by D. S. Ritter
Loss of tickets or paperwork often resulted in perceived shortages, which were as good as real shortages. Real shortages could either come out of your pocket before you turned in your paperwork, though that had to be done on the down low, or they’d be collected through more official channels, usually alongside a write-up. Or worse.
So, this meant that in the booths, Relief had to respect a person’s system of organization. One ticket out of place could mean trouble. Though, it seemed like Pete’s system was already teetering on the edge of chaos.
A red sedan with an older man pulled up.
“Hi,” said Sam, sitting up a bit straighter. “How are you today?”
“Peter, ‘eh?” said the man, “You don’t *look like a Peter.” Pete’s name tag was still on the side of the booth.
“Hah,” said Sam, taking his ticket. “That’s a good one. Actually, my name’s Sam.”
“Like, Samantha?”
She smiled at him. “Nope. Just Sam. That’ll be three dollars, please.”
He frowned, handed over his money and then drove away when the gate went up. *Ah, positive personal interactions. Sam put the ticket on the top of Pete’s disheveled “regular” pile.
Half an hour later, Pete came back from break looking just as exhausted as before and smelling like he’d been vaping. Franklin was so ready to hunt vampires, he would have started sharpening stakes had there been any wood handy.
Dismissed, Sam hit the road. Having no assigned breaks for about an hour, she got on the radio.
“This is Change Relief One to All Cashiers; does anyone need any change?”
“Seven-Seven to Change Relief One.”
“Change Relief One.”
“I’m going to need change soon.”
“Ten-Four. On my way.”
She drove over to Seven-Seven, taking her time. This was the big underground lot near the bus station, and she hadn’t been there since her violent encounter with Joe Huckabee the year before. She was surprised at how okay she felt returning to the scene of their fight. She’d choked Joe out on the bottom floor of the structure, and he’d tried to knock her over the railing to her death. But she didn’t get cold water chills here, like she did over at Seven-One, or even waking up from a bad dream in her own apartment.
Sandra Yell worked the booth over there. She was an older woman, perhaps in her sixties or seventies, who had been at one of the old Ford plants that shut down. Not ready for retirement, she spent a couple nights a week at Empire, and during the day, bagged groceries at a local Kroger. She was a nice enough lady though deeply opinionated about some subjects which Sam had a tendency to disagree with her about. That was the way it was with some of the older employees.
“Girl, you find yourself a church yet?” asked Sandra, by way of a greeting.
Sam gave her a customer service smile. “Nope, not yet.” She would not raise the fact she wasn’t religious again, Sandra was deaf when it came to that kind of talk.
“You keep looking. Once you let Jesus into your life, everything will work out for you. You’ll get a good husband, settle down and have some babies.” said Sandra, counting out the money she’d exchange. “All you need is Jesus. That’s the truth. Look me, I’ve had two husbands, all thanks to Jesus.”
“Pretty amazing, Sandra,” said Sam. “What kind of change do you want?”
“I need to get the bag ready for Vera in the morning, so I’m going to need some nickels, some dimes and some singles.”
Sam handed over the change and counted the money Sandra gave her. Cashiers, those who had been around for a while, were particular about the state of their bank bags. Not having them "just so” could cause a cold war-like feud which might last for weeks. Years, in some cases.
Once she finished up with Sandra, Sam climbed back into her car and drove back up to the surface lot where she pulled into a spot to count her bag and check the schedule. Despite the chilly weather, she shut the engine off. The dome lights didn’t work, so she used her phone as a light to check her paperwork, only vaguely aware of the two young men who walked up beside her car. Looking up from her work, Sam saw one, holding a tall boy of cheap beer, was facing the hood of her car and unzipping his fly. Is he seriously about to pee on my–?!
“What-the-fuck-are-you-doing?!” She threw open the door and stood up, scaring the hell out of both boys.
“Oh, shit!” The one with his fly open fell backwards, tripping over his saggy pants and spilling his beer all over the concrete. They both ran off into the night, only turning back to give her the finger. She would have returned the gesture if she hadn’t been in uniform.
“Assholes,” she muttered, getting ready to get back in. Before she did though, her eyes fell on something that gave her goosebumps. A low wall concealed a dumpster from the street. Laying in the shadow of that dumpster was a foot, a high heel shoe strewn nearby. “Oh, Jesus.”
She ran over and peered at the body. There was an obvious bite on her neck, but she was still bleeding, and breathing. Grasped in her hand was a black scrap of cloth.
Chapter Seven
“You ever see that old show, Murder, She Wrote?” asked Carter, yawning.
In the light of events, Sunday night beers had been moved to Sunday afternoon, and the night shift languished sleepily at the back of Sidetracks, pecking at an order of fries.
“The one about the mystery writer? Angela Lansberry?” asked Sam, sipping her wheat beer.
“Yeah. The thing about the show is, everywhere she goes, somebody gets murdered.”
Sam stared at him, encouraging him to get to the point.
Heather sighed. “He’s saying you’re like her, except with vampire attacks.”
“Dude, that’s not cool,” said Jesus, playing with a rosary. He was wearing four on his neck and had one wrapped around his left wrist. “I mean, that lady’s in intensive care.”
“So, we’ve definitely got a vampire in town,” said Yolanda, leaning back in her chair. “How are we going to find it?”
“Why do we want to find it?” asked Kim, the only one at the table fully awake.
“Aren’t we the neighborhood watch for this kind of stuff?” Franklin was cutting his burger in half, something Sam didn’t expect from a guy six feet tall. “Like, keeping the streets safe for the humans, or whatever?”
Nobody had an immediate answer for that.
“I told John about it, he’s talking to his cousin.”
“Yeah, I really don’t like that guy,” admitted Carter, nudging a fry across his plate.
“I still cannot believe you’re speaking to him,” said Yolanda, an edge to her voice. “He is a creep with a capital ‘C.’”
“Yeah, but his cousin is hot,” said Sam, half-joking.
Yolanda fixed her with a glare that said I am not messing around. “Getting involved with John is a bad idea. I don’t care how fine his cousin is.”
“Yeah,” said Heather, “I could see him pulling a huge mob and then leaving you with all the aggro.”
“Don’t even start with all that gamer talk.”
“She’s saying he’s going to get me into trouble and then just disappear.”
“No, yeah, exactly. That’s exactly what he’s going to do.” Yolanda took a big swallow of her beer. “You can’t trust that guy. Plus, I mean, booty calls? Not classy.”
Sam’s phone vibrated, and she checked her texts. She thought about telling them she was being summoned back to the House of the Sun, but decided against it, feeling a bit ashamed to be involved with John again. It made her look like she had no self-respect, but wasn’t keeping the peace important too?
***
“Black fabric isn’t much of a clue,” sighed John, swirling a half-full beer around lazily.
Smith shook his head, “No, but it gives me an idea. From what I’ve heard, you guys have two major covens in Ann Arbor. This might be a turf war kind of thing, I don’t know.”
“That’s going to get messy if humans are get
ting caught up in it,” said Sam, a couple drinks in and gazing at Smith in a way that would be highly embarrassing later.
“I’ll put out word to the covens,” said Smith, smiling at her. “We’ll see what we can dig up. Get you an interview with one of the head honchos...”
Arranging an interview would not take long.
***
“HQ to Seven-One,” crackled the radio. It was the Monday after and the garage was dead, just after the rush to get out of work.
Sam yawned, adjusted the sunglasses that had done a poor job of hiding a pounding hangover, and answered. “Seven-One here, what can I do for you?”
“We got a guy in the lobby… he… I don’t think he gets this whole parking thing. Can you go help him out?”
“What the hell?” she muttered, heading over.
The man standing beside the cash machine was dressed all in black, but his clothes were out of fashion. He kind of reminded her of the old people who lived in the senior living apartments next to the garage, but he didn’t look old. He looked like he was in his thirties, but had the quiet, out-of-place befuddlement of an eighty-year-old. He looked nervous as she walked up. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he said, wringing his hands, “You are Sam, I presume?”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end for a moment. “Yes? And who are you?”
He bowed. “Bartholomew Holt, at your service. I have been sent to speak to you on behalf of my coven, at the request of our maker himself. A great honor, I can assure you.”
Sam felt rather lost. “Um, okay?”
“My maker was contacted by Smithsonian Black, the proprietor of the House of the Sun? I have been instructed to answer, to the best of my abilities, questions you put forward on our coven and its activities.”
“So, you’re here for an interview?”
“If you like.”
“Have you guys been attacking people lately? Getting a little sloppy?”
“Emphatically, no. We prefer to operate beneath the notice of the public, so being ‘sloppy’ is not in the best interest of the coven.”
Sam nodded, making a mental note. “Okay, so dumping bodies in the street isn’t coven policy, but what if it’s still happening?”
“I doubt that would be possible, but if it were happening, we would settle such disobedience among ourselves. We’ve had a long time to create our own laws and customs, as you might imagine, given our substantial lifespans.”
“You’re not immortal?”
His smile was small, but charming. “No one knows. The oldest of our coven is something over one thousand years, but we’ve heard rumors of older beings. They are only rumors, and those reaching a millennium tend to cease resembling anything very human. Beyond that point… well, most don’t want to go beyond that point.”
She looked around to make sure there wasn’t anyone around, or needing her help. “So, you really don’t suspect it’s anyone in your coven doing this?”
“I feel that if it were, we would know about it and the situation would be taken care of,” he said with a tone of assurance.
“So, if you were me, where would you look for a culprit, if not in your own house?”
He smiled again, a very businesslike expression to go with his businesslike demeanor. “I would recommend paying a visit to the other coven taking up residence in town. Our coven might be older, but theirs has been in the area longer, and the little I know of them, I don’t believe they are nearly as disciplined as we are. Not nearly.”
“There’s another coven in Ann Arbor?”
“Yes. Their ideals are too… modern, for our tastes, but we have peacefully coexisted for a few decades now. You might ask them some of your questions.”
Sam got an address from the old vampire. “And how can I contact you if I need to ask you guys more questions?”
“We have, as of late, had a telephone installed,” the vampire said, rather doubtfully. “I am not sure what you people see in such contraptions. Noisy and troublesome…” He pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper and read off a phone number to her.
“Thanks for you help,” said Sam, putting the number in her phone.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Dejardin.,” said Bartholomew, once again bowing shallowly. “And if there is anything else you or Mr. Black require from us, do not hesitate to get in touch. We are at your disposal. Good bye.”
And with that, he swept away with all the drama of a Victorian stage actor and disappeared into the night. Sam watched him go, only slightly disappointed he didn’t explode into a million bats or something. He’d been a vampire of the old school, a Bela Lugosi-type, definitely.
Now, it was time to see about the new school.
***
The address the vampire had given her was pretty central. This second coven seemed to hide in plain sight. The next morning, she sent the information to John and then called in to Empire to use one of her sick days. If they were going in, they’d go in that night.
She also got a text:
Yolanda T:
You better be ready to talk about last night
One of my girls saw you parking.
You up to something dumb?
I don’t wanna come over there and kick your butt
Sam laughed.
Sam D:
Don’t worry. Nothing happened.
Yolanda T:
Good. That guy’s not good enough for you.
Sam D:
That cousin tho...
Yolanda T:
Don’t play. I’m coming over there.
Duly warned, Sam got the coffeemaker going.
She was just getting out of the shower when her door buzzer sounded. She let them up, still in her bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her long black hair.
“Okay, so spill. What did he want?” asked Yolanda as soon as the apartment door was open.
“Also, doughnuts,” said Heather, holding out a box from the local bakery apologetically.
Sam sighed. “Okay, come on in.”
***
“Just for the record,” said Yolanda, going through Sam’s closet, “I don’t like any of this.”
“That’s a little harsh,” said Sam, grinning into her coffee mug. “I think that top’s kind of cute.”
Yolanda fixed her with a pointed look. “You know what I mean.”
“Well, I’ll tell him that when I see him tonight. We have an address his cousin wants us to check out.”
“You’re going to a vampire nest?” asked Heather, almost dropping her doughnut.
“Is this not exactly what we were just talking about?”
Sam sighed. “It’s a lead. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Look, Chica, I got work and no sick days left,” said Yolanda, taking her phone out. “Jesus’ll go with you though. And what about Kim?”
“I don’t think Kim is gonna–” started Heather.
“Kim’s gonna.” The finality in Yolanda’s voice left little doubt: Sam would not be meeting up with John alone.
Chapter Eight
“Well, this is hardly covert,” said John, crossing his arms as he watched the small group walk up. Night had just fallen and Sam, Kim and Jesus had just arrived outside what looked like a re-purposed mortuary. In Sam’s opinion, a perfect place for a vampire nest, though it had window boxes and an artsy mobile-like weather vane on the roof above the porch where the hearses would have driven up.
Jesus frowned at John. “You’re wearing a cape, guy. Don’t be talking about ‘covert.’”
John shrugged. “You guys ready to go in?”
“No,” sighed Kim. “I’m supposed to be looking for jobs right now. Hunting vampires is not my ideal Monday night.”
“Hunting? This isn’t a hunt,” said John, “we’re here to gather information. This is an investigation, not a raid.”
Sam threw up her hands. “Say that next time! All you sent me was ’Let’s go.’”
“You guys are armed
to the teeth, aren’t you?” John looked at them. They all sighed and looked a little sheepish.
“Guys, you can’t go in there with a bunch of stakes under your shirts or whatever. Leave that shit outside.”
They grumbled, but left a small pile of stakes and crosses in Sam’s car. “Do I gotta leave the rosaries?” asked Jesus. “’Cause I’m wearing like twenty, and they’re all tangled up and...”
“It’s fine. The rosaries are fine. Just come on,” John grumbled. “You guys are seriously embarrassing me.”
As they walked up to the front door, Sam realized she was disappointed. She’d expected danger, sneakiness, something exciting. Instead, it felt like they would give them a survey or something.
John rapped twice on the front door which had been painted a rather ostentatious red. They waited a moment on the doorstep, looking around. “I had garlic bread with dinner,” said Kim, “is that going to be a problem?”
Without a sound of movement from the inside, the door swung open to reveal a pale young man with a beard, wearing a trucker hat, a flannel shirt and skinny jeans. “Hey guys,” he said. “Can I help you? Little early for trick-or-treating, isn’t it?” he said, giving John the once over.
“Smith sent us,” replied John, ignoring the crack. “Can we come in and have a chat?”
The guy beckoned them inside. “Yeah, no, great. Thanks for coming so quick. The gang’s all here, pretty much. A lot of them are hanging out in the den.”
The inside of the mortuary-turned house was decorated like stereotypical grandparents lived there. Old oriental rugs and runners in the halls, knick-knacks and antiques everywhere, but well-used. This wasn’t a collection, but a home. The lighting was low, mainly provided by glass sconces on the wall which looked like they harked back to the gas lamp days.