Read Online Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori - Free Book Online Page A

barred.
    Consequently, freshly washed and pressed, the beasts were the first guests to arrive in the cocktail lounge. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder flamenco dancer’s dress made of red chamois leather, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell greeted them in a less-than-effusive fashion. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a drink . . . ?”
    Sab took charge. “I’ll have lemonade, Knot had better not, and Tock? Ffup?”
    Catching sight of the platters of irradiated squid, Tock slid the contents of one down his throat, belched tactfully, and turned his attention to the bottles ranged behind the bar. “Make mine a Gatorade,” he said, propping one scaly elbow on the bar rail and attempting to exude urban sophistication.
    â€œI suppose you don’t do Dragonade,” sighed Ffup, helping himself to a shriveled peanut and turning round to stare at the door as several more guests arrived. A small Latin man in a deafeningly loud check suit limped up to the bar and kissed Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s outstretched hand.
    â€œDarling boy,” she trilled, air-kissing him near both cheeks. “Vincent, how
lovely
to see you . . . both.” The last word was delivered with a disappointed sneer, for Vincent Bella-Vista was accompanied by his girlfriend, Vadette, who was advancing on the bar with all the subtlety of an armored tank.
    â€œSweetie,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell hissed at Vadette, “don’t you look just
stunning
? Haven’t you lost some weight? Doesn’t she look super, Vincent?”
    â€œSpare me, Fifi,” muttered Vadette, plonking her considerable girth onto a bar stool. “Just pour the drinks.”
    â€œ
Not
Fifi, darling—I’m not a poodle.”
    â€œFee-Yawn, then. Pour the gut rot, there’s a good dog.”
    Just in time to avert an all-out catfight, a brash of visiting American lawyers on vacation arrived at the bar. Their search for signs of the Loch Ness Monster in Lochnagargoyle’s chilly depths had drawn a blank, but they were cheered at the prospect of suing the Scottish Tourist Board for misinformation regarding the possible existence of the fabled Nessie. Their combined girths made Vadette look positively svelte, and their voices, trained in the law courts of Carolina, drowned out any further discussion.
    â€œSome of your wine for my learned colleagues at the bar,” their spokesman demanded, “and make mine a double Scotch on the rocks.” The speaker drummed tanned fingers on the countertop, jiggled loose change in his pockets, and gazed around. “Say, ma’am,” he drawled in some puzzlement after encountering the combined stares of the beasts and Tock, “did we get our wires crossed? Is this Fancy Dress Night?” He stepped forward and peered at Tock with interest. “Say, feller,” he said admiringly, “that’s a pretty darn realistic costume you’ve got there. How much did that ole ’gator skin set you back?”
    Tock opened his mouth to reply. The combination of his squid-tainted breath and his serried rows of teeth made the American recoil sharply. “Well, Bud”—Tock attempted a mid-Atlantic accent—“it’s not what ya know, it’s
who
ya know. My mom was in the skin trade, if you follow my drift.”
    The door of the cocktail lounge opened to admit Hugh Pylum-Haight, wreathed in cigar smoke and dressed in an impeccably tailored dark cashmere suit. He elbowed his way to the bar and tapped Vincent Bella-Vista on the shoulder. Looking like an aristocrat and his gamekeeper, the two men moved away to a secluded corner and were soon deep in conversation. Beelzebub, the resident cat of the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms, was curled up in the fireplace, attempting to ignore the unwelcome attentions of Knot, who persisted in sniffing the cat’s fur and drooling in a most repulsive fashion. The smell of cigars mingled with wood smoke and, outside the windows,