Read Mystic Jive: Hand of Fate - Book Four for Free Online Page A

it was for me to take bus in my city parking control uniform, carrying my helmet under my arm. The sly comments and jibes weren’t funny anymore. “Can’t you give me a loaner?”
    “Hah! You forget I’m the one who has to keep putting that piece of shit you call a Honda back together all the time. No way.”
    “Oh, man, that’s not fair.” It stung like hell to admit it, but in the last year, Doc had seen more of my car than I had. “You said it yourself. It wasn’t fault. Not this time.”
    He wiped his hands on a faded shop rag. “Tell you what. I can let you borrow the Vic for a few days.”
    My heart skipped a beat. “You’re giving me my bike back?”
     Trusty Rusty was my transport, but the Victory Hammer S motorcycle was my pride and joy. I’d traded it to Doc for the repairs on Rusty last time around. It had been a gift from Lance. The bike is built a little wider and lower to the ground than most road bikes—making it perfect for women like me. Doc is too tall for it, and his wife prefers her Harley, so it was just sitting in his glass-walled showroom, as shiny and clean as the day I brought it in.
    A totally kick-ass bike. I wished I’d never let it go. “Oh man, that’s great. Thanks, Doc. You’re the best!”
    He handed me the key, a near-smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “If it snows, bring her right back.”
    I kissed the key. “Of course.” No one in their right mind would let a bike like that out on the road where the salt could hurt it. October already, and we hadn’t seen our first snow yet. The whole region had been experiencing a long run of good weather. Maybe Rhys and I could take a road trip out to Letchworth State park on the weekend to see the fall colors.
    I strapped my helmet on and walked the bike out of the showroom, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. I threw my leg over the bike and a moment later, the thrum of the Vic’s engine purred between my legs. For the first time in months, I felt strong and sexy and ready to conquer the world.
     
    * * *
     
    That night, Rhys and I arrived at Maestro’s Dance studio a little before 8pm. The studio, located in the warehouse section of Germantown, was two blocks down from the meat-packing plant. Eight-foot-tall picture windows faced the street. The interior walls were all mirrored. The ceilings and open ductwork had all been painted dark maroon. Polished wood floors and amber soffit lighting made the large space seem warm and intimate, rather than intimidating.
    This was our fifth of eight lessons in the Dancing for Lovers class. Rhys and I showed up in our usual tee-shirts, boots, and jeans. The other five couples there were dressed more formally; the men in sports jackets and the women in skirts. Aside from the part about Rhys being a couple of thousand years old, we were younger than the five other dance partners, most of whom were in their mid-forties and fifties.
    Tonight, Mr. Maestro’s assistant, Stella, greeted us wearing a skin-tight black leotard, fishnet tights, and spike heels. Trim and curvy, without an ounce of jiggle, she was always cheerful and welcoming. Every inch of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair had been shellacked in place with hairspray.
    “Welcome, welcome. I hope you’ve all been practicing.” She checked our names off on the attendance sheet.
    As if by some secret signal, Mr. Maestro entered the studio. He clapped his hands for our attention. He had an interesting, if ageless face. His sharp eyes scanned the room, restless and predatory as a wolf looking to spot the weakest in the herd. He wore his usual, skin-tight black stretch pants, with a white shirt open to his waist over a black turtleneck, and white spats on his shoes. Smarmy guy. If you looked up the word, lothario in the dictionary, that was Mr. Maestro.
    But after our first lesson, Rhys and I both knew he was a hell of a good teacher. He and Stella were both vamps, but Rhys told me that Mr. Maestro was a different kind of vampire,