Magical Midlife Battle (Leveling Up, #8)(16)

“Very old,” Edgar repeated. Then mimicked zipping his lips again.

“Steer clear of the younger ones,” Niamh went on. “They are incredibly dangerous. Don’t get mixed up with them. But ye’d know it if they were in yer bar, trust me. Yer skin would crawl, for one, and ye’d assume death was imminent. They wouldn’t have any reason to come here, though.”

“Yeah, no, nothing that extreme,” the bartender said, voice still low. “More like… The guys I’m talking about are just odd, you know? Like their clothes don’t really fit right. They have this casual,

almost messy look, but they sound super arrogant and uptight when they speak. Very condescending.

And I’m like—who do you think you are? And why would you spend all that money on a fancy watch when you dress like a goober-hobo?”

Bingo.

“Sure, plenty of Dicks are weird, though, aren’t they?” Niamh said, shrugging. “Or maybe it just seems that way to me because I don’t understand them.”

“Well, I do understand them, and sure, I could understand if one guy was like that. Maybe two if it was some social media fad for middle-aged guys or something, but”—the bartender leaned in, wanting to prove her point—“they all kinda act and dress the same.”

“Is there some commune around here for middle-aged guys who can’t dress for shite and think fancy watches are the next midlife crisis must-have?” Niamh asked, chuckling a little, making light of it. “They’re probably all friends. How long have they been around?”

“See? That’s just it!” The bartender grinned in a knowing way. “When they come in, they don’t talk to each other.” She pushed up to standing and lifted her eyebrows at Niamh, driving the point home. “There could be two at the bar, three stools apart, nursing their watery American beers, and they’ll never once look at each other. But it’s obvious they knew each other.”

“How do ye know that?” Niamh asked.

“Oh, you can always tell,” Edgar said, nodding. “Always. Right, Mistress Bartending?”

Niamh was about to knock him off his stool when the bartender said, “I can. See? Vampires know.

There’s this energy those guys put out—they pretend not to notice each other’s presence, as if the other person doesn’t exist. I usually see that attitude in guys who want to fight each other. These guys, though, have no animosity. They just sit there quietly, two semi-identical antisocial guys a few feet apart, staring at virtually nothing. It’s weird, man. It’s not right.” She leaned against the bar now. The floodgates had opened. “And you know what else is weird?” She glanced up when someone walked in through the door. Confusion knotted her brow. “Okay, seriously, what’s up with the capes?”

“Hey.” Ulric sat kitty-corner to Niamh. “What’s going on?”

Jasper took the seat next to him. “We got tired of waiting around.”

“Bugger off, will ya?” Niamh groused. “I was just talkin’ with…” She waited for the bartender to provide her name.

“Tammy. The regulars call me Tam-tam.” She was turning on the charm for the new additions, her smile sweet and a little spicy. “What are you guys? Or is it a secret?”

Both gave her a delighted look—someone new to enchant with gargoyle charm.

“You’ve never seen a gargoyle before?” Ulric asked.

“If not, I am happy to let you inspect me physically,” Jasper said. “Just say the word.”

“Fer feck’s sake,” Niamh muttered.

The bartender’s eyes lit up. “Gargoyles? Really? ” She put her hand to her chest. “I’m a Jane. But I know all about…” She made a circle in the air with her finger. “What can I get you? You know, before that very close inspection…”

The boys preened at her flirtatiousness and placed their orders.

Niamh stayed in character, since the bartender was within hearing distance, and gave a gossipy account of the conversation. She knew Ulric would pick up the baton. He was great in these situations.

“Oh yeah, something is definitely off,” Ulric said quietly, leaning in. He put a well-timed glance over his shoulder at the door, then down the bar. “There’s no shifters in here, are there? Or the…

weird people, whoever they are?”

“Do ye think we’d be talkin’ about it if there were?” Niamh shot back.

“Right, right.” Ulric glanced at the door again. “I’m a little anxious to find out what’s going on, aren’t you?”

The bartender set the guys’ drinks down in front of them and then got another round of whiskey for Niamh and Edgar before leaning in again. She seemed to have totally forgotten about the two at the table.

“Okay,” she said, “tell me if this is weird. Everyone else thinks I’m nuts, but they’re all Dicks or shifters trying to get laid, so…” She gave a long-suffering look. “The oddly dressed out-of-towners come in in shifts, it seems like. I don’t mean shifts measured by hours or days, either. We’re talking weeks. There’ll be three guys who’re suddenly regulars for a week or two at a time. Those three will come in almost every day, when the place gets lively, and nurse their beers. Right? So three guys for a week or two. Then the next week, three different guys. Same schedule. Same weird kinda dress code.