55 Birdie #2
Laughing, the mage claps his hands. The sound echoes around this oddly airy room.
The pile of people on the bed stirs as the masked man in the corner stops plucking his harp.
“My friend and I have some pressing business matters to discuss,” he calls to the room.
“All of you, leave now.” The last two words are laced with magic.
Even I fight the urge to flee at his command.
The only thing holding me still are Dáinn’s and Jasper’s hands on my arms.
Baz turns to Clarence and snaps his fingers, disappearing the ball gag and the wildly restrictive cock cage. “Yes, even you, pet. Kiss first.”
Clarence tenderly kisses the mage. Baz pats his bare ass, watching as his lover leaves in a flash. I flinch, swallowing my surprise at how quickly he moves. “What is he?” I whisper at Dáinn.
“Vampire.”
Right. Thick fangs, inhuman speed, lust for blood. Should have guessed that one.
The other play partners are slower to exit, filing out in a quiet line.
With the final click of the door, I’m left in this room with only Jasper, Dáinn, and the mage.
Almost as soon as the door shuts, Baz snaps his fingers and everything spins.
I’m left clinging to Dáinn as a new room is revealed.
The fantasy brothel has been replaced by a speakeasy bar, all red leather, crystal decanters, and soft golden light. A jazz quartet plays in the corner.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” Jasper presses both hands to his chest.
I take him in with wide eyes. His T-shirt and jeans have been replaced with fitted black pants, a white collared shirt with the sleeves cuffed, and a pair of black suspenders.
His hair looks shiny, slicked back with pomade.
The mage left the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw.
I bet I look like a cartoon bunny with her mouth hanging open and hearts in her eyes.
Snapping my mouth shut, I turn to Dáinn. Oh my—okay, this is just unfair. His curly hair is pulled back in a low bun, and he now wears a tailored black suit worn with the jacket open, no tie. He looks to me, eyes wide with wonder. “Birdie, you look . . .”
I glance down at myself and have to blink twice.
I’m wearing a rose gold sequined flapper dress.
Only the straps on my shoulders are barely there, and the “V” of the dress plunges low between my breasts.
This is certainly not a historically accurate design.
Reaching up, I feel my hair. The long braid is gone, replaced with styled curls.
I can only imagine my lips must be painted red, arched with a prim cupid’s bow.
“What did you do?” Jasper says again.
“I wanted a change of scene and none of you were dressed to code,” the mage replies. He fashioned a tailored three-piece maroon suit for himself, with a grey fedora tipped low over one eye.
“What was wrong with the sex den?” Jasper mutters.
“I find I simply can’t conduct business in the same space I indulge in pleasure. Shall we sit?”
The middle of the speakeasy is arranged with a mix of low seating options.
Baz leads the way, sinking down onto the end of an upholstered chaise.
I take the chaise opposite him, and Dáinn sits next to me, his hand resting on my exposed thigh.
Jasper chooses to stand behind us, one hand braced on my shoulder.
“I’ll want my clothes back before we leave,” he warns the mage.
Baz rolls his eyes, stretching out on his chaise. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Sentimental value.”
The mage just shrugs. “Sorry, witch. I’m having Clarence burn them as we speak.”
Jasper mutters a low curse, and I wrap a hand around his wrist. “We thank you for the gift of your time and your hospitality,” I say over him. “Personally, I love the change of scene.”
Baz perks up. “You do?”
I smile, taking in all the details of the bar. “Yeah, I took a course on the Prohibition Era as an undergrad. The professor was amazing. She took us on a tour of all these old speakeasys hidden around the city. It was really fascinating. In fact, it inspired one of my tattoos.”
He sits forward, purple eyes softly glowing. “Show me.”
Sitting forward too, I slip away from Jasper’s touch and extend out my left arm.
Turning it slowly, I show Baz the little cocktail glass tattooed on my inner forearm.
There’s a wedge of lemon on the rim and the cocktail stirrer is a wooden honey dipper.
Two little bees flit around the stem of the glass.
He chuckles. “Ah, the Bee’s Knees. What a fantastic drink.”
I smile, sitting back. “I agree.”
Sighing, he settles back too, crossing his ankles on the chaise. Removing his fedora, he tosses it aside. “Do you remember Prohibition, Dáinn? What a time to be alive, eh? The parties, the gunfights, the politics. Were you on the continent then?”
“Yes,” Dáinn replies.
Sensing his pain, I place my hand over his on my thigh. Prohibition was during the early twentieth century, which means . . .
“Oh, that’s right,” the mage drawls. “You were already bound, weren’t you?”
“I was,” Dáinn replies curtly. “Still am.”
At that moment, a waitress comes by with a tray of cocktails. Smooth jazz filters lightly through the room as she sets her tray down. She hands us each a perfectly chilled Bee’s Knees, complete with a candied lemon peel garnish. She skips Jasper. I quickly remember she can’t see him.
“Thank you, Diane,” the mage chimes, already sipping his drink as she walks away.
“Sweet Circe, that is delicious. Now, where were we?” His striking purple eyes level on me.
“Ah, yes. Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.” He says my name like he’s threading each syllable apart, looking for some hidden meaning in the letters. “You came to me looking for answers.”
I hold the cocktail, unsure if I should drink it. “I did, yes. Dáinn said you could help us. He said you might know what I am—”
He holds up a hand. “I’d like to start with who you are, if you don’t mind.”
At another nod from Dáinn, I set my drink on the table between us. “Okay . . .”
“Birdie . . .” He teases the sound of my name again. “Not your given name, I suppose?”
“No, my given name is Virginia. Birdie is just a nickname.”
“And Rhodes?”
“It’s the surname of my adoptive family.”
“You’re adopted?”
“Yes.”
“The plot thickens.” He tips his head to the side, still sipping his cocktail. “Who was your birth mother, Virginia Birdie Rhodes? Who are your people? From whence do they come?”
“I don’t know. The adoption was closed. My adoptive parents never let me learn anything about my birth mother or my family .
. . except that she was a junkie who deserved to die giving birth to me.
And that she was most definitely in hell.
They were always very clear about that. It was a constant in my young life that I would be following her there unless I renounced my wickedness. ”
Baz chuckles. “Gods, human zealots are dull. You know, I’ve been to hell once or twice. It’s lovely there in summer. Do you remember, Dáinn?”
Next to me, the wraith nods.
Looking for any distraction, I reach for my abandoned Bee’s Knees. As I raise it to my lips, Jasper’s hand appears, covering mine on the glass. “Give me that.” He slips the drink from my hand. Holding it out to the side, he tips it, pouring the cocktail to the carpet.
The mage’s eyes narrow in annoyance. “That was five-hundred-dollar gin.”
“Bill me,” Jasper replies.
Shooting Jasper a pleading look, I try to get us back on track. “Please, sir—Mr. Barnes—if there’s anything you can tell me about who and what I am, I would greatly appreciate it.”
With a last glare at Jasper, he focuses his attention back on me. “It sounds like you’re a foundling with no people, no place, and no name of your own. Are you quite sure you’re entirely human?”
“Well, I—” The question takes me aback. “I mean, I don’t mean to be rude but . . . shouldn’t a mage be able to tell me that?”
He grins, his eyes glinting with mischief. “A simple blood test could confirm it.” Leaning forward, he magics a vial into his hand in a wisp of purple smoke. “One prick of your vein, and your blood could unlock all your sweet little secrets.”
Now Jasper practically lunges over the chaise to grab my shoulders and haul me away from the mage. “You’re not touching Birdie’s blood.”
I stiffen under his hold. “It’s just a little blood, Jasper.”
“Birdie, he’s a mage.”