GENESIX: THE TRILOGY

by Greg Logan

  I nodded as if to say, Oh, yeah. That’s right. Truth was, I couldn’t imagine why he was running out on these two. A menage a trois wasn’t something Stoker normally shied away from.

  We stepped out onto the street. It was past midnight and the street was deserted. It was an old part of town and the sidewalk was an uneven layer of bricks. The buildings weren’t the usual concrete and glass structures you found in most cities in the downtown areas, but renovated buildings of brick, many of them dating prior to the 1950’s.

  “So what’s going on?” I said. “They seemed to like you. And there are only two of them.”

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “Not the best time to be with a woman.”

  Okay, that explained it.

  We didn’t have our cars, but we decided to walk rather than hail a cab. Sometimes when he’s hungry, Stoker can get a little jittery and it’s better to walk it off. Keeps him in motion and keeps away the jitters.

  I wore a jean jacket, and tucked behind my belt and hidden by the jacket was a .44 revolver. Stoker strode along beside me, his long black coat falling open and its tails sweeping back, almost creating the effect of a cloak.

  Normally I’m very aware of my surroundings and Stoker has enhanced senses anyway, being what he is. But I was brooding a little about how the two girls had looked right through me and Stoker tended to get a little closed-up when he needed to feed, so neither of us was paying attention until the gun went off.

  The shot was from somewhere across the street and I felt the bullet whiz past me. It zinged against a brick wall behind us. I dove into the shadows of an alley and Stoker was ducking in just ahead of me.

  I pulled my revolver. Stoker already had a gun in his hand.

  “Didn’t expect that,” he said.

  We waited a moment, thinking there might be a second shot. Now we were fully alert. I was watching the alley across the street intently, figuring that might be where the shot came from. The buildings on either side of the alley were three or four floors high, but all the windows looked closed. If the shooter fired again, I would see the flash from the muzzle this time. And Stoker was listening intently and even sniffing the air.

  “What’re you doing?” I said. “Go get him. It’s not like a bullet can hurt you.”

  “That one can,” he said. “I smell silver in the air.”

  “A silver bullet?”

  He nodded.

  Usually silver bullets were reserved for wolves, but contrary to a lot of pop knowledge about vampires, silver can actually hurt them, too. They can’t wear silver jewelry because it’ll create what looks like a chemical burn.

  I said, “That means he knows what you are.”

  “So it would seem.”

  We waited. There were no more shots.

  I could hear a car approaching. I said, “I’m going to use that car as cover to get across the street.”

  “I don’t know,” Stoker said. “That’s risky.”

  “Maybe not so much. Since the bullet was silver, he was probably shooting at you.”

  “He might think you’re me when you charge across the street and take a shot at you.”

  “Not a chance. I’m way too cool to be you. No one would ever make that mistake.”

  “This is serious, Vic. A bullet can kill you.”

  “Yeah. True. But I’ve been dead once before. Remember?”

  Stoker was growing a little annoyed with me. “Victor..,”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  The car’s headlights were in full view now. It was a taxi. It was going by at maybe fifteen miles an hour. Faster than a human could run, but one of the cool side effects of being me is I can move really, really fast.

  The car drove past our alley. At a full sprint, I charged toward the car, then made a running leap up and over it like I was clearing a hurdle and then was back on the ground and crossed the rest of the distance to the building across the street. I don’t think the driver saw me at all.

  I pressed my back against the wall and looked across the street to the alley where Stoker was and gave him a thumb’s up. He would probably give me crap when this was over because he was always getting on my case about taking too many risks.

  I worked my way to the alley then stepped in, holding the pistol with one hand. Cowboy style. The alley was covered in shadows but I could see better in the dark than a human and I could see the alley was empty.

  Stoker was suddenly at my side. He could move even faster than I could. He was holding his pistol with two hands, cop style.

  “He’s gone,” I said. “I wonder if the shooter was actually in this alley at all.”

  “Nowhere else he could be,” Stoker said. “From the angle of the shot, he was not on the roof.”

  Then, my eye caught something on the ground. I walked over and picked it up. A shell casing. I tossed it to him and he gave it a sniff.

  He said, “There’s the scent of silver on it.”

  I nodded. “Somebody’s gunning for us. Or at least for you.”

  He tossed the casing to the ground. “So it would seem.”

  TWO

  We returned to the office. We did most of our work at night, partly because Stoker wasn’t a big fan of sunlight - ultra violet radiation can wreak hell on a vampire’s skin. And partly because I just liked the night. Something about it made me feel alive. I had always been that way, even in my previous life. Before I became what I am now.

  Our office was in an old professional building on the lower side of Cumberland Avenue, on the second floor. The sign we had mounted on the door read FRANKEN & STOKER. PRIVATE INVESTIGATION. Stoker was not his real name – I just called him that as a joke, because of the old writer who had brought the concept of vampires into mainstream culture. He called me Victor as a joke, also. Short for Victor Frankenstein. A joke that was obvious, if you knew anything about me.

  Stoker dug his key out of his jeans pocket then hesitated at the door. “There’s someone in there.”

  For the second time this night, I pulled my revolver. Stoker favored an old German style Luger which was now in his hand. He opened the door and I stepped in ahead of him, gun ready, and he followed immediately behind. A maneuver we had learned watching NCIS.

  A woman was sitting in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Maybe thirty, but a great looking thirty. Long straight hair, light brown and highlighted in places. She wore skin tight jeans and a red tank top with spaghetti straps. Black bra straps rode along her shoulders beside the red straps, creating a double-strap effect. Her lipstick matched the color of her top and she had gone a tad dark with her mascara. This created a little shadowing of goth in a woman who was otherwise glammed up a bit and probably accustomed to money. Interesting contrast. In fact, I found pretty much everything about her interesting.

  “I was wondering when you boys would get here,” she said.

  I lowered my pistol but didn’t holster it. We had already been shot at once tonight, and despite how incredibly hot this woman was, I was no mood for any more surprises. Neither was Stoker. He stepped away and into the back room that served as a supply room, running a quick reconnaissance. He then checked the small restroom. He stepped back out, looking to me and nodding his head. All was empty. He returned his Luger to his belt.

  I stepped around my desk to the chair and pulled open a drawer and dropped my revolver in it.

  She said, “Isn’t that a little old fashioned? Looks like something out of the Old West.”

  I nodded. “A forty-four Colt Peacemaker. Single action.”

  Stoker sat at the edge of his desk. He said, his Austrian accent flowing gently, “Don’t let him fool you with that. He can take the center of out of a quarter at two hundred feet.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t like to brag, but..,”

  I left the drawer open, without being obvious about it. I liked to keep my gun within reach.

  Stoker said, “We didn’t get your name, Miss..?”

  She said, “Actually, it
’s Missus. Jennifer Watkins.”

  Married, I thought. Shit. This was not turning out to be a good night for me at all. First ignored at the bar, then shot at, and now this.

  I said, “What can we do for you, Mrs. Watkins?”

  “Please, call me Jennifer.” She looked at me questioningly for a moment. “First, before we get into this, do you have a drink? I could really use one.”

  I reached into the drawer where I had stashed my gun and pulled out a bottle of scotch. I cast a glance at Stoker. He didn’t outwardly react, but I could see a glint of a laugh in his eyes. This was an old joke. Neither of us drank scotch, but it seemed like any private eye worth his salt should have a bottle in his desk. This way, on a lonely night, I could put my feet up on the desk and with the bottle standing on the desk front of me, I could go into a lengthy soliloquy about broads and the naked city. I also needed to find myself a slouch hat.

  Stoker went to a small cabinet where we kept every supply we had, from boxes of staples to bullets, and came back with a small glass. It looked reasonably clean so I filled it from the bottle and handed it to Mrs. Watkins and she took it in one gulp. She swallowed it like it was water. No choking or gasping. Her eyes didn’t even water. Impressive.

  “You’re not going to drink?” she said.

  I shook my head. “I’m not really a scotch drinker.”

  She looked to Stoker. “And, of course, vampires don’t need to drink.”

  This caught us both by surprise. We exchanged a quick glance. He said, keeping his composure, “I do like an occasional brandy or three. But never scotch.”

  I said, “You seem to know a lot about us, Mrs. Watkins. Jennifer.”

  Her gaze met mine. Green eyes a man could drown in. She said, “I do my research before I hire someone.”

  “But,” Stoker said, “we know little about you.”

  “What kind of job do you need to hire us for?” I said.

  “I need you,” she said, setting the empty glass on my desk, “to keep me safe from my husband.”

  Stoker said, “We don’t really handle domestic disputes.”

  “You don’t understand. My husband has said he wants me dead and I fully believe him.”

  “Mrs. Watkins,” I said. “Jennifer, we appreciate you coming to us, but we really aren’t in the bodyguard business, either.”

  “All I ask is that you hear me out. I drove into the city just to meet with you.”

  “And you broke into our office.”

  She gave a smile and a shrug. “I wouldn’t call it that. Exactly.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly break anything. I do happen to be good at picking a lock. Something I retain from a wayward past.”

  I glanced at Stoker again. He gave an I-don’t-know shrug.

  She said, “I really believe only you two can help me. You are uniquely qualified.”

  Stoker said, “And why is that?”

  “Because, my husband is a wolf.”