by Flynn, Mac
My eyes grew larger when Romero's neck cracked and his head twisted to an angle that told me he didn't need a chiropractor, he needed a body bag. The zombie didn't seem the least bothered as he raised his arms and wrenched his head back into position. I choked out a garbled scream, stumbled back and Vince caught me before I fell. "That is why zombies make good officers," Vincent whispered to me.
Romero tested his head out with a few turns, and then frowned at me. "Don't do that again, young lady," he warned me.
I hurriedly shook my head. "N-no, sir, never," I promised.
"Are you satisfied we don't have what you're looking for?" Vincent asked him.
"Yeah, you're not carrying any of the books," he agreed.
Vincent raised an eyebrow and righted me so I stood on my shaky legs. "Books?" he repeated.
Romero gave a nod of assent. "We've had some trouble with amateur sorcerers coming in here with books full of powerful black magic and setting themselves up as our lords and saviors." His sarcastic tone told us he hadn't been impressed with their self-described second comings.
Vincent nodded at the scorch marks in the terminal. "And the marks are from them?" he guessed.
Romero smirked. "I guess you really are a detective, but yeah, those are from the idiots with the books. They got into disagreements with some of the patrons, and thought they'd use their new skills as sorcerers in the argument. That didn't end well."
"What happened to them?" I asked him.
He pointed at the scorch mark in the center of the terminal. "Some ended up like that. They cast a spell and exploded in a blast of fire. Most were sucked into the books the moment they opened them."
"So some of them went out with a bang?" I quipped.
"Any idea where they're coming from?" Vincent wondered.
Romero pursed his lips and shook his head. "Not a clue, but we've got our best men looking into it. As for you two, you're free to go."
Chapter 7
Vincent bowed his head and strode forward with me at his heels. I avoided the scorch marks on the ground and leaned in close to him. "You think these books are the ones we saw at the Precinct?" I whispered.
"Undoubtedly," he replied.
"So are we going to tell Romero about what we saw?" I suggested.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because our business is not his."
I gestured to a scorch mark we passed. "I'm pretty sure somebody combusting in the terminal makes it his business," I argued.
"Ruthven is our business, not his," he rephrased. His firm tone told me the subject was closed and we strode into the Boo Bar.
I only hoped I wouldn't regret arguing this point later, though with that creepy eye that sprouted from the wall watching us I hesitated even to breathe much less talk. The thing came out as it had before and I stuck so close to Vincent it looked like we were Siamese twins. The bar was as full and rambunctious as the last time, showing that even crazy combusting black sorcerers couldn't ruin a good drinking time with friends.
I was less scared than the last time and glanced over the patrons. There was a lineup of movie monsters. Zombies drank with people who smelled suspiciously like wolves. Other tables had old hags attired in black dresses and black cats in their laps. The bar keep had a few loose wrappings around his head and hands, and I wondered if he'd just escaped from an ancient Egyptian tomb. The only monster missing was the vampire, and Vincent fit that role.
Vincent strode through them to the rear, but I noticed Mitch's customary table was occupied by a hunchbacked old man with a pipe stuck between his rotted teeth and a scraggly head of hair atop his head. One eye was shut and the other squinted at us as we stepped up to him. His pale skin lay wrinkled on his face and he glared at us. "Whadda ya want?" he barked out in a rough, scratchy voice.
"Information," Vincent demanded. I frowned. That's what he'd said to Mitch.
The old sailor chuckled. "That's what yer always looking for, ain't it?" he drawled.
"That's what you have," Vincent pointed out.
"I ain't got none for ya, ya land-lover, and if I did why would I want to give it to ya dogs?" the old man wondered.
"Because you wouldn't want us to make another scene," Vincent insisted.
With what Vince was saying I decided to take a second look at this old sailor and noticed the eyes didn't quite match with the rest of the body. They were bright, alert, young, and definitely not belonging to an old sea dog. "Mitch?" I guessed.
The old man pressed a finger to his lips and scowled. "Shut up," he hissed.
I stepped forward and pinched his weather-worn cheeks. A bit of makeup rubbed off onto my fingers, and I looked in awe at his disguise. "Wow, you're really good at disguising yourself," I complimented.
Mitch ground his teeth together. "I said be quiet," he growled. Vincent stepped back and looked on with an amused expression on his pale lips.
"Seriously, where'd you learn to apply makeup so well?" I persisted.
Mitch ripped the pipe from his mouth and dropped the accent. "All right, all right, what do you want before you give me completely up for that stupid eye?"
"Information about the members of this cult," Vincent spoke up. He pulled out the slip of paper with the name and handed it to Mitch.
Our informant perused the contents and his eyes flickered up to Vincent. "This'll cost you."
"How much?"
"A lot."
"I'll give the usual."
Mitch shook his head. "We're not talking about some run-of-the-mill cult with these guys, and I already did my last favor for Tim the last time you came in here," he reminded us. He glanced around and leaned in toward us. "I want ten for this."
"Ten cents?" I guessed.
He scoffed at me. "Ten thousand dollars cash."
My mouth dropped open. "That's extortion!" I exclaimed.
Mitch glared at me. "That's a necessity. These costumes aren't cheap."
"Very well," Vincent agreed.
Mitch stood, stuck his pipe back in his mouth and bowed his head to us. "If yer wanting to come with me to my office," he invited. Mitch led us through the door that led into the back hallway as he'd done on our previous occasion, and turned to us. He stuck out his hand. "Payment first, then the info." Vincent pulled out the roll and slapped the whole thing into Mitch's hand. The extortionist pocketed the princely sum and rubbed his hands together. "Now you were wanting to know about the members of the Astaroth cult?"
"Astaroth?" I repeated.
"An ancient demon from the time of Babylon," Mitch told me. "But we're not here for a mythology lesson. What were you wanting to know about them?"
"Who they are and how they can be reached," Vincent replied.
Mitch stroked his false wrinkled chin and narrowed his eyes. "Why were you wanting to know that? Those guys aren't exactly considered the boy scouts of the cult world. They mean serious business."
"As do we, but if you can't supply us the information then we'll take our money elsewhere," Vincent threatened.
Mitch held up his hand and smirked. "I didn't say that, but I don't have that info in this outfit and those are some fancy people you want to hang out with. They toss around hundreds like they're pennies."
"I just placed in your hands ten thousand dollars," Vincent reminded him.
Our informant raised his eyebrows and nodded. "True, but you'll still have to wait. Come back tomorrow and I can set you up with the names and how to get a hold of them."
"What time?"
"About the same time you came in here. I might need that much to get into my suit," Mitch replied.
"Very well."
Mitch grinned and nodded at us. "Good, so if you're done with me I'll just be going."
"Not yet," Vincent spoke up.
Mitch paused and scowled. "What now?"
"Gather what information you can about the Third Precinct. There are shipments coming out of there that interest me," Vincent ordered.
Mitch r
aised an eyebrow. "Those shipments wouldn't happen to be books infused with a whole bunch of black magic, would they?"
"That's our business," he replied.
Mitch sighed and shrugged. "All right, I'll see what I can find, but it won't be cheap." He held out his hand and rubbed his fingers together. "It'll cost you a hell of a lot more than those names." Vincent took out the remainder of the money roll and plopped it in Mitch's hands. Mitch smiled and bowed. "Pleasure doing business with you, and I'll see you two tomorrow. Now if you don't mind I have elbow-rubbing to do." He shuffled back through the door.
I scrutinized Vincent's face and only got a blank answer. "So what's the deal about asking for info on the Precinct? I thought the books weren't that important."
"Ruthven is our business, and what he does with these books is our concern," he reminded me.
I furrowed my brow and titled my head to one side. "You think those books have anything to do with Tim's death?"
"Possibly."
"You're a wealth of info, Vince."
"Vincent."
I ignored the correction. "I think I'd have an easier time getting info out of Mitch than you." I paused and nodded at where Mitch had gone. "Speaking of that guy, what's with that getup he wore? It's not like he's really hiding all that well," I asked Vincent.
"He doesn't hide from his usual customers. The disguise lets him elude casual observers," he told me.
"Oh, so like somebody walking in and just looking around?" I guessed.
"Yes."
"So he doesn't fool that eye on the wall, either?"
"No."
"You know, you still haven't told me what's with that big eye in the bar," I reminded Vincent.
"That eye is the proprietor."
I stopped and my face twisted into disbelief. "What?"
Vincent also paused and sighed in annoyance as he glanced over his shoulder at me. "That eye is the owner of the Boo Bar," he repeated.
"Um, okay, I guess that makes sense." I paused, then shook my head. "No, actually, that doesn't make any sense at all. How the hell does an eye get to be the owner of a bar?"
"The previous owner left it to him," was the sensible, and yet nonsensical, reply.
"That's just weird." Vincent didn't deign to comment. "Doesn't Mitch worry about being, um, overseen by that eye all the time?"
"Why?"
"What if the eye tells somebody what it saw?"
"How?"
I opened my mouth, thought about the lack-of-body problem, and then shut it. "I see your point," I replied. A thought struck me and I put on my thoughtful expression. "But what if there was some simple way of communicating through blinking where-" Vincent was halfway down the tunnel and disappearing fast. "It's possible!" I shouted after him. He didn't even slow down, so I ran to catch up. I folded my arms across my chest and scowled at the ground. "I still think it's possible," I grumbled.
"Do you ever be silent?" he wondered.
Here was a topic I could get into. Me! "When someone else is doing the talking. You should try it sometime," I suggested.
"I prefer silence."
"I bet you do."
"Be silent."
"I bet I won't."
He ground his teeth together better than an expensive coffee grinder. You know, one of those grinders that could grind down a bone if you could shove it in them. "You are infinitely annoying."
"And we're infinitely stuck together, but I know you like me," I quipped.
"Then you know nothing."
I rolled my eyes and stepped in front of him with my hand extending in an invitation for a friendly handshake. "Fine, I'll play the grownup and ask for a truce because I'm kind of getting kind of tired of this. Truce?"
Vincent sneered at me and didn't take my hand, but the heated anger in his eyes lessened. "We have more important matters to deal with," he remarked.
"What could be more important than averting World War III?"
"The assignment you accepted."
"We're in this together, remember?" I pointed out.
"My ancient memory must be faulty. I don't recall accepting the assignment."
"You're right, your memory is faulty, but truths aside, where do we go from here?" I asked him.
"Home."
"How exciting."
"We can do nothing until Mitch assembles that list," he argued.
I sighed and shrugged. "Fine, let's go back to the Roach Motel, just don't go busting my cans again."
Chapter 8
Vince led me out of the sewers and back through the decrepit streets to the car. We returned to the apartment a few hours before sunset with nothing to look forward to but stare at each other. I hauled the clothes into our lovely apartment and dropped them down on the coffin coffee table while I plopped myself down on the couch. "You could have taken some of those bags," I commented.
The high and mighty vampire followed behind me, stopped at his bed and glared down at the bags. "Take these clothes to the bedroom," he ordered me.
"Why?" I asked him.
"I wish to sleep."
I glanced at my watch. Then I remembered I didn't have one, and looked outside. There wasn't a hint of sunlight on the horizon, or at least reflecting off the dingy buildings that surrounded our apartment building. "Um, isn't it a little early to hit the-er, the wood?"
"No."
"That's a terrible argument."
"No."
"I'm not moving the clothes."
"Yes, you are."
I slung my arms over the back of the couch and tried not to shudder when I felt the bugs scurry away. "No, I'm not. I'm perfectly comfortable where I'm at. Besides, I wanted to know a few things before you hit the hay."
He raised an eyebrow. "What in particular?" he wondered.
"Well, this Ruthven guy's pretty evil, right? And he's handing out his evil books that are causing a lot of problems for that underground place?"
"What of it?"
"Shouldn't we worry about this?"
"Why?"
I rolled my eyes. "Because we're kind of stuck in this world? Well, I am. You don't seem to mind being soul-impaired." I paused, narrowed my eyes and leaned toward him. "Actually, you don't seem to mind much except me."
He frowned. "Yes, you are an exception."
I smiled proudly and straightened in my seat. "Yeah, but that's enough of flattering me, let's talk about all these supernatural problems. Any idea why this Ruthven's trying to make a mess everywhere?"
Vincent sighed and took a seat in the chair opposite the couch. "He generally makes a nuisance of himself."
"A nuisance? That guy's way too creepy to just be a nuisance," I argued. "And he had Tim's body and one of those werewolves was a guy who told me Tim was dead," I reminded him. "That makes him the most likely suspect for murdering Tim." Vincent stared indifferently at me. "Doesn't that make you mad at all?"
"If it does, what do you intend for us to do?" he countered.
I shrugged. "I don't know, go to his home and kick ass? Isn't that what all good guys do?"
"Do you know where he resides?"
I shook my head. "No, don't you?"
"No."
"Oh, well, what about stopping these books from hitting the streets? They could cause a lot of trouble for us," I replied.
"Perhaps, but until the time comes when it does bother us it's best to keep to our own business," he argued. He stood and in one fell swipe he knocked the bags off his coffin.
I stood and glared at him. "So you're just going to sleep knowing that Tim's murderer is causing all this trouble and you're not going to do anything about it except have Mitch ask around?"
Vincent pulled his glasses off and those dark eyes stared unblinkingly at me. "You speak high-sounding words, but have few suggestions on how to handle the problems yourself. Speak to me again when you find your answers." I opened my mouth, but my brain couldn't think of a good response to that bit of truth. I was just throwing out my worries and wanting him
to figure out solutions to problems that weren't really problems for us. "Until then, let us both rest," he ordered. Vincent slipped into his bed and firmly shut the lid, shutting out me and the rest of the world.
I fell back onto the couch and tried to burn holes into the wood with my glare, but there wasn't even a hint of smoke. Damn that calm, uncaring vampire for being so right, at least this time, and damn him for reminding me that I was exhausted after all that terrifying driving and car chases. My eyes grew heavy, and before I knew it I'd dropped off to sleep.
I didn't wake up until after sunset. My eyes creaked open and I yelped when I saw a shadow standing over me. I flung myself over the back of the couch and peeked over the top. Vince stood there with a ghost of a grin on his face. I glared at him. "You really shouldn't try scaring me to death. It's bad for your health," I scolded him.
"We have an appointment to keep," he replied.
I raised an eyebrow and slunk over the couch back onto the warm cushion. "Appointment?" I repeated.
"With Mitch."
"Oh, right. I knew that." We needed to see what he'd dug up about our friendly neighborhood cult.
"Retrieve suitable attire for yourself along with the makeup kit," he commanded.
I frowned. "Why?"
"That will be explained later."
"No, now." His witty comeback was to stroll around the couch and to the door as though to leave. "Wait a sec! I need to find an outfit!" I protested. I rummaged through the boxes of clothes, but panicked when I heard the door open. I grabbed a random box hoping it was a dress, swiped the makeup kit, and scurried over to the door. I held up the stuff and had a proud smile on my face. The whole process only took thirty minutes. That was a record for choosing clothes. "Ta-da!" I exclaimed. Against all the odds it looked like Vince had aged thirty years since I started my clothing perusal.
Vincent had his glasses back on his face, but I swore he rolled his eyes as he turned away from me. "Females," he grumbled.
I scowled at him. "Male vampires," I grumbled back as I followed him out of the apartment.
One harrowing drive and short stroll through the sewers later, and we were back at the strip mall. I noticed there weren't as many fresh scorch marks as last night. The living idiots who bought the books figured they didn't want to go up in smoke like their fellow buyers. Romero met us at the end of the tunnel to give us a good frisking. First, though, he nodded at the clothes and makeup boxes in my hand which Vincent made me carry all the way down there. "What's in those?" he asked me.