by Hannah Jayne
“Ahem.” Nina cleared her throat and began to read in earnest.
“‘Darkness touched the Paris night sky like a gentle kiss, and I—young, beautiful, supple ...’”
I shifted in my chair, and Nina pinned me with a death squad glare.
“‘... was bored. I waited for something to happen, for something to whet the appetite for blood that was stirring within. I could taste my want. My need rose until it was almost too much to bear, and then I saw him. Tall, warm, soft, in the darkest night.’”
I raised a tentative hand. “What kind of book is this again?”
Nina snarled, a single nostril flaring. “I asked you kindly to please hold all commentary until the end.”
“I was just—”
“Please hold all commentary until the author has finished, thank you. Now where was I?”
“Supple,” I reminded her.
Nina fixed her glasses and started again.
“‘He turned and I could see the vein throbbing in his neck. I longed to sink my teeth into the flesh, to taste of meaty life juice.’”
I clamped my jaws shut. Every muscle in my body winced and I bore down against the torrent of laughter.
“‘Suddenly my fangs were in him and he was underneath me, writhing.’”
My stomach dropped into my fuzzy slippers when the heroine was introduced as she plunged her fangs into her beau Horatio’s “tender virgin neck.”
When Nina was through, she looked up, beaming, expectant. “Well?” she asked breathlessly.
Somewhere around Cecilia falling into Horatio’s arms and her going back for a second taste of “that meaty life juice,” Will must have returned from the kitchen. He stood in our doorway; his face pale, his lips drawn. The little Arsenal Football logo on his chest was jumping as his heart thudded underneath. He held his tea to his lips, a statue with darting eyes.
Will eyed the stack of papers Nina held. “Is that her diary?” he asked, voice low.
Nina’s eyes went wide and her chest swelled. “Do you really think it’s that good? That believable?” She shook the papers. “Because I wrote it.”
Will eyed her. “You wrote it down or made it up?”
“Made it up.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Inspired by true events?”
“A little.”
Will’s smile showed a small amount of relief. “Then you’re either a hell of a writer or a very, very scary woman.”
Nina preened. “Thanks. On both counts.” She flopped into a dining-room chair, forearm thrown over her forehead, fainting Victorian style. “I can’t read anymore. It’s very emotional.” Nina’s gaze was steady on me, waiting, and I took the hint. I jumped to my feet and started clapping. Will joined in.
I know you should never lie to a friend, but when that friend has two-inch fangs, I consider it warranted.
“Thank you!” Nina’s grin was so wide that it went to her earlobes. “So what are you two still doing up?” She bobbed her small shoulders and waggled her eyebrows. “A little nightcap?”
Will and I exchanged a glance. “Actually, we were just talking about the case a little bit.”
Nina’s eyes lit up. “Wait, wait, wait one second.” She jumped up, bounded over to our junk drawer and pulled out a pen and notepad. “I’m thinking my next novel might be romantic suspense or, you know, espionage. So ... go ahead. I want to take notes.”
I licked my bottom lip. “There isn’t that much to tell. I think I know where the silver bullet came from. I have an address in Chinatown.”
“Sophie, that’s huge! How did you figure that out?”
I pinched my bottom lip, quiet.
“Vlad nicked a little something from Dixon.”
Nina blinked. “Oh. Well, why aren’t you checking it out?”
“I—I’m not sure. There just seems—maybe ... I don’t know ...”
Nina put her notepad down and dropped her pen. “You think Vlad has something to do with all of this?”
My eyes went wide. “No. No, I don’t think—”
“Do you think my nephew is trying to lure you into some kind of trap or something? Because if that’s what you think—”
“No,” I said definitively. “I don’t think that at all. I just got the information, so I haven’t really had a chance to look into it. I know Vlad wouldn’t do anything like—like this.”
The lie tasted sour on my tongue.
* * *
I was reading the same line of an Elle Adair romance novel over and over again when I heard the lock tumble and Vlad walked in. He was wearing an ankle-length duster over his pressed black pants and clean white shirt. I expected a top hat or another stupid ascot, but he looked almost twenty-first century.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Out” was his quiet reply.
He went directly to the fridge and yanked it open. “Where’s Nina?”
“Poe’s. She’s still working on her novel.”
Vlad snorted and snatched up a blood bag, piercing it with his fangs. For the first time that motion, which I had seen every day of my life with Nina, made me wince, made me consider those sharp fangs digging into soft flesh.
Vlad grinned; and with his teeth stained a hearty bloodred, he looked momentarily sinister. “What’s with you?”
“What do you know about the murders?”
“Murders?” Vlad continued working on his blood bag, then flopped down on the couch, clicking on the TV. I perched myself in the chair-and-a-half (that cost me a paycheck-and-a-half) next to him.
“The Underworld. Mrs. Henderson. Bettina,” I elaborated.
“I thought Bettina was fine.” Vlad didn’t look at me; he kept his eyes transfixed on the glowing TV screen as he clicked past the guy from CHiPs selling Lake Shastina real estate and an ad for Mister Steamy.
“The file you gave me.”
I watched his nostrils flare; his top lip curled into a bloodstained snarl. “I thought I was helping you out.”
I straightened, feeling a spike of nerves rushing through my body. “I know, I was just curious.”
Vlad looked at me now; the snarl moving up into a gruesome smile. “You don’t have to be upset, Sophie. I was just saying.”
I fought to slow my heartbeat to a normal rate. “I’m not nervous.”
Vlad went back to watching his stream of infomercials “What do you want to know about the file?”
“How did you get ahold of them?”
Vlad’s eyes cut from the TV, cut across mine, and flashed back again. “I’m holding them for a friend.”
“Come on, Vlad. These aren’t condoms or cigarettes. They’re official Underworld Detection Agency files. They’re Dixon’s files.”
“Like I said, I thought I was doing you a favor.”
I held up my hands placatingly. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I don’t suspect you, personally, of anything. I’m just trying to explore all of the options. Maybe look into some factions that might have had a grudge against other demons.”
“Factions?” Vlad cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the Empowerment Movement, don’t you?” Vlad stood up so quickly that I lost my breath.
“It’s just that Dixon is also a part of the movement—”
“I don’t believe you, Sophie. You say that you’re on our side—the Underworld side—but when it comes down to it, the first thing you do is start pointing fingers at demons. Whatever happened to ‘never judge a demon by his horns,’ huh?”
I gripped the chair arms, burrowing my fingernails into the soft fabric. “I’m just following the facts.”
“There are no facts that lead you to the Empowerment Movement.”
“Vlad, the goal of the movement is to advance the vampire race.”
I could see Vlad’s jaw clench.
I could see his fingers roll into tight, pale fists.
“And you think the only way a vampire can advance is by taking out the competition?”
I st
eadied my voice. “You have to admit, it’s a little odd. A banshee, a dragon, a centaur, a werewolf—but no vampire hits? Vamps are the majority in the Underworld. Statistically speaking, they should have been hit, too.”
“Statistically speaking, vampires are much more intelligent than any of those other demons,” Vlad snarled. “We don’t have to take them out. Given enough time, they’ll do it themselves.”
“Vlad, I ...” I stood up and tried to put a calming hand on Vlad’s shoulder.
Truth was, I believed what he was saying; and deep down—and maybe even more on the surface—I didn’t believe that VERM could be responsible for the Underworld murders. VERM had been around a long time—and the Underworld murders were just beginning. Vlad let my hand rest on his shoulder for a chilling millisecond before he flicked it away; he spun on his heel, and snapped his black leather duster from the hook by the door. He shot a look over his shoulder—anger? disgust?—and said nothing before he stomped into the foyer and slammed the door hard behind him. I let out a breath, which I didn’t know I was holding, and it was like every bone in my body turned to jelly. I collapsed on the couch and stretched out, pulling my grandmother’s afghan over myself and falling asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning when I rapped on Will’s door, I convinced myself that I was out to cover all my bases. My gut told me that Vlad and his VERM brethren had nothing to do with the Underworld killing, but over the long night, something niggled at me. Something whispered that maybe I was missing something, that maybe it was possible—however unlikely I wished it to be—that Vlad and VERM might have had a hand in the Underworld violence.
He answered in his usual guise—shirtless, low-slung jeans showing off his taut belly, the light sprinkle of hair across his pectoral muscles. He grinned when he saw me; then plunged a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“Good to see you here. Thought maybe you hated me after all the vampire mumbo.”
“It’s not me you have to worry about on that front.”
Will paled and looked over my head at our closed door. I waved my hand.
“You’re fine right now. How would you like to go for a little adventure? Might help us find out for sure.”
Will’s eyebrows rose. His smile went from cute and lopsided to sly and interested. “Go on.”
“I think I might have some information to follow up on.” I pinched the bag of bullets between my thumb and forefinger. “About these.”
The smile dropped from Will’s eyes, but he shrugged. “If we’re going into the mouth of Hell, best to have your Guardian with you.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘Hell,’” I said.
We were seated side by side, rolling across Sutter, when Will poked the paper I was balancing on my lap.
“Now that is an impressive power,” he said.
I told him how I had dropped by Lorraine’s office and she had done a mental scan for the Du family, coming up with the address on the paper. Having a witch on staff: way better than Google Earth.
The bus lurched around a corner and Will sat up straighter, his knuckles going white as he gripped the seat in front of us.
“Wait a second,” he said, swallowing heavily. “Are we headed toward Chinatown?”
“Yeah. This is right.” I waved the paper. “I have an address.”
A light sheen of sweat broke out above Will’s upper lip. “Isn’t this business something the angel boy should be doing? I mean, I wouldn’t want to step on any toes or ... wings or whatever.”
“What’s going on, Will?”
He clapped a hand to the back of his neck and blew out a sigh. “I hate Chinatown,” he said under his breath.
I knitted my brows. “Nobody hates Chinatown.”
Will and I stepped off the 30 Stockton, squinting into the rare shard of city sunlight. I started to walk—hands fisted, zigzagging with dire purpose through the throngs of tourists—when I realized that Will hadn’t moved at all. It was as if his Diesel sneakers had melted to the ground.
Which, given the city, wasn’t entirely impossible.
I beelined back to him, grabbing his arm. “Hey, come on. We don’t have much time.”
Will’s eyes were focused over my head; his lips pressed together. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed slowly.
“What?” I looked over my shoulder at the two carved cement lion/dragon statues that guarded the mouth of Chinatown. “Those? They’re not real. Promise. They don’t come to life during a full moon or a Keeping Up with the Kardashians marathon or anything.”
“It’s not that,” Will said, starting to shuffle with the tourist crowd. “It’s”—and here he wagged his head from side to side, hazel eyes scanning, scrutinizing—“Mogwai.”
I stopped dead and crossed my arms, feeling one eyebrow creep up. “Mogwai?”
We had crossed through the Chinatown gates and were flanked by a couple with thick Midwestern accents, who were pausing to photograph everything, and a guy power walking while listening to his iPod loud enough to hear every one of Steven Tyler’s wailing screams.
“Yeah,” Will said, voice lowered, “Mogwai.”
“Look, Will, I know every single demon in the Underworld. And the majority in the upper world, too—wait. A Mogwai?”
Will nodded nervously, as if saying the word would bring one about.
“That’s a Gremlin, Will.”
“If you feed it after midnight, it is. And whose midnight, you know? They’re Chinese, right? Is it when it’s midnight in China or here? And, well, I’m British. Does my Mogwai become British—”
“It’s a freaking Spielberg movie, Will!”
Will stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think it was based on something real?”
I could feel my left eye begin to twitch. “Fine.” I put out my hand, wiggling the tips of my fingers. “Give me your wallet.”
“No. Why?”
“Give it to me.”
Will reluctantly fished his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. I pulled out his credit cards and all of the cash—seventeen dollars, all in ones—from it; then I handed it back.
“Hey!”
I shoved his money in my pocket, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “See? Now I’ve got all of your money. There is absolutely no chance of you buying a Mogwai, unless you’ve got some magic beans in your pants. Now let’s get going.”
Three uphill blocks and six wrong turns later, I had lost my spunky, go-get-’em spirit and was bemoaning the city as a whole. I spotted the Chin Wa bakery and its glistening selection of glazed confections in the front window and began fishing Will’s dollars out of my pocket.
“Pineapple bun?”
I pushed in the heavy glass doors of the bakery and was immediately hit with a blast of hot, pastry-scented air. I huffed it until my head felt light, and then traded some of my pilfered dollars for a bag of toasty pineapple buns and a Diet Coke. I offered the white bag—as it quickly became spotted with grease stains—to Will.
“Want one?” I asked, my mouth watering.
“Don’t like pineapple.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, fishing one out and taking a huge, satisfying bite. “There’s no pineapple in them.”
Will took a bun and shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”
“So what does the map say?”
Will pulled the map from his back pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it across his thigh. I leaned over, smattering the crudely drawn map with pineapple bun crumbs.
“Okay, from the looks of it”—I looked over both shoulders, feeling my ponytail bob against my cheek—“we should be here. It should be right there.” I pointed to a squat building across the street that housed a Chinese/ American/Japanese delicatessen, a handwritten sign in the window proudly touting, Free Wi-Fi/bathroom for paying customers ONLY.
“Wow,” Will said, “they really cover all their bases.”
I popped the last of my pineapple
bun into my mouth, taking a half second to revel in the sugary, buttery, custardy bliss. I washed that all down with a Diet Coke so my thighs would remember that I was serious about slimming them and grabbed Will by the wrist. “Let’s go.”
Will stood up with me, and his palm slid up to meet mine. Our fingers instinctually laced together. I sucked in a sharp, guilty breath and tried to convince myself that the speed up of my heart was due to our impending meeting, rather than the comfortable way our hands fit together; the ease of our conversation, even when we were walking in circles; the way the golden flecks in his hazel eyes exploded when he looked at me.
“Ready?”
Will stayed rooted, his thick lips pressing up into a slow smile. “You’re blushing, love.”
I clapped a palm to my cheek. “I’m flushed. It’s warm out here. We should go.”
We ran diagonally across the street, making our way through four lanes of tightly packed cars, some inching forward at glacial speeds; some parked and littered with tickets.
We stopped in front of the door and checked our address. “‘Du,’” Will read from the fading painted sign. “This should be it. You ready?”
I stepped back and examined the plate glass windows, trying to find a shred of clarity among the years-old Chinese calendars, ads for cheesy videos, and poster-sized displays of Sanrio imports. I knew that behind the cheery posters, something awful could very easily lie inside.
I squeezed Will’s hand. “Do it.”
A series of bells tinkled as we pushed open the door. My heart clunked painfully and I felt the horror, felt my jaw hanging open, felt my lips go slack. This wasn’t what I expected.
It was much, much worse.
“Will—”
“I don’t know what to do, either, love. Is this ... Are you sure this is the right place?”
I unfurled the paper, having swiped it after covering it in crumbs. “Number 32.” I looked around. “This has to be it.”
Du—the Chinese/American/Japanese restaurant—was, apparently, where wide-eyed Japanese anime went to mate. Life-sized schoolgirls, with melon-sized boobs pressed up to their chins, were painted in all manner of fighting poses wielding swords, along with their pigtails and knee socks. The blue Formica tabletops were covered in figurines of the same, and seated around those tables were wide-eyed, big-boobed anime knockoff people and their sailor boy counterparts.