Chapter 1:

Death’s Daughter

It was Saturday night, and I was waitressing at Quandors, Aunt Harry’s Chanter pub in Seattle’s Pioneer Square. The place was bursting with customers both living and alternative-living.

Carrying a tray of empties, I skirted a boisterous group of retro-grunge vamps. Narrowly avoided a zombie rising to make a death-day toast. Then sidestepped a passing werewolf, stumbled in my new elf-made clogs, and almost dumped the tray of dirty glasses onto a table of Gorgons.

As one, the three sisters broke off their conversation, and fixed me with stone-cold glares, snake-hair hissing furiously.

“Sorry,” I said, corralling martini glasses and dodging tiny fangs.

“Hmph,” one Gorgon groused, calming her snake hair with a taloned hand.

With final disdainful looks, the sisters turned away and resumed their discussion.

“Look, iPads will never replace a good scrying mirror. I’m just saying,” one Gorgon opined.

“But you can’t get Candy Crush on a mirror,” another replied.

Tray secure, I beat a hasty retreat to the mahogany bar, feet throbbing with each step. Damned elf clogs. They were wobbly and painful. Magically soothe your feet, my ass. Lesson learned. Never buy clogs from elves. Especially not online late at night.

“Hey Trixie,” Zuzi greeted as she slid a pint under a brass tap. “Looked like the Medusa crew almost made you into a serpent snack.”

Zuzi Gonzales was Quandors’ bartender and my longtime best friend.

“At least it’d be an interesting death,” I quipped, close-call sweat trickling down my back.

“I’d rather have an interesting life,” Zuzi said with a grin. “So, what can I get you?”

Setting the tray in the bussing bin, I took out my waitress pad and flipped through orders. “I need a pitcher of pale ale, four glasses of house white, a flagon of AB-negative, three O-positive Bloody Marys and an order of fried cheese curds.”

“What, no Ruby Raptures?” Zuzi asked, lips quirked as she set the full pint on a crowded tray.

I snorted and replied in an ultra-smooth, uber-professional voice, “I’m sorry Miss, but sadly, we don’t serve vamp-bait cocktails at Quandors. Not even the egregiously over-hyped Ruby Rapture.”

Zuzi laughed, her spiky blond hair shining like a halo as she reached for a bottle of pumpernickel gin from the top shelf.

Earlier, I’d served a group of tipsy Eastsiders who’d incessantly asked for Ruby Raptures. They’d been looking for a vamp hookup. Sipping Rapture in a mixed bar was like shouting, “Bite me!”

Hey, if a human wanted to do a little recreational vamping, it was their business. Just not at Quandors. The bar was a no-magic, no-metamorphosis, no-feeding-on-humans-or-anyone-else zone. So, we didn’t do Ruby Raptures or any of the vamp-bait drinks. Not even if someone asked…again…and again…and again.

“Truffle fries up!” a piping voice called from the kitchen passthrough as a basket of golden fries slid onto the ledge.

“Those mine?” Beets asked, sashaying to the bar.

Beets was Quandors’ newest waitress. She had long dark hair with rockabilly bangs and large grey eyes. She always wore bright red lipstick and curve-hugging wiggle skirts. As far as I could tell, Beet’s favorite pastime was flirting. And unlike me, she was good at it.

“They are,” Zuzi confirmed, pouring gin and tonic into a low glass. “And the rest of your order is almost ready.”

As she waited, Beets sidled close to me, smile teasing, eyes knowing, “Hey Trix.”

“Hey Beets,” I replied, moving away from her.

Beets flirting with you was like having a happily purring cat rubbing up against your bare calves. It seemed well and good, but you just knew they were biding their time so they could give you a quick kitty nip. And from the perpetual gleam in Beets’ eye, I was pretty sure she enjoyed making me jumpy.

Zuzi set the gin and fragrant fries on a packed tray and slid it towards Beets. “Here you go.”

 “Thanks, Zuz,” Beets replied. She gave me another playful smile as she lifted the tray. Then, with drinks held high, she glided into the crowd.

“I think Beets is into you,” Zuzi said, slipping a flagon under the AB-negative tap. “Maybe you should ask her out."

“No way,” I said. “Beets is just being Beets.”

“Fine,” Zuzi said. “But you need to get back out there. It’s been three months since Jessa. I’m just saying, if your lady bits don’t get some polishing soon, they’re going to dry up and blow away.”

“You just let me worry about my lady bits,” I replied. “Besides, if it comes to it, I can do my own polishing.”

Zuzi snorted then asked, “Are you still coming to RuJean’s restaurant opening? It’s tomorrow night.”

“RuJean is a pretentious pain in the ass.”

“Come on, don’t make me go alone,” Zuzi said, dark eyes imploring.

Knowing it was a losing battle, I grumped, “Okay, I’m in.”

“Great!” Zuzi said. “And if you pick someone up for a little post-party lady-bit polishing, it’s all good.”

I rolled my eyes. Zuzi has been my best friend since fifth grade and the Lewis Sundowner clash. We’d thwarted his nasty Pykel curse with a combo of little-girl grit, lunchroom goulash and gallons of spilt chocolate milk. Absolutely worth the suspension. Bottom line…I’d do anything for Zuzi. But sometimes, I wished she’d ease up on the matchmaking.

“For you,” Zuzi said, pushing a tray of assorted blood beverages towards me. “I’ll be back in a sec, going to grab some tequila from the storeroom.”

“Got it,” I said, lifting the tray as she hurried off.

 A voice behind me asked, “Beatrix Angelina D’Vita?”

I froze. Nobody ever used my full name. I set the tray down and turned.

The speaker was a middle-aged, dark-skinned woman in a grey pantsuit with a multitude of salt-and-pepper braids hanging down her back. She glanced around the bar taking in the red brick walls, exposed ceiling beams and tables packed with Chanters. She sniffed as if she didn’t approve.

Standing beside her was a young woman decked out in full anime-chic. Her hair, an iridescent mix of purple, turquoise and pink, was pulled into messy ponytail buns. She wore a silver miniskirt with matching cropped jacket, tie-dyed socks, and white platform high-tops.

What the…?

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Are you Beatrix Angelina D’Vita, aged 22, daughter of Death?” the older woman asked again, reading from a notepad.

“Yes,” I said, wary. “And you are?”

“I’m Agent Meredith Strider and this is Agent-in-training Maybell Mayhew,” the older woman said. “We’re with the Angel Investigative Bureau, also known as the AIB, and we’d like to ask a few questions about your mother.”

My stomach dropped. “Is Mom ok? Did something happen?”

“As far I know Death’s fine,” Agent Strider said, brusque. “However, we need to speak with her regarding an ongoing inquiry.”

Great. What had Mom, aka Death, done now? She was a red-headed, black-corseted, stiletto-wearing force of nature. And she casually moved through time and space. I mean, she was Death after all. It stood to reason these Angel people slid through time too. So, they could be conducting an inquiry about anything, from anywhen.

It wasn’t about Pompeii, was it? In a supreme act of irresponsible scything, Death had gone bodysurfing while the volcano erupted. Yup, Mom took a culling time-out during a cataclysmic event, making thousands wait for Death, while she rode a tsunami. The AIB wouldn’t be happy if they knew.

Of course, Mom had been delighted. She’d even texted pictures from her Inter-Realm phone. They’d showed her in working leathers and cloak, balanced on a neon yellow surfboard, red hair streaming as she grinned ear-to-ear and white water roared around her. She’d said it was “totally tubular.” I’d said a woman her age shouldn’t be shirking her duties to catch a wave or using surfer-dude lingo. She’d said I was a buzz kill. We’d agree to disagree.

I let out my breath in exasperation. It was no use trying to guess what the AIB wanted. Death’s hijinks list was as endless as the Void.

And then it hit me. If the AIB wanted to question Death, why come to Quandors to see me?

“Shouldn’t you be talking to her?” I asked.

“We’ve had difficulty reaching Death,” Strider said, irritation lacing her voice.

Before I had a chance to respond, she whipped out a pen, hovered it over her notepad and asked, “When was the last time you saw or spoke to your mother?”

“I don’t know,” I said, taken off guard. “A couple of months ago.”

Basically, I was avoiding Death. The last couple of times I’d seen her, she’d tried talking me into joining the family business. I’d told her I wasn’t into the whole soul-reaping thing, but she didn’t want to hear it. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life, but soul-severing wasn’t on my short list.

Admittedly, my rocky relationship with Mom wasn’t new. It’d been that way since I was seven and Death dumped me with Aunt Harry, asking him to raise me. Sure, Mom occasionally checked in and made sure I was ok. She’d tell me outrageous stories, lavish me with attention and then disappear again. Sometimes for months. Sometimes for years. That kind of now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t took a toll.

“Everything alright, Trix?” Zuzi asked, returning with tequila bottle in hand, an inquiring eyebrow raised towards the AIB agents. “I can get Harry…”

“I’m good,” I said, not wanting to involve anyone else until I knew what was going on. “No worries.”

“Okay, let me know if you need anything,” Zuzi said, giving the AIB another hard look before heading back to the taps.

I didn’t think Zuzi had overheard my conversation with the AIB, or she’d have stuck around. But if she’d noticed my tense interaction, others would too. I looked around Quandors’ long narrow room. A crowded bar wasn’t the best place for a conversation with the AIB. Besides, I had drinks to deliver.

“I’m working now, but I’m on break in an hour,” I said. “We can go somewhere private and talk then.”

“This is extremely important,” the older agent said. “We’d like to talk now.”

“Agent Strider, you’ve come into my workplace unannounced,” I said. “And I’m doing my best to accommodate you. But I’m not free until break.”

“Fine, we’ll wait,” Agent Striders said, face pinched as she snapped the notepad closed.

“Terrific,” I said without enthusiasm. “If you want refreshments, I’m sure Zuzi can fix you up.”

I grabbed my tray and walked away, hoping I wouldn’t get smote by a Heavenly lightning bolt for making the AIB cool their metaphorical wings while I waited tables. Glancing back, I saw the younger agent talking to Zuzi, presumably ordering drinks. Agent Strider was settling herself onto a bar stool, steely eyes fixed on me.

Okay then. No pressure or anything. Just a ticked Angel official scrutinizing my every move. My jaw clenched. Why did they want to question Death anyway?

I knew they’d talked to Mom at least once before. It’d been about Death and Fate’s 200-year feud back in the before times. Supposedly, Fate borrowed Death’s multi-dimensional vehicle and returned it with a dent. Death (aka Mom) refused to scythe until Fate apologized. Fate said the vehicle had been that way when he got it. They’d both refused to back down. So, no one in the Earth Realm died. For centuries. From what Mom said, it’d been “messy” and the AIB had stepped in to mediate. Mom said they were a bunch of nosy, busy bodies. But reading between the lines, it’d been clear the AIB had expressed their displeasure in no uncertain terms.

I set aside my mommy-musings as I made my way to a table of sophisticated vampires. They were savoring dark red beverages and chatting gloomily amongst themselves. Occasionally one turned a well-coiffed head and cast a disapproving eye across the bar.

As I put drinks on the table, one urbane vamp said to the others, “Don’t look now, but they’re playing charades.”

“No!” a lovely lady vamp shuddered. “The horror.”

I followed their gaze and saw the group of retro-grunge vamp-lings. Many of them sported wispy beards, flannel shirts and baggy jeans, while others wore baby-doll dresses and ripped stockings. A vampire girl stood in front, languidly pantomiming a camera filming.

Next to me, an elegant vampire in a three-piece suit turned his back so he couldn’t see the vamp youngsters. Elder vampires were stuck up. They felt proper vampires should comport themselves with dignity and gravitas. Afterall, they were at the top of the food chain.

“Can I get you anything else?” I asked, gathering empties.

“Our dignity back?” a vamp guy said under his breath.

“Nothing for now, thank you,” Suit Vamp said, smiling at me and flashing a hint of fang.

I got the distinct impression he’d welcome a little Rapture and felt a mild thrill. He might be ancient, but he was gorgeous. I sternly reminded myself I wasn’t interested in vamping or romance or potentially pervy old men. I smiled with noncommittal professionalism, collected my tray, and left.

Winding through packed tables, I shot a glance towards the AIB agents. Sure enough, they were still observing me. Strider caught my gaze and raised one sardonic eyebrow. Definitely still pissed.

A sudden spike of anxiety shot through my middle. Mom was okay, wasn’t she? I quashed the fear. Death always landed on her feet.

I got on with work.

I delivered a piece of chocolate cake with seven spoons to a table of witches having their monthly coven meetup. Sparkling cider to a throuple of dryads. Wine and beers to an Igorina and her acolytes. A round of fire whiskey to a group of Mongolian dragon herders in town for a convention.

It was everyday normal stuff. The only weird part was feeling the weight of Angels impatiently studying my every move. And then came Table 7.

“CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!”

I groaned. I hated silly drinking contests. It invariably ended in tears and someone holding someone else’s hair back. Either that or fistfights. None of it good.

At the table, a large, muscular werewolf rapidly drained a pint, beer running down the sides of his mouth and damping his open-collared shirt. Werewolf onlookers broke into massive cheering as he slammed his empty mug onto the table. The big were-dude broke into a grin and nodded at a smaller man sitting across the table.

It was Larry. I sighed. Larry was a were-tabby and one of our regulars. He was a diminutive, middle-aged man with a balding head and rumpled tweed suit. He looked like the kind of guy who lived in his mom’s basement and had an extensive collection of exotic beetles all meticulously labeled and displayed.

Larry gulped in apparent distress as he reached for a full pint and lifted it his lips. The “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG” started up again.

While he drank, I slid a full pitcher onto the damp table, feeling like I was aiding and abetting. I knew Larry was putting on an act. He never got drunk. The big, bad wolf was going to get taken by a little guy who turned into a housecat at the full moon. There was no way it was going to end well.

Larry drained his glass and set it on the table. He gave a small, polite burp. The werewolves standing around him were silent for a moment before breaking into a resounding cheer and patting Larry on his narrow shoulders.

As I watched the canine-feline bond fest, I found myself hoping Larry hadn’t bet any money on the drinking contest. Were-dudes might admire reckless bravado, but they weren’t forgiving about losing money. And the last thing I needed was the AIB witnessing a drunken brawl.

I looked towards the mahogany bar. Agent Mayhew’s multi-hued head was close to Agent Strider’s grey one. The trainee whispered into the older agent’s ear. Strider grimaced; eyes fixed on me. Yup, still watching. And apparently judging. Great.

I definitely didn’t want them seeing a drunken weredog-on-werecat fight. So, I headed towards the front of the bar and Quandors’ bouncers.

“Trixie!” bellowed an enormous man sitting on a stool near the entrance, his bushy beard splitting into a wide smile. Standing, he opened his arms wide and enveloped me in a huge hug. “About time you came to see us.”

“Gerard!” I managed to squeeze out, returning the hug while juggling my tray.

“Trixie!” rumbled a voice behind us. “Hey Gerard, give me a turn.”

Gerard released me and I was immediately enveloped in another ferocious hug.

“Bernard!” I said, patting the man’s broad back.

Letting go, Bernard stood next to Gerard. Both beamed at me through bushy black beards. Both had light brown skin and warm brown eyes. Both were tall, stocky men who bulged with muscle from head to toe. Both wore jeans, button-up shirts, and work boots. Gerard wore his curly black hair in a man-bun atop his head. Bernard wore his cropped super short and had a pair of eyeglasses perched on a surprisingly small nose. They were identical twin were-bears and they’d been bouncers at Quandors since I was a kid.

“Did you two notice Larry?” I asked.

“We did,” Bernard said. “And we’re keeping an eye on it.”

I relaxed. If Gerard and Bernard were monitoring things, it’d be fine.

“Hey, you need to come to dinner,” Bernard said. “My étouffée isn’t going to eat itself.”

“Next Thursday?” I asked, happily anticipating Bernard’s creole cooking.

“That’ll work,” he answered. “Beets said she’d come too.”

“Fantastic,” I said, thinking it wasn’t, but not wanting to hurt Bernard’s feelings.

After promising to bring a decadent dessert, I left them arguing about the merits of fashion-forward eyewear and snaked my way through crowded tables. Nearing the middle of the room, I heard hearty gales of deep-throated laughter.

There, standing next to a table of vibrant drag queens, was Aunt Harry. An elegant, older man, he looked like a gentleman gardener among a riotous array of wildflowers. As I watched, the table roared again, and Harry beamed in delight. Back in the day, Harry had been Ms. Seattle Divine five years in a row, and he loved entertaining the new crop of drag glitterati with tales of pageants past.

Catching sight of me, Harry gave a warm, welcoming smile and motioned for me to come over. For a moment, I reconsidered telling him about the AIB agents, but decided against it. I didn’t want to worry him. At least not yet.

With his arm around my waist, Harry turned to the table saying, “Everyone, this is Trixie. Trixie, this is everyone.”

“Hi everyone,” I said with a grin and a wave.

“Hi Trixie!” they said in chorus.

Then came…

“So lovely, I’d kill for that red hair,” said a queen gazing at me in envy.

“Is that eye color real? Are we talking purple, purple?” asked a queen dressed in canary yellow.

“Such beautiful skin…we could totally minimize that nose with just a touch of contouring,” Green Queen said.

“Oh my, what I couldn’t do with those curves!” said Turquoise Queen.

“Honey, the black shirt and jeans are nice and everything, but you could use a little sparkle,” Golden Queen said. “You just let me know and I’ll set you up with a wonderful dressmaker in old town Ballard. She’ll do you right.”

Smiling at the luminous queens, I thanked them, then asked, “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“We’re all taken care of,” Harry said. “Beets has been very attentive.”

“Now there’s a saucy minx,” winked Red Queen.

“Oh, um-hmm, definitely,” swaggered Royal Blue Queen.

Beets again. She was making quite the impression.

Turning to Harry, I kissed him on the cheek and with a wave to the table I said, “Nice to meet you all!”

“Such a lovely girl,” said Turquoise Queen.

“I think a chartreuse silk frock with a bedazzled magenta bustier would look delicious on her,” offered Red Queen.

As I walked away, I caught sight of a large clock hanging on the brick wall. My smile faded. The hour was up. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and met Agent Strider’s unyielding stare from across the crowded room.

Time to talk to the AIB.