Page 17 of Dead & Breakfast
Salvatore shook his head, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’d bring Rumble—she shouldn’t see her father like this! She’s at an impressionable age, you know—”
“We have no idea how old she is, Sal.”
“She should be at home, lapping milk or chasing birds. Oh! We should get her a cat tree—Gothic castle themed, or a mushroom forest. Do you think they make rainbow ones?”
“Shut up,” McMartin snapped, voice far nastier now.
“Don’t speak to him like that.” Arthur whirled around, his worrytransforming into rage. “He’s done nothing wrong, and even if he had, you should treat him with respect. He’s a human being, after all.”
“Is he, though?” McMartin sneered. “It’s you who should be a little more careful of how you talk to people.” He showed his even, too-white teeth in an approximation of a grin. “Not that you’ll be here much longer.”
“Some civility would be nice, Sheriff.” Nora, who’d hung back with her eyes trained on the door, stepped between them. “There’s no need for threats.”
“You’re right. There’s no need.” McMartin barked a laugh and turned his gaze on Arthur once more. “Once word gets out that one of you killed George Roth, it’s over for you and any other vamps in town. The people won’t want dangerous creatures like you living among them.”
McMartin was an asshole and not terribly good at his job, but he wasn’t wrong about this. They hadn’t received the warmest welcome to Trident Falls, and Arthur had seen how the other paranormal folk skirted the edges of the community to avoid conflict. Those who didn’t—like the werewolf who owned the Big Bad Brew—fielded picketers and anti-paranormal graffiti. It was a miracle of caffeine dependency that the coffee shop was still in business. The Iris Inn wouldn’t survive the same treatment, and Sal and Arthur would have to start over somewhere else.
Arthur met Salvatore’s eyes. His mouth was a thin line and his gaze somber. Arthur’s insides curled painfully. This was not the Sal he knew, not the Sal he loved. It would break him if his vibrant, humorous, beautiful husband went down for a murder he didn’t commit—almost as much as it would if Sal went down for a murder hedid.
“Even if you were normal,” McMartin continued, “who wouldwant to stay at your little bed-and-breakfast now that there’s been a murder there?” An unkind laugh accompanied his words. “Might as well rename it the Dead and Breakfast.”
“Sheriff McMartin.” Salvatore pulled back his shoulders, a glint returning to his eyes. “That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say. A rebrand is absolutely in order. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that.”
Before Arthur could advise his husband to stop antagonizing the local law enforcement, the door swung open and Quinn entered, bringing with her a gust of wind and a chilly demeanor.
“Congratulations,” she said with funereal enthusiasm.
“Con…gratulations?” Nora asked.
“Why, thank you!” Salvatore, it seemed, had fewer qualms about accepting her felicitations.
Arthur turned to face his husband and asked, “And what exactly have you done that’s worth commendation?”
“I should think it is my existence alone, dearest. Indeed, I am a rare combination of beauty and brains. Quinn here obviously recognizes she is in the presence of greatness, and I—”
“City council made you acting mayor.” Quinn’s lips thinned into a severe line.
“Me?” Salvatore exclaimed. “Whyever would they do that? I suppose my work experienceisimpressive, but I don’t think managing an unruly pirate crew in the eighteenth century is comparable to running a town in the twentieth.”
Arthur couldn’t help himself, the correction on his tongue before he could properly think it through. “It’s the twenty-first century, actually.”
“Not you.Her.” Quinn pointed a shaky finger at Nora, tone souring as if she’d just eaten a particularly nasty Warhead.
“Me?” Nora’s eyes widened. “But I’ve only just—”
“Yes, you’ve only just.” A sneer painted itself across Quinn’s face, eyes narrowed in an exacting stare. “But what else is new? Nice Nora always ends up on top.”
“Always?” Salvatore pressed his face against the bars, smashing his nose awkwardly in the process. “Do you two have a past? Oh, don’t hold out on little old me. I promise not to tell a soul.”
Arthur coughed. “Really, Sal.” For all they knew, Quinn might be in mourning. Teasing could wait for a less somber day.
“What? I said I wouldn’t tell asoul. Didn’t say a thing about the soulless.”
Quinn ignored them both. “It’s only until we can hold a special election, so don’t get too comfortable.”
“Comfortable? Working with you? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Nora crossed her arms, but there was a lingering softness in her eyes as she glared down at the shorter woman. “Why don’t you go back to being a pain in someone else’s side while I deal with this situation?”
“That’s the other thing I came to tell you. There’s no need to deal with any of it. Someone called in the feds.”
