by Debra Dunbar
I gestured toward the folders. “A whole family murdered. Well, except for Russell Robertson.”
“Russell Findal now. His aunt and uncle took him in after the murders and adopted him.”
That was odd. The boy had been eight. I would have thought he would have wanted to keep his family name, to honor the parents who’d died so violently. Unless he was afraid the killers might track him down. He was only eight. Perhaps his aunt had the same fear. Perhaps I was being a weird paranoid woman after my close call with Dario.
“Did you interview Russell Findal? Can you share his contact information with me?”
“Sure.” Janice jotted down a name and phone number on a slip of paper and passed it to me. “He’s a bit odd, I’ll warn you. Not that I blame him, losing his family so young.”
“Odd how?” I didn’t have a gun, but maybe I should bring my sword. If only it weren’t so huge, and… obvious.
“He’s one of those intense sort of guys. You know, the ones where you wonder if they don’t wear a tin foil hat when no one’s looking. He moved back to Baltimore a few months ago. Unmarried. Works warehousing jobs—forklift operation and that sort of thing. When I spoke to him last he was between jobs.”
“Are any of his family still in Baltimore?” It seemed kind of odd to move back here otherwise.
“No. The aunt and uncle that took him in are down in Florida. Everyone else is spread out across the U.S. He was the only family member I was able to interview in person.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate your meeting me and sharing your research like this.” I was. She’d been really forthcoming, and even bought me lunch.
Janice grinned. “I have an ulterior motive. It isn’t every day that a part-time coffee-shop employee takes an interest in a forty-year-old murder of people she didn’t know, so I did a little bit of digging of my own.”
No biggie. We weren’t a secret society or anything. The whole idea of Templars was that you should be able to find one when you needed one. Of course few, including us, knew what our purpose was in this modern day beyond safeguarding the contents of the Temple and acting as an archaic Wikipedia of the supernatural.
“Templars, huh?” She stuffed the folders into her briefcase and finished her iced tea in a quick gulp. “Sword and armor and horses and all that?”
“Yeah. Although I can’t exactly go trotting my steed around the city wearing full plate and sporting a claymore. The police frown on that sort of thing, and I’d probably get shot by a paranoid drug dealer.”
She laughed. “Still, if there’s something that comes up, say with that coffee-shop job of yours that might be worth investigating, or if you find out the connection between the Robertson murders and the gang ones, you’ll let me know?”
It took me a second to realize that she thought we were some kind of vigilante group and my coffee-shop job was a cover for my superhero activities. Templar Batman. That would be funny. “Sure. Just to get you caught up to speed, there’s someone raising the dead on the Northside, and the vampires are probably involved.”
She stood, her grin so wide I swear I could see every one of her teeth. “Thanks for the tip. And given the amount of illegal Viagra sales in the Northside, I’m not surprised the dead are getting it up.”
I watched her leave, her long legs taking her to the curb in four strides. Janice was a good contact to have. A savvy reporter would make an awesome resource if I ever needed to do this sort of thing again. And all I had to do was keep her in the loop, even if she didn’t believe me about the necromancer or the vampires. Yet.
Chapter 14
I’D SNUCK INTO the back room during my shift and tried to see if I could reach Russell Robertson/Findal. Time was running out and I didn’t have much more to tell Leonora than I had yesterday. If I couldn’t glean anything from this guy, I’d need to either try summoning an information demon again or lie. Lying to the vampires didn’t seem like a wise thing to do, but I might not have a choice.
Russell’s phone was no longer in service. I searched both his names and couldn’t come up with a Baltimore address for either. Reverse tracing the phone revealed nothing. It was a dead end—for the investigation, and probably for me.
I had one more day before my deadline ran out, but there was no doubt in my mind that Dario would be banging down my door tonight, pressuring me to wrap this up. I got the feeling he didn’t want to see me dead either, at least not unless it was his sort of dead. I didn’t need any more pressure and there wasn’t anything he could do to help me. Plus I wasn’t sure I wanted his help. If this crazy idea bouncing around in my head turned out to be the truth, then the vampires had a lot to answer for, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to give them information that might lead them to Russell.
There was one last place I wanted to try. One hunch to follow up on, but it would have to be later tonight, because I had to meet with my new friends about the upcoming LARP right after my shift finished.
I probably could have walked to Brandi’s apartment from work, but I needed to go home first and stuff my armor and a sword into my car. Thankfully, none of the people walking by or the other building tenants batted an eye over a woman juggling a Santa-sized bag, a sword, and a peanut butter sandwich in her hands.
Turns out Brandi lived in a nicer neighborhood than I did. Passersby and other tenants here did stare as I hauled my stash through the front door and into the elevator.
“Nice evening, huh?” I commented to the elderly man next to me who’s eyes kept straying from the lighted numbers above the door to my sword. He made a noncommittal noise, and practically ran once the elevator opened to his floor. Maybe I should have left all of this at home until the actual LARP event.
Brandi’s apartment wasn’t much bigger than mine, although it seemed smaller with all the furniture and knickknacks scattered around. The six other people plopped on sofas, chairs, and the floor left little room for my bag of armor, so I stashed it against the closet next to the front door.
“What the heck is in that?” Brandi pointed to the bag, then proceeded to make ooo noises over my sword. That got everyone moving and suddenly I was surrounded by seven people eyeing my weapon. At least they were respectful enough not to touch it.
“A real bastard sword,” one large man announced. “Looks like it’s been used, too.”
Well, yeah. Why would I have something like this and not use it? “Others in my Order use rapiers or two-handed swords, but our family favors a hand-and-a-half. I’ve had Trusty since I was nine.”
“More like Rusty,” a guy with glasses commented, lessening the rudeness of his words with a friendly grin. “The edges don’t seem very sharp either, is this a practice sword?”
“I only sharpen the last ten inches or so of the blade, so I can half-sword—grip it midway down and thrust it like a lance. That’s how you kill someone through the gaps in their armor or holes in their helmet. The wedge design of the tip is for forcing its way through chain mail. The blade actually spreads and breaks the links at their joint.”
There was a poignant silence after my monologue, then a soft “whoa” from a woman with green dreadlocks.
“I don’t know about you guys, but she’s got my vote.” Glasses guy had a glint of appreciation, as well as something more lustful, in his eyes.
“What’s in the bag?” The large guy asked.
“My plate mail and my chain mail. I wasn’t sure which you guys use during your LARP.” I held my breath, worried that maybe I’d screwed up. This was turning into a giant show-and-tell, and I couldn’t see that anyone else had brought either armor or weapons. Hopefully I hadn’t ruined my chances with these people.
My fears were unfounded. If the sword hadn’t captured their interest, my armor did. Next thing I knew, everyone was trying on knees and elbows, admiring the articulation in my gauntlets, and the tight weave of my mail. I thought glasses guy was going to hump me on the spot, but he restrained himself and instead offered me one of his beers. Which I
gratefully took. I’d been so busy loading up all my gear that I’d forgotten to bring drinks.
“You do know that we don’t use this real stuff in the LARP?” Glasses guy took a swig of his beer, standing as close to me as possible without touching.
No. I didn’t know. “Ummm, I thought you guys might like to see…”
“We use foam padded wood or PVC core weapons, and armor is usually a few pieces of aluminum chain or molded plastic armor.”
Shit. Good thing we were meeting tonight. I would have shown up Saturday and killed all my new friends. It would have been a Massacre in the Park instead of a LARP in the Park.
Glasses guy must have read my expression because he smiled reassuringly. “I’ve got a spare sword you can borrow. It won’t be as nicely balanced as yours, but at least it won’t kill anyone. You can use your knees and elbows, and maybe your gauntlets and helm. We have a team tabard that goes over top so you don’t accidently whack any of your teammates.”
I understood. This would be a war exercise, only with minimal armor. The intent would be mostly tactical and skills testing, as opposed to actual combat training. “How hard do I need to hit for it to count as a strike?”
He eyed the muscles in my arms, then his gaze shifted to the neckline of my tanktop. “Be gentle.”
I got the feeling we weren’t talking about the LARP any longer.
The rest of the meeting went quickly with everyone discussing logistics and determining who was bringing what for the potluck. I discovered that Glasses Guy was named Zac, and that he was determined to ply me with beers as fast as I could drink them. I steadily resisted, keeping to water after the first one. I’d been excited about Saturday’s event before I even knew what we were going to be doing, but as the group discussed tactics and strategy, I felt my adrenaline surge. This was going to be a freaking blast.
After the meeting Zac insisted on walking me to my car while I eyed the sun low on the horizon. As much as I wanted to take him up on his offer to go get a cup of coffee, I really needed to get going.
“What RPGs do you like?” he asked, opening my door for me after helping me shove the bag of armor in the trunk. I sat my sword carefully on the passenger seat and pondered his words. LARPing was soft-weapon war games. I assumed he meant a rocket launcher that propelled beanbags as opposed to grenades.
“I’ve got an airsoft one at home just for fun, but I’ve shot both the Redeye and the Stinger a few times. I prefer the Stinger due to missile range and maneuverability when tracking the target, but I’m not really proficient in either one. Templars are more sword-and-shield fighters.”
Zac’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Just throwing this out there, but the thought of you firing an anti-aircraft gun turns me on beyond belief. Unfortunately I meant role playing games. You know, like D&D or Warhammer?”
I shook my head and shrugged, past being embarrassed by my ignorance of these things. Nobody seemed to mind that I was a total noob, and I doubted Zac was going to suddenly stop admiring my chest because I’d confused the acronyms. “I’ve never played any of those.”
He chuckled. “A virgin! A beautiful virgin who could kick my ass and leave me bleeding by the side of the road. Can I see you tomorrow night? Dinner and an introduction to some of my favorite games?”
He was cute, and the attention flattering although bordering on the edge of creepy-stalkerish. The only male interest I’d had the past few months beyond Petie looking up my shirt was Saturday night’s near miss with Dario. I should take Zac up on his offer, but I had to deal with the vampire issue first.
“I’m kinda busy this week, but I’ll see you Saturday at the park,” I told him, sliding into my car before he got any ideas and tried to plant one on me. Friends. I finally had some people to hang out with and an admirer of sorts. Maybe now my evenings would consist of more than hanging out in cheap pubs waiting for a sexy vampire to show up.
Chapter 15
I TYPED AN address into my GPS, and started driving, feeling increasingly nervous as the busy streets grew empty and the occupied houses were separated by rows of boarded-up ones. I parked a few blocks down next to an area that looked as if people still lived there. Then, feeling rather foolish, I slid my sword off the passenger seat.
Old Trusty wasn’t as fancy as my Great-grandfather’s sword. It was just a plain old bastard sword, perfect for thrusting through your opponent, breaking a few ribs with a flat blow, or smashing in skulls with the pommel. And I felt like a total idiot walking down a Baltimore city street in khaki pants, a cheery light-blue button-down shirt, a designer cross-shoulder bag, and a large sword.
Some guy sitting on his porch steps eyed me curiously as I walked past. “That dragon be a couple blocks down on the left.”
“Thanks.” I saluted him with the sword, then flipped it around my wrist in a flourish that had nothing to do with fighting. Whatever. It impressed the guy on the porch enough to get a whistle of admiration out of him.
Once I neared my destination my stance changed, and I held the sword across the front of my body, point down. I’d gotten out of practice in the last six months, and the sucker felt heavier than it should have. Three pounds doesn’t seem like much but when you’re supporting the weight by only a few muscles in your arm and wrist, after a few minutes it starts to feel like you’re lugging an anchor around.
The house was boarded up, the plywood old and covered with black mildew and worn graffiti. The brick crumbled around the porch where straggly, determined weeds reached upward. I pushed aside a rotted, grass-choked gate and waded through the unmown jungle to the back yard. At one time this had been a nice row house, but now it was a hazard. I wasn’t even sure if the joists would be sturdy enough inside to hold my weight.
They’d held someone’s weight. One of the boards over the back door had a half-circular scrape in the grain. Shifting my grip on the sword, I grabbed the board next to it and slid it sideways, creating a narrow opening.
I let Trusty enter the house first, one hand halfway up the dull-edged portion of the blade, and the other braced on the knob of the pommel. This thing worked best as a sort of multi-purpose spear, and if anyone jumped at me, they were getting shishkabobbed.
My footsteps were the only ones on the alarmingly spongy floorboards. The disturbed dust indicated that others had been there before me, and I was very aware they might still be there, hiding in case I was the police, or possibly sleeping off their last fix. Either way, this place had served as a flop house for quite a while. Doors had been torn off the kitchen cabinets. The carpet was sliced to ribbons. The entire place stank of urine, unwashed bodies, burned trash. Something scurried in a corner and I froze to watch a rat dash from one open counter to another.
There was nothing that indicated someone had been here who hadn’t been high as a kite and less than picky about their living quarters. I hesitated at the stairs, eyeing them skeptically. If the main floor was dicey, the top floor was liable to give under my weight. Holding my breath I went a few steps up and stopped, my palms sweating. There was no sense in breaking a leg, or worse, on this fool’s errand. I backed down the stairs deciding to check the cellar then write this whole thing off.
The cellar stairs were even more rickety than the ones leading to the second floor. I used my cell phone for light and brushed the thick cobwebs aside for a quick look-see. Dirt floor. A chipped cement slab in the corner. Broken glass and splintered wood. And a whole lot of spiders.
Scurrying back up the stairs, I spent a few moments brushing off the cobwebs and spiders that I was sure had covered every inch of exposed skin. Nothing. Just another abandoned house in Baltimore. Taking one more look at the stairs to the second floor, I gritted my teeth. I really, really didn’t want to go up there, but I’d driven down here, walked a few blocks with a big sword in hand. I might as well be thorough about this.
Two steps up, and my palms started sweating again. The wood creaked beneath my feet, the railing rocked with the slightest
touch of my hand. By the time I was halfway to the landing, I was nearly hyperventilating. I was going to fall. I was going to crash through the stairs, then through the shitty first floor onto the dirt basement covered in cobwebs and spiders, and probably impaled by my own sword.
Why was I so terrified of climbing a set of stairs?
Shit. How many times had I used this very spell? It was a close cousin to the one I’d used on my tampon box, as well as the one I’d cast to keep any intruders from taking Trusty or my armor. How embarrassing to be almost done in by such a simple hex.
I had the means to break through it, but didn’t. Breaking a hex, even one this simple, took a good bit of magical energy—energy that I wasn’t willing to expend with a potential vampire meeting awaiting me this evening. Plus there was a decent chance that this was a layered spell, and that something with more whomp would come at me if I disabled this one.
And busting up someone else’s spell was damned rude. I didn’t own this building. I was trespassing. Yes, whoever put this hex in place was most likely trespassing, too, but courtesy between magic users meant one didn’t go around disabling others’ workings without good reason. Me feeling like I was going to die if I took one more step wasn’t reason enough. So I pressed on, clenching my jaw and breathing as slowly as I could. When I reached the landing, relief washed over me. I’d passed the area of effect for the spell. Hopefully there wouldn’t be others—especially lethal others—ahead.
Left or right? Neither choice looked particularly appealing, so I headed right. The bathroom was at the end of the hall. All the fixtures had been ripped out and the walls smashed in, no doubt to scavenge any copper pipes. The sink and toilet lay in white porcelain chunks, the tub filthy and cracked. Some artist had written slanderous comments about a woman named Bethany in what I hoped was brown marker. I backed away slowly and checked out the bedrooms on this section of the hall.