Night Owls

by Lauren M. Roy

The woman scurried out, her shoulders hunched. Val wondered if she’d show up when the book came in.

  As she tucked the card in with the evening’s other orders, she glanced around the register. The woman had said Justin was doodling, but the scratch pads were all blank. Justin knew better than to do homework up here, and even if he’d decided to break that rule, she didn’t see any textbooks stashed away. She looked in the trash can, to see if he’d tossed anything out.

  In the bin were three special order cards, two torn in half, one crumpled, all of them covered not in doodles, but in runes.

  Just like the ones in the Jackals’ book.

  • • •

  CHAZ PUT THE book aside reluctantly when Val asked him to watch the front of the store, but one look at the tattered special order card she held up stopped his grumbling. “Justin knows how to read it?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “You don’t think he’s, like, in league with them, do you?” Even as he said it, he was shaking his head. “No, that makes no sense. He’s a good kid.”

  “And he would’ve just brought the damned thing straight to them.” She’d already run through the possibility in her head and dismissed it. Unless he was an amazing actor, Justin’s reaction to the Clearwaters’ deaths was real. Something like that, if you knew who did it—especially if they’d screwed you over—you got angry. Justin was just plain heartbroken. “I’ll tell you what I find out.”

  Chaz grabbed an armload of books that needed shelving. “Here if you need me.”

  Val stepped over to the break room and punched the code to unlock the door. She opened it slowly, not wanting to startle Justin. Or, if on the off chance he’s had us totally snowed and is waiting on the other side with a stake, I want to be able to get away.

  But he wasn’t waiting with an implement of doom. He sat at the supervisor’s desk, his head in his hands. When the door creaked open, he flinched.

  Val dragged a chair over next to him and lowered herself into it. “You want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t even know what it is.” He raised his head at last and looked at her pleadingly. “I can’t make it stop.”

  “Tell me what’s happening. When it started.” She kept her tone low and neutral, putting a tiny bit of Command into the words—more to calm him than drag words out of him. She took his paper cup and refilled it from the watercooler next to the desk.

  He took a sip and sighed. “It started this morning. I tried taking notes in my Milton class and it all came out . . . weird. Every time I’ve gone to write something down, it’s just these scribbles. I thought.” His tongue snaked out to wet his lips. “I thought maybe I’d hit my head, or, I don’t know.” Another sip. This time when he looked up, he seemed embarrassed. “I spent the afternoon googling brain tumors and psychotic breaks.”

  “I think we can rule those things out, don’t you?” She set the card in front of him. “You’ve seen that writing before.”

  Justin’s cheeks went as red as his eyes, but he powered on through the guilt. “That’s what I mean. I saw the weird writing in the last thing Professor Clearwater gave me, and the next day I’m copying it. Isn’t that . . . Wouldn’t that signal that I’m having some sort of episode?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He blinked at her. “What, then?”

  “You’re not going to like this very much. I don’t even know if you’re going to believe it.”

  “Hey, if it means I don’t have a tumor . . .” A tiny laugh escaped him, born more of anxiety than mirth.

  “I think when you opened that book, or when you read certain pages, you triggered something. A spell, a ward, I don’t know what, exactly. But whatever it is, it’s hanging out in your head now.” The dubious look on his face made her words tumble out faster. “I know how it sounds. And if you want to go and get your head x-rayed, I’ll drive you right now. But they’re not going to find anything.”

  “Magic, Val? That’s . . .” He spread his hands, not quite ready to tell his boss what he thought of that sort of thing.

  “I know. But tell me, did you have any other symptoms of what you researched?”

  “Nnnnooo.” There was something else keeping him from getting up and walking out on this conversation. She could see it in his hesitation, in the way his eyes darted around, but always came back to hers. How they held a little steadier each time.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” No Command, not now. She could make him see things her way, but it was better if Justin came around to it on his own.

  “I heard things about their house. The crime scene. There are all kinds of rumors on campus, about a cult or a ritual killing.” His voice broke. Val reached out to comfort him, but he waved her off. “You know what he said to me when he gave me the book? The very last thing he’d ever tell me?” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “He said, ‘Trust Valerie.’ And he quoted Shakespeare at me.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “From The Tempest: ‘The hour’s now come. The very minute bids thee ope thine ear. Obey and be attentive.’ I think maybe he meant . . . Maybe he meant we’d be having a conversation like this. Or maybe I’m in denial and you’re an asshole for indulging it, but . . .” He shrugged at her. “But let’s go with the former for now, huh?”

  “We’ll figure it out, Justin. I promise.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, staring at the runes scrawled on the card. Finally, Justin cleared his throat. “So do you, y’know . . . have any ideas how to make it stop?”

  “I have a friend who might.” Chaz is going to hate this. But it was for Justin, and as much as he’d balk at her plan, he liked the kid. It would work out. It would have to.

  11

  CHAZ REALLY DIDN’T like it. The three of them stood in the back room, the last customers gone, the lights in the front of the store switched off. Justin had caught a nap on the tattered old couch that served as the break area, but it didn’t look like the rest had done him much good. He sat, his forearms on his knees and hands dangling, as he watched Val and Chaz argue. From the resigned look on his face, Chaz got the sense he’d seen his parents argue like this on a regular basis.

  “Aw, c’mon Val. Him?” It was the third time Chaz had asked that question. He stood leaning against the wall with his arms folded, scowling at her.

  “What’s wrong with Cavale?”

  “That dude’s a bell tower and a sniper rifle waiting to happen.”

  Val pressed her fingers to her temples. “That’s not fair. He’s . . . eccentric, but—”

  “‘Eccentric’ is what the neighbors call serial killers after the bodies are found. He’s a barrel of crazy.”

  Chaz and Cavale had a mutual dislike for one another. The first time they’d met—the first second—each had decided the other was fundamentally flawed. Cavale thought Chaz was a shiftless prick; Chaz had several variations on “batshit crazy” he liked to drag out whenever Cavale’s name was mentioned.

  Most of the time, Val tried not to bring one up in front of the other. Chaz could count on one hand how many times they’d been face-to-face over the last couple of years. It worked out better that way.

  “Look, you don’t have to come with,” she said. “Justin and I will be fine.”

  Chaz’ scowl deepened. “No. I’m coming. I’m not letting him poke about in Justin’s head unsupervised.”

  Justin straightened up, eyes wide. “Poke about in my . . . ? Val?”

  The glare she gave Chaz could have melted stone. “He’s not going to do anything to you unless you give him permission, and it’s certainly not going to involve actual poking.”

  Chaz snorted. “Remind her she said that when he starts looking for blood to put on his altar.”

  “Chaz? A moment?” Holding the door open, Val jerked her head toward the darkened, empty store.

  Oops. Too far. He heaved a theatrical sigh as he unfolded himself and trudged past her. When they got out of Justin’s e
arshot, halfway down the romance section, he jumped in before Val could speak. “Look. I know you’re trying to help him. But this is just asking for trouble. There has to be another way to do this that doesn’t involve”—he opened his mouth to call Cavale another name, but stopped himself when Val raised a brow—“him.”

  “I’m open to suggestions. How many warlocks do you have on speed dial?” Val waited, watching Chaz’ face in the dim light as his argument fell apart. “That’s about what I thought. We have less than two days now, and Cavale’s our best hope. Are you going to fight me on this, or can we move along?”

  He almost dropped it. His shoulders slumped; his gaze hit the floor. Then he spoke, his voice just barely audible: “You could still put in a call to Boston.”

  The palm of her hand made a flat crack as it hit the shelf beside her. Down the row, several paperbacks tumbled to the ground. “You want to repeat that?”

  Chaz flinched, but he lifted his eyes to hers. “They could send help. Or protect him.”

  She took several slow breaths, the way she did when she was trying to keep herself from yelling. “I can’t even believe you’d suggest that after the last time.”

  A few years back, Val had sought the help of one of the colonies in Boston when an overzealous monster hunter had come passing through Edgewood and twigged onto her true nature. One of the women the Stregoi had sent down had taken a liking to Chaz and tried claiming him as part of the fee. Stealing another vampire’s thrall by offering them a sweeter offer was considered rude. Commanding someone else’s and mucking about with their free will was expressly forbidden.

  A shudder coursed its way through Chaz as he remembered, but sometimes, you had to sack up. This was one of those times, even if Val didn’t want to see it. It’s my job to make her see it. “Two people are dead, Val. And if Cavale can’t get this thing out of Justin, who knows what the Jackals will do if they find out it’s in his head. That’s a little more important than your pride.”

  He’d left out the part about his own freedom. Provoking her anger would work better if he didn’t drag guilt into the mix.

  Unfortunately for Chaz’ argument, those three awful days were inextricably linked to her feelings on the Boston colonies. “I’ve got this under control.” She laid a hand on his right arm. “Give me another day. If it’s not fixed by the time we close tomorrow night, I’ll call them. Okay?”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  He looked at her hand for a long moment. Beneath her palm, covered by his sleeve, were the fading twin scars from the Stregoi woman’s fangs. It was no accident Val had touched him there, and they both knew it. “All right. Fine. One day.” He pulled away from her and moved toward the back room. “Let’s go pay the nutjob a visit and get this over with.”

  • • •

  CHAZ SOMETIMES JOKED about Cavale living in the creepy old house on a hill, but the truth was, it was the best Cavale could afford. He was barely twenty-five, but he’d raised enough cash for a down payment in less than six months, acting as a sort of supernatural odd jobs man. Gotta hand it to him, Chaz thought as they turned onto Cavale’s street, he owns his own place. I still live in the same shitty apartment I got after college.

  During the day, Cavale’s official, taxpaying job was as a tarot reader at a shop that sold everything from healing crystals to ritual robes. At night, though . . . If you needed it done, Cavale could take care of it: evicting poltergeists, cleansing psychically tainted houses, finding out why Uncle George had been slamming that door in the dead of night ever since he died. Or whether it was really Uncle George doing it at all.

  Chaz and Val had met him a couple of years back, when the succubi had hired him to come ward their house. They’d brought him in to Night Owls, and Val had liked him from the start. He was often somber and, Chaz suspected, lonely, but Chaz had to admit he was a bright kid, too. Bright enough, in fact, that if she hadn’t had one already, Chaz had a sneaking feeling Val might have tried enticing Cavale to be her Renfield.

  It was likely part of the reason he disliked Cavale so vehemently, but he’d never say that aloud.

  As Chaz pulled into the driveway, Justin—who had been curled up in the backseat trying to catch another nap on the short ride to Crow’s Neck—sucked in a nervous breath. “If no one’s home, maybe we should come back tomorrow.”

  “He’s home.” Val turned around and offered her best reassuring smile. “I called before we left.”

  Justin smiled back. It just made him look like he was about to vomit. Chaz couldn’t really begrudge him his apprehension—first he’d contracted an unexplained mental malady on the heels of his mentor’s brutal murder, and now he was being whisked off in the dead of night to a decrepit house in a bad neighborhood so someone he’d never met could attempt a cure. Chaz’ remarks from earlier probably weren’t helping. I’ll apologize later.

  Chaz killed the engine and they all got out. Justin stuck close behind them, nearly climbing into Chaz’ jacket. As they ascended the porch steps, a sliver of light sliced down the edge of the window closest to the door. Peeking out through the curtains.

  The rattle of locks being undone followed—doorknob, dead bolt, chain—and the front door swung open, bathing them all in warm golden light. A long, trim figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the glow from inside. Chaz muttered something about theatrics, earning an elbow to the side from Val.

  Cavale held his pose as they stepped onto the porch, probably to annoy Chaz even further. He folded his arms as he eyed Justin. “So I hear you have something hitching a ride in your head, huh?”

  Justin looked to Val before he shrugged. “I, um. I guess?”

  Cavale nodded, a sheaf of pale brown hair falling into his eyes. He must have been growing it out recently; the last time Chaz had seen him it had looked almost scruffy. Now it fell more naturally, just shy of ponytail length. “Well, we’ll get you sorted.” He smiled at Val and Chaz. “Why don’t you guys come on in? I’ve got a pot of coffee on.”

  Chaz didn’t respond. He walked in past Cavale and waited for Justin to join him. The two of them peered around, Chaz with mild disdain, Justin goggling at the bunches of herbs hung up to dry along the walls and the runes painted around every entryway. He reached up to touch one of the symbols but stopped at a shake of the head from Chaz.

  Val smiled as she stepped inside. “Justin was worried we’d woken you up.”

  “Do these look like my pjs?” He wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a black button-down shirt. About the only concession to an evening at home were his sock-clad feet.

  Chaz couldn’t resist. “They do look a little slept in.”

  A lazy smile quirked at his lips as he gave Chaz a once-over. “At least they’re from this decade.”

  “Enough.” Val stepped between them. “Can you two please zip up so we can get back to the problem at hand?”

  They both had the grace to look embarrassed. Cavale swept an arm toward the back of the house. “You’re right. I’ve got some things set up in the kitchen, if you want to get started.” He glanced at Chaz. “Truce?”

  He was tempted to drag the moment out, make Cavale work for it a bit. The near-instant acquiescing was nothing more than ass-kissing. Val had to know that. Still, if that’s how he wants to play this . . . Chaz stuck out his hand, glancing sideways to be sure Val was watching how utterly reasonable he was being.

  But she wasn’t watching him. She stood, sniffing the air, nostrils flaring. When she’d smelled the Jackals last night, she’d looked terrified. It wasn’t terror contorting her features now, though.

  It was rage.

  Cavale cocked his head at her as she sniffed the air. “Val? What’s wr— VAL!”

  But Val had already taken off down the hallway.

  • • •

  SHE BARRELED THROUGH the sitting room and the empty kitchen, ignoring the confused shouts of the men behind her. The scent led her to the back stairway, where she went up
the creaky steps three at a time. Her fangs and claws were out before she gained the top. The pain of their emergence barely registered: the whole of her awareness was focused on her prey.

  Why would Cavale be harboring him? Did he come here looking for protection but didn’t say why? She shoved the questions aside. They could get sorted later. After she’d had words with the son of a bitch. After she’d inflicted some pain.

  Whoever Cavale’s guest was, he had to know she was coming from the racket she was making as she pounded down the upstairs hall. That was okay; Val wanted a fight.

  No light came from beneath the guest bedroom door, but that was where the scent of myrrh was strongest. If he thinks he’ll have the advantage, he’s going to be surprised. She stood outside a heartbeat longer, letting the thrill of the hunt wash over her. Whoever was in there wasn’t afraid; Val couldn’t hear any ragged breathing or frantic crashing about.

  Three sets of footsteps thundered up the stairs. Chaz and Cavale were calling for her to hold on, slow down, wait.

  Val was done waiting. She strode forward and planted her foot halfway up the door. Splinters flew as the old wood shattered. As Val stepped inside, she caught sight of the room’s inhabitant diving off to the right. The figure stayed low, balancing on the balls of his—no, her—feet, ready to move. In this small space, Val could smell the faint odor of girl-sweat.

  The Brotherhood’s woman rolled to the right, coming up on her knees. Knowing it was a female drove Val’s anger to new heights. If she was a Sister—a full-fledged, been-through-the-rites Sister . . . It would explain the myrrh. The older sects of the Brotherhood used myrrh for anointing before attacking a Jackals’ nest, but the Sisters used it during the battle itself, laying healing hands on the injured so they could keep fighting.

  She could have saved them. Val bared her teeth.

  “Come on, then!” the woman shouted as she lurched to her feet.

  The words worked like a starter pistol: Val charged forward, a snarl ripping the air as she closed the distance between them. The woman had set her feet apart to brace herself for the collision, but Val caught her by the forearms and drove her backward easily. The woman’s feet left the ground as Val let momentum carry them both along. She’d been hoping for some gibbering—or at least a sputtered, too-late apology—but the woman remained stubbornly silent.