Bones and Bagger (Waldlust Series Book 1)

by Ted Minkinow

  Only Sarah Arias and I remained in the kitchen. She stared at my face and I had the notion of someone reading a billboard. Good. Somehow she was tied to what was happing, so better to show my hand and put her on notice. I didn’t care how appealing she looked in those ripped jeans and baggy pullover sweater. I hardly noticed how the sweater bulged in all the right place and slimmed at the others. No way would I allow eyes so green that they made you want to swim naked in the clear lake that lay hidden behind them put me off course and make me forget my promise.

  Did I just promise something to somebody?

  Just kidding.

  “Calm yourself vampire,” Sarah Arias said.

  It sounded more like an order than a suggestion so the net effect in me ended up the opposite. I looked toward the entryway separating the kitchen from the sitting room. More instinct than necessity because I could barely hear the conversation and I knew they couldn’t hear Sarah Arias as she issued commands. In my house. Typical chick thing. Can’t talk to a guy for a whole minute without giving orders, though a hot tomato taking charge can get ultra-sexy. My brain dredged up a few orders I’d be more than willing to follow.

  “Calm yourself,” Sarah Arias repeated and this time I think she meant, “It ain’t happening tonight so don’t get all intense.”

  How many times have I heard that one? Disappointing on some levels, but the familiar ring of Sarah Arias’s line did kind of lower my blood pressure. And my shields. Lower was the key word. I was still on guard.

  “Where can I smoke?” she said.

  I didn’t think Sarah Arias was asking where to insert the cigarette, though I came close to making a naughty suggestion. I saw a smile flash on her face and then evaporate so quickly it left me wondering if she’d ever smiled at all.

  “The door,” I said, and pointed at the glass door just beside her. It led to a deck overhanging Herr Doktor’s breakfast room.

  “Come,” said Sarah Arias.

  The deck also overlooked Herr Doktor’s precious parking spots situated in a courtyard flanked by the walls of Victorian buildings that stood on either side of us. Even though dozens of windows from at least five residential structures looked down on us, it felt like just Sarah and me out there.

  And the Doktor, of course because I could smell his perpetual cigarette burning below. Why did he even bother to go outside? He and the Frau burned more cigs in a single night of standing sentry behind their kitchen window than an entire bowling team during national tournament weekend in Omaha. The whole building stank of their lungs and it cost me several thousand euros to get that special paint to cover the nicotine stains on the walls of my apartment.

  I’m pretty sure Helmet smoked while I was at work, though the ghost brand didn’t put out anything I could detect. As far as the dangers involved in tobacco consumption? Helmet was old enough to make his own decision regarding the health risks. I’ll not begrudge a guy a vice or two. Even when he’s dead.

  Sarah Arias walked up to the wrought-iron balcony. I didn’t notice how she produced the cigarette because the view of her caboose outshone that of her hands and shoulders and head. But only for a second. The sound of lighter clicking broke the fanny-trance and I walked over to stand beside her as she blew the first cloud over the railing.

  “Do you think we could extend our sentences to three or more words?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she said, and then added, “If necessary.”

  “Funny,” I said. I wondered if she detected the irony.

  “Walk away, vampire,” she said.

  Three words. And they pretty much confirmed my suspicions regarding her. Still, I wouldn’t give up without a fight. They’d kick me out of the international guy union if I did.

  “Why do you call me that?”

  Sarah Arias took a long drag on her cigarette. She held the smoke in her lungs—certainly two gorgeous examples, if you could judge an organ by its housing—and then exhaled with a long, even hiss.

  “I call you what you are,” she said. “I speak to you on orders…”

  I interrupted her. “I know. You said all that before.”

  I may have been gripping the wrought-iron railing a bit tighter than the engineering specification anticipated because I heard the metal complain. I eased up the pressure—Herr Doktor would love an opportunity for a conniption over his 150 year-old railing. So yeah, I relaxed my grip. But not my words.

  “You need to know something,” I said, and she stopped her cigarette a couple of inches in front of her lips. Did you ever wish you could be a cigarette?

  “I don’t abide in people threatening me or my friends.”

  Sarah Arias chuckled, and perhaps the music I heard in her quiet laugh represented what I considered the first decipherable sound to come out of her mouth that night.

  “Friends?” she asked.

  Back to the foreign femi-language. I didn’t let her irritating one-word sentence slow me down.

  “Yes,” I said. “Friends. Listen, I don’t know who you’re working for but you can report something for me.”

  “What?”

  “You tell them they might get to Sparky. But it’s going to take a butt-whipping. Might be theirs, might be mine. But there’s going to have to be one so they can prepare themselves to bring it on.”

  Sarah Arias smiled. Twin streams of smoke steaming from her nose vaguely reminiscent of the bulls of Pamplona marred the effect, but only by a little. It wouldn’t take much to get beyond that minor turnoff.

  Major distraction.

  I returned to my point.

  “And you can tell them bringing in Soyla was a stupid move.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  It sounded more like at statement than a question. Perhaps my lust friend, but never my girlfriend. On the positive side, at least Sarah Arias didn’t accuse me of dating Super-Rumble.

  “No, Sarah,” I said. “But I think you already know that. It pisses me off that whoever has this feud with Sparky would bring Soyla into it.”

  The railing creaked again but I was past caring about it. “That’s going to cost them extra pain. Tell them to consider it a service charge.”

  Ah, wait a second. Did I just get maneuvered into admitting my condition? Had Sarah Arias just squeezed two more names off an exclusive roster from me? Was Sir Knucklehead becoming a full time role for me? And why was I having this internal dialogue with myself when it was Sarah Arias who needed to supply some answers? Her response blew those thoughts away like the smoke she dispersed into the atmosphere.

  “My interest in you is standard. Comes with the assignment. My warnings are for your benefit and also serve those you mention.”

  She threw her cigarette over the railing and I watched the glow trail down and then break into tiny fire-gnats when it hit the pavement below.

  My psycho-chick detector began again. It’s a mental warning that sounds more like derisive laughter than a siren. And except for the vampire crowd, only one human per generation knows of my extraordinary condition. The current secret-keeper lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, not Wiesbaden, Germany. And her name wasn’t Sarah Arias.

  But Sarah Arias definitely knew my secret. She also seemed to know my friends. I realized something else during the brief moment I gave my stupid mouth a rest and allowed my brain some bench time. The obvious had been blinking behind my eyes like a neon sign in Vegas and I’d missed it because Sarah Arias’s lungs occupied every bit of the front of my eyes. Good excuse. Anyway, Sarah Arias had just told me she knew something more important than my condition or my short list of Facebook friends. Something of critical importance. Sarah Arias knew what this was all about.

  She looked over my shoulder toward the house. I heard the glass door open. Already knowing it was too late I swung around in full vampire speed to meet whoever or whatever came through the door while my back was turned. Beautiful chick to occupy the idiot’s mind while the attack’s in progress. I knew the trick well. And it nails me every time.


  Chapter 13

  “Where you at, Homey? Ready to go?” J-Rod the fake gansta. “Hey man, do your friend Sparky have herpes or terminal nut-itch? He been doin’ more ball-handling than LeBron James.”

  Sarah Arias stepped toward the door. I stopped her with a quick move of my own that blocked the way.

  “Dude,” I said.

  It’s the inflection of that catch-all word that gives it meaning among guys.

  “Oh, sorry man,” said J-Rod. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Message understood. But don’t think J-Rod gave me a real apology. He did mean to interrupt. One guy will give another limited time to make a move on a chick. Even if it delays a party for everyone else. On the other hand, by saying he didn’t mean to interrupt J-Rod also congratulated me on what he assumed as progress with the mysterious Sarah Arias. In other words, he saw something there to interrupt. See, guys can be both subtle and complex.

  “We’ll be waiting by the front door,” J-Rod said, and he walked back into my flat.

  In subtle and complex guy language that one meant the gang would be waiting by the front door. So the clock representing my opportunity for privacy with Sarah Arias was ticking toward zero. Nice. At least I understood that much about that crazy night. Did I know anything else? Not really.

  So it was time to go. My mind summed it all up. Sparky, Soyla, and confusion. Normal. So if the full extent of what happened ended with a knife in the back, a beautiful and hot-tempered Hungarian warrior-woman attempting to make me a temporary eunuch, and the declaration of a deadly Blood Feud? No sweat. Show me the way to the first pub.

  But that’s not how it all went down. Sarah Arias. The wildcard. The unexpected player. The one who stood near enough at that moment to rev my engine despite a smoky reek worthy of its own warning label from the Surgeon General. And she’d lit another little white obsession. At least she turned her head when she exhaled.

  Thanks for the courtesy.

  My mind heard the crowd in the stadium counting down the final five seconds and I sensed Sarah Arias would stick around for one question—that she expected it. So I needed to think quickly if I were to leave the impromptu meeting with any information at all. Subtle, I thought. The right question would produce fruit, the wrong one? Thorns.

  I thought of the old days in the western USA and the wild horses I helped tame. Move forward slowly. Nothing abrupt or you spooked them and ended up with an empty rope and a long walk home. Subtle, my mind repeated. Subtle enough she wouldn’t recognize I’d asked a question until she supplied the answer. Kind of like she’d just played me.

  “So what are you anyway?”

  Ouch. Did I really say that?

  Sarah Arias rolled her eyes. She stepped around me and through the door J-Rod had used a moment before. Rats. I hurried to catch up with her so we’d reach the waiting baggers at the same time. I didn’t want the gang to know I’d been dissed.

  Helmet sat in the computer chair stroking Karl. I gave him a furtive nod goodbye. He stood, snapped to attention with one of those heel-clicking moves, and held out one of Karl’s little paws in a Third Reich salute. It was a thing with us, a gallows kind of humor inappropriate for public consumption. Like most things I did, come to think of it. Proper disclaimer before your throw your book or ereader against the wall and walk away in disgust: Helmet knew I hated all things Nazi and I don’t think he was ever a member of the Party. That last bit is just my conjecture, though.

  Kind of comforting to see him sitting by the computer. As I said, Helmet acts like ghosts can’t manipulate the physical. Despite all that I hoped he’d take advantage of the solo time at home and surf the net for anything that might shed some light on what I’d gotten myself involved in. He’d leave it all in different tabs of the internet browser or there might even be a something waiting for me on the printer. And we could all pretend it didn’t come from Helmet. Or was Karl the brains behind our organization?

  Everyone, to include Sparky with his sleeve still tucked inside the front of his—my—jeans, waited by the door. I had to admit that a couple of beers with the gang sounded great. Sister Christian caught my eye with a casual motion across her head that kind of looked like she was combing her hair. I mouthed a silent “What?” She repeated the act with more force. Jerked her hand across her hair and glanced over at my bathroom door.

  I got it. Why couldn’t she just tell me I looked awful and go do something about it?

  “I’ll meet y’all downstairs,” I said. “Need a moment to freshen up.”

  Sister Christian winked, smiled and said, “We’ll be waiting.”

  Everyone filed out. I was pretty sure I’d seen the last of Sarah Arias and her unsettling two-word sentences. Did it make me happy, given I’d been trying to meet her for the last several months? Heck yes it made me happy. But then my traitorous mind called up a visual of Sarah Arias’s perfect money-maker walking toward the railing as the two of us stood alone on the deck. A little craziness did seem a small price, though my experience tells me the better the view the greater the cost.

  I shook my head. What was I thinking? Cute patoot or not, Sarah Arias ran with some deadly people. Would I consider a relationship with a chick who might want me dead? I pondered the question as I walked to the bathroom and couldn’t see how that sort of situation was any different from any other relationship I’d been involved in. I decided to play along with Sarah Arias, to do whatever it took to make her think I liked her while I pumped her for information. Freudian slip? I love the way I can lie to myself in order to justify just about anything.

  It took two seconds with the mirror to convince me Sister Christian did me a huge favor with that pantomime of hers. I did look like hell, maybe worse. Blood caked in my hair and on my face. I didn’t even notice what had dried on my arm. Were the boys in the bagger gang really going to let me leave looking like that?

  I leaned closer and saw micro bits of gravel embedded in my cheeks and a nose still beet red from recent regeneration. I looked like an alligator wrestler whose last match went to the judge’s cards. Hot water over my hair and face patched things up a bit. A proper shower would come after I returned from the evening. Thanks for going in first, Sparky.

  And while I was on the subject of Sparky, I reached for my one towel and saw it thrown in a heap on the floor. Right beside the toilet. Thanks again, Sparky. I manned up and picked the thing off the same spot where indelicate things splash for lack of proper morning aim. I rubbed the towel hard across my hair and my face and checked the mirror again.

  Some of the gravel remained and I didn’t manage to remove all of the blood from my hair. Also, those two dark eyes hovering between my shoulder and elbow were still there.

  Two dark eyes hovering between my shoulder and my elbow?

  My face shattered the mirror and much of the plaster wall behind it. Not quick enough to deflect the blow from behind, at least my reflexes proved sufficient for closing my eyes. I might need to regrow some facial skin but it wouldn’t happen in the dark because I saved both of my eyes.

  A hard yank down at my wrist and I found myself on a new trajectory. Like, into the wall. If he’d used the same strength throwing me to the floor I would have ended up face down in Frau GreedyButt’s lap somewhere below.

  The wall proved little better at protecting itself from me than had the mirror. I felt two little hands launch me into the air. I bounced off the ceiling. On the way down I thought I caught Helmet moving the computer mouse, though he may have just been applauding.

  A trip between ceiling and floor affords one a bonanza of unanticipated free time. I chose to devote the entire flight to frivolous thoughts. Like maybe who in Hades was kicking my butt. As I smacked into the ceiling, I began sorting out the answer to that one.

  Superhuman strength? Check.

  Remind me of a vampire? Check.

  The indelicate odor of an unflushed toilet in a diarrhea ward? Negative.

  Adorable dark cannibal eye
s? Yes.

  Lovely. For some reason one of the seven deadliest beings on earth had decided to play basketball with my body.

  Funny thing about bouncing off the ceiling is that you never seem to bounce off the floor afterward. Rather, you end up in a heap of broken bones no more substantial than one of Karl’s ghostly sculptures. For the second time that night I played possum. And again it seemed to work.

  Those cute little pygmy hands found their way around my neck. If things went the way the little guy intended for them to go, then any second my head would be flying across the room. If that happened I’d make sure to keep my eyes on Helmet. Perhaps I’d finally catch him inputting something on the computer.

  I waited until the microsecond after I felt the fingers begin to tighten. I sprang up like a grandma screaming bingo and swung my fist as I turned. I wish Helmet could have snapped a pic of the shocked little sucker as my fist connected with his bony little head and I bade a bon voyage to the tiny bastard as he departed on his own journey.

  Maybe it’s his centuries of kicking everyone’s butt that breeds enough arrogance to think nobody will fight back. I’d just defiled one of The Seven. My night would end early, my morning would never come. But I’d go down fighting. He peeled himself out of the wall and turned to me. I wasn’t sure which of The Seven I faced because I’d never laid eyes on any of them.

  The sneer on the little face would have made a statue shake in fear. Here’s the bad news: I was dead. Here’s the good news: I was dead. Being dead is liberating. I’d not bow down and I’d not cower. But I would inflict as much pain as possible. Leave behind another tattoo to remember me by.

  “Your nose is looking lonely tonight.”