The Dark Side of Eleanor Warwick
NOTHING

Roman hates karaoke.

On the scale of human invention, it falls somewhere in between landmines and vegetarianism. Try as he might, he can’t understand the appeal of watching people who can’t sing mangle some of the worst songs ever written. He’d rather slam his head in a car door.

The attractive young bartender keeps giving him suggestive looks. Roman wonders, not for the first time, if he has time to take her into the back. Alas, he needs to be sitting there when the current song finishes.

The view from his barstool is an irritating one. Multi-colored lights bathe the karaoke bar. Cheap paper lanterns hang in lines above round tables draped in red and gold tablecloths. Chinese inspirations are everywhere, despite karaoke being a Japanese invention and the owners of the bar being as Asian as a bacon double-cheeseburger. Most of the customers are drunk and appreciate the music a great deal more than they likely would otherwise.

The room eyes him right back. Not surprising. Roman is massive. He is well over six feet tall with the broad frame of a bodybuilder. Tattoos run down his muscular arms. Even without knowing about the magic at his command, he intimidates most.

When The Rolling Stones’ “Saint of Me” ends, Roman claps absently. The performer hops off the stage to slightly more enthusiastic applause from the crowd. He wipes sweat from his forehead, running a hand through his spiked hair as he approaches the bar. Jacob Ethridge slaps both hands down on Roman’s rock-hard shoulders. “Not bad, eh? Thoroughly underrated Stones tune.”

Roman takes a large swing of his beer. “Yeah.”

Ethridge sits on the stool next to him and signals for a drink. “You weren’t even listening were you?”

“I heard a lot more than I wanted to.”

Ethridge winks at the bartender as she sits a bottle in front of him. He takes a quick drink. “You’re loads of fun, as always.”

“My guy from Boston got in touch.”

“Oh, yeah? Anything good?”

Pushing his bottle away, Roman leans toward his long-time friend and business partner. “The Blackwells are coming.”

Halting mid-swig, Ethridge lowers his beer. He wipes his mouth and turns to him. “Coming? You mean here?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. But there’s been those rumors.”

Ethridge drums on the counter with a giddy chuckle. “Oh, wow! They must be true! The sixth Blackwell! Here!”

“That’d be my guess,” Roman says with a shrug. “So I’m gonna be skipping town for a while. I suggest you do the same.”

“Whoa! What? Are you running from these guys?”

“I’m staying the hell out of their way, yeah. They’re bad news.”

“So are we.”

Roman raises a doubtful brow. “Oh, yeah? Are you more powerful than Alexander Blackwell?”

“No, but I’m not running away from him like a bitch.” Ethridge flinches as Roman shoots up off his stool. He quickly places a hand on his massive colleague’s massive shoulder. “Hey! Hey! Poor choice of words on my part. Poor choice of words. I’m sorry.”

The muscular wizard glares down at him before taking a deep breath and returning to his seat. Ethridge adjusts his blazer. “Here’s the thing, big man. Where you see a threat, I see an opportunity. You know I want to start my own House. I need Dominion. I need a seed.”

“And why would they help you?” Roman asks, his cool demeanor returning.

“Because I’ll help them. When’s the last time House Blackwell came to Carmadie?”

Roman shrugs. “20 years.”

“At least. Surely they’ll be in need of a humble guide,” he says with a slight bow. “Played by yours truly.”

Roman’s face somehow becomes even more stern. “You shouldn’t get involved with them.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told me about them.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious. Fortune favors the bold, amigo. Blackwell is the swinging dick of all Houses. The gold standard. Who better to help me build the foundation of House Ethridge?”

“From what I hear, they don’t help anyone do anything.”

“Look, Roman,” Ethridge looks to his friend with the sunken, but hopeful eyes of a dreamer, “you’ve got to understand. If you don’t have a House in this city, you are nothing. I’m tired of being nothing. I’ve been nothing my entire life. If I have to put my hand in the mouth of a lion to grab the brass ring balancing on the tip of its tongue, I’ll do it.”

He clasps his hand on the back of Roman’s neck, giving a playful jostle. “But I can’t do it alone.”

Roman finishes off his beer. He hesitates a moment before giving a sigh and a nod. “We’ll need more guys. Just in case.”

Ethridge hooks his arm around his friend’s thick neck and gives him a pat on the chest. “We’ll get ’em.”

“Two more wizards. At least half a dozen demons.”

“Consider it done.” Ethridge signals the bartender. “Can we get this man another beer?”

“But for the record,” Roman nods to the attractive server as she produces another fresh bottle, “this is a bad idea.”

“Save it for my Housewarming party,” Ethridge answers, pulling out his cell.

Roman chugs down the entire beer pushes the bottle aside, and rises from his stool. “Make your calls. I’ll be back.”

Locking eyes with the bartender, he nods toward the swinging door that leads to the bar’s back rooms. It’s not as much a suggestion as an order. If that bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She smiles as she calls out to tell a coworker she’s going on break.

“Take it easy on her, big guy,” Ethridge suggests as the two disappear through the doorway.