An explosion of sound—part animal and part machine—left his ears ringing, and they both spun toward the modified bull. It stamped its front leg, snorted and tossed its head, and jittered its wings.
“Goddess,” Grier breathed, taking an automatic step toward her friend. “Lethe, are you sure…?”
“Yeehaw,” Lethe hollered. “Let’s see what this thing can do.”
“Don’t fret, Miss Potentate, ma’am.” The bartender passed Grier a glass of clear liquid neither Grier nor he were foolish enough to assume was water. “No one who walks in on this will be anything other than jealous Hank flipped the switch on the mechadrabull before two. They’re ornery critters. It’ll give you twice the fight for waking it up early.”
“Mechadrabull,” Grier echoed, a bit awed by the creature. “Where did you find it?”
“Hank breeds them. They reproduce maybe once every two-three hundred years.”
A delighted laugh escaped her. “That explains why he’s got a part-time job in a bar.”
“We couldn’t handle it otherwise. Like I said, they’re damn ornery critters.”
“But they’re alive? Like real animals?”
“They’re something,” he agreed, selecting a glass to polish. “Maybe ask Hank about it if you’re interested in putting down a deposit on his next calf. They run four—maybe five—hundred.”
Her brows drew down. “Four or five hundred dollars?”
“Thousand.” He moved on to wiping down the bar. “Talk to Hank.”
“I’ll do that.” She leaned in close to Linus and whispered, “When pigs as well as mechanical bulls fly.”
The creature began walking, stretching its limbs after a long confinement. Its gait proved too fluid to be anything less than a living creature, and Lethe adapted, getting a feel for how it moved.
“Diesel,” Hank mumbled. “Get.”
Diesel got.
Lurching forward, he kicked up his heels and extended his wings, jostling his rider. Lethe acted cocky up until Diesel took flight. After that, she resembled a child who had gotten her wish of a pony for her birthday granted a day early.
Unable to restrain himself, Hood took a single step forward before noticing his faux pas. He downplayed it by leaning his elbows on the top rail of the enclosure before Lethe’s mom could take exception to him thinking—even for a second—that her daughter needed his help.
“You’re the professor.” Grier gawked after Lethe and Diesel. “Profess.” She pointed. “How is it doing that?”
The creature planted its feet midair, the logistics of which piqued his interest. Bucking, whirling, pawing, kicking, snorting, Diesel flew in zigzag patterns and performed barrel roles to unseat his rider but to no avail.
“I have no idea.” A thrill zipped through him at having learned something new. “I’ve never heard of a mechadrabull.” He drummed his fingers on the bar, itching to do the research, his inquisitiveness as much a curse as a blessing. “I promise you I will rectify that tonight.”
Gazing up at him with good humor, Grier chuckled. “You’re so cute when you’re in professor mode.”
“It’s dangerous to have unknown supernatural creatures in town.” Hardening his eyes, he stared down his nose at her, a tactic that had resulted in at least one of his students releasing their bladders. “Particularly ones who blend so well and have regular contact with humans.”
“Not buying the act.” She patted his cheek. “You’re adorable for trying to scare me, though.”
Unable to hold on to the mask with her, he tossed it aside. “Most people are afraid of me.”
“Most people haven’t seen you reenact key scenes from Titanic with an undead parakeet.”
Heat, as much as he could produce, flooded his cheeks in a stinging rush. “You promised never to speak of that.”
“No.” She drilled a finger into his chest. “I promised never to tell anyone else you lifted him like Simba in The Lion King so he could be king of the world or whatever.”
Much to her distress, Keet had also learned how to make a glug, glug, glug noise, which he paired with flopping onto his back on the hardwood with his legs sticking in the air. For a while, he used a piece of toast for his “door” to “float” on, but Lethe ate it.
“We could start a tab for some of Lethe’s young adults, send them out barhopping and get an idea of what’s out there right under our noses. Hadley’s good at code-breaking reviews. Maybe she’ll give us a crash course in reviewese.”
“You’ll have to start a lottery,” he mused. “Draw a winner every month to keep it fair and prevent management from noticing they’re under surveillance.”
Otherwise, there would be bloodshed. On both fronts.
“I like you.” She patted his shoulder. “P.S. I’m going to let you draw names.”
“I assumed the dubious honor would fall to me.”
“I’m pack. I can’t be seen showing favoritism.”
Aware of the true reason, he called her out on it. “You don’t want to explain to Lethe why her name never gets drawn.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Linus angled his head toward the bartender, about to ask for a fresh drink, when sudden impact with Grier’s shoulder knocked him off his stool. He landed beneath Grier, her hands cradling the back of his skull to prevent it from hitting the poured concrete floor, and he gripped her shoulders, yanking her flat against him as Diesel pranced over their heads to the tune of Lethe’s maniacal laughter.
“I’m not riding that thing,” she breathed, her lips brushing his. “I can’t die the night before my wedding.”
“I agree.” He helped her stand then rose to his feet. “I have an idea.”
Always up for mischief, her eyes sparkled with delight. “Will it get us in trouble?”
“For ditching our bachelor and bachelorette parties?” He pretended to mull it over, but he had long since made up his mind. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”
All eyes remained trained on the ceiling where Lethe blazed a jagged path on Diesel. Money exchanged hands within their small group, Tisdale at the heart of the betting. With their attentions fixed elsewhere, I downed the freebie shot from the bartender for courage then coughed until one of my lungs detached.
The liquor shot straight to my head in a rush that left me deafened by the pulse banging in my ears. “What was that?”
“House special.” Weathered skin folded into deep creases when the bartender grinned. “We call it Diesel fuel.”
Afraid of the answer, I didn’t ask him to elaborate but slapped a twenty on the bar to cover Linus’s tab. I drew obfuscation sigils on us using my modified pen, checked to see if we had been missed yet, then shoved Linus toward the exit.
Normally, gwyllgi senses would be an obstacle to overcome. Tonight, not so much. The combined noise of the mechadrabull, the earsplitting whistles, and raucous cheers from the pack, meant that Linus and I could barely hear ourselves think as we made our escape.
Just to be on the safe side, I drew a sigil on the bar across the exit door to muffle its click before depressing it. Giddy with the cheap thrill, we slipped outside and left the others to finish what Lethe had started.