“Yes!” Gunther said into the silence. “Fake vampires!”
Then came a slight buzz at Keith’s wrist. Without lowering his mage pistol, Keith glanced at his watch. Numeral nine blinking green.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you kidding? Look at them.” Gunther waved dismissively at the trio, then said, “You three idiots are under arrest, by the way.”
“Master?” The guy wearing the cat’s-eye contacts finally spoke but not, Keith thought, to them.
“Blinking green nine, Heartman.” Keith kept the mage pistol trained on the three wannabes while scanning the room. In the upper corner of the room, a shadow moved against the ceiling. “Nosferatu. Ten o’clock.”
The black shape moved like a spider across the ceiling toward them. Its strange, shapeless jaw undulated. He didn’t know if this was Sounder or the remaining concubine.
It didn’t really matter.
“Freeze, asshole.” He retargeted his mage pistol. The vampire slid along the ceiling, still coming toward them, saying nothing. Saying nothing was a bad sign.
Gunther seemed unperturbed, even slightly annoyed by this. He said, “I order you to stop and identify yourself.”
The vampire launched himself at Keith. Gunther threw himself between them. The vampire sank its teeth into Gunther’s shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. The three humans bolted, running toward the back entrance. Keith slammed the butt of his mage pistol into the vampire’s head. He couldn’t risk firing while the vampire was still attached to Gunther. Though trans-goblin, the mage pistol would still have an effect on him.
“Get off him, you fucking lamprey.” Keith pried but couldn’t loosen even one of the vampire’s inhumanly strong fingers.
He wished he’d had the sense to bring a wooden stake or flamethrower.
Flamethrower…
He shoved his hand into Gunther’s inside pocket, groping for the flask of lighter fluid there. He got the top off and sprayed the vampire with it, straight into the eyes and down its undulating throat. The vampire released its grip and sprang away out of range of any lighters. Keith brought his mage pistol up immediately and fired. Three spell-inscribed bullets spiraled out, leaving blue tracers. The first shot went wide, but the next two found their target.
The vampire shrieked as the bullets penetrated its flesh, writhing against the ceiling like a vortex of angry smoke. Then, abruptly, the sound ended and a ring of plastic dropped to the floor. Carefully, keeping his mage pistol trained on the traces of lingering smoke overhead, Keith bent to read the name.
He stood and turned back to Gunther, who stood with one hand pressed against his shoulder to stanch the blood trickling out.
Keith holstered his pistol and phoned the ambulance.
Chapter Twelve
PPB apprehended the fake vampires within a mile of the warehouse. Although the transformation from human to vampire was technically impossible, all three fake vampires claimed to have been made Nosferatu by Sounder. None of them was anything but a misguided human.
“Sounder really did a number on them,” Gunther said. “He used the administration of methotrexate to induce photoallergic reactions when any of these kids went into sunlight. He let movie mythology do the rest of his convincing. After that he had himself a nice little set of minions.”
“And we got this from the remaining concubine?” Keith glanced at the clock. Ten minutes till checkout. Not enough time to have one last hurrah with Gunther. Not that Gunther was in any shape for sex. His shoulder was a mess of stitches and bandages. Keith gathered up the last of his clothes and shoved them into his suitcase.
“She made a deal. Her lawyer claims that she was acting with Sounder under duress. I believe her.” Gunther shifted in the stiff-backed hotel chair.
Keith nodded. “Well, we saw what happened to the concubine who didn’t cooperate.”
“Exactly. Administration at the Portland Saturday Market confirms that Azalea Point Creamery was next on the waiting list for a market booth. It’s hard to believe that Sounder would do all this just for money.”
“People have done worse for less,” Keith commented. “Ultimately, Sounder only ever saw humans as prey.”
“That doesn’t explain why Bullock went ahead with it.”
“She was just sick, like every other gourmet looking for the ultimate thrill. PPB managed to round up a couple of people associated with Forbidden Pleasures. They’ve been handed over to NIAD. I’m pretty sure at least one of them will be willing to talk, once they’ve found out what kind of death sentence they’re looking at.” Keith zipped his suitcase. Time to checkout. Time for him to head back to DC.
“Want to ride to the airport with me?” Keith squared himself, assembling his expression into professional cool. Gunther didn’t appear to be fooled. He reached out, smoothing Keith’s lapel.
Gunther said, “So it’s over, just like that?”
“I already saw housekeeping lurking in the hallway.” Keith knew that wasn’t what Gunther was asking, but he’d never been good at saying good-bye.
“There are literally dozens of portals between DC and San Francisco,” Gunther said. “It would be easy to pop over there. Maybe you could make me dinner sometime. Or even breakfast, if you’re in the mood.”
Keith caught Gunther’s hand and pulled it to his lips.
“I think I could be in the mood.” He heard the creaking of a disinfectant-laden trolley outside in the hallway. “Time to hit the road.”
They made their way down to the parking lot, passing by a line of food carts just opening for lunch. Keith felt a familiar pang of loss as he watched them open. He missed that world. He missed it a lot. But then again, being an Irregular wasn’t so bad. It had its perks. And watching Gunther slide into the passenger seat beside him, he thought maybe he’d found a regular customer to cook for again.
Gunther folded a smoke into his mouth, then unwrapped the Carnivore Circus CD he’d left on the dashboard.
“Want to find out what they sound like?”
“Why not?”
Massive, heavy beats exploded out of the speakers. Growls and screams like the howling of the damned pounded through the rental. Bombastic blasts of sheer sound vibrated from the speakers.
Above the noise, Gunther shouted, “I kinda like it.”
Keith nodded. “Me too. What’s the track called?”
Gunther searched the homemade packaging a moment, then said, “Chunderfuck. Next one is: Thy Doom Approacheth, Shithead.”
They listened to the song. It didn’t take long, being comprised of only seventy-two seconds of bowel-jangling guitar. Keith turned the volume down. Gunther gave him an inquisitive look.
“I’m not a nice goblin boy,” Keith said, then added, “I’m not even nice.”
Gunther gazed out the windshield, smiled in that slow way he had, and replied, “I know, but you sure can cook.”
Why the goblins called the Moth Man the Moth Man was a mystery. He was an albino, so maybe that had something to do with it. That, and his predilection for the bright and shiny, especially things that easily caught fire or exploded. The Moth Man had a way of finding artifacts that were, in Archer’s opinion, better left lost. It was probably a strange opinion for the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver. Not that the ordinary man—or woman—on the street would know anything about MoSSA.
The wind moaned dolefully through the chinks in the old brick walls. Ezra munched agitatedly at one of those violet floral cigarettes he was so fond of. Archer kept to the shadows and resisted checking his pocket watch yet again. He wasn’t nervous, exactly—it took a lot to make him nervous—but he wasn’t happy either.
“He’ll be here soon.” Ezra continued to pace up and down before the empty wooden crates with their faded emblems of skulls and crowns, the dully gleaming vats and ducts that looked like nothing so much as a giant steel stomach. “Don’t worry.”
Archer lifted a dismissive shoulder, but he’d already made up his mind to walk if the Moth Man didn’t show by five after. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Moth Man had something worth his time and trouble. The Moth Mans of the realms seemed always to have the inside track on beautiful and rare items before they hit the regular black market. Still, Archer would have preferred to know exactly what he was acquiring before venturing out in the dead of night with a wallet full of cash.
“His merchandise is always worth it.” Ezra gulped down the rest of his cigarette and belched an agitated purple puff toward the rafters overhead. “He said he wants to talk to you personally.”
Archer threw him a quick look. “Me? Why me?”
“Eh?”
“Your friend. Why should he want to speak to me in particular?”
Ezra gave a smoky laugh. “Don’t know. Never asked.”
Archer pulled out his pocket watch. Moonlight through the grimy windows illuminated the time. Three minutes after midnight. He snapped the watch closed. “That’s it for me. I’ve an early start tomorrow.”
“No, wait!” Ezra cried. “Don’t leave. I know he’s on his way.”
Archer studied Ezra, studied the beads of sweat popping out over Ezra’s human features, took note of the anxious licking of tongue over lips. Yep, definitely time to say adieu. Archer opened his mouth, but somewhere to the left of where they stood came a ghostly screech of rusted hinges.
Instinctively, they both turned.
“See. Told you,” Ezra muttered.
Archer ignored him, watching warily until at last he spotted a tall figure in a drab overcoat moving through the darkness like a white shadow. The figure moved swiftly, with frequent glances over his shoulder, as though he feared pursuit through the canyons of metal tubes and casks.
“Well! You took your time,” Ezra greeted the Moth Man when he reached them at last.
“Can’t help it. Thought I was being followed.” The Moth Man’s voice was high and breathy. His eyes were large and protuberant. They appeared colorless in the gloom. He was taller than most humans, certainly taller than Archer, and very thin.
“Were you?” Archer asked as Ezra scoffed.
The Moth Man shook his head. He eyed Archer curiously. “You’re him? You’re—”
“No names,” Archer cut in.
“No. No, it’s just I thought you would be…different.”
Archer got that a lot. “What is it you have for me?”
“Have you got the money?”
“Show me the goods first.”
The Moth Man reached into his overcoat and pulled out a long, plain envelope. He picked at the flap with long gray fingernails, plucked it open, and held out an old-fashioned Polaroid. He smiled slyly.
“What is it?”
“Take it.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t buy on spec—”
As he spoke, the snapshot gave a tiny pop and green sparks flew up. The Moth Man giggled. “It likes you.”
Casting him a doubtful look, Archer reached slowly for the photograph. It seemed to slip right into his palm. He gazed down.
He was looking at what appeared to be a small mound of broken glass arranged on a square of black velvet. The picture hummed against his fingertips.
Wonderingly, Archer raised his gaze to the pallid one so closely regarding him.
The Moth Man gave another of those unsettling giggles. “Er, might I interest you in a strand of green glass beads?”
At that instant the tall warehouse doors rolled up with a rattle like a million eyelids snapping awake. Dazzling white light flooded the building, bouncing off the canisters and tubing in a blinding glare. Navy-uniformed VPD poured into the building, shouting orders. Much worse were the familiar dark-clad agents flanking the locals. The regular law enforcement hung back as the men and women in black fanned out behind the slow rolling green-gray of damping dust that tumbled lazily, almost playfully, through the entrails of the machinery and ladders. They wore spell masks and carried mage pistols.
The air was thick with holy water and incantations that wouldn’t have thwarted a baby brownie. Archer sprang for a sharply slanted ladder, scrambled up, then pelted down a wide landing crowded with mysterious metal silhouettes. Climbing over the rickety safety railing, he leaped across the aisle to another landing. More of a shelf than a landing, but it would do. Below him, the green damping dust billowed up. He pulled his handkerchief out and clamped it over his mouth and nose before dropping down to a large rusted shipping container. He landed with a bang, but what was one more bang in the surrounding pandemonium?
Holding his breath, he sprinted down the scratched and peeling lid of the shipping container, the metallic pounding of his footsteps echoing the beat of his heart. Boom, boom, boom. No time to be subtle. His lungs burned with the need to breathe. The damping dust stung his eyes, but he could still see—an advantage of his half-faerie bloodline. Behind him, he could hear muffled cries falling away.
“Where is he?”
“Where did he go?”
“There he is!”
“That’s not him, dumbass! That’s a pipe.”
Archer dropped to the dusty brick floor behind the container.
Handheld utility lights skimmed the walls of the building and swept the floors. Archer crouched low, breathing hard through the damp silk of the handkerchief. It was not that he was out of shape so much as out of practice. The burst of adrenaline, his human half’s response to threat, left him disconcertingly breathless and a little shakier than he liked. This would do him good. If he got out of it. Out of this trap. That’s what it was. A trap. But was it for Archer or for the Moth Man? Archer had a suspicion and it didn’t make him happy.
Always lovely to be wanted, of course, but that son of a whoring goblin Ezra would regret it the next time they met.
The white beams of the utility lights slid past and Archer took the opportunity to move further away from the approaching tattoo of department-issue boots. Wriggling through a narrow opening between towers of cold and rusted cylinders, he reached up, grabbed for the rough edge along the top of one of the wide vats, and hauled himself up. The soles of his boots slipped on the smooth sides. The muscles in his arms and shoulders, and across his back flared with pain.
Yes, definitely out of practice.
He clambered on top, risked standing upright, and jumped for the landing beneath the giant windows. He almost didn’t make it. Nothing like slamming into a hard, splintery surface to concentrate the mind. The fleshy part of Archer’s thumb caught on a nail as he dragged himself up and then half climbed, half fell over the flimsy railing. He kept clear of the moon-bright window as he scuttled back, vaguely aware that his hand was throbbing. That was going to hurt like hell later on.