Grave Beginnings (The Grave Report, Book 1)

by Virdi, R. R

  “Listen girl, I’m nearly three times to your age and—

  She laughed dismissively and said, “you don’t have to lie, just say not interested, you’re not going to hurt my feelings you know.”

  What was she talking about?

  Right, Norman had made some sort of deal that had gotten him a supernatural facelift; he looked like a male model now rather than an elderly pudgy guy.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled quietly and shambled off to the isles she had pointed at, gathering up the supplies. I know they seemed odd and I know the conclusion most people would draw, like the girl did but there is a real reason I needed them. I put them all into one of those small plastic handcarts with the crappy weak handles that flop up and down and headed back to the cashier.

  I placed the cart on the counter and she began pulling them out, ringing them up one by one, occasionally glancing up to look at me.

  “You know,” she began, shooting me another devious smile, “a little whip cream wouldn’t hurt your night.”

  “I uh, don’t have that kind of night planed,” I replied, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible but damn did she make it hard.

  She rolled her eyes.

  Seriously? Why does everyone have such a low opinion of me? Church thinks he’s smarter than me, this girl thought I was a pervert with some culinary-based kinks. I die multiple times, fight and suffer at the hands of supernatural creatures and do so all for the good of humanity! A little appreciation and kindness would be nice.

  She rang up the final item and I paid her the total, it was about eighteen dollars, I told her to keep the change. I wanted to get out of there and get back to work, Church may have given me an extension but I still had nothing and needed to change that fast.

  I strolled out of the store and up to the payphone, dialing the number indicated on the phone card, earning me a select amount of pre paid minutes. I reached into one of Norman’s pockets and pulled out my journal filled with all the info I’ve collected throughout my cases. I flipped through a number of pages before I found the one I was looking for.

  Since I had done probably about a bazillion cases, all over the world, in all manner of people, I had managed to make a few contacts here and there. Contacts both human and supernatural, contacts with knowledge and power. Contacts I could sort of rely upon and well some, well that I couldn’t. The one I was about to call, well I had never managed to find out just how far I could trust him.

  I took a deep breath and began dialing the number I had found from inside my journal, waiting as it rung.

  “Hello?” squeaked a very high-pitched girlish voice.

  “I need to meet with him…now!” I said rather forcefully, it sounded like I was being rude but I wasn’t. Some creatures in the supernatural world need to be talked to a little roughish, you can’t appear weak or timid even on the phone with them, or their secretaries.

  “He’s…he’s busy at the moment and—

  “I said now!” I said, letting a bit of an edge creep into my voice.

  “But, he’s…he won’t be able to, he’s involved,” she squeaked and stammered incoherently.

  I cleared my throat pointedly, “Oh sure I understand,” I begun.

  She let out a sigh of relief.

  “He’s got a fucking hour, tell him to get his short ass to Central Park, chop chop.” I growled.

  She inhaled sharply and I bet she was sweating bullets on the other side; she definitely did not want to relay that message back to her employer.

  “Tell him it’s Graves, he owes me and I’m calling it in.”

  The only acknowledgement I got that she had heard my message was a little meep!

  “Central Park,” I repeated, “one hour.”

  She didn’t reply, she just hung up on me.

  Some people just don’t have the manners to say goodbye. What’s this world coming to?

  Now I had to haul myself and my kinky assortment of sweets and alcohol down to Central Park for a supernatural swap of sorts.

  I rolled up my sleeve to take a look at my tattoo, it was hard in the night but with the help of a nearby streetlight I was able to make out that I still had thirteen hours left. Good, my little grocery shopping trip and phone call hadn’t even eaten up an hour; the walk to Central Park might knock me down to twelve though.

  “Well at least the pain’s stopped,” I muttered to myself as I began my walk to the park.

  I walked past several small shops but one caught my eye as I passed by. It was a Cantonese restaurant, high rectangular glass windows that ran around the end of the block with black polished paneling in between. The windows were stained with a series of translucent orange tigers that across the entire length of the windows. From about fifteen to twenty feet up from the ground, there were rows of metal rods protruding from the building on which were several stretched out black fabrics embroidered with golden lettering. I never learned what those things were called; they were like mini tents that hung over the edges of the building for aesthetics I guess. The golden lettering atop them read: The Golden Tiger.

  My stomach let out an embarrassing grumble as I continued walking past, a faint aroma of spices and meat wafted from the place and it stirred me right up. I may be technically dead but when I’m in someone’s body I still get hungry and I hadn’t eaten all day. My pace slowed and I turned back to look at narrow entrance framed by two minute bronze tiger statues at either side, debating on whether to go in or not. I know had to get to Central Park fast so I could meet my contact but still…

  Constantly dying and solving cases is rather hard on a guy, it makes you work up quite the appetite and develop an appreciation for the taste of food.

  My stomach panged again, I was torn between food and the possibility of getting information to solve my case and potentially save a few lives.

  “Damnit!” I growled to myself.

  I decided to ignore my stomach’s pleas and marched past the restaurant fast. I didn’t want to end up giving into temptation and doing a double take back to the place. I figured it better to just leave the restaurant behind me as quick as I could, my stomach did not agree with that idea and it continued to make the point clear as I walked on.

  I sighed aloud, “God,” I said to no one in particular, “I really hope this info turns out to be helpful.”

  I stuffed my hands into Norman’s fancy suit pockets and hunched over as a rather cold breeze swept past me, muttering bitterly to myself as I strode as quickly as I could towards Central Park.

  Chapter Five

  Central Park at night is really quite the sight, even in winter, it’s just breathtaking and no other word can do it justice. I was walking down a very neat dirt pathway, I know it’s strange to use neat and dirt in the same sentence but that’s what it was. There were waist high black metal fences that ran along the path; behind them were rows of small street lamps, little black poles adorned with an orb like light fixture atop. They were minute balls of light that illuminated the nearby bare trees, not a single leaf on them and yet it was all still eerily beautiful. There’s something about seeing nature at night, even in the dead of winter when the trees are leafless, there’s an honesty of sorts, no overwhelming cacophony of colors, it’s just more simple.

  Simple isn’t something I come across too often so I’ve sort of developed a fondness for it.

  I walked down the pathway for a bit, glancing at the benches as I went a long, searching for my informant, as I knew he would be seated amongst them. This part of the park, in spring or summer anyways, this was his favorite. I had first met him here in spring and it was a different scene altogether, though that might have had something to do with the fact that it was also morning then. The tree limbs were blanketed in pinkish red leaves, the pathway was littered with hundreds of them, it was a pink carpet of sorts. It was really something and it still was, I’ve haven’t come across too many places that you could find beautiful at all times of the year and day, but then Central Park wasn’
t just any normal place.

  Central Park was a place of magic.

  There are places of magic all around the world, places attuned to the different elements of life and they clearly show it, Central Park was as in tune with Mother Earth as they come. This was a place of nature and beauty, a place that represented life, even if it had a few manmade pieces dotted here and there. Just like some places in the world, there are some creatures in the supernatural world that are in tune with certain elements, it’s important to keep that mind.

  Whether you’re actually summoning them, or you’re calling them for a meeting, make sure the place you choose to meet is appropriate. You summon or call a creature of the Earth, of nature; well then, Central Park is probably your best bet to make them feel comfortable, which is very important to many a supernatural beings.

  That was why I brought the strange assortment of sweetish items and gin with me, supernatural creatures have many rules, traditions and the like that have to be observed. Many of these creatures are really big on offerings, they can’t resist and the one I was seeking out had quite the sweet tooth. However, like I said before, they are very big on rules and traditions so it’s not like I could’ve bought him a bunch of Snickers bars and Pixie sticks. The Pixie sticks would have gone over especially bad, oh they’re sweet alright but it’s about traditional offerings and those aren’t traditional, plus the Pixies aren’t held in an all too high regard by many creatures. Pixies are paranormal pranksters and well, assholes.

  This was about being old school, ancient proper offerings and tributes; it was about constancy in a way, creatures of the Earth are all about that. See, like the Earth, Earthy supernatural beings are very stubborn, grounded, fixed and resolute. These aren’t the kind of creatures that take change very well, which is why my offering of sweets had to be very very old school and I guess organic, hence why I chose the raspberry perseveres and honey. Yes the chocolate syrup was a bit less traditional but the bottle said organic so that counts for something and it couldn’t hurt to sweeten the deal as it were.

  Then there was the gin; it seemed like the odd one out in my assortment of goods.

  What can I say, alcohol is the stupidity inducing glue that binds the paranormal and normal together, even the supernatural like getting a buzz every now and again.

  “Graves,” called out a deep grating voice, shaking me from my reverie.

  He was small for a man, but then technically, he wasn’t really a man. I’d say he was about four foot two maybe four foot two and half with a lump on his head. I think the politically correct term for a person of that stature is dwarf? Except the problem with that is that the supernatural don’t care much about politically correct so much as correct, see he wasn’t a dwarf at all. My diminutive friend here was a gnome and calling a gnome a dwarf, well them’s fightin’ words to their kind.

  I don’t what it is between them or what happened way back when but dwarves and gnomes loathe each other. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it pure hate but it’s more like they just generally can’t stand each other, they can’t tolerate the sight or smell apparently of one another. Yeah, I don’t get the smell thing but then again I don’t have heightened senses like they do, which I guess is nature’s way of compensating for making them so short. I don’t know if the two races have ever gone to war over anything but I do know that if you get a group of dwarves and a group of gnomes together in a room, well it’s going to be like a supernatural Hiroshima…yeah bad!

  It was general advice to those in the supernatural world to not confuse the two races.

  It’s considered a grave insult to them.

  So then, how do you tell the difference?

  Well take for example the foreshortened being before me; whilst dwarves and gnomes are about the same height, they differ in builds. The gnome before was very averagely built; a dwarf would be like a little waddling barrel. A gnome can easily be confused for a dwarf…like politically correct dwarf not supernatural dwarf. I mean a gnome is just like a really short person.

  A dwarf is a really short person on anabolic steroids or more like that human growth hormone crap I think? They’re like little gorillas; some parts just aren’t properly proportioned. They have massive chests and stomachs but it’s the kind you’d see on professional strongmen, the kind that pull frickin’ trucks. They’ve got short arms that are really just filled in, they’re forearms are as thick as the average person’s biceps but they have strangely slender wrists that come out to freakishly big hands. Oh and one more thing, probably the most important, dwarves are beardless.

  Yeah shocker!

  Tolkien got that bit wrong.

  I think it’s somewhat safe to say that if you happen to see a vertically challenged person who has a very nice beard then they’re a gnome, if they’re built like minute bodybuilders, they’re dwarves. But uh there is the off chance you might actually run into a normal everyday small person in which case you’ll probably get your ass kicked. Oh and if you do happen to run into a gnome or dwarf and mix them up, then you will also get your ass kicked, more thoroughly since members of both races are several times stronger than humans.

  The gnome before me could actually easily whoop me even at four foot two and without difficulty. He wouldn’t even break a sweat and dirty up his immaculate and pressed black and gray pinstripe suit. And then there were golden jewel encrusted rings on his teeny tiny hands; those would hurt, a lot.

  Gnomes have a bit of thing for gems, makes sense, they’re about the best gem cutters in existence. Actually many of them are in the precious stone business. He definitely looked like a businessman, sitting there in his suit, with his fancy rings and his neatly trimmed beard; it was all salt and pepper. Gnome beards tend to grow gray much quicker than the rest of their hair, I don’t know why, chalk it up to another supernatural quirky rule. Like I said though, this gnome wasn’t in the business of gems, he was dealt in something far more important in my line of work.

  Knowledge.

  Most people have heard of the saying, “knowledge is power,” well in my trade it’s the truest thing ever. You have knowledge of a supernatural creature, what it is, what it feeds off of, how hunts or operates and eventually you will find a way to kill it. And this lil guy here had access to boundless knowledge and he would.

  The word gnome hails all the way from the ancient Greek word gnosis, which means knowledge. That’s what gnomes are, they are diminutive beings of knowledge, hence why I called this little meeting. But there’s a catch, there always is though isn’t there. Knowledge is power right? Well who in their right mind forks over power for free, there’s always a price, thankfully with this guy it was a small offering and maybe a favor but hopefully not that last one.

  He sat there quietly, regarding me, his hands clasped, the light from the lamps glinting off the gold rings that adorned his hands. His eyes were tiny little deep brown rings, his pupils were unnaturally large, there was more black in his eyes than brown, it was just odd. He had a crooked beak of a nose but that wasn’t a characteristic of a gnome, I think someone or something had decided to break it for him. His short black hair was neatly combed and parted. Gnomes don’t look anything like those stupid garden ornaments; this guy was the model New York big shot businessman.

  Believe it or not, he was the Donald Trump of info, he ran a multibillion-dollar consulting firm…and of course some enterprises that only catered to the supernatural, which I’m sure netted him all manner of other goods in exchange for his services.

  And even after knowing all of that, as big of a big shot as he was, his feet were still dangling off the park bench like a little child. It was hilarious. If he was actually a short person then yes it would be wrong to laugh, but he was a supernatural creature so the normal rules of courtesy don’t apply. But like I also said before, several times stronger than a normal person, so I kept my laugh on the inside.

  I didn’t want to be pancaked by a supernatural midget, my pride had already been wounded wh
en I had begged Church earlier before, didn’t need an ass whooping from gnome either.

  “Well?” He said, sighing in exasperation.

  “Nice night huh Gnosis?” I replied.

  Gnosis is the origin of the word gnome and it means knowledge. As our little exchanged had revealed, his name was Gnosis, as in knowledge. This guy was the first gnome; he was their origin, their forefather and what not. Very heavy hitter in the supernatural world, not necessarily in terms of strength, but what he knew, he had access to knowledge that could procure him the services of nearly anyone.

  This tiny four-foot guy could buy anyone or anything and that made him extremely dangerous.

  “Why do you insist on bantering?” He said, interrupting my thoughts, which was rude. “I know you’re on a tight deadline and I have a problem of my own so get to it,” he said in an agitated tone.

  First thing was first though, “here” I said, handing him the grocery bag of goods.

  He took them and began rummaging through them, his eyes lit up when he saw the raspberry preserves and honey like a kid on Christmas.

  They’re big on that old school sweet stuff.

  “Really?” he snorted, holding up the chocolate syrup.

  I shrugged, “don’t knock it till you try it, take it for a whirl with the missus, maybe you’ll like it.”

  He sighed again, “you don’t know my wife.”

  Ouch, supernatural marital problem, not getting involved in that. There was a part of my brain that wanted to ask if his wife had a beard, verify my theory. I told that part of my brain to shut up.

  “Spiced gin,” he said surprised, “someone’s been doing their homework I see.” The grin on his face was more than enough to know that I had scored some brownie points.

  “I accept your offer Vincent Graves and in return offer you my services in accordance to the value of your gifts and—

  “Whoa whoa whoa!” I interjected. “You owe me one too, I saved your munchkin butt with that whole troll thing. If I remember correctly, you were going to be eaten. Screw all that equal to the value of my gift crap, you’re helping me until I figure this case out, got it!?” I growled.