Disclaimer: Most of these characters belong to Blood Ties, obviously any referenced music belongs to the bands (and Sweeney Todd) and eventually there will be Christopher Moore references and Princess Bride references.
OTHER disclaimer: While Joanna may be very critical of the characters, that is supposed to be her opinion. I've tried to keep my own opinions and personality out of this entirely (an exercise of self-control, it being in first person present tense and all).
"Hello again." He's reappeared suddenly in the chair opposite me, evidently in the five or so seconds I'd been looking halfheartedly at my deceased watch. Ah, and the smile, the smile of a perpetual child.
"I see you've abused the power of an open door, Mr.…?" I cocked my head to the side, refusing to succumb to his…oh, what is it called here? "Powers of persuasion"? Why, oh, why is it always an alliteration?
"You know my name. You were looking it up just a small while ago." He leans forward into his chair, propped up on his arms in what I suppose is a seductive way. Wow, I am so sick of being vampire bait right now. What, do I give off pheromones or something? This is what, number four? Of the other three, I only actually bothered to keep in contact with one. The one, that is, that's managed to stay out of TV shows and/or literature, most likely because he isn't pale, from Europe, or an asshole.
"Well, then, Mr. Fitzroy, can I help you with something or are you here for the express reason of keeping your skills in shape?" The smug smile quickly drains from his face, and I twirl the metaphorical plug around my finger. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Well, goodness me, this could be more fun than last time. He's got an ego.
"Why exactly are you here? I do have things to do." It isn't entirely a lie, I am checking my email right now, though mostly it's lovely and important spam like preventing aerial wolf hunting, a process which someone needs to explain to me. This is getting ridiculous.
He smiles again and leans very far forward so that our faces are almost touching, which I'm sure he expected to invoke flustered stammers and blushing on my part. I just glare at him very pointedly. I. Have. Better. Things to do. Undaunted, he speaks in hushed tones. "I was just wondering…have you ever…" he froze, I can see visible hesitation in his eyes and I know what he's smelled on me. "I see you have a dog." I almost want to laugh out loud, or at the very least chuckle malevolently, because the word 'dog' is just about the best possible understatement for Bolt. I smile back, deciding to play along temporarily.
"Oh, yes, he's lovely. How did you know? He certainly doesn't shed much!" I've actually surprised myself at the lack of bitter sarcasm in my voice, barely a tinge.
His truly confident smile returns, and I know he thinks he's found a chink in the armor. Ah, but Henry, little do you know that it's one of the strongest links. I'm just glad the recent walk with Bolt covered up the other smell. "Oh, just a feeling. I'm quite good at sniffing out things like that." Oh, ha, get it. "Sniffing" out, see, because he has souped up olfactory senses. Yeah, well, so do fish. Still, staring at this Fitzroy character, I know one thing: he's hungry. Biparta, uniparta or vispus, they all have one thing in common: when they're hungry, and you're looking for it, the fangs push through the roof of the mouth just enough to be visible. Maybe he'll let us skip past the whole flirtation crap, which at this point is mostly lost on me. I chuckle softly to myself, leaning back in my chair. I finger one of the scars on my shoulder out of simple habit. Almost lost on me.
He's leaning forward once again, taking a strand of my hair and toying with it coyly, and effect which I'm sure is usually sexy. I rest my folded arms on my desk and hide half of my face so that only my eyes are visible. Come on, notice. Notice. The smell under the smell, notice it, be scared. His nostrils flare for a second, but whatever he smells he brushes off as unimportant. Inwardly sighing, I stand up.
"Can we get this over with please?" I ask. His eyes narrow suspiciously, a split second of emotion before going back to the playboy façade. "Get what over with?" his eyes flash dangerously.
I snort and roll my eyes. Doesn't this one have a PI friend who should be dealing with him? "Stupid European fairies." He stood up suddenly, knocking the chair back so hard that one of the legs splintered when it hit the floor. In a lightning fast movement, he had me up against a wall, one hand around my neck. "What did you just say?" His voice sounds doubled over, his eyes pitch black. I must admit, I like the 'vampire-mode' of the vispus a lot better, then again I suppose I'm biased. Oh, yes, everyone fawn over the pretty boy, then he'll wreak havoc on your circulatory system.
"Relax, please. That doesn't work on me anymore. Mr. Magic did something." Mr. Pollox is his actual name, but everyone calls him Mr. Magic for reasons best explained through interpretive dance.
"Johnny? That you?" I could hear Mort loudly announcing his presence, something which I'd had to repeatedly ask him to do before it became habit. This could get interesting.
He enters the room, Bolt just behind him. For Henry's sake, I really hope Bolt attacks first. The four-hundred pound hellhound let out a low, angry growl, but more worryingly Mordecai was standing perfectly still, grinning. Bolt leaps at Henry's throat, clamping down firmly and holding for all he's bloody well worth. Henry releases his stronghold on me and wrestles his neck from the dog, falling into a crouch as they circle each other.
"Oh, Bolt, just leave him alone. They boy's thirsty." Mort's still grinning at me like an idiot, never taking his eyes off of my face. Finally, he manages a glance in Fitzroy's direction, and ironically enough "Wake Up The Dead" by Reed Foehl is blasting on my computer speakers. What can I say, I love Indie. "Oh! You must be Mr. Fitzroy. You'll excuse Bolt's manners, but you have to understand, like owner like pet. I still bear an almost unjustified grudge against all you old Englishmen." Fitzroy un-vamped, or whatever the term is for going back to looking like a pale human, and took in the sight of Mort.
"What'd I do to you?"
"Uh, not so much you, just…well, Britain." Henry seems to notice for the first time the rich brown tone of Mort's skin, his dark curly hair.
"Ah. You're Indian."
"Oh, congrats! Royal boy gets a point!" He snorts, then seems to remember why he'd showed up in the first place.
"FREE RADICALS!" he shouts in my general direction.
"…come…come again?" He laughs then runs over to me, picking me up and swinging me around, all the while grinning in my face, which makes it quite hard for me to breath. Finally he sets me down.
"Free radicals! You know what a free radical is, don't you Joanna?"
"They're what wreak havoc on your body." Henry answered calmly. Oh, he just had to answer that, didn't he?
"When you inhale oxygen, about two percent of it turns into free radicals, which are basically loose electrons. These 'loners' travel throughout your body and break apart other molecules, therefore causing aging and, eventually, death. If you're exercising particularly hard, more like 10 percent of the oxygen turns into free radicals. That's why antioxidants are considered so good: they help to prevent damage from free radicals." Well, now, Mr. Fitzroy. I must formally tell you to suck it, cause I just opened up a can o' whoop ass on you. Respectfully.
"Right, well, see…wait. You. Leave." He points to Henry and then the door.
Before he even had a chance to move, Mort was scolding me into next Tuesday. "What the hell were you thinking Johnny? Is it your goal to die before you reach thirty? Because believe you me, you're well on your way. You know how touchy males are in that species! I mean, come on, I think you ought to have learned by now." He attempts to glare me down, which we both know is futile, because I've out stared fish. I'm pretty sure Fitzroy's left, but I'm too busy trying not to burst with laughter. I usually have a pretty good poker face, but for some reason it dissolves with Mort. His always dissolves first, though.
"Pfft." His resolve deflates with a smothered laugh. I grin and shake just slightly with silent laughter. Still, technically he just got one up on me, so I'm obligated to prod back a bit.
"As much fun as you needlessly saving my ass again, you should probably get home soon."
"Why?" he asks, and it's a wonder he doesn't already know. Using my traditional method, I just stare at him for a while until he comes to his own conclusions.
"My teeth are showing, aren't they?"
"Ding ding! Give the man a cookie!"
"Are you done?"
"Maybe. Give me a minute." He snorts and sits down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk while I seat myself behind it, kicking my feet up.
"So, when you called me a couple days ago I got worried. I thought you were gonna come over here and make me help you solve crimes."
"Ah, yes, there is pure evil on the loose and we must stop it before it kills all of Canada and exposes our well kept secret!"
"I think everybody knows about the hockey, Mort."
"No, the other secret."
"Oh, you mean the whole –"
"Ahem." Oh, so I guess he didn't leave. Well, that must be embarrassing. I can't help but feel a bit sorry for him.
"You know…If you're hungry, there's a bar right down the street. Lots of pretty women." Mordecai smirks a little, his back to Henry, who is looking kind of like a confused puppy. Thinking back on what I just said, I can see how he'd still be wondering if I knew.
Curiosity killed the cat.
I lean forward a little so that my shirt slips down a bit over my left shoulder, revealing fourteen separate silvery scars of bite marks.
Satisfaction brought it back.
His jaw clenches for a second, his eyes questioning, and I remember his profile describing him as kind of on the melodramatic side. Whipping out his phone, he sweeps out of the room. Oh, that'll teach you, suckah.
"I must say, Johnny. You are a first rate mind-fucker." Mort grins at me.
"But that was still really stupid." I shrug and begin to pull my t-shirt back up on my shoulder. He reaches out and tentatively touches one of the scars, surprising me, before pulling back and pursing his lips.
"When are you going to tell me where those come from?" he asks me, a slight pang of sadness in his voice.
"Don't change the subject. What's so great about free radicals?"
That kind-of-crazed look is back in his eyes. "Well, this is impossible."
"Yeah, well, tell me something that is possible about you."
"Okay, well, you know how they're free electrons right?"
"No, that's why I made a speech about it."
"Well, when a vampire inhales, the free electrons are immediately bonded to some unknown substance – that's the impossible part – and become instead a storable form of venom. So, I dunno how this part works yet, but instead of letting the electrons tear us apart, we store them in our bloodstream, so when we give a person our blood that substance is transferred to them and then begins to multiply in that person's body and the transformation takes place, albeit a painful one, and I figure the substance must be maybe some type of cell or at least mRNA so that the genetic differences in the species can be transferred too, and – "
"Shut up."
"What?! Don't you realize, I figured it out! I figured it the bloody hell out! However something many years I've spent trying to figure it –"
"And you're still figuring it out, so I suggest you write this theory down on a pad of paper and let the thoughts sizzle in your mind for a few more days before you freak out on me." He sighs and leans back, lacing his hands behind his head. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows I'm right.
"Hey, I never asked, are you okay?"
I rubbed my neck thoughtfully for a moment, but couldn't feel any impending bruises. "Yeah, a little sore, I'll be fine. Nothing compared to this weird aching shoulder I've had all day." I shift my right shoulder awkwardly to try and alleviate the pain.
"Really? I would think it would be your other shoulder." Another little pry at the question clearly nagging his mind, those are becoming more frequent.
"Nah, that one never hurts." He grunted.
"'Kay, well, we do actually have work. Pollox, in all of his glorious paranoia, has found another club and suspects that some more unipartas have shown up there, says some of the spec op guys have found some…" he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled bunch of stapled papers. "'Suspicious blood stains and scents denoting possible new vampires in the area.' Their words, not mine."
"Wait, in Toronto? Man, they never come to Canada! I thought they stayed in our LA and New York areas for the most part."
"Maybe they got over their egos for once." He grins at me and tilts his head, the tiny golden hoop in his ear catching the light. I'd always wondered where he got that, obviously it was before he'd become a vampire, and he must have not taken it out ever since. Otherwise a hole that small would have healed over almost immediately. It'd always distracted me, it has this weird pattern of two peaks pointing downward, then two peaks pointing upward, then three horizontal lines, that repeats all around it. It sounds like an exceedingly simple design, but I'd never seen anything like it. I'd always known he was older than he claimed to be (90 years), but just how old remains to be seen.
"Hey." His voice is soft as he returns from leaning backwards to look at me. "Where'd you go?" I snapped back to reality, or my clear lack thereof. "Sorry." He frowned, his gaze unrelenting. This is the stare I can't bear, so I look at the Mirrormask poster up behind him. Since he's obviously not intent on saying anything, I start counting how many fish there are in the school flying under the bridge. It's somewhere around fifty four. Right, so, done with that and still burning my skin off under his gaze, so I go online to find some more music, finally settling on my Maritime/Alaska in Winter/Sweeney Todd soundtrack playlist. It's an odd mix, but I like it. I've gotten all the way down to "Are We Renegade" (music is a large aspect of my life, have you noticed yet?) before he gives up trying to get a confession out of me by smoldering gaze power alone. He sighs and shakes his head.
"Why, oh, why did I have to pick a difficult partner?"
"Because if you'd picked a cute one she'd be dead by now. 'Sides, I'm just a test subject." He shoots me a look for this.
"C'mon, Johnny, them perps ain't gonna catch themselves!"
I snort. "Argh! They make my blood boil!" I cock my head to the side. "Uh, wait. Seriously, you need to eat. It's really starting to show."
"Actually, it's a Goth club anyway, so I'll really just fit in more." He flashes white-gold eyes. No matter how many times I see that, it gives me chills. "Bolt!" he calls, and Bolt comes trotting along like a perfectly obedient hellhound, black coat shining impeccably. I wonder if I could ride him.
"Wait, it's a Goth club?" He nods, slowly, like he was finally getting his point across to a particularly slow senior. "You could've told me that before we were about to leave!" I shout as I head back into my bedroom to change. "I thought the entire point of me was to fit in!" While I'm searching for my black chain-link-y-looking sweater, and that stupid bloody eye makeup that I know I'm going to have to wear, a thought occurs to me. "Fitzroy broke the leg of that chair, how were you sitting in it?"
From the office, I can here a distinctive "Ha! I'm a vampire. I don't waste time on falling over anymore." I return that with a "Ha!" of my own, only to turn around and realize that he's leaning on the doorframe of my bedroom.
"Dude." I say, using one of my rare and effective accusatory 'dudes'.
"What?"
"Not cool."
"Why? Not like you're changing, all you're going to do is put that sweater made of, what is it? Looks like barely strung together yarn, over your t shirt and put on eye makeup or something." I really hate that he knows that.
"Yeah, wait, how did Fitzroy find you anyway? You didn't…seek him…out…did you?" I can't help but grin and milk it, just a little.
"Are you saying I can't?" He frowned.
"I guess not. Just…well, you didn't seem too glad to see him." He bounces his eyebrows.
"Oh, I can never be too glad to see Henry Fitzroy!" I hold my hand up to my forehead and fake swoon. Actually, I've already forgotten what he looks like. Mort smiles a little, letting a comfortable silence ensue for just too short a time before glancing at his watch. "And…let the night life emerge!" he said, cuing his finger to signify 9:00.
"'Kay, gimme a sec." I pull the sweater over my head, pulling my hair out of its pony tail and haphazardly putting on the black shade of eye shadow which I hate. I don't really like makeup that much regardless, but I don't feel the need to make myself look like a raccoon. I like raccoons, but really. You should see me right now. I look back at Mort who, of course, is dressed in some half-assed ensemble of black collared shirt and the beige coat he always wears. Thing that gets me is, he still looks fine.
"How do I look? Sufficiently Gothic?" I ask.
"Mmm, still on the line between just a lot of eye makeup and gothic, put on some lipstick or something." He folds his arms across his chest and Bolt sits down beside him. His head still reaches Mort's torso, even sitting. That dog is amazing. Five minutes ago he was sinking his teeth into the neck of a two hundred pound ambush predator, now he's panting and wagging his tail at me.
I take out a dark maroon colored lipstick and put it on. I think it's important to clarify here that I wouldn't normally own or wear any of these things, but part of my [night job is fitting in so that no one notices me. Ha. Says the girl with three different natural colors of hair.
"Come on Gothie, let's go." He grins at me and the three of us head out the door into the night. I can't see the stars, though, because it's cloudy and the city lights have cast a sickly orange barf glow over the sky. I sigh as I stare up, but quickly look back down again because my right shoulder is still sore, and I'm wincing. Mordecai absentmindedly places a hand on my shoulder and rubs his thumb on the sore spot while we walk, more subconsciously than purposefully. He soon has to pull away, though, because Bolt wedges his way between us and he's about two feet wide. I laugh and start scratching him between the shoulder blades, one of his favorite spots. Mort smiles and pats his head. "Funny animal," he mutters. Uh…I really hope he's talking about Bolt.
We've arrived at the club, and I'm surprised a place like this has escaped my attention for so long since it's so close to my flat.
"Okay, techno up, champ." He says to me, fishing out a conveniently ear-sized communication device. I always wear one when we work, as does he, it's made things much easier. He leans in and carefully inserts it into my ear, brushing my hair back. This close to his face, I can see his fangs are just about fully unsheathed now. It's very disconcerting.
"Are…are you done yet?" My voice falters. He laughs, quietly, and a little bit condescendingly, then leans in further and 'vamps out', or whatever term it would be. White gold eyes with cat like pupils stare holes through my face, and I realize that I'm shaking a little.
"What? Did I scare you?"
No, Mort. No, you didn't scare me.
"Oh, jeez, can you just catch me up and we'll go in?" I look down at Bolt. "And what're we going to do about him?"
"He'll take care of himself. Here, take this." He hands a me a packet of papers. "Women known to frequent this club that have had missing persons reports filed…oh, and we're adding San Francisco to our scope. Wait, what is this club even called?"
"I thought you'd know!" I stare at the overdone excessively archaic writing, trying to separate curls from letters. "What does that say?"
"I…I honestly can't tell. Looks kinda like 'bmourf…kjbah.' Um."
"So kind of like someone mashed a palm on a keyboard than mounted it on a black wall?"
"Yeah, that sounds right. Were you even listening before? You aren't looking at the packet."
" I know the type. Young, beautiful, skinny, Gothic."
"Exactly. Kinda like you. So please be careful." I snort at him, tucking a stray strand of dirty blond and black out of my face.
"Yeah, except for the fact that I'm missing a few key aspects of the profile," I say, scrunching up my face to emphasize my point.
"Crap." I mutter.
"What?"
"We're solving crime." I mock whine at him. "Make it stop! Waah!" He laughs, then shrugs off his beige coat and ruffles his hair a little bit. Even though he's now wearing all black, he still doesn't really look all too Gothic. More like a well dressed foreigner. Then he opens his mouth and stretches his jaw a bit, revealing his teeth, and his snake eyes return. Ah, there we go. In fact, probably about two thirds of the people in this club are already wearing fake fangs, and some wear contacts, for this very purpose. Actually, some of them probably look more menacing than he does.
I chuckle, and he swings his arm around my waist as we walk up to the door. Bolt is following behind us closely, and for a second I revel in the stares we get from across the street. The guy at the door, who has a black Mohawk fringed with neon green and is wearing a spiky collar and black leather vest (no shirt), almost stops us. Mort gives him a glance, and I can tell those eyes are all it takes for him to decide we're club material. He looks from the huge, menacing black dog to me, looking the compliant Goth girl, to him, with his fangs and all black clothing.
"Dude.Nice!" He holds up his hand for a high five (fine, okay, a 'hand slap'). Mort tries not to laugh and gives him one, and this is a great time for me to have 'The Worst Pies in London' stuck in my head.
"A customer!" I say in a vaguely British accent.
"Oh, please, not now."
"Wait! What's your rush, what's your hurry?
You gave me such a fright I thought you was a ghost!
Half a minute can't you sit!
Sit you down! Sit!
All I meant is that I haven't seen a customer for weeks.
Did you come here for a piiiie, sir?" I sing, doing my imitation of Mrs. Lovett.
"Listen, you're good at that, but really. Goth girls don't sing musical numbers."
"But it's about a serial killer!"
"No, Johnny, that one's about pies. You really can sound older if you want, though."
"Hey, it's my day job." The guy at the door gives a strange look, wondering why such a great, high-five deserving guy is hanging out with a woman with a chameleon voice. I wink at him at then we step into the club.
"You're sure you'll be okay if I leave you on your own? You may speak to me if you feel the need."
"Really, how many times have we done this? Plenty. Plenty of times. I know how to deal with vampires." He's staring at my shoulder, the one covered with silver white scars. I pull my shirt back up over them, trying to ignore the questioning glare. "And now I shall take my place." I joke, jumping up on one of the bar stools. In the background, surprisingly enough, it sounds like Rykarda Parasol or something is playing. I would've pegged this place as the type to blast "The Used" at full volume, not the more gentle and [I hate to say it mysterious tones of 'Hannah Leah', or whatever this is. I had to do that one once for this weird flashing lights show at the Dome. It's a bit …well, bizarre, frankly.
"Mmm, I was more worried about what you'd do to anyone that comes near you." He smiles, then answers my unspoken question. "Red's touching yellow," he explains, pulling my hair forward to cover the ear bug. I glance at my hair and realize he's right, my bands of red are all sandwiched between bands of dirty blond instead touching any black. It was sort of an inside joke, that my personality depended on my hair like the couplet about telling corn snakes from milk snakes.
Red touch black, friend of Jack.
Red touch yellow, kill a fellow.
I grin. "I won't bite. I promise." He just smiles for a second. "Right, off melting I go." He tells me, melting into the crowd.
"What can I get you?" The bartender was dressed in insanely tight leather, bright red. Her eye makeup was excessive enough to even spread up to her forehead and down to her cheeks, in the style of bat wings. I just smirk and tell her "Nothing."
"What about your guy?"
"…sorry, what guy?" I look behind me.
"The one you were just talking to. Oh, come on. You two come in here and he's got his arm around your waist. Yeah, I saw it." She grins at me. I'm trying to control my laughter, because the very idea of Mordecai being interested in anyone was pretty amusing.
Wow, I must be psychic. "The Bird and the Worm" is now blasting in the background by the one-hit-wonder band "The Used". It's okay the first few times, but it needs to pick a personality. "Do you guys have anything other than this music?" I ask earnestly.
She purses her lips. "Why, you some sort of music expert? This band speaks to us."
"Uh, technically, yes I am."
"Really."
"Really."
"What makes you such an expert then?"
"I'm a second-in-command at the Dome. Staff management and a little electronics and…you know, singing." There's a look of surprise on her features, which I wasn't expecting. Most people don't know that there is anyone behind-the-scenes. "No way! Like, seriously? You go up on the stage and like sing?"
"No." she pouts.
"I do the actual singing. I don't look pretentious enough to actually be on the stage." Well, that isn't entirely true. The Dome doesn't employ many people, and those it does employ have to be able to do many things at once. It would be a waste, according to our manager Shelly, to just be singing all night like a spectacle when I could be doing so many other things. Easier to pay some random girl forty dollars for four or five hours of sitting on a stage mouthing words on a piece of paper. Plenty of desperate college girls around to do that sort of work, a new one every night. The Dome promises live music, just not from the person on the stage – no one would believe that I can make my voice sound that different, mimic nearly any woman I want to.
"Oh. That's cool, I guess. Nice hair."
"You won't believe me, but it's natural. Seriously, can I please change your music? Believe me when I say I'll find something to suit this place." She just stares at me for a second.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. I guess if you work there you must know something. See if you can get any of the guys to change it."
That's what I needed to hear: an in to the back. Chances are if these guys have a security system it'll be near where the speaker equipment is managed. Best way to single out any possible suspects.
"Right through there." She jerks her head to a black door guarded by what I've taken to calling human bull dogs. I walk over, trying my best to swing my hips and most likely failing, and glare at the one on the left. "She sent me." I jerk my head over to the bartender. "You guys need serious music help. This is sad." He glances at the bartender, who shrugs and nods, then shrugs and opens the door.
"Hello." I say to dimly lit room that looks not unlike the electronics wall behind the stage of the Dome. Multicolored wires connected consoles and speakers to a row of computers. I know the feeling well, this space belonged to these people and this is what works best for them. Screw you if you don't like it. A guy with shaggy blond hair wearing a t shirt and jeans turns to look at me. "Huh. Party's outside, Gothie. This is the tech room."
"Yeah, it was nice to meet you too. I came to make music suggestions." I glance up at the array of black and white security camera footage on one wall. "You need help with that?"
"No offense, but I don't think you could help me with anything here." I snort and walk over to one of the panels, tugging on a few wires here and there. The picture on the security camera screens gets considerably clearer.
"Dome," I explain. Here a one word answer gets my point across, most people who know what it is don't care who works there.
"Oh, right. Sorry. Kind of hard to tell." He gestures to my clothing.
"The music's really that bad?" I feel kind of bad for trashing The Used, they aren't that bad, really.
"I just feel like it could be better. Y'know?"
"Yeah, I guess. I'm kind of an acoustic guitar guy myself."
"No way, really? You know Barefoot Truth?"
"I thought no one knew them!" I laugh, I've found a fellow music snob.
"Something tells me the people out there won't exactly appreciate 'Windward' playing at full blast while they drink unpronounceable liquids." He laughs too, we've found common ground.
"'Kay, fine, so what do you suggest, oh heavenly goddess who works at the holy Dome?"
"For here? I'm thinking Halou might work. Plus, 'Honeythief' has been stuck in my head all day."
"Never heard of them."
"How's the music hooked up here?"
"Basically really big speakers attached to my itunes play list."
"Can I?" I move in toward one of the computers, giving myself a better view of the monitors. I go online and find the indie site I frequent, and for just a second consider the prospect of playing "The Worst Pies In London", just to see the reaction. Instead I find Halou and start playing a song, taking a little bit of satisfaction to hear it start in the club just beyond the door. I put my hands on my hips, pretty self smug, and look up at the monitors again. I see people with black swooshy hair and impossibly long eyelashes twist and contort their bodies in a way that I suppose is considered dancing, neon lights flashing in the background.
I start looking for guys in the crowd that might match the profile of a typical vampire (young, handsome, turned by lovers), but spot something else. I reach up to my ear and press the button that lets him hear me.
"That Fitzroy guy had…had a friend, right? A private investigator?"
"Yes, what is your point?" His voice is clouded by static.
"Blonde, early thirties, wears glasses, pretty?"
"As far as I'm able to remember."
"Okay."
"…really? You aren't going to explain this to me?"
"Not until I'm sure that it's her."
"Wait, I think I see her." I watch and see Mort show up in the lower corner of the screen I may have spotted the private investigator in. Infuriatingly enough, I can't seem to hear what either one is saying, but I see Mort sidle up to her and try to begin a conversation shouting over the music. I can't quite tell from here, but it looks like he's managed to keep his fangs mostly hidden and his eyes returned back to normal.
"Her name's Vicki Nelson." I hear through the bug, not expecting Mort's voice. She certainly is pretty, tall too, has sort of a valley girl vibe. Boot-wearing, self-reliant type. I feel a twinge of, pride I guess would be the right word, not relief, that their conversation seems all-business. Well, I can't read Nelson's tells, but Mort isn't smiling at all. Then I see Bolt trot up beside him and can't help but chuckle a bit, followed by guilt for taking pleasure in this woman's slight unrest at a four hundred pound killing machine sitting there like an obedient puppy. I have to cover my mouth when he starts wagging his tail, about the width and strength of a steel pipe, clears a space behind him with a radius of nearly two feet. I see their conversation come to an end with polite nods and smiles, and she watches him leave with a suspicious glance.
"Unless you found something else, I think we can leave. We'll meet you out back." I can't hold back a little sigh, I like it back here. Behind the scenes, unseen and controlling their perfect little world. I glance back at the guy who runs it back here.
"You know girls have been going missing from here? I mean, do you know why?" He glances up at me and smiles.
"My guess would be broken hearts." Aha.
"Broken by who?" He raises his eyebrows, but is still looking at a computer screen.
"Why? Looking for someone?"
"You could say that."
"I'm Nikolai." I stiffen.
"You said you had an idea on who was doing this?" He looks up, looking kind of rejected. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! But I can't tell why I'm saying no.
"Yeah. A guy, kind of mid to late twenties, dark hair, trenchcoat or peacoat or whatever." He's staring at the computer screen, pointedly trying not to make eye contact.
"I'm sorry, Nikolai, really. I…have a boyfriend." I feel a twinge of guilt at the lie, but it's a hell of a lot easier than the truth.
"Yeah, sure, you all have boyfriends," he says under his breath.
"No, seriously, under different circumstances…" If I were normal. If I didn't have the creepiest people issues this side of the Atlantic.
He lets out a cynical and humorless "Ha!". Wait, really? You're going to get that pissy over something like that? I just met you. Still, I can't help but wonder. Am I really going to go that berserk over a name?
As if on cue, the chorus of the Halou song comes up.
Everything is unacceptable
If you over analyze
And that is just your style.
As wise as a rock band is, I'm antisocial. Pretty hard for me to keep up the few contacts I have. Still, what the hell, there's no harm in a little consolation.
I move closer. "Really." I lean in so that I'm hovering just above Nikolai and he's forced to look up at me. I can see a bit of belief spread across his features, the cruel resentment waning.
"Thank you, Nik. I hope I see you again." I leave out a door conveniently marked 'Exit', to see Mort and Bolt waiting for me.
"Late twenties, dark hair, peacoat, heartbreaker." I tell him. He looks moderately surprised.
"Yeah, cause that doesn't describe like every other guy in there."
"Ahem. Pea coat?"
"You don't think – no."
"Well, you know any other pea coat wearing unipartas?"
"What, mister 'holier-than-thou I don't eat women'? No, no way."
"But – "
"Whatever, let's just tell Pollox. They find the guy, we get him. So far we've done our jobs." I sigh and run a hand through my hair. It's barely 11, which I suppose is kind of late, but I hardly ever have to get to work before noon anyways. No one has a party in the morning.
"You suck all the fun out of everything." He looks indignant and is about to say something before I interrupt him.
"Okay, fine, bad word choice. What now?"
"What? You wanna do something? I thought you'd be tired."
"Please. Speculation is the best part!" He laughs and looks at me sideways.
"Right. Except for the fact that we're almost always wrong." I thwack him in the arm.
"Fine, be that way. So what'd you find out about…uh…"
"Victoria Nelson?"
"Yeah, that one." We start walking in a general direction best described as 'away from the club', and I stuff my hands in my pockets.
"I don't know. What do you want to know? It wasn't exactly an in-depth interview."
"Why was she there?"
"Some private I thing, I guess." I shiver and he moves a little closer.
"You cold?"
"Bah! Heaven knows I tryyyy, siiir!
But there's no one comes in even to inhale!
Right you are sir would you like a drop of ale?
Mind you I can hardly blaaame theeem!
These are probably the worst piiiies in Looondon!"
"Oh, oh we're back to this now."
"I know why nobody cares to take them!
I should know, I make them, but good? Nooo!
The woooorst piiies in Looondon!"
"Do…do you ever stop?"
"Even that's polite, the wooorst piiies in Loooondon!"
"Okay, that's it." Grinning, he threads an arm around my waist and picks me up like a manikin, carrying me under his arm.
"If you dare to take a bite – "
"Joanna."
"Is that just disgusting?
You have toooo conceeeede it!"
He laughs, wholeheartedly, and puts me down.
"You done now?"
"Temporarily." He snorts. "Come on, let's go back now. You know, you do sound exactly like the person who performs it on your recording."
"Chameleon voice. Yay! Not original enough for my own voice, but I can copy anyone else." I pull off my weird sweater and take a tissue out of my pocket.
"Why the tissue?"
"All the better to remove Gothic eye makeup, my dear."
"No, wait, it's smudge – whatever. You want me to take you back home?"
"Are you offering me a ride on your white horse?"
"But of course, m'lady." He offers his arm in mock chivalry.
"Right, don't avoid this time, what was she doing there?" He sighs, and I know that he knows.
"Says that Fitzroy suspects other vampires encroaching on his territory, she's trying to find out who and why."
"I don't suppose you offered to help." Silence.
"Oh, Mordecai!"
"What?!"
"You offered to help!"
"We're doing the same thing!"
"She's a civilian!"
"So are you." I frown at him. The indignant look fades from his face, replaced by one of indecision between frustration and amusement. I don't know what he meant by that comment, if he was comparing both of us, saying I was just as useless.
"Sorry. That came out wrong." He looks apologetic.
"That's fine. I'm going to go home now. Bye Mort, Bolt." He takes the hint, if he does look a bit hurt.
"So I'll see you later?"
"Yeah, I guess you will." I watch him leave with Bolt trotting along at his heels, until he turns the corner into a side street and I'm looking at an empty road. I stuff my hands in my coat pockets and turn in the other direction, but not before I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Whipping around, I'm almost sure I see a dark figure dart into the alley opposite me. And I'm almost sure a here a "Quiet!"
XXX
Sometimes, during the day, Bolt will come and visit me. He knows the way here well enough to go on his own, so when Mort's doing something that doesn't involve him he'll just show up at my door. So I'm not very surprised when I open the door to see a dog that looks like an impossibly large and black Great Dane (but less floppy).
"Hey, Bolt." He trots in and I close the door behind him. I was about to watch Princess Bride anyways, so it'll be nice to have a warm pillow that can tear the throat out of any supernatural beast that decides I'd make a nice meal. Knowing his place well, he flops down in front of my couch. I flop myself down in front of him, curling up and resting my back on his stomach. He lets a long breath out, which puts me in mind of an equine creature.
"You really are more like a bear-horse, aren't you?" He snorts, and my head rises and falls with his intake of breath. The sound from the movie helps keep the silence of the house comfortable, and I remember why I crave the company of animals over people. No such thing as awkward silence. Absentmindedly, I twirl a few shed furs in between my fingers. A scene comes on that I've never found much interest in ("Can you move at all?" "Move? You're alive! If you want I can fly!"), so I take the opportunity to fetch a pear from my kitchen/dining room/office. When I return I seat myself on the couch, resting my feet on Bolt (he doesn't mind).
Comfortably, the two of us watch the movie and I'm getting more and more drowsy.
"Miss me, dear?"
I freeze. There, that voice, I know that voice. Luckily, I think better in crises.
"Goodness, those morticians did a bang-up job. You look so lifelike." I resist the urge to look at him.
"Well, you know me, I always did try to look my best for you." I can feel his words, his mouth right by my ear, and I know, I just know, that he's holding his hands behind his back like the bastard he is.
"What do you want, Nikolai." I manage to keep the shiver vibrating my body from tainting my voice, but I'm trembling.
"Oh, I see. That's lovely, sweet, pretend you don't know." I find myself trying to breathe normally, and realize that Bolt isn't doing anything. I wiggle one foot to see if I can feel him. Nothing.
"Oh God, please don't." I say, angry with myself for sounding so useless and feeble, frozen with fear when he grabs my neck and sinks teeth in. Practiced habit takes over, and I pass out.
XXX
To be continued (insert ominous music of your choice)...reviews feed my plot bunnies.