Demon Night

reminded her of Ethan’s when she’d first opened her door.
    She closed her eyes, breathed out. That must be it. She found a lot of people sexually appealing—but in a vague way, appreciative of their looks or personalities. They rarely provoked a physical reaction.
    Ethan had. And so seeing something similar in this man must have triggered the same response.
    The long fingers of his left hand were tracing a spiraling pattern on the bar. He’d propped his elbow up, settling his chin against his fist as he studied her.
    Definitely reminded me of Ethan, she decided with a smile—although she’d have bet anything Grandpa had had some moves back in the day, too.
    Steady again, she tried to get back to where she’d started—or to start over, rather, since his opening hadn’t been the usual. “So, what are you in for? I’m guessing it isn’t the same reason as Joel over there.”
    He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You don’t have to play this.”
    Her brows drew together. “Play what?”
    “Keeping me talking, now that I’ve started, in the hope that I’ll slow down.” Ice clinked as his large palm engulfed the glass; he tipped it at an angle but didn’t bring the tumbler to his lips. “In the hope that I’ll leave here not wanting it so bad. But I’m not drinking for myself, Charlie.”
    He met her gaze when she looked up from his whiskey, and her stomach performed a long, lazy flop. “I’ve heard that before,” she said. Her throat was dry, her rasp more pronounced.
    For an instant, everything in his face stilled. His gaze flicked over her shoulder. Then he blinked and the easy manner fell over him again.
    “From whom did you hear it before?” His voice had rolled up a little stiff; she hadn’t noticed how casual it had become until the formality returned.
    Formal—but not distant.
    She grabbed for a story, any story to keep him going. “A guy who used to come in here. After spending the day tossing fish over at the Market, he was in here every night, drinking a bottle of top-shelf tequila that he always said wasn’t for him.” She arched a brow. “He never got drunk, either.”
    He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “That couldn’t be healthful for a body.”
    “It wasn’t, and before long he was in the morgue. And guess what they found when they cut him open?”
    “A petrified liver the size of Texas,” he said dryly.
    She pressed her lips together, shook her head. “A trout. It seems one day this guy had been working, but the fish was still alive, not quite drowned in the air. And when he tried to catch it, it wriggled through his hands, straight into his mouth and down his belly. But it didn’t die, just swam around in there.”
    Though the corners of his eyes were twitching a little, he only nodded. “I suppose something of that nature is bound to happen.”
    “Particularly in a city where fish tossing is a huge tourist attraction,” Charlie agreed with a straight face. “But this guy didn’t appreciate that he could become a Seattle icon—and he knew that drinking water wouldn’t drown the fish. So he tried to poison it with the tequila.”
    The dry note slipped into his voice again, and he tugged at his shirt collar. “Poison is never a certainty. Sometimes they keep on living.”
    “The fish certainly did—he got hooked on the tequila, until he needed it so bad the guy had to keep on coming in for that bottle even after he realized he’d failed to kill it. So when they performed the autopsy on him a few days later, they found the fish going through DTs so hard his flippers were buzzing.”
    She held out her hands, let them shake in demonstration, but didn’t let herself think of the rest—didn’t let herself remember how horrifying it had been: the sweats, the sharp, churning nausea, the blinding headaches and disorientation, and the unrelenting, bone-deep thirst.
    “You almost had me.” Though he narrowed his eyes, he was smiling. He pulled at his collar again, then unfastened the top button with fingers that seemed too large for a man of his size. “But fish have fins, Charlie. Not flippers.”
    “Well, I’m not very smart. I just know it started with ‘f.’” Charlie grinned. “In any case, it’s the truth. They got the fish out, sobered him up, and he’s working at a sushi bar in Pioneer Square. Everyone calls him Trembling Tom.”
    He didn’t give in to his laughter, but he bent forward, raising his hand and