Chapter Five

Brandon tapped the bill with the edge of his credit card. Was he too drunk to drive? Two margaritas over the course of two hours would say no. If he was buzzing, it was all Stef's fault. He hadn't laughed so much — hell, smiled so much — since he'd moved to this refrigerated corner of the US.

They had bickered over who would pay the bill. Brandon won and was glad of it. He hadn't been at the bickering stage with anyone in a long while. He and Layla either chatted or argued. They got along fine, but bickering was something you did when you knew the other person would give as good as they got.

Brandon liked bickering with Stef. Hell, he liked just about everything about Stef, from his apparently permanent five o'clock shadow to his unquenchable optimism to that pretentious bag he had slung over his shoulder.

Even better, Stef was part of the world that kept trying to trap Brandon. To have had him say, "Necromancer? Cool!" or thereabouts gave Brandon a reassurance he hadn't known he needed.

Still, when Stef made it beyond plain that Brandon was welcome to come home with him, Brandon declined. He needed time to gather himself. More than once, over the course of dinner, he'd come very close to spilling the whole story, dead best friends and all.

Nope, Stef could very easily undo all of Brandon's defenses, and he wasn't ready to go there.

Yet.

They made each other laugh all the way to the Lexus, though Brandon hadn't yet started the engine. "Are you sure?" Stef asked for the fourth or fifth time.

Instead of answering, Brandon worked an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. "I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning closer still. Under that stubble, Stef's lips were full, and he smelled like expensive grooming products.

"Well, if you're not going to fuck me tonight, can you at least kiss me?"

Brandon smiled. "Sure." He finished the word by pressing their lips together. Stef's hands grabbed hold of his arms, and, in synch, they got their tongues involved.

In something like fifteen seconds, Brandon was so hard that the loss of blood made him lightheaded. He dragged Stef closer, center console be damned. Stef pushed back, laughing. "I want to fuck a man, not your gear shift."

Brandon let him go. "Dang, dude." He shook his head. "You kiss as good as you look."

His grin going lopsided, Stef reached for Brandon's chin. They kissed again, this time without the manhandling, and something softened in Brandon's chest. Stef tasted spicy, like salsa and margarita and heat. His dick made a valiant attempt to tear through the denim of his jeans, and he had to lean back in his seat.

"Last chance, handsome." Stef ran a single finger up and down Brandon's thigh, circling the wet spot left by the tip of his cock.

Brandon groaned in response. "I'm sorry, really, but…"

Stef patted his knee. "But you've had a tough run and you need some space. I get it. I really do."

His words said the right thing, but his tone held both disappointment and embarrassment. "Aw, man." Brandon reached for his hand even as Stef opened the car door. "Look, I'm a fucking mess. I don't want this to be a one-and-done thing, okay. Please?"

Stef's smile approached his normal. "Promise?"

"What?"

"That this won't be one and done?"

Brandon leaned over so he could catch Stef's hand and place a kiss in his palm. "Yeah."

"Good night, Brandonakis. I'll message you tomorrow when I hear from Morgan."

"Sounds good."

And it did. Knowing Stef was on his side helped more than Brandon was ready to admit. He fell asleep that night with memories of that first kiss on a continuous loop.

It's a wonder I get any sleep at all.

Sparky woke him up in the morning by jumping on his face. "Gross!" he hollered. "Dead cat butt should not be a thing in the morning."

She jumped down, her plastic tube rattling. Her eyes had lost their glazed gray look almost entirely, and she glared up at him with all kinds of attitude.

"It's not like I'm going to feed you," he muttered. "Dead cats don't eat."

He managed some coffee and a first pass over his email inbox, looking for fires that needed immediate attention. There were only three urgently-urgents, and he was halfway through the last one when his cell phone chimed.

Be at the Cheesecake Factory on Bellevue Way at one p.m. Spike.

"Really?" Brandon must have shouted, because Sparky jumped up from the corner of the table she'd been sleeping on and glared at him. "You're not the boss of me."

Or was he?Brandon should have asked Stef how seriously he needed to treat this summons. He still hadn't decided what to do when his phone chimed again.

Pls reply so I know you got this message.

‘So I know you got this message' instead of ‘So I know the time and place will work for you.' Sweet. Deciding he needed more coffee before he'd be able to sort out this snarl, he got up and put another pod in the machine. Yes, he knew single-use pods created waste and were hard on the environment, but compared to driving an SUV, this was small change. I'll save the planet another day.

Coffee worked its magic by scent alone, and Brandon was more awake before he took the first sip. More awake, and more annoyed. His phone chirped, reminding him he had an unanswered text. "What if I had a lunch date?"

Well, no, he didn't have a lunch date, but he could have. He picked up his cell phone, determined to tell Spike he could shove it. What came out, though, made him wonder if some strange being had possessed his hand.

I'll be there. Thx.

"I'll be there?" He mock-slapped himself upside the head. "What in the actual hell."

Confirmed

Great. Now Spike — whoever he was — expected him. Brandon stood for a long minute, holding the phone in the palm of his hand and contemplating a suitably tart excuse.

But nothing came to mind, and in the end, he decided to put in some work hours in case he got tied up with the four-footed walking dead during the week.

He put SPAM and Spike and whatever else was going on into a mental box and turned his attention to his laptop. He and two other guys were working on a project that, if they were successful, would enable even the stubbornest philistine to access the Internet. He logged into their shared chat thread and let them know he'd be wfh, then dove into the world of zeroes and ones.

And at the appointed time, he appeared at the Cheesecake Factory with his hair combed and a clean shirt on. He'd even put on clean(er) jeans, too, in honor of the occasion, and popped a couple Tums to keep the heartburn down. Most importantly, he promised himself he wouldn't let his Southern manners put the cheese in Cheesecake Factory.

Spike would have stuck out in just about any crowd. The guy had managed to get seated at a table away from the other diners, a good trick given the Sunday brunch crowd. He wore a black leather jacket and the platinum blonde buzz cut made famous by the character on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That Spike was kind of an asshole, and Brandon had to wonder how far this faux-Spike would push the imitation.

Still, he was here, and he'd put on his best poker face if it killed him.

"You rang?" he said, aiming for humor but getting tripped up by annoyance.

"Thank you for coming." Spike stood and offered his hand. Reluctantly, Brandon took it, and though he half expected they'd try to out-muscle each other, sometimes a handshake was really just a handshake.

"Sit down." Spike waved Brandon into the chair across from his. "Like I said, I appreciate your willingness to meet with me. Can we start with a question?"

Brandon made a rapid mental scan of his last several Facebook posts. What was there to know that couldn't be found on social media? "Sure?"

"Good."

Spike paused for a moment, as if giving them both time to take each other's measure. His tee shirt had the logo of the band Black Flag on it, which was at least one thing Brandon could support.

"What would it take to get you on my team full-time?"

Poker face, my dude. "I need more information before I can answer that."

"Such as?"

Brandon swallowed another burst of annoyance. "Such as who the fuck are you, what's the deal with your team, and what the hell do you need a full-time necromancer for anyway? There can't be an extensive need for dead guys who can walk." Assuming I can raise something bigger than a cat.

Spike laughed as if Brandon's attitude didn't bother him at all. "Jesus, do we need to order a couple cocktails so you can calm yourself?" He tapped the super-thick menu. "You look at that while I try and put your mind at ease, son."

"Son? Did you just call me son? You can't be more than a couple months older than I am."

Still laughing, Spike struck a pose. "Flattery will get you everything, kiddo. I'm a day walker, which means I am physiologically similar to a vampire but I can tolerate the sunshine and I'll only live another hundred years or so."

Brandon gave him his best dropped-jaw idiot look, unable to find any physical cues that would back up Spike's claim. Brandon had never heard of a day walker, but then he'd never heard of a wraith until his Aunt Vivi insisted they raise one.

Fuck.Don't think about that.

"Close your mouth, son, or a fly's gonna land in it." Spike reached over like he meant to chuck Brandon under the chin. Before he could get close, Brandon shoved his chair back from the table and was halfway to standing.

"Would you calm down?" Spike stood, too, and the two of them glared at each other. "People are staring, and we'll never get finished if you turn everything I say into a federal case."

Brandon didn't sit. Instead, he gripped the edge of the table because it was either that or take a swing at Spike.

"Now, let's try this again." Spike resumed his seat and after a long stretch of silence, Brandon did, too.

"I'm going to guess you've never heard of a day walker before."

"No sir, I haven't."

"Well, there are a few of us around. Two others on my team, as a matter of fact, so you'll get to know us real well."

Brandon flipped open the menu, half-convinced he should just order a shot of tequila. Or maybe a bottle. "What kind of team?"

"SPAM's TTGB Division, Team One Four Seven, the Fighting Devils."

Tension tightened the muscles in the back of Brandon's neck. "And who do you fight?"

"We were getting ready to fly to Richmond last March when I got the call that Mack Moore and the vampire Bellefleure had handled things."

La la la la, don't think about Last Year, la la la la la.

"So?"

"We put down demon infestations, the occasional poltergeist that gets out of hand, and, you know, all kinds of stuff. We're shorthanded because our regular necromancer is on sabbatical."

"Sabbatical…"

Spike leaned forward like they were sharing a joke. "Yeah. I guess the stuff you guys do is pretty draining, so he needed some time off."

Brandon leaned forward, too, though he wasn't laughing. "You know that the sum total of my necromancy skills has involved raising a robin, two squirrels, and a cat from the dead, right? I don't know how I did it, and hell if I know if I'll ever do it again. You'd be a lot more use to me if you could tell me how to return them to their previous state."

"Oh, you'll have to ask Clancy for that."

"Clancy?"

"Our necromancer. The one who's on sabbatical."

Brandon's neck was so tight it made his ears ring. "Clancy the Necromancer." Jesus fucking Christ, were these guys for real?

Spike tilted his head, as if he couldn't tell whether Brandon was joking or not. "Anyway, we need a necromancer because quite a few of our jobs involve the dead in one way or another."

"But I don't know what I'm doing."

"You knew well enough when you raised that wraith."

Not going there.

Brandon stood up. He was done. "Sorry. You got the wrong guy." Swallowing down memories that ripped up his gut, he pivoted and headed for the door.

He did stop, however, when Spike called his name.

"What?"

Spike came up behind him and pressed something the size and shape of a cell phone into his hand. He didn't look at it because that would mean he was curious, and he most certainly was not.

"SPAM phone. You'll find Clancy in the contact list. Message him your questions."

"Why are you giving me a phone when I just turned you down?"

Spike's only answer was a laugh. Brandon whirled around, ready to give the guy what for, but he was alone in the middle of the crowded restaurant.