A Touch Too Much

by Theresa Glover

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Bait,” I said, looking at my three partners.

  6

  “Credible bait isn’t armed.” Sister Betty stepped back, surveyed me, then reached to straighten a seam. “You’ll blend in like this. Besides, ‘bait’ was your idea, so stop complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining.” I swatted her hand away and adjusted the form-fitting fabric encasing the smooth curve of my hip. Every inch of this egregiously pink ensemble was her fault. From the boob-smashing, low-cut halter top to the perilously short skirt. I resisted the urge to tug at the matching, skimpy thong underneath and raised my hands for her inspection. “I’m voicing my concerns about being unarmed, especially given our recent experiences.”

  “Legs are the most important weapons you’ve got in that getup,” Marty said from his bed, now transformed into a reclining fortress of tech and pillows.

  With a laugh, Sister Betty patted my bare thigh. “He has a point. And you’ve got better stems for this than anyone else.” The heat of a fierce blush rushed up my neck and burned the tips of my ears. Conflicting waves of emotion made me want to flee, strip, and jump her. Not in that order, but maybe all at once.

  Marty snickered from his nest, an evil cackle of perverse glee at my humiliation.

  Note to self: retaliate.

  He pressed a finger to his ear and muttered to Father Callahan, en route, somewhere between the hotel and Saint Louis Cathedral.

  “You look good.” Sister Betty handed me a glittery clutch too small to hold more than a tube of lipstick, ID, and maybe a little cash.

  “What the hell am I supposed to pack in that?”

  She shoved the purse at me. “You act like you’ve never dressed up before, Caitlin.”

  The warning in her voice made me bite back the sarcasm that yearned to be free. I took the sorry excuse for a purse and sighed.

  She eyed me, her hands on her hips. Far from being glitzed up like some Bourbon Street Barbie, she wore workout sweats, a t-shirt so thin a hint of skin color showed through, and her hair in a ponytail. “You done?”

  I grunted a response and tried not to roll my eyes. Push too hard and I’d regret it. Maybe not today, but she’d remember the next time we hit the gym. She always remembered in the gym.

  “Good.” Her tone brooked no resistance. “I’m not in the mood to kick your ass, no matter how much you deserve it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Don’t make me change my mind,” she warned.

  But whether she wanted to or not, she couldn’t. She’d been shot on my watch. “You’re not kicking anyone’s ass.”

  “I still could.”

  “Not with stitches in your side.”

  “Don’t test me.” She turned and unearthed a pair of shoes from a shroud of tissue paper.

  “Oh, hell no.” I retreated a few steps. “I will not wear those.”

  The shoes dangled from her fingers, though “shoes” might have been a generous euphemism for the configuration of straps attached a thin, steeply sloped silver sole, and a dangerous spiked heel.

  Sister Betty raised her eyebrow, stepped forward, and thrust them at me.

  I shook my head. “I’m bait, I’m unarmed, and now you’re hobbling me.”

  She cleared her throat, raising her hand, the dangling straps, soles, and spikes wobbling in my face.

  Neither of us moved.

  From the far side of the room, the Jeopardy theme song crescendoed out of the silence.

  “Ugh,” I snatched the shoes, “fine, I’ll wear the damned things. But if I break my neck and die, I’m coming back to haunt your ass.”

  “As long as it’s just my ass,” she said sweetly, turning away.

  And now, instead of doing something useful or mood-improving, like hunting the nightmare and kicking any misbehaving monster ass that might get in my way, Sister Betty stationed me outside the bar. In a dress. Perched in a chair looking pretty and watching the world go by like I had nothing better to do.

  The murmur of conversation from the bar split on a woman’s sharp laugh, crashed together with a cheer from a chorus of voices, then resumed its low buzz.

  If ever I needed a drink, this was it, and yet…

  I sighed and shifted, careful not to flash the lobby. No one remotely suspicious walked by, but since I’d encountered the frat boy-man from the airport here, recon made sense.

  A woman in a sumptuous, yet conservative, dress gave me side-eye and turned up her nose as she passed. The patina on her pearls suggested old money, and her sneer of disdain confirmed it. I pretended not to hear her harrumph of contempt.

  “And then she had this whip,” said the leader of a tribe of twenty-something guys crossing the lobby, “and fucking six inch heels, man.” In shorts and a polo, he walked backward directing his words at his similarly-dressed companions. “Just wait, you’ll see. I’m telling you, it’s incredible.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek as he stumbled down the short stairs to the door.

  “Everybody hates working,” a man in a well-tailored suit said as he stomped by on his way into the bar, a designer leather computer case bumping his hip. The corners of his mouth flicked down in distaste as his eyes glided over me. A younger man with a less expensive case followed, furiously typing on his phone with both thumbs. Pretending he didn’t see me, the older man continued as they disappeared into the carousel bar. “When it comes down to it, though, I hate being broke a hell of a lot more than I hate working.”

  I yawned and pressed my fingers against the inner corner of my burning eyes to avoid ruining my makeup. This job couldn’t be over fast enough. At this point, I’d sacrifice my theoretical vacation for a few days of sleep. Well, part of my vacation, at least.

  After the mirror incident, I hadn’t slept. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling trying to figure it out. The couple of times my eyes drifted closed, details from the nightmare jerked me awake. Remembering the disturbingly dark and reflective bowl of viscous blood bisque made my stomach roil, and the way the liquid clung and glittered on a silver spoon made goosebumps riot across my skin. I dreaded sleep as much as I craved it, but if struggling to stay awake meant I didn’t have to see that nightmare, or watch the death of the woman in Rome again, or to hear Shannon’s terror—

  Out of habit, I scanned the lobby for something, anything of interest to distract me. It took a few seconds before my brain reacted to what I saw.

  To whom I saw.

  Across the lobby, near the left end of the front desk, he emerged from one of the ballroom spaces.

  I unlocked my phone without looking, subtly aiming the camera at frat-boy man, the nightmare, crossing the lobby. Without taking my eyes off him, I started the video feed.

  He never looked to either side, but headed for the front door, nose raised as if following a scent. People parted around him like water around rocks. Neither his day-dreamy pace nor his vague smile faltered.

  My Bluetooth headset rang, and I tapped it, still tracking the man with my phone as I stood and took a couple of hesitant steps. “She hobbled me with these heels.”

  “S’okay.” The staccato clicking of Marty’s keyboard betrayed his reaction to the streaming video. “I’ll monitor where he goes.”

  “Which does nothing.” I followed my target, tugging my skirt with my free hand and trying not to wobble.

  “Easy, killer. This is recon, remember? Information over capture.”

  “And if we lose him?” My shoes cracked like gunfire on the marble floor. I muttered curses under my breath and tried to walk softer.

  “Got him,” Marty said, then directed another comment to someone else. Maybe Father Callahan, maybe Agent Cooper. “We’ve got eyes on him.”

  I wove through the people at the door and stepped into the street, my legs aching with the tension of trying not to trip or break an ankle. Or both. “Where is he?”

  “Around the corner. Bistro side.”

  I sw
ore again. “I’m coming up. I can’t chase anything in these shoes.”

  “Come on up, hoochie. I got beads and you won’t even have to show me your boobs.”

  I hung up on him.

  Bastard.

  Retaliation, for sure.

  Sister Betty convinced me to keep the dress on, but only because arguing wasted time. I pulled on my Docs over my custom ankle holster and slid in a Derringer before running out. I’d have preferred a bigger gun or even the gas-powered “stinger” Marty bought me for my birthday, but weapon-hiding real-estate didn’t exist in the violently pink skintight fabric.

  “Which way am I going?” The phantom clicks of Marty’s typing echoed through the headset like some alien heartbeat as I waited, impatiently, for the elevator’s slow descent.

  “Left out of the lobby. Hard right around the bistro.”

  The elevator dinged at the first floor, but the doors didn’t immediately open.

  “You’ve still got eyes on him?”

  “And a tail.”

  “Cooper?”

  “One and the same.” Marty muttered a curse. “He’s good. I can’t pick him out.”

  “The mark?”

  “No, Cooper.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” I pressed the headset into my right ear. Agent Cooper wasn’t exactly the type of person you’d expect to find in New Orleans. Except at an accountants’ convention. Even then, he’d only blend in among people who looked like him. Short, stocky, stodgy, even. Completely ordinary and remarkably unremarkable.

  “I wouldn’t have bet on it, either.”

  I rounded the corner of the bistro, only to run straight in to a dark-haired man a little taller than me and stronger than he looked. He grinned, one arm clamped around me, pulling me into the downdraft of stale beer breath. A sweep of hair flipped back as he tossed his head only to fall across his forehead again. “Where you goin’, baby girl?”

  “Dude, tonight is not the night.” I pushed against his chest. He resisted and swayed. Fantastic. I wouldn’t have to break a sweat taking this grabby bastard down.

  “Aww, come on, baby, you don’t know what kind of night it could be.” His grin turned into a leer as he stared into my cleavage. He ground himself against me, his interest undeniable. Small, but undeniable.

  “This will not turn out well for you,” I warned. “You’ve got one more chance to let go before you regret it.”

  He tried to jam his leg between mine as he rubbed his crotch against me. “You don’t know what you might regret, beautiful.” His tongue ran across his scaly, chapped lips, and I recoiled, reminded of a certain giant space slug and how much my dress suddenly felt like a metal bikini.

  But I didn’t need a chain.

  Instead, I stomped his instep. Hard.

  Nothing crunches better than foot bones under Docs. Might not have broken anything, but I sure as hell popped a few joints. Either way, he howled and lost his balance trying to cradle his injured foot against his meaty thigh. I stood out of the way before he could trample or trap me, my hands on my hips. The way he carried on, some of those satisfying fireworks in his foot might have been broken bones.

  I failed to feel guilt. “Told you.”

  “You bitch!” Spittle flew as he screamed, awkwardly cradling his foot against his knee, his ass propped against the wall.

  “Right. You assault me, and I’m the bitch.” I shook my head.

  “Are you really going to argue with him?” Marty had a point, even if he sounded bored.

  “Right.” I jogged, clomping and splashing along the wet street. “Call the police. Let them chat with him.”

  “You’re pressing charges?” Marty sounded shocked.

  “How about you send me in the right direction and dial up NOLA PD?” A sea of milling tourists filled the neon-lit streets, a cacophony of music in the air. Another night in the party city.

  New Orleans, a vacation disaster for monster hunters. Zero stars.

  Despite being distracted by mentally writing my review for fellow hunters, Marty’s directions sounded familiar, and I realized I’d be passing Helen’s house. Or Hel. Or however the Norse goddess who’d taken up residence in the French Quarter wanted to be known. The last time I’d passed her place, I’d been running, though last time, I’d been chased by an otherworldly portent of death, a border collie of the dead. This seemed almost relaxing in comparison.

  I skirted a car, sucking in my side to avoid it as I passed Helen’s door. For a brief instant, I wondered if she’d let me enlist the help of her brother, Fenrir, a massive wolf. Or dog. But a god of sorts. Or son of a god. Something like that. I hadn’t read that chapter of the Norse mythology book yet.

  “Before you ask, the answer’s no,” Marty said.

  “What?”

  “You are not getting Fenrir to chase down this creature.” He gave the next round of directions.

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “Yeah, I do. You slowed down and stared so hard at the door, you almost ran into a car.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “That I know what you’re thinking?”

  “That you stalk me with cameras.” I turned the corner. “And it was a pothole, smartass.”

  “If you say so,” he chuckled.

  He must not have been watching his monitor while he teased me, or he’d have warned me about the gorilla in the middle of the road.

  A no-shit, real-life gorilla.

  Great.

  I skidded to a stop. “Uhh, Marty?”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “I planned to ask you the same thing.”

  The gorilla stood on its hind legs, its eyes flashing brilliant gold.

  Even better. A goddamned supernat. Maybe the same one that attacked us before.

  “We’ve got a problem,” I said.

  “You have no idea,” Marty said, awe dropping his voice into a whisper.

  7

  I stepped back, scanning the street with my peripheral vision for anything that might become a weapon without taking my eyes off the gorilla in the middle of the street. “I need good news, Marty.”

  “Wish I had some.” He swore with ferocity. “Cee, I have to call Cooper. There are flying monkeys pouring out of Café Lafitte in Exile.”

  “What?”

  “Literal. Flying. Monkeys.”

  “You’re kidding.” Flying monkeys didn’t exist outside the movie that scarred my young psyche. To my knowledge, or the Church’s—or at least Sister Betty’s Order—supernats hadn’t evolved into creatures of modern mythology. At least not yet. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Wish I was,” he said, dry and curt. His other phone chirped. “Lemme call you back.”

  “Not a good time, I’ve got a sit—”

  The headset beeped as he ended the call.

  “—uation here.”

  The gorilla took up half the street, staring at me and brandishing huge teeth.

  Great.

  I’m gonna die wearing a dress and a thong.

  Scandalous as they were, at least my panties were clean. That had to count for something.

  How the hell did you deal with gorillas? Especially gorillas that weren’t gorillas and were some kind of supernat? If Sister Betty covered this in any of our lessons or training sessions, I sure as hell didn’t remember it.

  Derringers would convince most humans that messing with someone else might be a better use of their time. Fae and smaller supernats would get the hint with the right ammo. But this? Even with cold iron blessed hollow points filled with a proprietary blend of pixie dust and silver filaments, the piece in my ankle holster would only annoy this creature.

  “Hello,” I said with a wave. Nothing too big, too fast, or too threatening. I hoped.

  It grunted and stood up, its massive fists lifting fractionally off the ground.

  “What, or who, are you?”

  Another grunt and it flailed its arms, gnashing big tee
th.

  “Right. Brilliant conversation.” I ignored the sudden chill in my blood. What supernatural creatures might take gorilla form and what could I do about it? I hated these encounters where my weapons didn’t matter either because they were out of reach, like now, or ineffectual against the target, also like now. If I didn’t come up with some miraculous idea, I might die. I pulled the skirt of the tight, fluorescent pink dress higher up my thighs. If we had to fight, I needed as much mobility as possible, though I dreaded the atomic, no, apocalyptic wedgie a roundhouse would give me.

  I considered slipping off the thong, debating the merits of the fabric’s epic internal intrusion not only up my butt, but deep into…well, more delicate areas versus flashing the beast in front of me. Thin as it was, breaking the elastic would require effort and conspicuous movement, and might not work. Next time Sister Betty made me wear a dress, I’d insist on combat-friendly panties, lines be damned.

  The gorilla leaned forward and charged a few loping steps, making a noise something like a combined grunt, laugh, and challenge.

  Very slowly, I shimmied the back of the dress up, slid my hands over my butt and hooked the elastic of the thong with my thumbs. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m not here to ruin your day. I’m chasing something else—”

  The rumble it emitted dropped an octave before rising in an animalistic scream of challenge. Arms raised over its silver-black chest, the beast flailed its massive arms again.

  I froze, hands on my outer thighs, the thong’s elastic stretched taut between my thumbs and against the curve of my butt. Why did no else ever find themselves in this kind of situation? And why the hell did Sister Betty not consider the fighting merits of my panties when shopping? Surely, there had to be other options. Did they make tear-away thongs? I made a mental note to ask a stripper later.

  “Easy,” I said, my voice low and soothing. Or, an attempt at low and soothing. Since the gorilla didn’t charge, I assumed I got close.

  It walked closer, a rumbling hoot echoing in its thick chest.

  Wriggling my butt, I worked my hands down my thighs. “That’s right. Easy.” Unless there was some kind of zoo jailbreak, this gorilla had to be supernat, though I didn’t know what kind. That, of course, meant problems. The lack of information created a minefield of any possible interaction. One wrong assumption—especially without backup—and this escalated in a bad way. As if I needed help making things harder for myself. Transformed human or not, I decided to assume the beast had higher cognitive function and understood non-threatening moves.