by J. C. Staudt
A deep breath, the pinch of the needle, and we’re off to Lorne’s penthouse apartment on the forty-second floor of the Nachtenbank Center. When we arrive, a party guest answers my knock. He’s got that rich-kid vibe, tall and thin with thick-framed fashion eyeglasses and a long sidesweep of brown hair accented by salon-infused highlights. I’ve probably seen him at one of the other get-togethers, but they all look the same to me. He stands there in characteristic disinterest, nods his chin and says, “Hey. You here for the party?”
“Yeah, I’m Arden.”
He squints, nodding vaguely. “Right on. Come on in.”
Calyxto and Quim, the latter of whom has granted himself a Henry Cavill jawline and the body of a young Hugh Jackman, stand nervously behind me. Being supernatural creatures, they can’t cross the threshold until the owner of the dwelling invites them inside. I give the doorman a tap on the shoulder before he can walk away. “Will you grab Lorne for me real quick? I’d like to talk with him out here.”
“Oh, sure, man. One sec.”
A grinning Lorne appears a moment later, cheeks flushed with wine. “He-e-ey, Arden. Welcome, welcome.” He throws a pair of sloppy arms around me, knocking my lungs into my ribcage with a hefty pat on the back.
“Hey, Lorne. I brought friends. Hope you don’t mind. Just wanted to introduce you.”
“Well awesome. I didn’t know my brother had friends. You sure he’s not paying you to hang out with him?”
“Quite the opposite,” Calyxto says. “He’d have to pay me to leave him alone. We human males must stick together.”
I try not to wince as Lorne gives the half-fiend a strange look. He laughs. “Yeah we do. How’s it going? I’m Lorne.” He shakes their hands in turn.
“Nice to meet you. Quimby Takkanopoulis.”
“I am Cal,” says Calyxto. “Cal Unholyfiend.”
Lorne blinks. “Unhol—what was that?”
“Unholyfiend.”
“That’s an… interesting name. What is it, uh—” he snaps his fingers, “Finnish?”
“Yes. Finnish.”
“How do you spell that?”
“Not important. You appear to have a lovely home.”
“Why don’t you invite them in, Lorne?” I prod.
“Absolutely. I’m being rude, sorry. Please, come in. More dudes for the sausage-fest, right? What are you guys drinking? Arden, I know what you’re having.”
Apparently the real Arden Savage’s favorite drink was Bacardi 151 and Diet Coke. It’s become a ritual, and I’ve been forced to choke down a glass of this unfortunate yet potent concoction every time I come to one of these things.
“I’ll have a vodka,” says Quim.
“Vodka and…”
“Just vodka.”
“Straight. Okay, I like it. How about you, Cal?”
“I’m forbidden to drink alcohol according to the sanctions imposed upon me by the Fae—”
“AA,” I interrupt. “Cal is doing an AA program. He’s been clean and sober now for going on four months. Haven’t you, Cal?”
Calyxto grins. “I’ve cheated several times. But yes, clean and sober, as far as my accountability group knows.”
Lorne looks equal parts impressed and amused. “Alright, Arden. Your friends like to party. Why don’t you introduce them around while I grab the drinks?”
Yeah, sure, I’ll introduce them to all the people whose names I’ve forgotten since last time. “You bet.”
“Be right back.”
The atmosphere in the apartment is less energetic than I’d expected. My awkward and embarrassing friends huddle behind me, casting furtive glances around the room like boys at a middle school dance.
“Can you two please try to act normal?”
“I thought you wanted me to be honest,” says Calyxto. “No tricks, right? Except my last name, for obvious reasons.”
“Wasn’t obvious to me.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Alright, well don’t trick anyone, but don’t tell them the truth, either.”
He knits his brow, trying to fathom how he might achieve this.
“Introduce me to someone hot and nice,” Quim suggests, “who likes spending her evenings in, and who doesn’t rip out people’s hearts and eat them whole, like a carnivorous love-demon.”
“I would also like to meet a human female,” says Calyxto. “Preferably a powerful sorceress with the ability to erase memories of a former love.”
“You guys are hopeless. I should never have brought you here.”
No sooner have I said this than slender arms hug me from behind. A face slides against my cheek, and breasts mash my shoulder blades. “Ardy,” cries Carmine Savage, squeezing me tight.
I turn around and give her a proper hug. “Good to see you, sis.”
“Ardy, I want you to meet someone,” she says, pulling back to take the arm of the man standing beside her. “This is Steve. My boyfriend. Steve, this is my brother Arden.”
Fate has delivered me a judo kick to the groin, and I’d like to accept it by dropping to my knees and pressing my forehead to the cold wood floor, where I’ll cry until the pain goes away. It’s a wonder I not only stay on my feet, but manage to offer a congratulatory smile. Steve is the guy who answered the door.
“Hey, bro,” says Steve, shaking my hand again. “Good to meet you.”
“Yeah. We met a few minutes ago.”
“Oh you did?” says Carmine. “Great.”
What kind of name is Steve, anyway? I’ll tell you what kind. The perfect kind—for a dry, dull, dime-a-dozen prick like this guy. “So how long has this been going on?” I ask, wagging a finger between them.
“Oh, you know. A little while. We just made it official last night.”
“Really?” I meet Steve’s gaze and hold it. “That’s funny, because you’ve said literally nothing about him. Ever.”
“Arden,” Carmine says in a warning tone.
“What? I’m just saying… you never talk about him.” I wait to see whether she offers an excuse.
“I didn’t want to jinx it.”
“Bad luck putting the cart before the horse, eh? So what do you do, Steve?” I flip on a detection spell and look him up and down like an airport security screener.
“Steve is a junior executive at WCI,” Carmine announces proudly.
“Not junior for long,” says Steve. “I’m up for promotion this summer.”
I resist the urge to bobble my head and prance around like a peacock to mock his hubris. The syndicate Carmine is referring to, Watanabe Corporation International, is the world’s premier manufacturer of all things disposable. They’ve patented a number of biodegradable polymers, which they use to make everything from the plastic cutlery which decomposes in landfills over a matter of months rather than years, to the glut of single-use electronics which have entered the market over the last quarter-century. WCI does it faster, cheaper, and smarter than everyone else, which is why they’ve got a chokehold on the competition. And Steve is one of their corporate stooges. Won’t be long before I find out whether he’s as disposable as the swill he peddles.
Preliminary signs look promising. My detection spell is lighting him up like a bonfire. He isn’t an othersider, but his clothes are leaking blue vapor from thousands of tiny flecks of residue. I can think of only two ways a normal could’ve collected this much—riding public transit, or dry-humping someone magical. Somehow I doubt Mr. Junior Executive takes the train to work.
“Good for you,” I tell Steve, slapping him hard on the back. “Hope you get it.”
I wipe my hand across the back of his shirt as I pull it away, ensuring maximum sample size. I can’t analyze this at home, but if I can keep my hand uncontaminated until I get to the hospital, Janice will be happy to take a swab and tell me what sort of creature it came from. Hope it’s something freaky so Steve is good and embarrassed when I call him out on it. I’m not going to pull a reverse Parent Trap and try to break him and Ca
rmine up. The shame should take care of that.
“Thanks, man,” he says.
He doesn’t ask me what I do for a living. Catch scumbags who bump and grind with fairytale creatures behind my sister’s back, I’d tell him if he did. Fortunately Lorne returns with drinks for Quim and I, and my hatred of Steve is derailed for a moment while my brother interjects a change of subject.
“Did you guys hear I finally got my settlement from Mottrov?”
In the wake of Gilbert Mottrov’s death, which was ruled an accident due to the fire in the Civic Center the night he died, Lorne joined a class-action suit against the Mottrov estate seeking damages for the physical and psychological harm endured by the victims of his abductions. Mottrov’s suspected motives differed among investigators and prosecutors, who cited everything from business-related enmity to sexual deviance to the illicit use of blood in testing his company’s transfusion, dialysis, and typing machines. Lorne still thinks of his abduction as corporate sabotage, the preemptive disruption of a young upstart professional by a powerful business rival.
“Congratulations,” mutters Carmine, visibly discomforted by Lorne’s mention of her former lover.
“Yeah. We settled out of court. Mottrov Multinational didn’t want the bad press, so they paid settlements to all Gilbert’s victims. They were real generous.”
Carmine goes red in the face, but she doesn’t say anything to her new boyfriend Steve about how she was romantically involved with a man who would’ve been charged with abducting dozens of victims if he hadn’t died fortuitously before his crimes could be prosecuted. Carmine wasn’t abducted, but Mottrov did take her to thrall, and she’s still getting over it like the rest of them. That’s what happens when a vampire dies. All his thralls go back to normal and start wondering what the fuck happened to them.
“That’s great,” I tell my brother. “I hope this helps you move past it.”
“You should ask Paige. She was part of the suit too.” He gestures across the room.
There, standing before a long folding table covered in finger foods and alcoholic beverages of every variety, is Paige Tarpley, the girl who was helping Lorne spy on the Order of the Raven when Mottrov’s people abducted them. Mottrov would’ve turned her into a revenant, too—if I hadn’t started the fire inside his face that killed him.
I’m surprised to see Paige here, given that Lorne’s girlfriend Dani despises her. The last time I saw Paige was after Mottrov compelled her to break into my apartment and ransack the place. As I drove her home that night, she entered the early stages of a hysteria which I now know is consonant with an escape from thralldom. We haven’t spoken since.
From across the room Paige looks sane and healthy, an attractive young woman with wavy blonde hair and a slender frame. Yet as I excuse myself from the conversation and cross the room toward her, I begin to notice the lines of long-term grief in her features. She looks up as I approach, her reaction neither warm nor wary. There’s an emptiness behind her eyes, and I can’t look away from it.
“Thought you didn’t like coming to these things,” she says.
The comment surprises me. As far as I can remember, I’ve never told her that. Maybe some stranded bits of minutia from her time as Mottrov’s thrall are still floating around in her head. “I don’t, really. But Lorne said it was important that I be here, so I figured I should.”
“Same here,” she says. “I’m still wondering why he invited me.”
I refrain from admitting I just had the same thought. “You’ve never been to one of his parties before?”
“Not unless you count the Muncie Gallery, where we met. This is the first time I’ve ever been to his place.” She gives me a steady look, knowing I’m aware of her meaning. Lorne told his best friend Brian Biddix he was sleeping with Paige while they were actually investigating Carmine’s involvement with the Order of the Raven. I don’t blame Paige for wanting to clear her name while Lorne’s girlfriend is around.
I glance past Paige’s shoulder to find Dani staring daggers at the back of her head. Speak of the devil. “You don’t have to prove it to me. I believe you.”
“I don’t have to prove it to anyone,” Paige says. “It’s the truth.”
“You’ve been to my place,” I remind her. “My furniture hopes you never come back.”
She snicks her tongue. “You’re making me feel bad. I’ve thought about that night so many times. I can’t remember how we got into your apartment, or whose idea it was to go there. I must’ve been drunk. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. There’s no way I would’ve been so disrespectful to your stuff otherwise. Honestly, I was surprised you didn’t call the cops and have me locked up.”
“You’d been through enough. When I heard about your dad, I knew it was the only thing you’d want to hear that night.”
A worn look passes across her face.
“How are you doing?” I ask. “You and your family.”
“We’re okay. Getting by. Crazy how Gilbert Mottrov died the day after my dad. Once the cops confirmed Gilbert was the one behind the abductions, Mottrov Multinational paid us and the other families a huge settlement out of court. And hey, I didn’t get HIV from the needles they used.”
“Can’t beat not having an incurable illness, right? The doctors say Lorne is disease-free as well.”
“That’s good. How’s he been otherwise? He kind of gave me a weird look when I got here, and he hasn’t said a word to me since.”
“That’s strange. He’s fine. Growing the business full-throttle. Him and Bisquick, taking over the world. And to think, it almost didn’t happen. You were the only part of that entire experience that didn’t completely suck.”
She’s confused. “That’s sweet. I think.”
“No, it isn’t. I locked you in my guest bedroom while I was deciding whether or not to press charges. I basically kidnapped you for a day. It was a horrible thing to do, and I’m sorry.”
When she frowns, there’s pain in her eyes. “Yeah. I don’t know. At least you gave yourself time to think it over. I wouldn’t have. I’m really sorry about all that.”
“Why are you apologizing to me?”
“Because I feel horrible.”
“Don’t. The past is past. We both made mistakes. Hopefully we both learned from them, and nothing like that will ever happen again.”
“It was all pretty weird, if you think about it. The way you randomly found me as I was getting dumped in an abandoned parking lot, right after I was with your brother.”
“I was looking for him at the time. I found you instead.”
“Yeah, so you chased off the guys and brought me back to your place. Then I wound up back there a few days later on some crazy trip I can’t remember. And here we are.”
“You’re not stalking me, are you?”
She laughs. “I am, actually. Is it too obvious? I should’ve hidden behind the couch before you came over to say hi.”
“You really should have. I’m disappointed. You’re basically the worst stalker I’ve ever had.”
“You’ve had others?”
“Nope. But you’re the worst.”
“Aw. But if I’m the only one, then I’m also the best.”
“Are you sure this is something you want to brag about in public?”
“I’m a firm believer that if you’re going to do something, you should go all-in.”
“Good advice for a scuba diver. Bad for a drug addict.”
She snorts. “Your friends are staring at us. They’re probably wondering why I’m laughing my ass off like an idiot.”
“If they ask you later, tell them I was farting really loud and you couldn’t help yourself.”
“I will, thanks. Hey, are those the same two guys I met at your place?”
“Quim and Cal, yup. The underwear model and the fake tanner.”
“Seriously, he goes to the tanning salon way too often.”
“Yeah, it’s weird. He self-identifies as a N
ative American.”
A pause. “Are you being serious?”
I laugh, but don’t answer.
“You’re trying to see how gullible I am.”
It feels good to flirt. It feels good to be around someone I’ve been through something with, who enjoys me for more than a birthright or a meal ticket. We lock eyes, and a moment passes between us. This isn’t like other moments. It’s the moment. It doesn’t last, though. An arm swings around my neck and flexes against my throat, dragging me backward.
Chapter 5
“Ard-Tard. There you are, you little shit.”
I can smell the alcohol on his breath and know that he, like his best friend Lorne, is sloppy-drunk. How much I’d love to grab his arm and flip him over my back to land spine-first across the tabletop. It would be a moment to rival the one I’ve just experienced with Paige Tarpley. Instead I stand there and take it, hoping he doesn’t get overzealous with his horseplay.
He lets me go, feints a pair of punches. “You just got stole.”
“You got me,” I admit, rubbing my Adam’s apple.
“I thought bounty hunters are supposed to be ready for action every second. Can’t be letting people sneak up on you like that.”
“I guess you’re too good at taking people from behind, Bisquick.”
He grunts a laugh. “Fuck you. Still letting criminals fuck you in the ass? Yeah, you’ve always been easy to violate like a little bitch. Hey. You remember that time you and your friends were having a sleepover in the backyard and me and Lorne jumped out with those clown masks on and you shat your pants? Your mom was so pissed?”
“I do remember that,” I lie. “We were scarred for life.”
He sighs. “Good times. So who’s your lady friend here?” His bleary-eyed attention fixes on Paige.
“This is Paige Tarpley.”
“Oh, shit. You’re Paige?” Biddix shakes her hand.
“Yeah,” she says. “We met once.”
“Muncie. Right.”
She nods.
Biddix leans back to cast an obvious glance over his shoulder at Lorne. “This shit’s too crazy for me. I’m not getting in the middle of it. I’m out. Later, Ard-Tard.”