Bitten 2

by A. J. Colby

  Patron? Undead love bunny? Blood deficient companion?

  “Ah... Mr. Kensington,” I finished, opting for the least offensive moniker I could think of, though I experienced a moment of self-hatred when she flinched at the mere mention of his name.

  “I told the other officers everything I can think of already. I don’t know who would have done this, or why,” she said in a quavering voice, already beginning to close the door in my face.

  I was floored by her assumption that I was with the police, the thought slowing my reactions. Jolting out of my brief mental lapse, I laid a hand on the door, surprised at the resistance it met. Whitlow’s brow furrowed with irritation when she found she couldn’t close the door.

  “I’m... ah... not with the police, Ms. Whitlow. I’ve been hired by the Shepherd of the City.”

  “To do what?” she asked, her red-rimmed eyes narrowing while her lips compressed into a thin line.

  No love lost there, I see.

  “To figure out what happened to your...”

  “My husband,” she supplied, stunning me into silence.

  “Your husband?” I parroted back to her, my voice hollow with surprise.

  Mistaking my surprise for derision she released her grip on the door to settle her hands on her hips, adopting a defensive stance as she glowered at me. “Yes. Patrick was my husband. Colorado may not recognize vampire-human marriages yet, but we took a trip to Maryland last year. Our marriage license is framed above the damned fireplace if you don’t believe me.”

  “No! I do, I do believe you,” I rushed to say, holding up my hands to show her I meant no offense. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just... surprised.”

  Appearing momentarily mollified, she wiped at her nose again, and I did my best to ignore the tears standing in her eyes. Her companion, however, mistook my sudden movement for an imminent threat to his human, and launched into a renewed barrage of canine insults. After looking at me with narrowed eyes for several long moments, Whitlow sighed and stepped back from the door, scooping up the vicious pooch just as he launched himself at me.

  “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  My nose flared at the mildew scent of vampire wafting out of the house, and I fought against my instinctive reaction to bare my teeth in a snarl.

  Cordova so owes me for this.

  Sucking in a deep breath of fresh, clean air, I stepped inside, hoping the stink of vamp wouldn’t follow me home. I could barely afford the gas to get me back and forth to the city, and dry cleaning was definitely not an option.

  “Settle down, Bentley,” Whitlow admonished the squirming dog who glared at me over her shoulder as she led the way into the house.

  Pushing the front door closed behind me, I followed her into a spacious living room furnished with a plush tan and brown sectional, a dark brown arm chair and large screen TV. Much like the room’s occupant, the normalcy caught me off guard. I’d expected blood red fainting couches, candelabra, and metric tons of black lace dripping from the walls, not comfortable looking furniture, wedding photos, a dog bed next to the fireplace, and issues of Martha Stewart Living.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Whitlow asked as she perched on the edge of the enormous couch, dwarfed by its immense size and looking as fragile and ready to take flight as a bird.

  As much as I’d have loved a fresh cup of coffee, or better yet, something stronger, I got the sense it was an empty offer, born of habit rather any real desire to play the part of the gracious hostess.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I replied, sitting in the lone arm chair, the scent of vampire surrounding me in a choking haze.

  Trust me to pick the vamp’s chair.

  “Sorry it’s so dark in here. I haven’t had the chance to take down the blinds yet,” she said, referring to the heavy metal shutters bolted over the windows. An effort had been made to soften their utilitarian feel by covering them with turquoise drapes, but the effect was still akin to a prison. I couldn’t imagine myself living in such a place—I needed to see trees and feel fresh air on my skin. Being locked away in a dark and stuffy tomb of a home would be torture.

  “It’s fine,” I replied, breathing through my mouth in shallow breaths to minimize the stink.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t already tell the police,” Whitlow said with a weary expression, her narrow shoulders slumped as if they bore the weight of the world.

  “Why don’t you just tell me everything you can think of?” I prompted.

  Raking a hand through her hair, she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself as if to ward off a chill, meanwhile I was wishing someone would open a window to air out the place.

  “Patrick was just getting off work at one of the big mortgage brokers downtown. He’d stopped at the Blossom Market by his office to pick up a new bottle of syrup—real maple, not that imitation stuff because he knows... knew... I like it on my waffles,” she said, her voice cracking as fresh tears rose in her eyes. She paused for a minute to wipe her tears away and blow her red nose before continuing. “He was sweet like that, always doing little things for me, things that would be insignificant to anyone else, but to me meant the world.”

  I was surprised by the picture she painted of the vamp, and the tenderness he had shown her. Perhaps the photos of the happy couple weren’t just for show. But could the undead really be capable of emotion? Of love? I knew what the vamp publicists spouted about how they were regular folks just like the rest of us, but I also knew how heartless and self-serving they were. Didn’t I?

  Maybe they’re not all evil, egotistical assholes.

  “The cops told me he was going back to his car when he... when they attacked him. They assured me it was likely quick, that he didn’t... suffer... but how could be not? He was ripped apart by a were for Eve’s sake.” Bitterness and anger filled Whitlow’s voice, and her hands curled into fists in her lap. Given the fact that she didn’t dive across the coffee table to wrap her hands around my throat I was guessing she didn’t realize that I was a were.

  “Do you need a minute?” I asked, snagging a box of tissues off the coffee table and extending it towards her.

  At my movement Bentley went ballistic, snapping tiny jaws at me, intent on removing a finger or two. While Whitlow was oblivious to my true nature, it was clear that the puffball perched on her lap sensed what lurked beneath my human skin, and was prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect his owner. As much as I wanted to punt the overgrown rat, I couldn’t blame him for his display of protectiveness, even if he was about as intimidating as a damp rag.

  It took Whitlow several moments to wrestle him back under control, but no matter what she said or did, he wouldn’t budge from his guard position on her lap. I settled for placing the tissue box on the coffee table within arm’s reach and sat back in my chair, putting as much distance between me and the crazed dog as possible.

  Snatching a handful of tissues, she wiped at her watery eyes and the tears trailing down her splotchy cheeks in a steady stream. “Thanks.”

  “Had Patrick had any problems with the weres before? Received any threats?”

  “Not that he ever told me. He just wanted to live a normal, quiet life with me and Bentley. He didn’t get involved in any of the vampire politics beyond the tithe we paid to the Shepherd of the City.”

  “Tithe?”

  “All vampires living within the Shepherd’s territory must pay a monthly tithe, be it by blood or by money.”

  “That’s so—”

  “Archaic? Yeah, I thought so, too, but Patrick insisted that it had to be done if we wanted to remain under the Shepherd’s protection.” A bitter smile twisted Whitlow’s voice when she added, “Though I suppose in the end, his protection didn’t stand for much.”

  “Can you think of anything else? Any strange people hanging around? Anyone who appeared to be following either of you?”

  “No, nothing. Everything was so... normal. And now
it feels like nothing will ever be normal again.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  MELANCHOLY MADE MY steps slow as I walked back towards the SUV. My thoughts were a tangled knot of dozens of questions and few answers. My preconceived notions of vamps and their human servants were being put to the test. I hadn’t realized it until I witnessed the depth of Whitlow’s grief that I’d still been viewing the world through human eyes. Although I was now a part of the supernatural community, I still considered myself to be apart from them. I’d been clinging to my mundane ideas of what supes were like, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the fact I might be wrong. It was becoming clear I couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

  The description of Kensington I’d gotten from Chrismer’s file and Whitlow’s testimony painted him as an average Joe with no enemies and a dull life. Of course, there was always the possibility he was living some kind of secret life that his Day Servant didn’t know about, but I doubted something that juicy would have gone undiscovered by Chrismer. I hated the thought that he’d died simply because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but was starting to think that that was the only way to explain it.

  Sure, that would work if he wasn’t a vamp. A two hundred year old vampire, even one as boring as Kensington, wouldn’t go down easily.

  “Dammit. I’m back at square one.”

  Glancing up as I approached the SUV, I caught a wrinkled face watching me from a window across the street. Yellowed lace curtains twitched back into place a second later, but it was too late; I’d already caught sight of the elderly woman. If there was one thing a lifetime of TV and movies had taught me, it was that you can always count on humanity to be nosy. In every neighborhood there is bound to be one person who knows everybody else’s business, and I was willing to bet a crate load of Oreo’s that my watcher was the neighborhood snoop. Veering away from the SUV, I crossed the street.

  Knocking on the front door, I rocked back and forth on my heels while waiting for the little old lady to totter her way to the door. My rocking came to a halt when I caught the sound of nails clacking on wooden floors in an uneven, limping gait.

  What the hell has she got in there?

  Eventually the skittering sound stopped, and I listened as several locks and chains were thrown back on the other side of the door. Whoever the old lady was, she was prepared for even the most determined of burglars. The dusty scent of ancient newspapers wafted through the narrow gap in the door when it creaked open wide enough to reveal a wrinkled cheek, a wisp of snow white hair, and one large, rounded amber eye.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a rasping voice that even I struggled to hear.

  “Umm... hi. I was just talking to your neighbor,” I said, hooking a thumb over my shoulder at Whitlow’s house. “And I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions.”

  The one visible eye narrowed to a slit, causing the paper thin skin of her face to split into even more wrinkles.

  If she ever decided to get a facelift, her eyebrows would end up on her back!

  “I’m not interested in talking to the press,” she said, already starting to close the door in my face.

  Jamming the toe of my boot in the doorway like I’d seen countless times in the movies, I bit back a curse when my toes got squished. “Oh! I’m not a reporter. I’m a... consultant... for the Shepherd of the City.”

  “Not interested,” she repeated, pushing against the door with a surprising amount of strength.

  “Oh come on, I get the feeling you know everything that goes on in this neighborhood,” I wheedled, my eyes watering from the pressure crushing my toes. I was sure they’d be mush when I took my boot off.

  “I like to keep an eye on things,” she admitted, though the suspicion remained, as did the weight on my foot.

  “No need to play coy with me, Ms....” I said. When she didn’t supply a name, I forged on. “I bet nothing gets past you.”

  “That’s true.”

  I let out a sigh of relief when the force behind the door relented, and, daring to wiggle my toes inside my boot, was glad when they appeared to still be intact. Inching my foot back from the door, hoping she wouldn’t take it as an opportunity to slam it shut in my face, I asked, “Did you know Mr. Kensington and his Day Servant well?”

  “Patrick lived in that house for thirty years,” she said, giving no sign as to whether the vamp’s presence had been a good or bad thing.

  “Well, I’d like to figure out what happened to him.”

  For a moment she continued to look at me with one narrowed eye and I braced myself for the door to close, and my one potential lead to disappear like a wisp of smoke. So I was surprised when she let out a low grunt of ascent and gave a brief, bobbing nod.

  The door swung open, revealing my host, and I had to bite my tongue to keep my surprise from showing. While the top half of her looked just like the stooped elderly woman I had envisioned, the rest of her was not at all what I’d expected. Dark grey chicken feet tipped with peeling, yellowed talons protruded from beneath the hem of her flowered housedress. Although she looked frail, I had no doubt that those talons could disembowel me with a single slash.

  I knew as well as anyone else that the supernatural community in Denver wasn’t limited to the commonly known vampires and weres, but I’d never thought I’d run into a harpy. Once believed to exist only in Greek myth, little was known about them beyond the stories passed down as legend through the ages. The meager facts I could remember from my supernatural studies classes in college described them as being secretive and reclusive. One thing that many of the legends agreed on was the depiction of them as beautiful women. The harpy before me may have been beautiful at one point in her life, but the deep wrinkles and papery skin she bore now hid any former traces of beauty.

  Turning, she shuffled back into the gloom of the house, accompanied by the skittering sound of claws beating an irregular tattoo on the floorboards. Glimpsing the gouges worn in the wood, I hesitated on the doorstep. I didn’t think that the old harpy was likely to decide to tear open my stomach, but she’d have no trouble rending flesh with her talons if the desire struck her. Blowing out a deep breath, I took a step inside and sent out a silent prayer that I’d make it back out alive.

  If Whitlow’s house had been a portrait of normality, her neighbor’s was something straight out of the drug-induced dreams of Salvador Dali. Rather than a couch and coffee table, the living room was dominated by a giant bird’s nest made from branches as thick around as my forearm, many of them sporting bright green leaves. Feathers that would have easily stretched from my elbow to my wrist lined the center of the nest along with a mixture of fabric scraps and what looked like the contents of half a dozen feather pillows. Interspersed between it all was a variety of shiny objects, ranging from crumpled soda cans to shards of broken mirrors and a pawn shop’s worth of costume jewelry. It looked like a magpie’s nest blown up to fifty times its normal size.

  The only piece of furniture in the room was a sun-faded velveteen armchair in front of the large bay window overlooking the street. The fabric was threadbare, and in several places the stuffing and springs poked through. Glancing back down at my host’s talon-tipped feet it wasn’t hard to guess why.

  Where the walls weren’t covered in framed photographs, peeling blue and yellow wallpaper hung in ragged ribbons, while dust bunnies as big as pit bulls had set up colonies in the corners of the room. Combined with the overriding staleness of the air, the dilapidated look of the room created an aura of neglect that almost made me feel sorry for the old harpy. All traces of concern disappeared seconds later when she propelled herself up to perch on the edge of the giant nest, a rain of small feathers fluttering down to the ground from beneath her housedress.

  I’m sure she does just fine.

  “So... how long have you lived here?”

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked, narrowing amber eyes in suspicion.

  “Just curious,” I hastened to rep
ly, one hand absently moving to cover the soft flesh of my stomach.

  Making a small sound that could have been a sign of doubt or simply a clearing of her throat, she resettled her feet, appearing to move unseen appendages beneath her housedress. Turning my eyes to the photographs covering the walls, I found myself drawn to a faded black and white picture in a thick wooden frame. I felt my brows arch in surprise as my jaw dropped.

  “Is that... Olaf Sorrenson?” I asked, squinting at the grainy picture of the Wyoming pack master who had been the leading proponent of supernatural equal rights in the 1950s and ’60s.

  The picture showed Sorrenson surrounded by a group of smiling men and women at some kind of rally, all of them dwarfed by the large were whose broad smile shone through his bushy beard. The skyline of DC stretched out behind them, crowded with hundreds, if not thousands, of people gathered around the reflecting pool at the National Mall.

  Sorrenson had one massive arm looped around the shoulders of a tall, slender woman with dark straight hair past her waist and a brilliant smile. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “What? Oh yes, that’s Olaf,” my host said, bobbing up and down like a parrot. “That was the summer of ’56... or was it ’58?” she muttered, more to herself than me.

  I couldn’t help flinching when she clambered down from her perch, talons clacking on the floor as she came towards me in a hobbling gait. Peering at the picture, something in her face softened and her gaze grew distant as memories swam up to the surface.

  “He was so handsome,” she said in a dreamy voice, reaching out a wrinkled hand that had been twisted by age to stroke the glass above his face. “Had a laugh like a bass drum and snored like a bear.”

  “You knew him then?” I asked, trying to avoid the question of just how she knew what his snores sounded like.

  “You could say that,” she replied, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening as a girlish smile took over her face, transforming her for a moment from the stooped, white-haired old lady into the beautiful young woman tucked beneath Sorrenson’s tree trunk arm.