Tempt the Stars

Jonas? You’re supposed to be with him.”
    I shrugged. “Home?” I’d dropped him off in the lobby before going for coffee. And it had been a while, since despite the fact that I looked like a war refugee, I’d still had to wait in line.
    Vegas.
    “Damn it!” Marco looked genuinely put out. No, that wasn’t right. Marco looked almost—
    The sliding doors opened and a small vamp sidled out, before slamming them dramatically shut behind him. “Refreshments!” he said shrilly.
    “What?” Marco glowered at him.
    “You heard me,” the vamp said, wild-eyed. “They say if they have to wait any longer, that they deserve—”
    “I’ll tell you what they deserve,” Marco said menacingly.
    “—something to eat, but you know we don’t have any food in the place and I don’t know what—” The vamp stopped abruptly, staring at me.
    Or, to be more precise, at my small white bakery bag.
    “No,” I said, trying to hide it behind me. But a second later, it was in his hand anyway.
    The guy who had just crossed a room in an eyeblink was named Fred. He looked like an accountant when he stood still long enough—with wispy brown hair and a somewhat portly figure—which was fair, since that’s what he had been before getting tapped for guard duty. I still hadn’t found out who he’d had to piss off to get stuck with that.
    I knew who he was managing to annoy tonight, though.
    He saw my expression. “No, no, no!” he said, backing up, his big gray eyes going huge. And then the little weasel ran for it.
    “Come back here!” I demanded, but Fred wasn’t. Fred was a blur, clutching the bag I’d just stood in line twenty freaking minutes for, and heading for the kitchen.
    Only to find me waiting on him when he arrived.
    “What—how—shit!” He stared at me, hand over the heart that wasn’t going to attack him, since it hadn’t beaten in a few hundred years now. “You know I hate it when you do that!”
    “Then give me back my stuff!”
    “I . . . can’t,” he said, looking around desperately.
    Marco had come in behind him, but he wasn’t doing anything, just standing in front of the door with his massive arms crossed, waiting it out.
    “Please,” Fred said tragically when I grabbed for my property. And then,
“Please! Please! Gaaah! Gaaah!”
    I let go of the bag, because I honestly didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. “What the hell’s wrong with him?” I asked Marco.
    “He’s afraid.”
    Fred didn’t deny it.
    “Of what?”
    “Of them in there.” The thumb hike was backward this time, over his shoulder. But it didn’t help, since the shutters partitioning the kitchen from the lounge had been closed, like they were for the formal parties we never had.
    “
Who
in there?”
    Marco opened his mouth, but it was Fred who spoke. He was looking in the bag, and he didn’t seem happy. Maybe because he’d squashed it in all the agitation, and a smear of red had bloomed like blood on one side.
    He grabbed a plate and turned it upside down, dumping out the contents. And then he just stood there, staring at three sadly mushed pastries. “What are
those
?” he demanded.
    “What do they look like?” I snapped. Damn it, most of the powdered sugar had come off, and that was the best part.
    Big gray eyes lifted to meet mine, with the look of a man seeing his doom. “What did you
buy
?” he squeaked.
    “What did you expect?”
    “I don’t know! They have all kinds of things down there—dainty tea cakes and tiny tarts and
pain au chocolate
and finger sandwiches and those cute little baby macaroons!
Why didn’t you get the baby macaroons?
”
    “I don’t like macaroons.”
    He stared at me. “What do you mean you don’t like macaroons? Everybody likes macaroons!”
    “Well, I’m somebody and I don’t,” I said, reaching for the plate. And getting my hand slapped for my trouble.
    “But . . . but I can’t serve them
these
,” he said, a little madly. “And room service takes forever and there’s always a line downstairs and what am I supposed to
do
?”
    “You’re supposed to tell me what’s going on before I strangle you,” I said ominously.
    But Fred was past that. Fred looked like he thought strangling would be a step up. He was hunched over the plate, his eyes darting around the kitchen’s gleaming surfaces as if he thought a tea service and accompanying canapés were sure to appear somewhere.
    “Oh God . . ” he said miserably when this did