Night Owls

by Lauren M. Roy

  “It was nothing. I handled it.” The lie came smoothly. Like the invite she’d commanded out of Justin last night, Val tucked the guilt away for later. Telling Chaz what had happened would send him into panic mode, and right now she wanted stability and calm. Or at least a semblance of it. I need to make a phone call first. Get some advice, or directions, or even some help. Then I’ll fill him in.

  Chaz stared at her. “Really, now. So much nothing you practically took my legs off shutting me into the car?” He ran a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Val. Whatever it was had you scared out of your wits.”

  She sighed, the guilt not completely vanquished. “All right. Fine. I don’t know what it was, not exactly. But it smelled wrong, and it smelled close, so I wanted you out of there while I took care of it.” The last part was true enough, at least. She stood and retrieved a hair elastic from beneath a sheaf of invoices. “Good Renfields are hard to find, you know.”

  “Goddamn it, Val, I’m not kidding.” Usually the reminder that he was—technically—her servant got a smirk out of him. Now his scowl just deepened.

  “I know you’re not. I’m sorry. Look, whatever it was, it’s gone now, okay?” Val flexed her hands. They still ached from the previous night’s abuse. She was thankful she’d been passed out for the day while they reset themselves: it meant she hadn’t had to feel the bones cracking and warping all over again. She caught Chaz eyeing them and clasped them behind her back. “It probably just wanted a snack. If it was looking for someone, it wasn’t me.”

  “Because there are so many other supernatural creatures in Edgewood.”

  He had a point. Other vamps passed through occasionally, and a pair of succubi were shacking up a few streets over, but she was pretty much the town’s only permanent paranormal resident. Still, she kept her nose clean—mostly by keeping it out of bloodsucker politics in the first place—so there was truly no reason for something big and nasty and foul smelling to come after her at all. “Maybe they were passing through on their way to Boston.”

  It was a weak explanation; the look on Chaz’ face reflected that. But for some reason, he let it go. “Fine. But next time, remember I keep a crowbar in the backseat. I can help.”

  I’m not letting you anywhere near a Jackal if I can help it. “Deal.” She finished twisting her hair back into a messy, half-assed bun, and stuck out her hand to shake. Chaz took it, and just like that, they were okay again.

  “Listen,” he said, back to business. “Justin brought in a book from the professor for us. He asked if we could keep it in with the rare stuff for now. I put it on top of the other books you keep meaning to get around to pricing.” He held the door open for her as they passed into the front of the store.

  Justin was up at the front register, flipping through the latest issue of Rolling Stone. He tried slapping it closed and shoving it to the side when he heard Val and Chaz approaching, but Val had been through close to thirty employees from Edgewood College in the decade she’d owned the store. She knew the sound of cast-aside magazines by now. Combine that with the hangdog look and the fervor with which Justin was straightening a stack of bookmarks, and the kid was busted.

  “Chaz says you have something from Professor Clearwater,” Val announced. She looked pointedly at the magazine, but didn’t comment on its presence.

  Color crept into Justin’s cheeks. He was one of those kids who never got in trouble in class, so reprimands from authority figures—even the gentlest rebukes—got the guilt flowing. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” He stopped fiddling with the bookmarks and looked at her sheepishly. This was the other reason Val didn’t call him out on reading at the register: a verbal warning would’ve given him fits.

  “Did he say anything about it?”

  “Just that he’d be in for it later, and that we should leave it sealed up. I guess maybe it’s superfragile.”

  “That’s unlike him. He always brings his finds in himself.”

  Justin had been halfway through a flinch at her frown. Realizing it wasn’t directed at him, he relaxed. “Maybe he just wanted to get it here. He looked like he’d been up all night, and said something about going back home to sleep. He canceled his classes today, too. Even my directed study.”

  That was unusual. Even when classes were canceled, Professor Clearwater made time for Justin. In many ways, the two were as close as a grandfather and his favorite grandson. It was the professor who had suggested they hire Justin, when work-study proved not nearly enough to cover the expenses of living on campus. And boy, had the kid ever worked out. He’d been at Night Owls for a year and a half now, and Val dreaded his eventual graduation. Finding an employee whose worst infraction was to peek through the occasional magazine during slow times was rare indeed.

  As rare as the books in the reading room. As rare as someone like Chaz.

  Val patted Justin’s hand. “There’s a cold going around. Tell you what—if he doesn’t swing in by ten o’clock, we’ll call and see if he or Helen need anything. All right?”

  That brightened him up. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Val.”

  Val held the reassuring smile another few seconds, until she was well away from Justin. By the time she reached the reading room and sorted through her key ring (rare books room, bookstore, delivery door, her house, spare key to Chaz’ Mustang, several more whose locks were on the other side of the country . . .), it was gone, replaced with a scowl. Up all night and canceled his classes. Don’t tell me you went Jackal hunting, old man.

  But if he had, he’d survived. Justin had seen him in the daylight. The silver key turned in the lock, and Val pushed into the rare books room. She stood in the dark for a moment, breathing in the musty scent of dust and paper, old leather bindings and furniture polish. “Let’s see what you’ve brought us, Professor,” she said, and switched on the light.

  Val liked to call the room cozy; Chaz called it the veal box. She had to concede the aptness of that description—even Jarrod’s closet of a dorm room had had a few square feet on it. Still, it was neat and well lit, and filled floor to ceiling with books that had been around since before most of the Edgewood students’ grandparents had been born. Some of the tomes in here were older than the college itself. A few even dated back to colonial times.

  Everything was in its place—the books on their appointed shelves, the older ones in glass cases. The box of cotton gloves sat on a ledge to Val’s right, set there for visitors to use while browsing so the oils on their fingers wouldn’t damage the delicate pages. Val probably didn’t need to use them; she doubted her skin secreted much of anything since she’d been turned. But she tugged a pair on anyway, partly keeping up appearances in case Chaz let a customer in, partly because you never could be too careful.

  Justin had set the book down in the middle of the rolltop writing desk that served as the room’s reading area. It sat, thick and squat, wrapped in one of those Ziploc bags that could hold enough cereal to feed a small army. Just because the professor had said they shouldn’t open the bag didn’t mean Val couldn’t pick it up and look at it.

  Sitting down in the creaky old chair she’d picked up at an estate sale was usually a comfort. Tonight, she sank into it with dread. Books weren’t supposed to be scary; in fact, they should be the very opposite. Books made sense of the unknown. They were physical manifestations of order and sanity.

  Why, then, did the book on the desk make her want to slink into the corner and hide?

  I’m being ridiculous. He probably found an old Hawthorne or Dickinson and didn’t want to leave it in his office all day. It has nothing to do with last night. Nothing.

  But if he had found something like that, wouldn’t it have come up when he brought the fudge by last night? Maybe it was one of the books from his mother-in-law’s estate that he’d mentioned. No, that didn’t make sense, either. He’d have brought it up right then, and even if he’d forgotten, he’d simply have waited and brought the book by during a normal visit.

  Giving it to Justin lean
t an urgency to it.

  Val pulled the book closer, feeling its heft as it slid across the desk’s polished surface. She could see plain, mud brown leather beneath the plastic, but no title. The binding and the stitching were hard to assess through the bag. She pressed her fingers to the cover, questing for indents. There. The gold leaf might have worn off, but the title had been stamped into the leather. Val stretched the plastic tight and brought the book closer to the lamp to reveal its name.

  “Oh no. No, no, no.” The book fell back to the desk with a thud. Wood creaked as Val shoved violently back in her chair.

  The last time she’d seen this writing was in the nest outside of Sacramento. Letters like these had been smeared on the walls and carved into the bodies that were strewn about like discarded fast-food containers. She hadn’t asked anyone to translate. Hadn’t really needed them to.

  How had the professor come to possess such a thing? Had the Jackals she’d smelled last night left it behind somewhere, or had he taken it from them? She pulled the seal apart on the bag, just an inch, and sniffed. She could smell the Clearwaters’ house and, beneath that, human smells—the professor’s for certain, and someone else’s. Helen? And there, beneath the fresher scents, she could smell the Jackals’ rot.

  Val resealed the bag and shoved it into the top drawer of the desk. She strode from the rare books room, willing herself not to run. The silver key turned in the lock; as she pocketed her key ring, she wished she’d had a dead bolt installed, too. And a moat.

  Chaz was already hurrying down the aisle toward her as she spun around. She didn’t give him a chance to talk. “There you are. Good. I need to go out for a little while. No one is to go in that room, are we clear? In fact, I’m taking the register key—” His pale face and too-wide eyes finally registered. “Chaz? What’s going on?”

  He spoke in a whisper, but the words seemed to echo through the store. The whole place had gone dead quiet. “We just got some terrible news.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, like he thought he’d have to steady her. Somewhere near the front of the store, a girl hitched a sob. Chaz winced at the sound and took a deep breath.

  “What is it?” But she knew. Even before he said it, she knew.

  “Henry and Helen Clearwater are dead.”

  7

  VAL WAS MOVING before the words were out of Chaz’ mouth. He caught her by the elbow and tugged her back to him. Shaking him off would have been easy—Val was far, far stronger. But there were eyes on her here. She spoke through gritted teeth. “I have to go there. See what happened.”

  He shook his head, the grip on her arm tightening. “You can’t. It’s a crime scene. There are going to be cops everywhere, and you can’t just go barging in.”

  “I won’t let them see me. I’ll make them forget if they do.” She had to go. She had to see. If the Jackals had killed the Clearwaters, Val could track them. She could catch up to them and . . .

  And what? Take down a pack on her own? She had three small stakes of rowan with her, buried deep at the bottom of her messenger bag—hardly enough to face down multiple Jackals. There couldn’t be a whole nest in town, but without going to the house, she had no way to tell how many there really were. One or two she could destroy on her own, but not without difficulty. Probably not without serious damage to herself. Val closed her eyes and sighed. “You’re right. I have to wait.”

  Chaz let go. “If you want to go look around later, I’ll go with you. But he loved it here, and everyone knew it. If more information’s going to come in, it’ll make its way here pretty fast.”

  Now that Val looked around, she saw that he was right. More people had trickled in, mostly shell-shocked students who stood in clusters, talking in hushed voices. One stood alone, up at the register. Justin. Val strode straight down the aisle to him. He looked frozen in place, ashen and confused. As she got closer, his dark eyes flicked to her.

  “Val, they said . . . They said—”

  She caught him as he crumpled and pulled him into a hug. Justin didn’t sob or moan, but Val felt hot tears wetting her blouse. Every now and then he’d tremble, or his thin shoulders would hitch, but he hardly made a sound. He straightened after a while, not meeting her gaze as he went for the tissues and wiped his eyes. It had to be slightly awkward to be held by your boss. “Thank you,” he said at last, pulling away from her.

  She nodded and stepped back. “Do you want to go home for the night? Back to campus?”

  “No. I think I’ll be better staying, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” He had to be thinking the same as Chaz: people would come here to share news as it was discovered. “Well, you don’t have to stay up here. Go talk to whoever you need to.”

  Justin took another few seconds to compose himself, then stepped down and headed for a group of students. They made a space for him as he approached. A girl Val didn’t know slung her arm around Justin’s waist and they leaned into one another, offering comfort.

  • • •

  NIGHT OWLS FOUND itself hosting its own wake for the professor and Helen. Val sent Chaz to the bakery for a platter of pastries, and had Justin help her wrangle the monster-sized coffee urn they set up for author signings and book club nights. People stopped in and told stories about classes they’d had with Henry or Helen’s unflagging energy on various campus committees. No one knew much about the killing itself, only that the motive appeared to be robbery. Word had it the house had been ransacked.

  After midnight, the crowd began to thin. By one o’clock, they were back down to the regulars, only more subdued. Val only saw Justin a few times after she’d relieved him of duty, always standing in a small knot of people, though usually on the outside of the group. The last glimpse she’d had of him had been around eleven thirty, when he’d restocked the supply of Styrofoam coffee cups. As she looked around now, Val realized she hadn’t seen Justin at all for the last hour.

  Maybe he slipped out and went home after all. But it wasn’t like him to leave without letting her know. Her gaze fell on the door to the rare books room, and her stomach dropped. She groped for the hook beneath the register, hoping to hear the rattle of the chain, the clatter of the silver key hanging from it hitting the wall. With the news of the Clearwaters’ murder, she’d completely forgotten to take it away. Shit, shit, shit.

  She grabbed at empty air.

  Justin was in the back. Alone with the Jackals’ book. She couldn’t explain why—aside from that thing creeps me out—but she found herself sprinting toward the back of the store, determined to yank the damned thing out of Justin’s hands if she had to.

  As she passed the end of the shelves and fumbled for her own key, the door opened. Justin backed out, placing his palm flat against the edge of the door and turning the handle all the way to shut it as quietly as possible.

  He turned around and yelped when he found himself nose to nose with Val, the momentary fright on his face collapsing into guilt.

  “I thought I said that room was off-limits.” She’d said it to Chaz, but Justin had been right there. He’d damned well heard.

  His cringe intensified. “I just . . . I just wanted to sit in there for a few minutes. It’s one of his favorite places. Was.” He took the key from around his neck and held it out for Val. “I’m sorry.”

  The chiding she’d had ready died on her lips. What harm had been done, really? Justin couldn’t understand the language the book was written in, and he’d carried it around all day before he brought it here. It could have been warded. She could smell it on him, the faint tang of rot on his hands. He’d opened the bag, probably flipped through the damned thing. If there’d been any spells set to go off when the cover was opened, they’d have triggered by now. Since the back room hadn’t exploded, she had to assume it was unprotected. Val sighed and took the key. “It’s all right. We’ve all had a long night. Why don’t you head on home and get some sleep?”

  Justin hesitated and looked around the store.

  Val unde
rstood. Here, at least, he was among people. The rooms in Bryant Hall were all singles and most of his floormates would be asleep at this hour. She knew what it was like to lie in the dark, alone and grieving. “You can stay if you want.”

  “No. I’ll be okay.” He mustered a smile and gave her an awkward squeeze on the arm. “Thanks, Val.”

  She watched him go, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. In a way, Val envied him: when he got back to his room, he’d be able to cry.

  It was one of the few things vampirism had stolen from her that she actually missed, now and then. She could look at as many pictures of sunrises as she wanted to online, or watch thousands of videos shot by amateurs on beaches at dawn. Chaz had gotten used to her telling him what to order a couple times a week, and let her sniff to her heart’s content before he dug in.

  But being dead seemed to have closed up her tear ducts, and while maybe others could weep near her, no one could weep for her.

  • • •

  THE JACKALS CAME at closing time.

  The store was empty except for Val and Chaz. She was at the register when the bell above the door jingled. Chaz was somewhere near the back; she could hear the rhythmic sweep of the push broom against the tiles. Stay back there, Val thought, even though it was useless: she wasn’t strong enough to Command with her will alone, and calling out would let them know he meant something to her.

  So she kept her mouth shut as three of them filed in, all trench coats and hidden faces, and hoped the floor in the children’s section was covered in dirt and tiny candy pieces. “Can I help you find something?” Her voice was steadier than she’d expected it to be. The rowan stakes were still in the office. Even if she made a run for it, Val knew she couldn’t take them all at once. Best just to stand her ground and see what they wanted.