Snatching the phone out of her hand, I shrugged the massive backpack off. It landed on the ground with a thud.
“Um, you’re welcome very much,” Isa said, rolling her eyes and giving me an irritated stink face.
“Thanks,” I responded, shaking my head at the fairy. “Consider this one favor down.”
“Lucky me,” she chimed sarcastically. ”There’s one more thing,” she added, once again digging in her pocket. ”A couple of days before he went missing, this got shoved under the front door. The roommate said he meant to give it to him, but never got around to it.” She handed me a business card, just like the one I found in Charlie Whitmore’s apartment.
And, just like the one on Charlie’s counter, it stated simply: Mr. Fulton.
Flipping it over, I found a message like the one that had been scribbled for Charlie.
‘Something’s happened. I need you to come in immediately. Don’t doddle.’
There was a connection between Charlie Whitmore and what happened to Renee’s brother? This was big. It was the break I needed.
“Thanks a lot,” I said to Isa. Then I nodded and turned to go.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Aren’t you going to pick that bag up? I need to get it to the gym.”
“The gym?” I asked, turning around and eyeing her and the bag.
“Yeah,” she said, her hands moving to her hips expectantly. “The app says I have to take it to the gym if I want to train it.” She shook her head. “Though honestly, I’m not sure how much good that’ll do given what I had to do to it to get it into the bag.”
My mind went reasonably blank.
“Isa,” I started slowly. “What’s in the bag?”
“One of those Pokémon things,” she beamed.
“What?” I balked, sure I was confused.
“Yep,” she answered, obviously full of pride. “Everyone was looking for one, and I found it. It was just scampering around in those woods over there. I tried to fit it into a ball like everyone said, but the backpack was the best I could do.” She looked up thoughtfully again. “I’m not sure what everyone sees in this game. I mean, sure, the hunting is fun, but there’s so much blood.”
11
I turned up the radio as I made the last right into the sketchy side of town. Music helped me think and the Rolling Stones helped me really think.
I was halfway through my third listen of Almost Hear You Sigh when I pulled back up to the familiar apartment building that once housed Charles Whitmore.
I had never wanted to see this place again. Hell, I had never wanted to even think about that murdering asshole again. Except maybe to read about his execution in the morning paper while munching on an everything bagel with cream cheese.
But it turned out Nickolas Cypress had a connection to the same vague asshat who had sent Charlie boy the business card I had confiscated last time I was here.
So because a good detective does whatever’s necessary, I skidded to a stop in front of the damned place and threw my Impala into a parking space.
Repeating the same routine that got me into this oversized flea box unnoticed the first time, I made my way up the stairs. This time, I tore down the caution tape that still quartered off the room instead of just ducking around it.
Anyone who had wanted to get in here had very likely already done so. Besides, I was tired and pissed. And it just felt good to tear into something. Even if it was just tape.
I had checked Nickolas’s old dorm room after Isa gave me the card, pushing past the pimply faced string bean she had turned into a conquest along the way. It seemed insane to me; a woman as fierce and beautiful as Isa would throw herself at any warm body she ran across. But fairies were like that. You live long enough and I guess everything loses its meaning.
He was no help, since he remembered very little about Nickolas other than the fact he was pretty clean, kind of quiet, and always drank the other guy’s orange juice, “no matter how big I wrote my name on it.”
The college had already filled the room. Not that I blamed it for wanting to move past this thing. Besides, there was no body to speak of. To them, it was nothing more than another student who realized they couldn’t hack it after a few months and bailed.
No reason to memorialize it by leaving the room half empty.
But that made things even harder for me.
The new guy’s stuff was already in the room, and all of Nickolas’s had either been given to the college secondhand store or tossed into a dumpster weeks ago.
It left me very little to work with, which was what led me back here. While I hadn’t been aware of the connection to the seedy demonic underbelly before, I was now. Maybe I’d find something I’d missed.
But as I passed through the tattered caution tape and settled in the living room, I realized I hadn’t been the only one who’d had that idea.
Being a cop is rough business. You have to have a kickass work ethic, but that’s not enough. You also have to have innate gifts, a sort of sixth sense some people are born with for whatever reason. Working your way up to detective meant kicking that work ethic up about ten notches as well as learning how to focus that sixth sense to a usable level.
Some people might think being a warlock would give me that sense. They’d be wrong. Some people might think the same thing would be true about being a demon. They’d be double wrong.
The truth of the matter is being a warlock is just like being a person, except with super cool magic powers.
You could be smart or stupid, quick or slow. You could be anything you wanted. I just happened to be just the right sort of observant.
I felt the presence of another person instantly. Something in the air always shifted when I wasn’t alone, and it had nothing to do with any sort of supernatural perception.
I could just feel his eyes on me, feel his nearness.
I powered up, using what little energy I was able to keep in my reserve to light my right hand up with bright blue energy. It wasn’t the most powerful thing in the world, probably wouldn’t even bust through tissue paper if you didn’t take the time to wet it first. But it was bright and shiny, and what I needed right now was a light show.
“Show yourself,” I said flatly, turning around—not only so I could get a full view of the room, but so whoever was hiding in it could get a good look at me too. “Be quick and I won’t kick your ass too hard.”
That, of course, was a bluff. As with everybody I faced, I’d kick his ass just as hard as I had to, assuming it was in me to do so.
“You don’t want this, witch,” a deep, growling voice came from somewhere in the room.
My eyes darted back and forth around the filthy square.
It was empty, and the noise was clear and unadulterated. Whoever this was… a man, from the sound of him… had a glamour over him. Which meant that he was either a warlock himself or a vampire. Damn. Why couldn’t it have been some tweaker looking for a fix?
My money was on blood sucker because I’d never met a warlock in my life who wasn’t at least a little sensitive about the gender issue, given the much greater cultural awareness of witches in pretty much every corner of the world.
“Witch?” I said, looking in the direction I best thought the voice came from. “Do I look like a teenage girl with a talking cat to you? It’s warlock, you fanged freak.”
Like I figured, this was enough to draw him out.
Vampires, and I’m seriously not going for pun points here, suck.
They’re vain, destructive, seductive bastards who think they own the world because they don’t age and can procreate every day if they want.
But that’s not the only reason I hate vampires.
I also hate vampires because, contrary to the ease in which Buffy Summers seemed capable of putting them down, they are very, very dangerous.
They’re every bit as physically strong as demons. They’re faster than fairies, and they’ve got enough magic seeping out of their perfect, pale bodies to hid
e themselves in plain sight if they really concentrate.
Case in point.
The vampire who came toward me now was old. He didn’t look old. His body was that of a thirty-year-old. He had slicked back black hair, a narrow face that probably looked creepy even when he was a mere man, and a pair of eyes that had seen more than a couple centuries turn over.
He carried himself calmly, and his attire spoke of somebody who had come of age well before things like saggy jeans or parachute pants were in fashion.
He wore a three-piece suit with a blood red handkerchief sticking out of the pocket. A top hat rested in his left hand and his shoes looked to be snakeskin.
This was one Frank Sinatra looking motherfucker, and he was mad as hell.
He rushed me before I could even really take stock of things.
His hand, cold as ice, wrapped around my neck.
He slammed me against the wall with a thud before lifting me up like a damned ragdoll.
So, maybe threatening him wasn’t the best way to go after all. Well, you live and you learn, I guess.
“What was it you had so crudely threatened me with?” he asked, his fangs elongating and protruding past his almost blue lips. “Kicking my ass?”
“Would you believe that was a joke?” I asked as the pressure against my windpipe grew tighter and tighter. This vampire was not playing around, he had absolutely no patience for my humor.
“Is that really what you want your last words to be, witch?” he spat at me, nearing my neck with those damned chompers.
“No,” I answered. “Dispertise is. That’s a pretty good last word. Dispertise.”
The vampire sprang backward. He had been around long enough. He knew a spell when he heard one.
As things go, “Dispertise” isn’t exactly the end all be all of combat magic. But I was in a bind and, like I said, my reserve was kind of running low.
What it was though was a disorientation chant that would make the fool dizzy enough to get him off me. What’s more, it wouldn’t drain me to a near useless state.
”What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, moving toward the vampire and pulling out my gun.
Bullets wouldn’t kill him, not even if they were silver, but they would hurt like hell. And that would be enough of a threat to get him to talk.
The vampire roared, spinning around and rushing back toward me with bared fangs.
“Dispertise,” I repeated, which sent him stumbling backward again. He fell into a coffee table in the room’s far end, transforming the thing into shards of vampire killing wood with his weight.
It was like an “In Living Color” episode without the laugh track.
“That’s enough of that,” I said and fired a shot right into his staggering leg.
He crumbled to the floor, and I’ll admit, it was strangely satisfying.
It’s always odd shooting a vampire, mostly because there’s no blood.
Their bodies use the stuff up so quickly, any wounds tend to be bloodless, and that’s just freaky.
“Do you know who I am?” the vampire screamed, looking up at me with rage in his pale face. “I am Antoine DeMarco! I was second in command to Vlad the Impaler.”
My mouth twisted. “Isn’t that spe… Wait is that Dracula?” I shook my head, holding my hands out in front of me and doing that blue light fire show again.
Maybe in his disoriented state, he’d think I was an honest to God magic aficionado or something.
“Tell me what you want with Charles Whitmore and what you know about a man named Fulton,” I commanded, setting my jaw and holding my ground.
“The Whitmore boy owes me,” Antoine said, looking up at me with narrowed eyes. I could tell he was gauging the magic I was using. Hopefully, he wouldn’t find it lacking. ”I came for payment.”
”He’s a little indisposed at the moment. I had him thrown in prison,” I said in my best badass voice. “But you’re welcome to his crap. Take it. Pawn it. I don’t give a shit.”
Antoine sneered up at me. “How stupid are you, witch? I’m not here for money. I’m here for actual payment. I’m here for what Fulton--”
He stopped short, his eyes growing wide.
Looking up into the sky, he yelled. I looked up too, hoping to find whatever it was he was reacting to, but I couldn’t. All I found was bare ceiling
“No! I wasn’t going to say anything. I wasn’t going to tell him anything!” Who was he talking to? And how?
Suddenly, his body went ridged, and he folded on top of himself, centuries old bones crunching as he rested unnaturally on the ground.
“I wasn’t!” he screamed. “You can’t do this to me, Fulton! You can’t--”
Then he exploded into a mess of bone, tissue, and organs. He was all black on the inside. No blood. No nothing.
Throwing myself backward, I looked up at the sky.
Fulton, whoever he was, was capable of a lot more than I had given him credit for.
Looking back down at the mess that used to be Vlad the Impaler’s second in command, I could only think one thing.
“Those weren’t good last words either, bro.”
12
“And the vampire just died?” Gary asked, in a tone that suggested I was completely full of shit. Which is a high bar for an imp to clear, I’ll tell you that much.
“He did,” I said, peeling the pickles off my double cheeseburger and handing them to Gary.
He gobbled them up before licking the flat layer of skin around his mouth where a human’s lips would be and shutting his eyes in ecstasy.
“Only three this time?” he asked, eyes snapping open. He eyed me with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. “Why can’t a cheeseburger be all pickles?”
“Because that would be disgusting,” I answered, plopping the bun back in its rightful place at the top of my burger and taking a bite. The greasy deliciousness melted across my tongue. Still, it wasn’t enough to make me forget I had just watched a five-hundred-year-old vampire get taken out by an unseen badass in the most gruesome way I could think of.
Guess it needed more ketchup.
Whatever was going on was huge, bigger than I had thought at first. Which meant I needed to reevaluate things.
“Just folded over like a lawn chair?” Gary asked, marching back and forth across the table. I looked up across the restaurant. The Varsity was a historic place. It had been around since the fifties and actually spawned a second, albeit less popular restaurant on the far side of town. It wasn’t like this one though. This had the open floor plan and never-ending window line of a bus terminal. And all the charms. It was the real deal.
People walked by us, families with snot nosed kids, couples holding hands and making out in grossly overt public displays of affection, and old guys making their coffees last while they shot the shit.
Not one of them had the slightest clue there was an imp on the table or a demon/warlock aberration finishing up his number four in the corner.
“And you didn’t see anybody?” Gary asked, raising one impish eyebrow at me, which was really more of a fleshy ridge of bone than anything else. Same idea though.
“For the fifth time, Gary. No. I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t hear anybody. I didn’t sense anybody. I didn’t feel anything. No one was there. He was coming clean one second, and the next he was begging for Fulton not to turn him into an undead pretzel. Simple as that.” I took another bite of my burger and chewed. I had to admit, it sounded crazy to me too, and I’d been there. Vampires like that don’t just get pretzel’d, at least not without some serious mojo in play.
“Sure,” Gary said, tapping his little green foot on the table. “Simple is definitely the word I would use.”
A guy with one of those huge ear gauges I always imagined would be horribly uncomfortable stared at me as he passed by. I pointed to the Bluetooth contraption in my ear, explaining why, to his eyes anyway, I was talking to myself.
I wore that thing almost everywhere now. I
didn’t know how to work it and the idea of having another way for someone to get in touch with me literally crammed into my ear canal made me squirm, but when technology gives you a way to not seem so weird, you absolutely have to take it. Otherwise, the old people at the park give you the dirtiest stares, let me tell you.
“We have to find out who Fulton is,” I said, slurping up the last of my vanilla/cherry/pineapple Coke concoction and setting it back down on the table. Those “do it yourself” machines really are a thing of beauty.
“Maybe he has something to do with Dracula,” Gary grinned maniacally, trying to convince himself. ”We should check it out. I bet we can be in Transylvania by tomorrow morning if we hurry.”
Ever since I’d known him, Gary had been obsessed with Dracula. So, when Antoine told me about his connection to good old Vlad the Impaler, I figured Gary would get a kick out of it. I should have known he’d lose his peanut-sized mind over it.
“It’s not about Dracula,” I answered, crunching the bag my food came in (because everything at the Varsity came in a bag, regardless of whether you ate it there or not) down to a little ball.
“You don’t know that,” Gary huffed, jumping right in front of me. “And you can never be too careful with vampires. They’re a tricksy bunch.”
“I do know that. It has nothing to do with Dracula,” I answered, tossing the bag ball into the open trash receptacle. It swooshed in. Nothing but net. Or plastic or whatever. “I’m pretty sure Dracula’s dead.”
“Dracula’s not dead. Shut your whore mouth!” Gary said. Then, pointing back to the trash bin, he added, “And that’s not impressive. Don’t feel good about yourself for that.”
“I’ll try to keep my exuberance low,” I said, standing up from the booth and ignoring him. Gary always got a little excited when I told him Dracula was probably dead. Let’s just say I’d been to this little party before.
Gary hopped up on my shoulder and I winced a little, given that the bullet wound hadn’t been that long ago.
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