” the bartender muttered, sliding the glass to him. “You don’t need any booze—you’re already a wreck.”
Benedict bit his tongue, turned on his toes, and sauntered back to the table.
By the time he got there, his patrons had finished their drinks, so he had to go back to the bar.
Finally, they moved to the curtained off room where the karaoke machine and stage was located. Mr. Smiley fiddled around with the machine, and, surprising Benedict, Mr. Stoic took the mic first.
Three minutes and one surprisingly heartfelt rendition of a power ballad later, Mr. Smiley took the stage. Mr. Stoic indicated his empty glass as he sat back down, and Benedict grinned nervously, then darted back to the bar.
And so the evening went, song after song, drink after drink, until, some time in the wee hours, Mr. Stoic, now sloshed, grabbed Benedict by the ears and dragged him into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, much to the hooting and hollering of the other two.
And then there was a crash, and Mr. Stoic pulled back—or, rather, Benedict was ripped away. He was pretty sure his ears nearly came off his head. A strong hand was wrapped around his wrist, and whoever had a hold of him dragged him back beyond the curtain, into the dining room. They whirled him around, practically slamming him into a wall.
Dazed, head spinning like he had been pounding back shots all night, he looked down and stared at Oz, who glared up at him, barely contained rage roiling in his eyes.
Benedict’s heart skipped a beat or two. “You,” he started.
“You’re not supposed to kiss the patrons,” Oz ground out, and Benedict wanted to protest—Mr. Stoic had kissed him , he’d seen Nzx kiss someone, he was a monk and wasn’t supposed to kiss anyone at all—but the Vetruvian turned around and marched off, leaving Benedict with a tingling wrist and a lot of burning questions.