“Well…no.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulder—it fell with the luminous weight of a shampoo commercial 99—and spun a single pearl on a pink lobe. “I hear you took a meeting with my man Snell, yesterday.”
“Yes.” I fumbled through my purse looking for something important, or just something to avert my eyes. She needn’t know there was a difference.
“I was expecting a bit more of an answer, dear.”
“Yes, I met with Snell. I had questions about Oliver Calver.”
“Lovely boy.” Her brows shifted suggestively. “I hope Snell answered your questions adequately.”
I wondered if it were possible that Elizabeth Karkaroff was, actually, a polite, genuine woman?
“It’s entirely possible,” Ms. Karkaroff replied, looking off into the cavernous club. “And before you launch into an internal dialogue, yes, I am reading your thoughts.” She reached over and patted my thigh. “Darling, you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
I caught up with my train, surprisingly able to continue talking despite the shock of the brain rape that was going on. “Mr. Snell was cordial and helpful. Although, I haven’t found Oliver, as of yet. I’m not sure if you’re aware but his girlfriend, Rochelle, was killed in an accident.”
“Oh, but of course.” She muffled a snicker behind a long-fingered, porcelain-white hand. “Everyone knows. Cameron Hansen. Undead on Tape. I suppose there are many here who find that sort of thing entertaining.” As if on cue a clown-grinned photographer blew in and offered to take a picture, snapping it with a big Hasselblad before a comment could be returned. I imagined that Karkaroff had set it up, that the camera had stolen my soul, like primitive tribes once believed.
Elizabeth continued, as if uninterrupted, “But, regardless, your statement is flawed. That weathergirl may have been killed in the accident. But she was not Oliver’s girlfriend. I’d question where you got that bit of information.”
I thought of my conversation with Claire Bandon. She had told me, and Rochelle hadn’t denied it. But had the weathergirl actually said that she and Oliver were together?
Karkaroff winked at me. “Now you are thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been getting quite a few things jumbled.”
She means Sha—I immediately tried to layer over the thoughts. Dead kitties, dead kitties. No! Lalalalalalalalalalala.
Elizabeth was locked on to my eyes; her wan smile faded to a flat line. “What are you on about, girl?”
Lalalalalalalala. A pressure seemed to envelop me like saran wrap and tighten. Elizabeth was exerting the same force Snell had back in the conference room. Only with more power behind it.
“Fear is such a sad emotion, so common. And, how do I get this through to you, child? So futile. I’ve told you you’ve nothing to fear from me, but you choose disbelief. I fear our chat is over.” Karkaroff motioned for me to depart. I’d been excused.
I did it, I thought. I had successfully kept Shane’s name from my head.
Oops.
“Ah. Shane King, such a beautiful boy. How is he?” Elizabeth called from the banquette. When I looked back, she toasted me with a crystal flute (see inset).
* * *
The Well of Souls’ Champagne Cocktail
1 cube sugar
2 dashes bitters
Chilled Bollinger
Add sugar and bitters to chilled flute. Muddle. Add champagne.
Garnish with lemon curl.
* * *
I ran down the risers to the bar. If I’d had functional lungs I would have been breathless. Shane and Wendy were talking about live skin transfer, a new procedure they’d seen on a supernatural cosmetics show, and Gil was making out with a werewolf, who’d begun to change with arousal, his fingers elongated with sharp knuckle pops. Ricardo intervened.
“Chuck! Gil! If you guys like it rough, you’re going to have to take it somewhere else.”
Gil looked over and mouthed an exaggerated nosy. They detangled like a Johnson and Johnson’s sex show. Chuck’s claws retracted like ten hairy lipsticks.
“What’ll you have, Amanda?” Ricardo was in front of me, so smooth you barely see him move that lanky undead frame.
“Something strong, I just had a run-in with Elizabeth Karkaroff.”
He reached for an unlabeled bottle and poured it into a thin frost-glazed glass. It tasted of jet fuel. My skin turned pink before the liquid made it to my stomach.
“Holy shit!” I gritted my teeth.
“That’ll take your mind off anything, right?” he asked, beaming. “Just got it in. It’s called Life Fuel.”
“Well, cheers. Have you tasted this shit?”
“It’s great, right? What did you mean run-in?”
“She took me aside and assaulted my thoughts. Up in the rafters over there.” I tried my best to look wounded and aloof, but damsel-in-distress doesn’t really work for me. Ricardo caught on immediately.
“You mean you couldn’t contain yourself and she read your mind? What? Were you afraid, or something?”
“Of course! Jesus! How many supernaturals in this town can read minds, Ricardo? It seems like everyone I run into lately is in my head. It’s like a rape. Especially her.” I looked into the upper banquettes. Snell had joined Karkaroff and the two were rapt in a serious conversation. Brows were furrowed and eyes locked on each other.
“Someone’s been filling your head with a line of bullshit, then.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve heard she’s the Devil.” I felt the urge to cross myself, but onlookers might have been offended, so…I crossed myself—and I’m not even Catholic.
“The Devil? Well if I’d known she was The Devil, I might have sent up some Cristal. Someone’s pulling your chain, Amanda. I know a lot of people say that about Elizabeth, but it’s simply not true.”
“Could we not talk about that now? Something big is going on. She mustn’t hear.” I pushed in close and mouthed shut up.
Ricardo rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“Whatever. Listen, do you know of a recovery group for werewolves?”
“Not for werewolves, specifically, no.”
“What about for supernaturals in general, then?”
His eyes scoured the floor and his forehead cringed into a W. It loosened. “There is a twelve-step over on Magnolia, but you couldn’t mean that.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Oh, no reason. Check it out. It’s the only thing I can think of. Plus they’d be more likely to know of other groups.”
“True.”
He leaned in and put his hand over mine. “And princess, be careful; you seem to be caught up in something.”
Yeah, I thought. Caught up in the drama of it all. And going nowhere. I brushed him off and marched up to Shane and Wendy. “What’s the topic?”
“Lost love,” Gil said. I thought of Martin.
“Bad sex,” Wendy said. I thought of Shane. I decided to just listen. The conversation ultimately turned to the rollicking topic of favorite foods, it continued deep into the night.
The group met on Thursdays, the female voice on the machine said, “Supernatural to Supernormal and Beyond, meets on Thursdays at 11:00 P.M., at McAlinden’s Tavern on Magnolia, newcomers welcome.” No beep.
I took another sick day from work, locked up in my apartment100. I drove out at 10:45. I wanted to watch as people arrived. McAlinden’s was an ivy-covered brick building with a black lion statue out front and a smoking tent in the rear. The parking lot was nearly full, so I parked on the street with a full view of both the main entrance and the back door, which was covered by a slapping screen. It got a ton of use, as the humans had passed a no-smoking-within-twenty-five-feet-of-a-building law. Bullshit, posturing. There were certainly more deadly things than cigarettes, and they were convening at McAlinden’s.
A stumpy army jeep whipped past, nearly clipping the bumper and parked with a skid in the damp lot. A tall man, about twenty-five, got out and headed for the back d
oor, his hands buried deep in his ass pockets. A woman parked on the opposite side of the street. She took some time getting out of her aging Crown Vic, and seemed to be talking to her reflection in the rearview. She gave her ratty hair a sloppy brush-out and shuffled to the building in bright orange garden clogs.
It was 10:55.
I grabbed my purse and reached in, circling the amulet and then digging for some gloss, checked my face, applied and stepped out onto the curb.
McAlinden’s reeked of sauerkraut and dirty butt. Small tables were scattered about like driftwood, and surrounded by small segregations, secretaries at this one, college students at that, etcetera. The bar was oak and mirror; its top probably carved by a drunken stupor of regulars.
“What can I do you for?” asked the keep. An older man with Brillo-pad hair and sparse muttonchops, his nose carried the telltale signs of alcoholism, a multitude of broken capillaries. I could sympathize.
“I’m looking for the meeting.”
His brows raised and he nodded to the back of the building. “Back behind the restrooms, right past the smoker’s door. You can’t miss it.”
I couldn’t help think, he’d rather not have the group there at all. Couldn’t blame him. Who’d want a bunch of zombies, vamps and other threats to the national welfare so close to the vulnerability of an exposed ass? I wondered how many of the customers knew that they were opening themselves up to possible attack, every time they pulled down their pants in the john. So close to the evil, but with vulnerable assholes exposed, it would be so difficult to run.
Three hanging globes lit the room, each in milky glass.
I stood at the door surveying the occupants. The young man I’d seen enter was there. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and eyes burning. Or were they glowing? The clog woman either didn’t belong to the group or was smoking. A Korean man in a dark suit stood thumbing through brochures at a nearby table. I had my contact. He seemed professional and approachable.
“Excuse me, sir?” I pressed in and touched his forearm.
“Yes?” He responded in a quick burst. He glanced at me once and then looked away. He had a nice face, roundish with glasses that did nothing for him, and bangs that intruded only slightly on his brow.
“Is this the twelve-step group?”
“Yes.” He nodded, turned and sat on one of the wooden folding chairs, already gathered in a circle.
A woman with wild red hair, like a lucky bingo troll doll, but with a halo of gray at the forehead, stood from another seat and crossed the hall, offering her hand. “I’m Samantha Baumgartner, I facilitate Supernatural to Supernormal, and Beyond. We’re glad to have you. Sit anywhere you like.” She gestured toward the circle.
She thought I was here to join the group. It didn’t feel right to lie about my real purpose; wouldn’t it compromise the integrity? That was always a concern in advertising focus groups, sample size and predictability—too little is bad, too many and the results have been manipulated. Wouldn’t an outsider jeopardize safety, or comfort, or some shit like that? Shouldn’t a group be safe? Or had I been watching too much Oprah?
“Oh. Uh…no. I came to ask some questions about a member.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” she said. A sour look spread across her face like someone had polluted her chocolate with raspberry. “You see, our group—like all twelve-step groups—is anonymous. We only use our first names, and even those are confidential to outsiders.”
She started to walk away, when I stepped forward. “Then I’ll stay, I’ll talk, whatever.”
The clog lady entered and shut the door behind her. From close up, she had the wide-eyed gawkiness of a muppet—Beaker. Her face was long and her hair too high.
“Hello Lenore. Welcome,” Samantha said.
“Thanks.” Her eyes darted in my direction. I thought they might roll out and over to my shoe. She sat and fingered an ironic lifeline on an open palm.
So there we sat: Samantha and Clog Lady, Blue Jeans and the Korean Businessman, oh…and don’t forget, the Undead Socialite. I began to sense an itch in the center of my back. It would certainly drive me crazy for the extent of the meeting.
Samantha began: “Let’s start with the Serenity Prayer, shall we?”
The group spoke, in unison, minus me, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.” Can you say: Crap?
“Now. Who’d like to start? Lenore? Richard?” Samantha’s gaze lit on one after the other.
Blue Jeans spoke up. Why wasn’t I surprised that a Southern drawl marred his speech. Was it the shit kickin’ boots he wore? “My name’s Richard…”
“Welcome Richard,” they all said, interrupting the man, and so did I. But the Korean businessman said “Witch-it” so I wanted to pee myself laughing, then flagellate with guilt.
“…and I’m a recoverin’ vampire. This week, I sucked the blood from a hamburger pack, instead of a human.”
They clapped and my mouth dropped open in horror and judgment. “Hamburger pack? What the hell for?”
Samantha’s head snapped in my direction. “Richard is working very hard on reducing his intake of human blood. He’s working on becoming supernormal. Good job Richard.” She gave him the big thumbs-up, and me a suffocating grimace.
“But aren’t you a vampire?” I leaned forward onto my knees, for what I hoped was an empathetic stance.
“I certainly am, ma’am, I don’t need you to point that out. Samantha? This doesn’t feel very supportive.”
Samantha sat next to the vampire and gave him a hug while sneering in my direction. “Richard, we are all very proud of you.” And then to me, “Maybe our guest could introduce herself and explain why she’s here.”
They turned sour faces with blank eyes in my direction. Waiting.
“My name is Amanda, and I’m really happy to be with you here this evening.” I know that was probably laying it on a little thick, but hey, I was just trying to spread the love.
“Welcome Amanda,” said the group.
“I’m here because I’m looking for my friend.” There seemed to be some interest, so I continued. “I don’t have many friends because I’m new to this zombie flesh-eating thing, and she’s missing. She’s a succubus. Her name’s Liesl, and I miss her.” They seemed to be genuinely sympathetic. “While looking for her someone told me about another guy who went missing and thought it might be connected so I followed some leads on him and I met his girlfriend but she ran her car into me and she died. I went to his work, which was really scary, and then I nearly got killed in an elevator and then, a bunch of mistakes jumped me but that’s okay ’cause I got laid that night.” They hadn’t started clapping so I went on.
“I went to his bowling league and there was an incubus there with the scariest dick but I got some info from him so I guess he’s cool and now I’m here at his “supernormal” group101 even though I’m pretty sure everyone knows he’s a wereleopard and in that prayer thingy you said that you should accept the things you can’t change and for sure he can’t change being a wereleopard any more than Richard can change being a vampire or Lenore can change her fashion sense.” I wrapped up my speech, with a quick point at Lenore’s clogs.
Blue Jeans guy was right; this group wasn’t very supportive. They looked shocked and judgmental.
But, I felt better. I really did; more relaxed, too. Maybe there was something to this group therapy bullshit, and sharing. A smile began to spread across my face. I just knew it would look welcoming and open the group up to a discussion. They’d be willing to help me now. I scanned their faces.
The group expression: Anger.
Samantha lit in, “We are horribly sorry about your friend but we can’t help you either. Oliver hasn’t been here in weeks.”
Then, a subtle change.
A hesitant voice crept from the corner. “I can not change been unday’d. Group stupid. I reaving.
”
“Oh, no, Mr. Kim,” Samantha said, mothering. She shot a quick glance my way. Hatred. “You are doing so well here. You know what they say, fake it until you make it!”
“Then I be fake uh-til etern-tea. Fuck you. I outta here.” Mr. Kim pulled a cigarette from out of his suit jacket, lit it and crumbled the empty pack, tossing it into a mesh wastebasket by the door. As he strode out of the exit, a thin trail of smoke in his wake, he uttered a second, “Fuck you.”
Samantha, Richard and Lenore were tight lipped and their body language was closed off. Arms and legs crossed, looking at the floor.
“Oops.” I shrugged. “I guess Mr. Kim outta here.”
“Get out!” screamed Samantha. Her face was pomegranate red and seemed to be shifting beneath the skin.
“But, I—” I reached for my purse.
“Out!”
I stood up and straightened my skirt. I wouldn’t be treated like this. I was a celebrity for Christ’s sake. Lenore and Richard were smug and accusatory; both had crossed their arms, and shifted away from me.
“Do you even know who I am?”
“Get the fuck out!” she squealed and charged me with fists in the air. She seemed to get bigger as she approached, almost bear-like. Her eyebrows grew together, forming a single caterpillar across her broadening forehead. Her tits sunk to her waist and her chest puffed up like a pony keg. Her head engorged to the size of a Pilates ball.
Shit! I thought. A werebear.
I rushed the door as fast as my stilettos would carry me. Speeding past McAlinden, or whoever the guy behind the bar was, and out onto the sidewalk. I expected to hear four fat paws pounding the linoleum, but there was nothing but the soft sprinkle of rain.
Peering back into the bar, I was happy to see that Samantha’s freak-out had ended at the group room door. She had returned to her human state and stood there flipping me off.
Chapter 22
A New Friend, a Revelation
Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 Page 20