Wandering Soul

Venture Tower was exactly what Eugene Walker expected: officious, deco-Roman, bitter black-on-white.

"Look at this. Look at what has wandered in. Another thin-blood?" asked the lobby receptionist—face gorgeous, body cold, telephone hanging, somehow not asking him at all. She glanced E a condescending head-to-toe. "Come up front, please! You really must. Let's see what the story is."

Not that there was much to see of the man who stepped forward, reluctant obedience. His story was a commonplace one: plain look, poorly-fitting jeans, slouching tennis shoes, slicked-back ginger over a bony, forgettable profile. And it went without saying that the Caitiff's general aura of lostness did not impress a haute couture Toreador. She was not paid enough to find out who had sent him in.

E inched closer, crablike, obviously lacking a legitimate reason to waltz through a Prince's headquarters. Chut; she was not unreasonable. The woman gave one exquisite sigh before bidding farewell to Line Three and setting down the black receiver.

"Hi. Hello. Good evening," was E's best try, his hopes overlooking the vicious quality of those dismissive, painted eyes. Her expression was thin. Dramatic shadow flared around catty, reddish brown. He did not have a reference. What E had was mistrust—a dislike of power, discomfort around large animals, and a resentment for beauty that he thought was not real. What he had was the lingering, reactionary fear of umbrella governments and small people. What he had was a vague hope and a tight stomach; when he was alive, E had been nervous around big dogs and pushy women. There is something about these carnivores. There are very few things that would nudge him into this monolith of obsidian and steel.

Lily was the first of them. Smoldered auto parts and bullet casings washing onto their castaway beach was another.

"Hi, there," the Caitiff tried again, forcing a smile through the crunch of anxiety. E pushed both hands into his pants pockets. Lukewarm acid burbled in the pit of his gut. "Sorry to bother you. I'm here to speak with Woeburne. Ms. Woeburne," he added; the woman at the counter did not budge. "I don't know if she's in now. I can come back."

The name seemed to gain her interest, but only marginally. It was a briefer and more brittle attention than glimpses given by sleepy Siamese cats—long muzzles and lovely, wicked pupils, grace that offset how they crossed. His nerve endings felt snarled up. E had been afraid of dogs; he gave mammals a wide-berth; he'd never been a fan of cats.

"How curious you would want to speak to Ms. Woeburne," she decided. He didn't know why. The only thing to do was shrug and slyly shake it off. "May I, before anything else, wonder why?"

And then it was that E realized he had no alibi, and no real reasoning behind this mad move for a name they both knew. His mind raced like a rat with its teeth out. Each scuttle or flick made that feline nose twitch. "Nothing too interesting. Personal issues. Usually we'd meet on our own time, schedule something. Just everyday work. But I know she's an employee of some standing here, so I'd really appreciate you patching me through. I'm a..." ("Friend" would waste a perfectly good lie.) "I'm a business associate."

Thinly-tweezed eyebrows rose over the buttery, rouged cheeks. She was unnaturally ravishing, gallingly domestic. And very, very scarlet.

"I doubt that highly," the woman said, pretty lids crinkling. Her gentleness was insulting. She swept out a patronizing smile for him; before E could think of protesting, Joelle had already put-putted her desk chair away and was typing up a memo on the callous company PC.

Bare teeth, filed claws, coats that taunt with their softness, a fast bite. These are the arsenal of predators. A cat could pick up one comely paw and swat pestering little things long before its supper came. When you are a small fish, you'd be better off boring it than letting those whiskers bristle curiously forward, those nails extend, and each velvet ear turn to point at you.

"Well, she's a client, to be specific," was E's saving grace. Composure is all a prey animal has. Play it calm, shuffle slowly, and your dullness might convince big hunters to pass on. A modest grin fought back against her lofty one.

"Oh, no," the vampire disagreed, a tut of her tongue, the most powder-room denied there is. "Forgive me, so sorry: but that couldn't possibly be the way of it. Far more likely that you are a client of hers. And it is still very, very unlikely." She said no in a way that would send you running. It was allure, yes, but a malicious, malignant blood-type; you could feel its needles pip, squish, poke through the fat of your most vulnerable places. Minnows go down in a crunch, crunch, gulp. "But if a Foundation representative no longer desires your 'business'—why, then, dear sir, it isn't my business to interfere. That is just the way commerce is sometimes. There are no hard feelings, I'm su—"

"Can I be straightforward with you? I'm on a job for her at the moment. Nothing to worry about—just something I know she's been waiting on. Rub is that I can't seem to get through at her home phone. Here's where I've been calling." He fished out, flattened and passed over a slip of post-it paper with Ms. Woeburne's cellular printed neatly across the top. The black enamel smelled frightfully of bleach. She was offended at having been interrupted; E wasn't sure how he knew, because the woman, skeptical and placid, hadn't said anything else at all. "You can give her my name if it'll help. It's Harris," he lied, sort of. "Eugene Harris."

He was afraid of being unremembered. His was not a letter that stuck.

She paid him very little mind. It is an understood fact that Kindred won't register you; you're two very different levels on a ladder; these are the divisions that will get you killed. The longer he talked to her, the worse this surreal sensation of doom got. He could feel it—pounds of something like wet, mossy dirt—what Rosie called the Jihad?—shoveling higher and higher, making him faint. A handful of sentences in, and the weight was asphyxiating. He tried to breathe and felt dizzy off chemicals. Everything was evil, and in-place, and too clean.

Including the woman before him—who twisted around, ignored his suggestion, and shut him short with her piercing squint. E's hand retracted from the only shred of proof he had. It was only a telephone number—digits in pencil, barely a thread. He might as well have been a beetle under microscope. His legs tried, and failed, to crawl away.

"Well, Eugene Harris, on any other day I would certainly do this little thing for you," she soothed, blinking at him, mildness that belittled more than it offered to help. The monitor glow turned her crimson lipstick a gangrene, deep-bruise purple. Now half of his name was a lie. "But tonight, I'm afraid it would be impossible."

E waited for her to elaborate; she did not. He was getting irritated, but mostly felt dismayed, watching Venture Tower's sentry return to her keyboard with no more concern left to spare. "Why?" the thin-blood asked, struggling to keep his face straight. The square of paper—the only evidence of his valid but flimsy connection to Ms. Woeburne—was creased, once, and dropped into a nearby trash can.

Manicured hands fluttered, leapt the ruby lapels, and landed neatly upon her breastbone. "Why—because, monsieur, she is not here."

"She isn't? Where is she?" E forgot his back-story. There was a sudden, upended crack in his voice; he groped to regain a safe middle-measure.

The vampire did not bother looking at him this time. Her hands were on her keyboard. The tendons in those long fingers gave one tiny, hostile, threatening jump.

"I mean," the Caitiff fumbled, arguing when it seemed impossible for him to talk. "That's no real problem. It's that she didn't tell me, is all. If you'd be kind enough to let me know where I can reach her, I'll just set this up at Ms. Woeburne's convenience. Actually, you know—here's a better idea. You probably can't be handing out numbers to some guy off the street. But you could tell her to call me the next time she comes in. It doesn't have to be this evening."

"No, dear sir. Pardon. I am afraid we have misunderstood one another. A meeting will not be possible. You see, it is not simply that your—so sorry—your associate," she quoted, a mean little laugh, not bothering to hide behind the three fingertips across that flawless mouth. "Isn't here in our building. No, of course not. You will not be able to see her because she has left Los Angeles, monsieur. Now." A spiteful bat of mascara, butterfly lashes. Both hands, smelling of jasmine, folded themselves beneath her chin. It was a dreamy, mocking way to be flippant. This vivacity is the terrible kind. "Is there anything that I can do for you in the meantime? If not, I am sure you can see yourself out, no? Good night, Mister Harris."

E's belly clenched, and the adrenaline was like salt blocks, fizzing away at whatever organs still worked. It tasted like good old-fashioned stage-fright; it made his danger-senses scream. "Left?" he heard himself repeat. "Left to where? When will she be back? She will be back...?"

He saw the vampire's shoulders stiffen. Her demeaning, secretarial smile fell to neutral, and then—there's the danger—annoyed. "Monsieur, I think you already know I am not at liberty to tell you that." Her pinky hovered over the enter key. Between the first answer and the second, she plucked out a curt smattering of typeface, interest waning, until his voice was nothing but a pale afterthought noise. "As to your next question: I cannot tell you this, either, as I do not know. Business is always touch-and-go for us. So regretful that I cannot be of more help. But I imagine she will away for some time. Call it a professional hunch." One lightning-fast, provocative wink.

Anger in E's muscles—all of them, every one, from the cushion beneath his jowls to the arches of both feet. His knees locked inside his pant legs; frustration boiled up. The thin-blood's mouth compacted into a furious point before better sense smoothed it out.Out of where? It doesn't matter. He is always having to get out of something.

E sucked in a breath of chilly air to fortify him. It tasted of conditioning and the sterility of lemon cleaner. He leant forward on the welcome desk, forcibly informal, and gritted out his most amicable voice. "Listen. I hate to put you in an awkward position. I really don't mean to cause any trouble for you, Miss…?"

"Joelle," she cooed, brisk and uncaring. Three whacks of a spacebar and the Toreador was tipping away.

"Joelle. But I really do need to speak with Ms. Woeburne. Just for a minute, that's all. I'd be grateful for anything you could do for me. Anything at all. I know I'm asking you to go out on a limb, here, but it's the only limb I've got. And if you could help me—only to figure out where she's gone, nothing else—even just slide me a hint..."

Joelle's head titled away from him. The anesthetic light of that machine did something to her face. It sharpened the cosmetics, turned the caramel chiffon green, demonized her elegant neck. "Nowhere you would be able to follow, I am sure."

For a heart-sinking moment, E thought Ms. Woeburne was dead.

But then she threw a line. It was gamey, soggy bait on a rusty old hook. Still, it was more than he had:

"Flying is so tricky for us, no? We sympathize, and the LaCroix Foundation apologizes for any inconvenience our business may have caused you. However, I am afraid that—for now—you will have to be patient. That is all I am pleased to say. Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir."

"I'm not asking for your firstborn child, here." E tried to joke, but it goaded him, made the desperation scuttle across his face, and she saw it. She must have. There comes a point of crumbling. There comes a minute when you can't fake the friendliness anymore. "I just—"

"With every respect, monsieur, I am very busy at the moment." Joelle's ultimatum was as clear as her small, inhospitable, unpoignant sigh. The vampire's fingers never left their home keys. "As such, I would like to avoid wasting our valuable time by paging security to escort you outside, but one does what one must. You understand, yes? Yes."

She smiled at him. What choice did he have?

"Good night, Mister Harris," Joelle Lefevre called. "Bonne chance. I hope you find what it is you are looking for."

I hope at his back is a kitty-cat yowl.