bartender poured another shot for Blade. He swallowed the vodka with a wince. Good stuff. He had a difficult time getting drunk. Blame it on his genetics. Being vampire and faery did come in handy when he wanted to hold his liquor. The only time he got drunk was when drinking from someone who had consumed whiskey. Whiskey-spiked blood always went straight to his head.
“It’s black,” he offered regarding his hair. “The neon light from that sign over the bar makes it blue.”
“If that’s your story. But I did see it in the sunlight. It’s blue.”
It wasn’t. Well, it sort of was. It was the faery in him. It sheened his black hair blue. It was a damned sight better than the pink that donned his sister, Daisy Blu’s, head.
“And yours is copper,” he offered. “Like a precious metal that someone steals to hock for as much cash as they can manage. It suits you. Looks great with your skin tone. Sorry.” He shoved the empty shot glass toward the bartender. “I don’t say things like that to women—”
“You mean compliment them? Are you flirting with me? Trying to pick up a demon?”
She was going to work that one until he surrendered. So he would. But only because she was pretty.
“Listen, can we start over? I’m Blade.” He offered his hand to her and she stared at it. “I live about ten miles out of town near the Darkwood.”
“That sounds...dark.” She smirked and he wondered if she might be a little tipsy. But when she took his hand and shook it, he felt a good firm clasp warm his fingers. “Zenia. No last name. At least, not that I recall. I live nowhere, or probably somewhere. But you know, Amnesia Chick.”
“So, Zenia, who is only recently Zenia, what’s up with that? Did you used to be Martha or Gertrude?”
This time she laughed out loud. Blade heard Brock’s huff on the other side of the pool table. The asshole tossed a dart at the board nailed on the wall—and missed.
When Zenia looked at him now he decided she was assessing him. A better risk than Brock? He should hope so. And then, he knew he was not.
“For all I know, I probably could have been Gertrude,” she said.
“You don’t look like a Gertie. The hair is all wrong. Gertrude likes curls and something shorter. Maybe even a blue rinse.”
“You could be right. Okay, so weirdness aside, I like you, Blade.” Her long dark lashes fluttered with a look over his face. “I’ll reserve judgment on your weirdness quotient until I get to know you better.”
He was about to say that she would be better off not liking him, but instead he simply smiled. A rare thing for him. Just ask any of his brothers or sister. The dark silent one put people off with his stoic expression. And for good reason.
He’d learned that keeping his head down was best for all. And yet, his surprising curiosity for this woman demanded satisfaction.
“No memory?” he asked. “How did that happen? Or do you know?”
“I think I only lost personal stuff. I know things. It’s as if I know crazy stuff like Russia’s population is almost one hundred and fifty million. The main ingredient in miso soup is dashi. And it would take the average person about eighteen months to traverse the wall of China. But I don’t know my name, who I am or where I came from. That’s why I’m here in Tangle Lake. I was hit by a bus in front of that old woman’s house.”
Blade was about to order another shot when he paused. “Seriously? Hit by a bus?”
“Yes. I was walking out of a yard—probably that old woman’s yard—and onto the street, and—bam! No memory of my life after that.”
“So you woke up in the hospital? They must have taken you to Unity. Closest hospital from here.”
“No. I, uh, stood up and walked away.” She offered a sheepish shrug. “Never saw a doctor.”
Blade put up two fingers when the bartender tilted the vodka bottle over his glass. This information was worthy of a double shot.
“It’s been a week,” she said. “I thought about going to the police, but—I don’t know, something inside me said they wouldn’t be able to help. So I hitched a ride into the Twin Cities and have been staying at homeless shelters, trying to make some cash to survive. A girl’s gotta eat, you know?”
“They have homes to stay in for people who have amnesia. Maybe.” What did he know? “If they don’t exist, they should. You should see a doctor.”
“I’m fine.” She bent her head and brushed aside her hair with a curl of delicate fingers over her ear. “I know it sounds weird, but I think the bus sort of...nudged me to pursue a different life. When it hit me, I was flung against the street pole and banged my head. Had a bruise right here.” She tapped her temple. “But that faded within a few hours.”
A hit that could take away one’s memory had to have left a big bruise. Blade had a hard time believing it had faded so quickly. There wasn’t a mar on her skin. Another reason to doubt her story. And she could be allied with demons. What game was she playing?
“So here I am.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Do you know me?”
He had to chuckle at that hopeful question. “Never seen you before.”
“I had to ask. I’m not sure if I’m from Tangle Lake. Everywhere I’ve been no one seems to recognize me. Friendliest person so far has been that asshole behind us tossing the darts.”
“Name’s Brock Olafson, and you should stay away from him if you value your safety.”
“Thanks. I got that ‘stay away’ feeling from him.” She sipped the beer and wiped off the foam moustache. “I thought visiting the scene of the accident would make something click in my brain, you know?”
“Well, if you want me to hit you upside the head...?”
“Does that work? The knowledge I have on that is it’s mainly been used in children’s cartoons and tear-jerker love stories.”
“I was kidding. So were you hoping asshole would pay your tab?”
“I, er...” She shrugged and focused on her drink.
Blade tugged out his wallet and laid enough cash on the bar to cover his and her tab. “On me,” he said. “If you don’t have memory, you must not have a job.”
“Nope. Not that I know of. There could be a cubicle that’s empty right now. Is the whole office wondering where I am? Do I have a big project due any day now?”
She didn’t look like a cubicle drone, but Blade couldn’t decide what kind of work she might have done. Her exotic coloring and flowing clothes hinted at a bohemian nature. And those sorts were usually musicians and artists. Maybe?
Why not go to the police? Her story just didn’t jibe.
“If I can ask, how do you survive?”
“I spent a couple days hawking raspberries at a farm stand just off
