Inside, the club was dark with fluorescent purple and blue lights. The ceiling was black but had glittering dots, which looked like stars and a blue moon. All the decor was definitely out of the sixties, with black shag carpet and couches and chairs done in vinyl the color of spilled blood. Sam thought it was very campy and, evidently the crowd did too, since the club was full.
The band was great, too. They were playing sixties and seventies rock and roll. Right now they were playing a Rolling Stones song, while various supernatural species mingled with humans on the dance floor. Sam grinned at the song; the Stones were a particularly appropriate soundtrack for hunting this killer.
Spying Nic and Alex at a corner table next to several trios of dancing clubbers, and noting that the encroaching Forest wasn't around, she hurried over, eager to tell them what she'd uncovered. She was also curious to discover if they had made any progress investigating Nero in other Goth bars and Greek restaurants.
Since she was cutting Nic some slack, and since she couldn't see Forest through the threes, Sam grinned at Nic and slid into the seat across from him, noticing just how handsome he looked tonight in his dark blue shirt and faded jeans, which fit low on his hips. He was an American girl's dream, even if he had a Russian anatomy.
"Guess what I found?" she blurted before they even had a chance to say hello. She leaned her elbows on the table. "Gorgons can hibernate like certain species of desert frogs. The frogs hibernate for decades as they wait for a good rain. Well, so do gorgons. I mean, the gorgons don't wait for rain, but they can actually hibernate for centuries. And a gold sword will definitely kill the Meduse. It's his Achilles' heel. Well, his neck is. I found the original curse and how to stop it. Death. Beheading by a solid gold sword." Sam fought down her growing excitement.
Nic's eyes were bright with interest, and even Alex remained quiet.
Hurriedly Sam conveyed her other findings, the words bubbling over like a brook in a flood. "You can also stab the Meduse in its human form, in the eyes, and that will slow him down. With most supernatural creatures it's the heart, but not the Meduse. He has a rocklike substance his heart is encased in, so it can't be touched without a jackhammer drill or some serious hammering and chiseling." Her grin grew even bigger as she waited for her pat on the back; she'd spent over eight hours in various libraries around New York City, deciphering extremely difficult foreign passages. "Believe me, those old texts were Greek to me, but I managed."
Before either Strakhov could comment, Forest appeared. She walked up, slid her arms around Nic's neck and bent to kiss his cheek.
Sam's grin fled. She didn't flinch outwardly, but inside she was seething. Once again she had gotten nary a thank-you-ma'am, while Forest stole her thunder with a blatant siren's seduction. Narrowing her eyes slightly, Sam focused on the vampire's dress—or rather, what little there was of it. The vampiress resembled a teenaged rock star who'd forgot to put on her skirt.
Yes, Forest definitely stood out. With her red miniskirt and knee-high black boots, and her see-through black lace shirt, the sultry underdressed vampiress made Sam feel like a true ugly American. Forest looked like sex on wheels, and Nic would be dining in if he didn't show some sense.
He was currently leaning toward Forest, giving her the once-over, as his eyes came to rest on the large nipples barely covered by her black lace shirt. The man was a fool, a darn carnal fool. But then, what could Sam really expect from the Russian rat? Certainly no American justice. Her poor unhappy heart was being batted around like a baseball, and watching her ex-lover—the key word being ex—fawned and drooled over by Miss Melon Breasts with Fangs was not a pretty sight.
The redheaded vampiress was certainly getting Sam's Irish up, and Sam wasn't even Irish, rather a mix of German and English, she reflected crossly. She wished the Irish trollop would go fawn over an American gigolo or someone, anyone, just as long as it wasn't a white Russian she went home with tonight.
Slamming her glass on the table a little harder than she meant, Sam watched Forest slide into the seat next to Nic. Her hand caressed his arm, those wickedly long fingernails scratching the smooth material of his shirt. Nic glanced at Sam, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of appeal that had a hint of little boy about it. Yeah, right, Sam thought tersely. Nic was about as innocent as a wolf on the prowl. And he was already lurking deep within the Forest.
Chin on her palm, Sam gave Nic a faint smile, as if she could care less what he was doing and with what. If he wanted to date a vampire, get drained dry, go beyond the pale, more power to him.
Nic managed to hide his grin, noting Sam's expression. His Paranormalbuster was not a happy camper. He wanted to laugh, but instead he addressed himself to Forest. "Sam was just telling us what she uncovered." Turning back to the slowly stewing Sam, he added, "Petroff said the swords will be ready by midnight." Then he winked.
Sam stifled a colorful comeback. "What if we run into the Meduse before then?" she asked tersely.
"Are we supposed to just let him go, or become the next monuments to his invincibility?"
"I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, as you Americans say," Nic replied.
His slight Russian accent was sexy. Way too sexy, Sam despaired, for that villainous vamp vixen was still sitting next to him, lapping up his presence like a cat with cream.
"Tomorrow night will be better for our hunt. Petroff and Ripley will be able to join us, as well as Boris and Natasha. Our cousin is still working with his craftsman on the swords," Alex volunteered.
"Where are Boris and Natasha?" Sam wanted to know. She took a sip of her drink, looking over the rim of her glass to scan faces in the crowd. She had expected the pair to be here tonight.
"Setting up Jessie's memorial service," Alex answered.
"And Ripley?" Sam asked, inching to slap Forest's hand, which was possessively patting Nic's arm.
"Using his nose to sniff out some leads," Nic replied. He was enjoying Sam's jealousy—a jealousy she tried to conceal, but somehow couldn't quite manage.
"Sniffing out leads?" Sam said, then found herself feeling stupid when the others laughed. "What's so funny?" she asked.
"Ripley's a werewolf, Sam," Nic explained, his eyes bright with humor—and something else, something Sam couldn't interpret. "I thought you knew. After all, you keep telling me how you're such an expert on supernaturals." Nic's tone was clearly amused, his eyebrow quirking.
Sam began to fume. First Nic made her a one-night stand, then he let the hussy from hell slink all over him, and now he was adding to his list of grievous sins by insulting her professionalism? What a louse!
"Sure," she snapped, both hands planted firmly on the table. Glaring at Nic and Alex, she growled, "What? Just because the man is hirsute, I'm to automatically assume he's a wolf in sheep's clothing?"
Alex almost choked on his drink.
Nic snorted, while Forest started giggling. "Humans," she said. She clearly meant, What are you going to do with them; you can't live with them, and you certainly can't live without them as a food supply.
Seeing the brief flash of hurt before Sam tightened her expression, Nic backtracked. "Sorry, Sam. You're right. We should have told you. You don't have any problem working with werewolves, do you?" He waited patiently for her answer, his gray eyes curious.
Leaning across the table, Sam stared daggers at him. "As long as he's housebroken and doesn't bite, I have no problem with the guy. And I guess it goes without saying that Forest would be at home with the dogs."