Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (13 page)

“I think it would be wise to let ourselves in.” Gunther pulled a skeleton key from his coat and inserted it into the lock. The spells etched into the key’s surface blazed to life—first showing red, then slowly turning to green.

Gunther removed the key and Keith carefully tried the knob, moving his hand only slightly, to make sure the knob was unlocked.

Keith opened the door. Inside was a regular-looking front office with an old desk and a couple of chairs. Beyond that was a closed door. The faint sound of music could be heard thumping from beyond it. They moved forward, mage pistols drawn, standing on either side of the door frame. Keith could smell the dense, lush perfume of heartfruit flowers in bloom. The fragrance made him salivate instantly and nearly managed to cover the sweet stink of rotting meat. How many plants did they have in there?

“Please don’t let it be trans-goblins running this operation,” Gunther muttered.

For the first time since he’d joined the Irregulars, Keith found himself hoping the same thing.

They burst through the door into a dank, humid, sweet-smelling greenhouse.

At the back of the room Keith could see a bank of grow lights. Seven slim heartfruit stalks rose beneath them. Five of these ended in white flowers. The other two had already developed fat, white seedpods.

Three pallid individuals, who had been apparently been engaged in tending the drip-irrigation system, looked up at them in what Keith could only describe as muted alarm. All wore black. Two had fangs. The third wore red cat’s-eye contact lenses that Keith imagined greatly impaired his vision. Downbeat electronica pulsed through the air. A stack of Theater of Blood flyers and a staplegun sat on a metal table.

“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.”

Green Glass Beads

Josh Lanyon

They are better than stars or water,

Better than voices of winds that sing,

Better than any man’s fair daughter,

Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Overheard on a Saltmarsh

— Harold Monro

Never trust a goblin.

Even a child knows that much. But there are times when you’ve got to take the chance, when the prize is worth the risk—which is how Archer Green happened to be in a drafty warehouse on Quebec Street in Vancouver a few minutes before midnight, waiting with a goblin named Ezra for the Moth Man to turn up.

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.