Shift Work (Carus #4) (19 page)

“What do you want?” Clint said, his tone dark and unwelcoming.

“I’ve been thinking,” I started.

“I’m not a medical professional. If you’ve hurt yourself, go to the fucking emergency room.”

I ignored his barb, and took it as a good sign he’d perked up a little. “You can survive a torn out neck, getting skewered with a sword and the death of a Master Vampire you’re blood bound and sworn to. I think you’re some kind of immortal yourself.”

Clint peered at me over the rim of his glass and took a deep swig of the amber fluid. “Is that so?”

“That or you’re part jellyfish.”

Clint coughed, choking a little and glared at me before setting his glass down.

“Sid called you
neo-bhasmdor
a number of times. I searched it on the internet and found out it’s Gaelic for ‘immortal.’ At the time, it made no sense. Of course, you’re immortal. You were a Master Vampire’s bonded human servant. But now…now…I think you’re immortal all on your own.”

He drummed his fingers along the bar, gaze going distant. After I figured he’d remain mute on the subject, he spoke up. “Took you long enough. It’s a good thing we never needed your skill as an investigator.”

I snorted. He obviously had a terrible memory. Lucien ordered me to investigate a number of things. I just sucked at it. “So you’re immortal?”

“Yes.”

Something clicked. My neurons fired on all cylinders. “Whoa, wait a minute.
The
immortal? Like the movie with the television spin-off series? The one from the 80s with the Scottish Highlander in a kilt?” I surveyed Clint. “Can’t picture you in the get-up.”

“You’d fucking hump my leg if you saw me in a kilt.”

“Gross.” My face twisted up. People turned and stared, but I ignored them and leaned away from Clint. “Why are you such a pervert?”

Clint shrugged his massive shoulders. “Passes the time.”

Strangely, I believed him. Half the time, I got the impression his twisted words were an act, put on to fill his role or hide his true self. The other half… Well, the bruised, although consenting, women leaving his hotel room, and some of the hateful things he’s said to me made sure no one got close to Clint. “How’d your secret get out?”

He drummed his fingers along the bar again as he contemplated his answer. “A few decades ago, a woman discovered my true nature.”

“Would this be the woman fifty years ago you were nice to?” A while ago, I’d asked if he ever tried to play nice, instead of his mean, perverted self, and he’d admitted to an attempt. When I’d asked him how it went, he’d said “not well,” and the conversation went downhill from there.

Clint speared me with an icy look.

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“Later on in her life, she had a son with another man and told him all about me.”

“Oh no. I think I can tell where this is going.”

Clint nodded. “The prick wrote a screenplay on it for his writing class project, and it turned into a whole fucking franchise. I had to deal with Lucien bellowing, ‘There can be only one!’ for years.”

I laughed.

“Asshole made me dress in a kilt every Robby Burns day and recite lines from the movie.” His wording may have been harsh, but his shoulders sank and his tone softened when he mentioned Lucien.

“You miss him.”

“Fuck off.”

Silence stretched across the bar. What would make a man, already immortal by his birthright, sign up as Lucien’s human servant? There was more to this story, but gauging from Clint’s flattened mouth, slightly turned down at the corners, I doubted he’d tell me more about Lucien. “So how much of the movie was based on truth? Is beheading really the only way to kill you?”

“Like I’d tell you.”

“Well, I could always test out my theories until one of them works.”

“By all means, kitten, you could try.”

I smiled. He smiled. Neither one of us joking.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Cranking Metallica. If that’s some sort of drug reference, it isn’t funny.”

~Richard Gilmore, Gilmore Girls

Clint had a whole lot of attitude for me, but little in the way of new information. He confirmed what I’d already learned from Wick. I left Clint to his whiskey and made my way home.

Or at least started to.

As I drove home cranking Metallica from my car stereo, another thought crossed my mind. I glanced at the clock. Late afternoon. May as well. I took the exit that led me up a winding mountain road. I parked, got out of the hunk of junk car, and found the nearest dispenser of caffeine.

The university campus smelled of paper, sweat, and lusty youth. A gentle breeze rolled up the small mountain, carrying the tang of pine, spruce, and alder in the cool, salt-laden air. Warm frothy milk from my cinnamon-sprinkled cappuccino coated my tongue as I walked from the coffee shop to the West Mall Complex.

The internet research, the tattoo-artist angle, and the Clint interrogation had been a bit of a bust as far as concrete evidence went. With no desire to track down the drug dealer and ask to look at his ink for a direct comparison to the pharmaceutical company’s logo, I needed to find another avenue for my investigation.

Maybe the gang squad at the VPD had a record of Aahil’s tattoos. That would give me the confirmation I wanted. I had no plans whatsoever to allow the norm judicial system to take care of Loretta’s murderer, but if I ripped off some guys head or turned my back to let Stan do whatever he wished, I wanted to know beyond a doubt the person we picked up was the right one. No more acting like the SRD assassin and asking no questions.

Mental note: ask Stan tomorrow about the gang squad.

I’d call him now, but he was off duty, and he needed the rest and shuteye more than I did—assuming he managed to do either.

Instead, I took a detour on my way home and ended up at my alma-matter, looking for a rake-like Demon named Takkenmann. Here, everyone knew him as Professor Westman, and, although the university was aware of his Demon status and responsible for his presence, it wasn’t clear whether the students had any inkling to his supernatural essence. Given Takkenmann’s efforts to hide his Demon scent, the student body probably had no clue.

The Demon’s unnaturally strong, and fake, Witch scent coated the hallway as I made my way to Professor Westman’s office.

When a sadistic Demon named Bola had rampaged through the Lower Mainland over a month ago, I’d attempted to slip into a fourth year Demonology class to see if I could learn anything helpful. I discovered another Demon instead.

Takkenmann.

As one of Bola’s “friends,” he tried to rend my flesh like one of his animal carcasses. I’d shifted into a bear and bashed his head repeatedly into the cement flooring. Carus, one; Nether realm being, zero.

We made a deal: I stopped bashing his head into the ground, and he promised to tell me everything he could. He also had an agreement with the university for his services as a professor in demonic studies. One of their stipulations prevented Takkenmann from leaving campus, so not only did Takkenmann have to answer all my questions, he couldn’t avoid me either.

I definitely preferred this method of Demon info-sourcing to the alternative. I no longer had to dance naked for Sid the Seducer.

Holding my breath, I rapped my knuckles on the solid door and waited in a cloud of Witch stink. Takkenmann wore a charm to mask his demonic almond scent. It worked, but it was a bit overkill. My nose continued to shrivel as I waited. He was in there.

I knocked harder.

Wafts of vanilla and honey, tainted with Demonic almond, leaked through the door seals. No need to question whether he knew who stood on the other side of the wooden slab.

Should I kick the door in?

No. Way too dramatic.

I reached forward and turned the knob. Open-sesame. The cold metal turned easily, and I opened the door, wincing as the hinges creaked.

Takkenmann’s long frame folded in a chair behind his large wooden desk. His angular, sunken features, no less disturbing than the first time I saw them, remained stiff as he glared at me. His long limbs stretched out across his desk to where he laced his long fingers together. I watched the skin around his knuckles turn pale as each footstep brought me closer to his desk.

“Carus,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “To what do I owe this
honour
?”

His tone implied it was anything but. I smiled and pulled the guest chair away from his desk and plopped down on the dilapidated faded green cushion.

“I have some questions,” I said.

Takkenmann tensed and his eyes darted to the side. “Why should I provide any answers for you?”

“If you answer my questions, I promise not to beat you soundly in your own office.”

Takkenmann’s lips compressed, and his knuckles turned stark white. If he squeezed his fingers any harder, he’d probably break a few.

“Ask,” he said.

A smile spread across my face. He had few options to deny me and nowhere to run. He already swore to answer my questions, too, so his defiance was unnecessary.

“What do you know of King’s Krank?” I asked.

The Demon flinched. “It’s a street drug.”

I tsked and shook my head. “You know more than that, and I seem to recall a promise of yours to answer my questions fully.”

“It’s a street drug that has the ability to change the genetic makeup of the user.”

I stilled. I’d expected him to name Tancher Pharmaceuticals, or Aahil, or even Bola, as much as I dreaded that possibility. But changing the genetic makeup? That hadn’t entered the scope of my mental processing at all. “What do you mean?”

“Some case studies have shown norms develop supernatural features or abilities.”

“What case studies?”

Takkenmann shrugged. “They’re unpublished. Case studies need to be peer moderated before they are published in an acclaimed scientific journal. A few have crossed my desk, but I don’t know the researchers named on the document. The names seemed fake, and they used a scientific name for KK. After reading the news headlines, I made the connection.”

Huh
.

“Do you have the case study still? Why would they send the paper to a professor of demonology?”

“They wanted my input on the supernatural aspect. Although I teach demonology, I’m also the professor for a number of more general supernatural courses. Regardless, I provided my comments and sent the research paper back.” He hesitated before clamping his mouth shut.

“Answer fully,” I reminded him.

“I don’t think they intend to publish the article. The phrasing in their letter gave me the impression they distributed the article for feedback on how to improve. But this is conjecture.”

“Do you have the address or names recorded anywhere?”

Takkenmann glanced around his office. I followed suit. His desk and shelves were covered in stacks of folders and loose leaf papers. My shoulders sank with my stomach.

“Somewhere…” Takkenmann trailed off.

“Do you have an assistant?”

“Yes.” Takkenmann’s lips twitched up. He had an assistant all right, and I doubted she helped him with any research or office organization, so much as his physical needs. Demon pervert.

“Well, get her to look for the information. In the meantime, please summarize the research.”

“They found in one percent of trials, norms took on supernatural abilities or features, and not just a little. A lot.”

“They became super supes?”

Takkenmann’s smile was slow, and dark. I wanted to scratch it off his face. “Yes.”

So someone could create their own personal super supernatural army. Ice flowed up my spine and settled at the base of my skull. I shivered. The last thing this city needed was another douchebag epidemic where someone or something went on a rampage.

Takkenmann eased back in his chair and re-laced his fingers across his lap. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Carus?”

“What happened to the other ninety-nine percent of the trials?”

“Some died. Most survived and remained useless norms.”

I stared at Takkenmann and willed him to elaborate.

“Around fourteen percent of the trials exhibited supernatural abilities or features before overdosing, twenty-five percent experienced a mind-debilitating high before overdosing and the remaining sixty percent experienced ‘the best high ever’ without any adverse side effects.”

Huh.
That explained why addicts continued to use the drug. Anything to get that next great high, consequences be damned.

“Thank you for your time, Takkenmann.”

The Demon nodded and made a sweeping gesture at the door. “The pleasure was all yours, Carus. I hope to never see you again.”

I stood, flipped the Demon the bird and walked to the door. “Trust me, you’re not on my Christmas card list, either.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.”

~Mother Teresa

My apartment was empty. Again.

No Tristan. Again.

My shoulder’s drooped and a long sigh escaped my lungs.

Whatever.
I might want to jump him every second, but I refused to become a needy girl obsessed with her boyfriend’s every move and whereabouts twenty-four-seven. As much as I wanted to text him to get his sexy feline ass over here, I also didn’t want to lose myself in him. I made that mistake with Dylan a long time ago, and I refused to make it again. Space was good for personal growth.

I sighed and flopped on the couch.

Nothing on the television.

No new emails or posts on social media.

Ben and his den were still away for their meeting with the Elders. Ben had warned me there’d be backlash for him and his denmates for the Bola incident. Sure, Christopher, Patty, and Matt had summoned the destructive Demon behind Ben’s back, but as their mentor, Ben was responsible for all their actions.

He promised to call when it was over and made me promise not to interfere. He’d failed the Witch community and needed to make restitution. I hoped the meeting didn’t last much longer and the punishments doled out were fair, but not too extreme. I missed singing with that brat pack for karaoke night, and my mind thought up awful possibilities when left on its own. Ben promised the Elders wouldn’t kill him or his denmates. I hoped for everyone’s sake Ben was right. If they harmed my boy, I wouldn’t hold back the beast. I’d make them pay.