“Jesus.”
“…so, there’s like nothing in the room. Nothing but mirrors and weird carpet. It’s massive. Oh, and a desk, chair, and get this…a telescope.”
“Telescope?”
“That’s right and the lens is trained on a man in an office. And you’ll never believe who it was.” I stalled for effect.
“Who? Who?” Wendy perked up, right on cue83.
“Shane King.” The vampire was the man about town and every female within lubricating range was wet or frustrated. I’d remembered seeing him on a separate occasion with Liesl. Just talking, she’d said. Although Shane was clearly smitten, hanging on the succubus’s every word. Dangerous for him. We’d only met once, Shane and I, at some club. Ricardo introduced us I think. Shane wasn’t particularly interested at the time, but he was pleasant, polite. Probably gay, I’d thought. Gil had insisted, no.
“Yum.” Wendy brightened.
“That’s not possible,” Gil spat. “He’s a vampire and you said it was this morning.”
“I know. Freaky, right? Broad-fucking-daylight. So I sneak out of her office and Snell comes back and we talk and he says two really interesting things. One: Rochelle was not Oliver’s girlfriend; and two: Oliver had joined a bowling league, and went to it the night before he went missing.”
“Why would Rochelle lie about being his girlfriend?” Wendy asked.
“No clue. But the league is tonight. Assuming it runs every week. And I checked. Lutefisk Bowl is the only alley that was marked with the supernatural diversity symbol84 in the phone book.” I held up my index finger and smirked. “Mmm-hmm, ’cause who’s the number one smarty?”
“Are you going over there?” Wendy asked.
“No. We are,” I slipped in, and continued without a breath. “But let me just tell you this, after I left the meeting with Snell, something happened that made me certain that Rochelle running into me was no accident. I got into the elevator and the lights flickered off…”
Wendy and Gil had transformed into saucer-eyed story-time children. I find this amusing considering Gil’s gaping mouth is full of razor-sharp teeth and Wendy’s blue veins created a paper maché grid under her foundation. The story turns into campfire fodder.
“…the lights flicker on and off. And the floor jerks and trembles. I reach out for the sides to steady myself and then, and then—”
“What?” Gil shrieked, at exactly the correct moment when a flamboyantly gay man should, although Gil does not fit that stereotype.
“And then, I’m on the ceiling, cheeks shuddering with my screams. The elevator is plummeting thirty floors to my second death. Très dramatic.”
Because of my articulate and lively storytelling style, Gil and Wendy are rapt and gasping. I left out the part about the eyes. I probably seemed paranoid enough.
“And then, just as quickly as it started, the elevator slowed, and, I shit you not, I drifted down to the floor like an autumn leaf.”
“Whatever,” Gil said, the spell broken. “You probably hit that floor like a raw ham. Hah! Autumn leaf.” He was laughing and Wendy’s shoulders were heaving in silent hilarity. Bitches!
“Let’s go!”
Chapter 17
In League with the Devils
Tired of cocktails with the in-crowd, or just looking for something different? Why not head down to Lutefisk Bowl, the country’s first supernatural-friendly bowling alley…
—Otherworld Weekly
Lutefisk Bowl hadn’t been remodeled since it was built—in the ’50s or ’60s, straight out of Laverne and Shirley; Happy Days would have been too suburban. The lanes were shiny—all twelve of them—and the family man behind the counter carried a friendly grin like a first place trophy. When we arrived, he greeted us warmly and sent his son, a miniature version of himself, down to the lanes to deal with a stuck ball return. The owner’s face was a full house of rosy cheeks, but the sunglasses he wore veiled demonic flashlight red eyes. His name tag read: Gordon.
“I’m sorry, folks,” he said. “All our lanes are full. League night and all.”
I stepped up. “We were hoping to talk to some people that might know an Oliver Calver.”
“Oliver Calver, d’ya say? That name does sound familiar.” He walked away to a clipboard at the far end of the counter. “Here he is, Emerald City Devils, lane 9. Ought to be interesting down there even if no one remembers your fella.”
“Why’s that?”
“The Devils are up against the Hounds of Hell, they’re tournament champs. Gonna be tough to beat. But, I think the Devils have a shot. See here.” Gordon slid the clipboard in our direction. A list—and, I do love a list, OCD me—counted off the teams by lane (see inset). Two were of interest. The Emerald City Devils, and The Horny Incubi—someone there might know Liesl.
“Thanks Gordon,” I said. “Do you mind if we head down there and chat up some of your patrons? We promise not to make a fuss.”
* * *
League of Supernatural Bowlers
(Men’s Division)
Lane Assignments
Lane
Team
1
Bigfoot Balla’s
2
Strikes and Sprites
3
The Horny Incubi
4
No Pussy Cats
5
Shiftin’ 4 300
6
Vampirella’s Fellas
7
Supa Chupas
8
Wendigo Tossers
9
Emerald City Devils
10
Hounds of Hell
11
Strikers of the Dead
12
Paddy’s Strikers
* * *
“Have at it.” He picked up a pair of shoes from the counter and sprayed them with disinfectant. I feared there wouldn’t be enough sanitizer in the world to clean the germs from this pit. I wondered how much fecal matter I’d picked up since our arrival. I found myself scratching my palms, arms, and oddly, my ass.
We stepped around the service area, which completely blocked the view of the lanes, and for good reason. Daddy could boot the humans before they got too nosey. A retro bowling alley spread out in front of us, decorated in pastel diamond shapes and linoleum. The lanes were sunken and split by conversation pits, each corralling a subset of supernatural beings. It could have been the Illwill games85. Vampires vs. werewolves, zombies vs. leprechauns, chupacabra vs. wendigo; they all mingled and guzzled various drinks from frosty mugs like longshoremen.
“So what do you hope to get out of this?” Gil ground his pointy teeth; his eyes twittered over the space like butterflies. He pulled out a cigarette with a shaky hand and stuck it unlit into his mouth.
“I hope to either, get another lead on Oliver, or…” I looked over to the far lanes. The low numbers, 3 in particular. I pointed it out. “Look down there.” They followed my finger. “Incubi.”
We trooped across the room on pastel flecked linoleum until we came up on a short stack of stairs that led down to the pit for lanes 3 and 4. A muscular blond man of about twenty-eight, stood there leaning against the bowling ball cabinet. His jaw was chiseled from Carrerra marble and his eyes were deep pools of spa mud. Gil and Wendy stopped a few yards behind me, both were busy ogling the specimen.
“Excuse me, are you on the team?” I asked pointing to lane 3.
“I am,” he said, lip curling into a smile and then fading, as if a realization swept over him. I didn’t need to rack my brain over what the epiphany had been. It went something like this:
Hot girl, could she be a vessel for the seed? Her skin’s a little pale, but she has good bones. There’s no warmth coming off her. This bitch is dead. Why am I wasting my time?
Time frame from smile to frown: less than a second, the cute blond was an efficient demon. Why is it I didn’t feel any better for that knowledge?
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. You may know
her. Liesl Lescalla?”
The incubus stared at me, and checked his watch, the progress on the lanes, anything to avoid the boredom of his present situation.
“Does the name ring any bells?” I asked, my lips pursed, my eyes mid-roll86.
“Nope.” He didn’t make eye contact. Like I was beneath him—that might have been a possibility before he got all high and mighty, but now, no way. The fucker. I was riled.
“Bitch, you better ask your friends, then. I don’t know why you think it’s okay to be rude. I’m just asking for a little help here. My friend happens to be a succubus, if that changes anything.” I planted my hand against my hip.
That got his attention. He called out to his buddies, “Hey guys!” They turned. Each one precision carved from a delectable food item (cream cheese, chocolate, etc.). Hot as Hell, their hometown. “Do any of youse know a Liesl? She’s our kind.”
There was a welter of voices in the pit, but I couldn’t hear. Not that I was wrapped in gagaland over the incubus. Even if he weren’t a total asshole, the use of the word “youse” would have been a deal-breaker.
A brunette and tan god of a specimen in tight blue jeans broke from the crowd by the ball return and jogged up the stairs. “I’m Nick, you asking about Liesl?”
“Yeah, I’m Amanda.” I offered my hand. He took it. “She’s been gone almost a week. I’m really worried.”
“I haven’t seen her in a while, either. Have you talked to her mate?”
“Her ‘mate’?”
“Yes her ‘other,’ her incubus, whatever.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
He looked at the floor and the ceiling, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Shit, come to think of it, neither do I. I think he’s from out of town, though. Los Angeles, I think.”
“Is there somewhere she might frequent? Somewhere, or someone else I could talk to?”
“You could try the tracker, but he’s very confidential. I doubt he’d give you an appointment without doing him a favor.”
“Anything would help.”
“Let me see if I have his card.”
Nick dug in his jeans, causing the fabric to tighten across his crotch. I couldn’t help it; I stared. His thick penis was outlined in denim. It trailed down his leg, in a most inhuman and frightening way. Were there two heads? He pulled his hand from his pocket, withdrawing a business card. I glanced upward to find that he’d been watching me the entire time. He was beaming with pride or evil, but certainly not charity.
“Here you go, Amanda. Talk to Clevis, he might just help you.”
“Uh…thank you, um, sorry for…well, you know, whatever.” I spun and took disingenuous steps across the linoleum. I refused to add to my embarrassment by slipping on cheap flooring. I didn’t deserve an afterlife. I’d be better off dissolving into bile in a cheap pine box. Let the maggots have a home and puff me up with a snap, crackle and pop. So embarrassing.
Gil and Wendy were bounding up the stairs that led from lanes 9 and 10.
“They didn’t know shit,” Gil said, letting his fingers slide through his hair. “Cute though. Is the one in the jeans looking?”
Wendy shook her head.
“Or anything about Oliver, either.” Wendy smooshed her face and shook her head87. “Oh…except that he went to a twelve-step group over on Grant.”
“A twelve-step group?” I asked. “For what?”
“They wouldn’t say.” Her mouth hung open, eyes searched the ceiling for anything remotely interesting.
“Okay, let’s get out of here. I for one am exhausted. I don’t even think I could manage a kill, tonight.”
“Oh, come on, not even just a little one?” Wendy chided, in a French waiter accent.
“Nope.” I had no intention of giving in, just because Wendy chose to invoke Monty Python movie lines.
“Not even a wafer-thin kill?” Gil mocked in a bored, this-has-so-been-done tone. He searched his manicure for leftover ridges.
“Knock it off!”
We bickered back and forth, all the way to a freeway underpass, parked, and devoured a particularly beleaguered homeless man—that’s right, Wendy and I know how to share. Gil drained his wife from a tear below her breast. It seemed so wrong for a gay vamp to feed this way.
Chapter 18
Severine and the King
The humans are definitely on to something here; Seattle is absolutely buzzing with inattention. We think it’s the caffeine. Give Starbucks a shot (pardon the pun) for a latte and a fresh victim. They are a yummy combination…
—Undead Times
I remember once wondering how I would die. These thoughts weren’t old, either. I think they occurred a mere week before the embarrassment of the actual event. I was just lying around on my patio, drinking iced tea, thinking about death—nothing wrong with that. This is how it played out:
A great plague is sweeping Earth, as a result of humanity’s mindless consumerism—as if, obviously, in there for dramatic effect, mindless consumers are the bread and butter of advertising—every day the news reports are increasingly bleak; people are dying and the medical establishment is impotent to cope with the strengthening viral power. Then, hope arrives on American shores. A tribe, hidden deep within the jungles of the Amazon, sends an emissary to the United Nations. He explains, through hand signals and primitive drawings, that a powerful woman must be sacrificed to appease the Gods and end the contagion. A televised search for the perfect martyr, hosted by Ryan Seacrest, ends at my doorstep. I agree, of course—who could resist the global attention—and proceed on a trek to join the tribal leaders in the Amazon, a camera crew follows my every move—it’s no wonder, my skin looks flawless, simply perfect, clear, even toned and it ought to—remember my skin-care regimen? After a fantastic cocktail party with surviving celebrities, dignitaries and a few of my closest friends—two hundred and thirteen on the guest list—I am led, in Versace, through the lush vegetation to a fantastic hut that opens in the rear to a cliff and an amazing panoramic view of the rainforest. Martin, my boyfriend/psychotherapist, is waiting. We become lost in a swirl of lust and passion, and as we both explode, the tribal chief and a gaggle of what must have been warriors burst in (gaggle?), and drag me away. They toss me over the precipice. In super slo-mo, my naked body twirls and writhes (and looks fabulous) as I meet my demise in a shallow pool at the foot of a tragically beautiful waterfall. My blood flows into the water and from the pool into the river, and from the river into the seas, it evaporates and takes to the clouds where it showers upon the earth, dissipating into the air, entering the deteriorating lungs of the afflicted, healing and destroying the virus. In the end, I live on forever in the bodies of the living.
If only my reality were a Technicolor dream. As it is, my own skin is taking on hues of black and white, and not the shiny cleaned-up Turner Classics, but dull and dingy greys, like the Sunday afternoon movie on a local channel. Still, there was something about this fantasy that stuck in my head like a popcorn husk digs into your gum line.
Was it Martin? No. And best not to think about him too much, that’s a story for another time. My mind cleared of its haze, revealing the tasteful décor of Wendy’s apartment. A haze is what I have, now, instead of sleep. The apartment is the obvious result of a totally consuming catalog addiction, Pottery Barn couch ($2499, in plush loden), Crate and Barrel coffee table ($2100, mahogany stain); you get the picture. Wendy was gone, but left a note, next to the Museum Company euro vase ($229+SH). It read:
Good Morning Bitch
I’ll be home at 4:30. Feel free to wash your snatch and watch my satellite (channel 766, particularly).
Let’s do the fun run88!
Wendy
Even after a brisk morning shower, I wasn’t ready to face a hellish day at the office. The mundane tasks of advertising and creativity were weighing on my nerves—I wasn’t even sure those worked—like a too-tight seaweed wrap, dipped in the pissy stink of Puget Sound water. My business was, s
imply, interfering with my fabulous supernatural life. And that’s really something you have to make time for, cultivate, you know? I think if you spend too much time focusing on deadlines and copy and office politics, there’s no time left for the really important things like flesh eating, cocktails, undead body preservation and supernatural investigations. What’s death without them?
I needed to get my priorities straight. I called in sick; I’d been doing that a lot.
I was putting the phone back in the charger, when I noticed a note slid under the door. Apparently, this was a morning for notes. I wondered if it had just happened. I opened the door into the hall. A grey haired woman with a walker trudged down the corridor, with a zip, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. The elevator dinged and a sweat-suited man emerged carrying a paper, heading back in for his morning crap.
Zip, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. I closed the door.
The top of the note was blank. It was folded in quadrants. It read, in all blocky capitals like screams:
AMANDA
MEET ME AT THE STARBUCKS IN THE OLD WASHINGTON MUTUAL TOWER. THE ONE ON THE WEST SIDE, NOT EAST.
NOON.
MAKE SURE YOU’RE NOT FOLLOWED.
S
P.S. (AND NOT THE ONE ON THE 15TH FLOOR EITHER)
I checked my watch. 7:30. Who was this? A secret admirer? I followed the curls of the S with a fingertip. Shane King? Mmm, yummy, if only. With the crowd I’d been bumping into lately, it was more likely from a horned devil with a razor spiked double-cock, than a tasty morsel like Shane King.
I wasn’t getting my hopes up. I flipped the paper around. Nothing.
Another option floated from the back of my head to just behind my eyes, blossoming like a migraine worm.
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