Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (23 page)

“I’ll see if my other will escort me. I’d love for you all to meet him.”

Liesl was so polite. I loved her for that.

“Okay, then. Call me tomorrow night and we’ll set it up. But plan on dressing to impress.” I thought of the tracker’s moll and her chocolaty satin. “I’m thinking satin slip dresses, what do you think?”

“Pretty.”

Hey. I’m not above idea thievery
. I let myself out.

Mr. Kim was so happy to see me, and he followed directions so well. He hadn’t even removed his seat belt. He just sat there with a huge grin on his face that didn’t move. His eyes held my gaze. They were unblinking, dry dusty marbles—so very dry. From a small hole in the center of his forehead, a slow ooze of aging yellowed pus glugged, like a leftover squeeze of Mrs. Butterworth’s gone stiff on the side of the bottle. Behind him, on the headrest, was a reef of grey coral, spattered with brown beads of blood and lumps of hairy scalp.

My eyes skipped to the windshield. I’d seen enough CSI to know that the bullet had come from the opposite direction of the big splatter on the headrest. There on the center of the passenger side, the glass was pocked and thin cracks radiated from the hole like roots.

Poor Mr. Kim. He was so nice and helpful.

Oh, wait…hello.

Danger.

I stumbled from the Volvo and backed away in a feral crouch, hands gone instinctively to claws. What if the shooter were nearby?
Was it stop drop and roll?
From off to my right I heard the shirring slide of metal on a track, the slamming of a door. I craned my neck to see the blue van, any other time a sight to elicit fury—now quite welcome. Behind its window, the red light signaled record. Maybe they’d caught it,
Undead on Tape
, and all. At the very least they might provide some protection. A bullet hole didn’t really go with my outfit.

I charged the vehicle, weaving in a crooked line, to avoid being “scoped” or “sighted” or whatever the fuck a sniper might do through his viewmaster. The only thing I was sure of was that he was not flipping through Disney cartoons.

I scrambled low across the blacktop, reaching the van in a matter of seconds. I slid twice on the slick toes of tan Coach pumps, nearly cracking my ankle. But they were too cute. I pressed my face to the window and clawed at the door handle. Locked.

“Open up Hansen! Jesus! I could use some help here!”

I heard a quiet
pfft
as a bullet whizzed past followed by a hollow
thunk
when another punctured the van’s side. I flattened myself on the concrete, ruining a Calvin Klein skirt in the process, and not just muddied, a full-on tear spread east of the seam
109
. The door slid on the opposite side and that familiar voice called out.

“Get in here, we’re gonna get killed,” Hansen cried, and then to someone else inside, “Yes, goddamn it. Did I say to stop filming?”

“But? But?” the other voice stuttered.

I crawled around the van, hugged close to the ground, my left shoulder skimming the fender and bumper, cleaning road grime and tar from it, another ruined item—reminder to self, time for a shopping excursion. I certainly would have been up for some browsing then, or anything, even a ride on the senior citizens bus to the dollar store—desperation is horribly unfashionable. As I rounded the driver’s side fender, I felt hands reach for my waist out of the darkness, pulling me forward and up into the open gap of the van door.

We were face-to-face then, probably mirroring openmouthed horror. Cameron was attractive despite the height difference, which wasn’t revealed from a sitting position, indicating a longer torso—totally proportionless—but, his skin was tan and flawless—damn him—like mine used to be
110
. The cameraman was obscured behind the big lens and a spotlight. It was pointing at us.

I turned back to Cameron, panting, and out of breath. Odd considering I didn’t actually breathe, but that’s nothing you don’t already know. I was reminded of the buffet in the south-side motel room, and the breath that had squeaked out into the computer geek’s face sparking something within him. I realize that the spark I saw was undeath. Now I was exhaling, and the breath had emerged, again in thick white tendrils, uncoiled and undulating like the stingers of a Portuguese man-o-war. Cameron shifted his body away to avoid connecting with the solid air, his neck stayed stiff, like the animations of a puppet. An “
ew
” came from behind the camera. I tried to inhale the breath back, but found myself merely biting at it, taking it in chunks, and swallowing. Finally, when the breath hung in loose zeppelin shapes, I sucked in the last of it with a gagging painful intake of air. My pipes were getting rusty.

“Wow, Amanda,” Cameron said, nodding smugly. “A socialite and a breather, I’m impressed. But you’re going to have to keep that in check.”

“Whatever, little man. Who’s shooting and, why? I thought as supernaturals, we’d be past guns?”

He looked up toward the window. “You’re right, we are. They…” He pointed a shaky finger out the window. “Are not.”

“Not past guns or not supernatural?”

Before he could respond, the back window blew out and we were sprayed with glass, gore and chunks of cameraman, suitable only for stew meat, and, then, only if you picked out the glass. Who am I kidding? He was totally inedible. A shame to waste so much food, though; did I mention he was overweight? Cameron was scrambling over a padded center console into the driver’s seat and fumbling for drive on the tree.

Approaching from behind were three shadowy figures, two in pants, the other in a skirt. The bitch carried a thin rifle, while the other two were armed with heavy looking shotguns. As the van shifted forward, Mr. Kim’s assassins broke into a run, raised their guns, and began to fire. I saw a green apron with a Starbucks logo on the front as they passed under a streetlight. I ducked out of the way of a spray of fire. They were silent between shots.

Cameron picked up the pace and took the corner with such ferocity that I was left tumbling in the van’s seatless cabin. I slammed into the door with my arm bent back far enough to jar the nicotine patches loose. The cameraman’s body slid toward me, releasing a putrid wave of liquefied innards. He had been a zombie. I, apparently, would have been right to leave him unbitten—quite a good makeup job, though.

The ride smoothed out. We left our assailants and my rental behind.

“Those were Karkaroff’s people,” I said, blinking away a slick gob of fat from my splattered face.

“Karkaroff?” he sneered. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I began to explain the zombie plague scheme, but the actor was wild-eyed and fumbling for something in a cargo pant pocket. He withdrew a phone and held down a key with a decidedly pointed thumb, speed dialing.

“Are
you
all right, sweetheart?” he asked, breathless. “I know. I know…They were shooting at us…Mmm-hmm…Bill’s dead…Yes…I know, it’s horrible…Are you safe?”

Who was he talking to, I wondered. Someone else knew we were being targeted? And before I realized it, I uttered the famous line of every bad horror movie, “What’s going on here?” Usually, it would signal my death, but in this case, that would be the least of my problems.

Cameron either hadn’t heard, or didn’t give two shits; he continued his call. “They haven’t tried to get in the house…how are the babies?”

Click!

The lights are now on. He was the other.

I only had to wait a few seconds for confirmation.

“Okay, Liesl, call Clevis and let him know to get a guard over to the house…I know they’d need an amulet to enter, but the bullets wouldn’t…Just humor me…Tell the guard to get that Volvo in the garage before the cops see it…I love you, sweetie…I will. Bye.” He pressed
end
and the phone darkened.

Do I need to state the obvious? Cameron was Liesl’s other. Gross, she must tower over him. I’d need to talk to her about self-esteem.

“Now, what’s all this about Karkaroff?”

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s take this party to the Well and regroup.”

In the shock of the realization, I’d nearly forgotten about Karkaroff’s barista death squad. My head needed to settle. Cocktails were in order, many of them. Looking down at myself, and the state of my designer fashions, caused a pit to open in my abdomen. My stomach sunk inside it. I decided on a detour.

“On second thought, Cam, let’s head to my apartment, I need to get presentable.” The truth was, he didn’t look much better.

Behind its ice waterfall, the Well of Souls hid a secret room. In the future, the space would become our lair, the VIP party spot. We were all there, except Liesl, who had more important duties, namely, the care of newborn hairy maggots with glowing eyes
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. A series of bistro tables was lined up, draped with white linen, and surrounded by chairs. A variety of crystal chandeliers hung at random heights, shaded in delicate fringed paper. The walls were striped in multiple colors. Someone had been to Le Cirque. Lowballs and glass pitchers of various cocktails sat in metal bowls of crushed ice, on antique French sideboards.

Roll call: Wendy, Gil, Ricardo, myself, Shane and our odd new compatriot, Cameron Hansen, film star and sleazy reality show whore.

The conversation flowed along with the liquor, while the group was let in on the events of the night, everything from my first meeting with Claire, to the crash with the stalker bitch, to supernatural bowling leagues and werebear attacks, to our miraculous escape from the Starbucks Gestapo.

I finished with, “Since we know that Liesl is safe and was never in any danger, I say we just drop everything else and pretend we don’t know anything about a plague of zombies. How about it?” I drained my green demon (see inset) and reached for the half-full pitcher of glowing lime liquid.

The Well of Souls’ Green Demon

 

½ oz. vodka

½ oz. Pineapple Rum

½ oz Midori

 

Serve on the rocks.

Shane interjected, “Well, we can’t really do—”

“I was being ironic, Shane. Obviously, we can’t. It’s too late for that and people are dead…or,
deader
.” I thought of poor Mr. Kim and his permanent smile, a line of yellow goo bisecting his face like a court jester’s mask.

“I prefer deadish,” Wendy said with a wink, and held her glass in a toast.

“I say we just call the bitches together and lay it out,” I said. “Like an Agatha Christie drawing room scene.”

“I’m afraid that might end in a bloodbath, and of that Ms. Christie would not approve.” Ricardo had entered the mix. During my monologue he stood against the wall, holding his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger. He’d opted for the natural look, no make-up, and I could easily picture him standing off to the side in a Spanish firing squad painting, by Goya. “I know you two…” he motioned to Shane and me. “…are certain that Elizabeth Karkaroff is behind this Starbucks doomsday plot. But I’m unconvinced. If Claire Bandon’s ability to shape shift, as you say, has progressed to the imitation of human likeness, then I propose that
she
has been imitating Karkaroff.”

“What?” I was shocked. It hadn’t occurred to me at all. Though, I’m sure it would have come to me, eventually. “If that were the case then, perhaps she’s someone in this very room,” I proffered, pointing a stiff finger at each person in turn.

“Whatever spaz, drama much?” Wendy tossed back her drink and reached for a pitcher.

“It is possible,” Shane said. “I, for one, had never met Elizabeth Karkaroff before the day she approached me with the job offer.”

“Describe it.” Ricardo slid a cigarette from a metal case and tapped the loose tobacco.

“Wait, wait,” I said. “What makes everyone think that Claire couldn’t be among us?”

“Well,” Gil said. “It could be that she was out in the club dancing with some human woman—who had victim written all over her—when we walked in here.”

“What? Here? What if she tries something? Tries to kill us?”

“I thought it was Karkaroff that was trying to kill us,” Cameron said, keeping copious notes on a small PDA.

“She is!” I leaned across the table to snatch at his chin. “…and this is not TV show material; if you’re going to be in on this, then at least pretend to be helpful.”

“Then why would she want to kill Mr. Kim? He seemed to be the only witness against Claire Bandon.” Ricardo swallowed a Hypnotiq® blue slurry of fluid, from a frosted glass.

“I don’t know, okay! Why do you think I’ve got all of you around? It wasn’t either Claire or Elizabeth shooting anyway. It was her barista goons.”

“Just calm down.” Ricardo’s voice vibrated like calming cello strings. “We can’t have you exerting your lungs. There are people in this room who would be adversely effected by your breath.” He gestured to the vampires—I wasn’t aware of that fact, although Cameron had reacted like it was the plague, so maybe he could be harmed in some way, too? Wishful thinking.

Ricardo continued, “Now, Shane, detail your contact with Elizabeth Karkaroff.”

“I was working on my doctoral dissertation at the university library—night classes, obviously—when this woman approached, quite striking and regal, but she wore the jeans and cable knit sweater of an undergrad. She asked me flattering questions about my work.”

“And what was the subject of your dissertation?”

“The efficiency of drug delivery systems. Capsules versus gels, injections, blast delivery, patches. She seemed genuinely interested. She seemed to be flirting and I asked her out on a date, for the following evening.”

“When we met, again, she rushed the conversation past the romantic, and continued to press for information on time-release paradigms, and the dissipation of certain chemical compounds. We talked briefly about my financial struggles and she revealed herself to be a competent businesswoman and attorney who could help me a great deal. She arranged for an interview at Starbucks and I went. Despite my complete lack of experience, and to my complete surprise, I was given an executive position, with few responsibilities and a great salary. It was later that she gave me the gift of day walking, which obliged me to her.”

I noted that Gil had crossed his arms tight across his chest and clenched his jaw at the comment. Jealousy is so ugly, particularly in vampires. For some reason, they don’t see the need to hide it.