The Beast Within (28 page)

“You should sell,” his friend Oscar had said. Oscar had had no love for Uncle Hanson. In a sniffy tone, he’d often consigned Hanson to the idiot pile and called him ‘odd’.

“I don’t want to sell,” Sam had protested.

“What are you going to do with it?” Oscar had asked.

“Open up my own agency.”

Oscar still wasn’t speaking to him, even now, three months later.

Sam sighed at the memory then mentally pushed it all to one side to admire his property. The lower half consisted of a business office and reception area, with the upper two floors divided into four apartments. Three were empty but his uncle had filled the fourth one with notes from his own investigative practice. That room was high on his list of things to sort out, but he first needed to concentrate on renting out one of the empty apartments.

Sam may have inherited the house, but it hadn’t exactly come with a burgeoning bank account to match. Forty years of being a detective and all Hanson had had to show for it was this building, a small bank account and a room full of papers. Sam was determined to be different. He even had a five-year plan in place. Sam didn’t doubt for one minute that he knew exactly why his uncle had had little money to speak of. Uncle Hanson had done too much pro bono work for
them
.

Filing cabinets and boxes overflowed with notes from years of being a private detective. A lot of those papers included cases involving aspects of the paranormal, things Sam thought better left alone. Sam didn’t have a drop of supernatural blood in his entire body and he didn’t plan on associating with those who did. It hadn’t exactly worked out for his uncle.

Paranormals had their place. Hell, they owned half the city. Vampires and werewolves, witches, fae and pixies—they all had their own parishes. Neighbourhoods where they lived amongst their own kind. Like enjoyed living with like, and, although they often mixed and matched, no one in Sam’s family had ever crossed the romantic boundary between the magical and the not.

Sam didn’t count his second cousin Christa, who had taken up with a blood demon. There was a bad seed in every batch.

Worried he’d use up the rest of his small inheritance, Sam had put an ad into the local paper to rent out two of the four apartments. After a quick mop and dust, they were ready for renters. Why his uncle had had space with no one living there didn’t make much sense. Of course, if his cousin Erik hadn’t been estranged from his father Sam wouldn’t have inherited anything. A twinge of guilt made Sam uncomfortable, but he hadn’t heard from his cousin in years and had no way of getting hold of him.

“Excuse me?”

A soft voice had Sam spinning around to see an old lady looking up at him. Her wrinkled skin and the way she leaned against her cane betrayed her great age.

“Can I help you?”

She squinted at him as if trying to make him out through her foggy white eyes. “You owe me a favour.”

“What?” Sam examined the lady carefully, but he hadn’t met her before in his life. What possible kind of favour could he owe her?

“The man here before. He promised he’d help me out,” she explained.

“I’m sorry—”

The old lady didn’t give Sam a chance to explain. She jabbed her finger into the air at Sam, pursed her lips then began shouting. “He owes me. He owes me!” she repeated twice, her voice rising to a screeching pitch.

Sam rushed to interrupt her tirade. “You must be talking about my uncle. Why don’t you come inside and we can discuss what I can do for you.” Although he didn’t feel the need to keep a dead man’s promise, if he could help the woman out, he would.

After opening the front door, he motioned for her to go ahead of him.

She settled into his visitor’s chair while Sam scooted past her to sit on the leather chair opposite her, patting his uncle’s gargoyle statue as he walked past. Uncle Hanson had the strangest collection of art he’d ever seen. Eventually he’d get rid of it all, but right now the weird pieces reminded him of his beloved relative and better times.

“My name is Sam Enderson. How can I help you?”

Scowling over at him, she shook her head. “The guy here before never told you not to share your name, did he?”

“The man here before was my uncle. No, he didn’t tell me not to share my name.”

She shook her head as if not understanding Sam’s stupidity. “You never share your name with a witch unless you want her to do a spell.”

Sam jerked in his seat, appalled at what he’d let through his front door. “You’re a witch?”

The woman slammed her cane onto the wooden floor. “Of course I’m a witch. I’ve got the wrinkled skin, the hunch, the cane, and even the rheumy eyes. What did you think I was?”

He shrugged. “I-I thought you were just an old woman.” A scary old woman who gave him the creeps, but an old woman nonetheless.

“Old!” the witch shrieked. “How dare you call me old? I’m only a hundred and sixty!”

“Forgive me.” Sam raised his hands in alarm. “I didn’t mean any offence.” Secretly he wondered how old a witch had to be before she fell into the ‘old’ category.

“Well, I am offended,” she snapped.

“Sorry. I don’t know much about
your
world.” Witch or not, he couldn’t help the little slip of derision into his tone.

The witch regarded him carefully. “What are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What blood flows in your body?” she asked, as if expecting him to come up with some sort of interesting paranormal cocktail.

“Human. Just human,” Sam answered.

“You don’t like paranormals, do you?”

“No.” Sam saw no reason to deny the fact.

“So what are you doing here?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ve inherited the place.”

“And you intend to do what?”

“Carry on business as usual. Private investigations. It’s what I’m qualified for.” And he had the multi-weapon licence to back him up.

“But then you’ll have to do paranormal cases.” She gave him a taunting smile, exposing yellowed, crooked teeth.

Sam’s stomach churned. “Why?” He didn’t plan to ever take on a paranormal case in his life.

“Because the law states no business can discriminate against a paranormal due to his or her status,” she explained. “It’ll get you shut down, it will.” There was definite glee in the old woman’s expression.

All Sam wanted to do at that moment was place his head in his hands and curse. He didn’t. He was much too professional for that. Instead, he shrugged. His mom had always said if you had nothing good to say then don’t say anything.

The witch cackled in true witch fashion and Sam shuddered inwardly. The scent of something dead and decaying pervaded the room. Add in the crooked teeth and the rags for clothes and he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t immediately pegged her as something
different
.

“Now about that favour…” she continued.

“What?” He couldn’t look her in the eyes—maybe if he didn’t look, whatever she said wouldn’t be real. He was comfortable with his denial. In fact, he might just lock the door, pull down the shades and wallow in it for a few days.

“I need help tracking down a werewolf.”

Sam looked at her. “Why?” Paranormal hunting paranormal? That could never end well.

The witch scowled at him while tapping her cane on the floor. “What do you mean why?”

Had he stuttered? “I mean, why do you need a werewolf?”

“It’s none of your business
why
I need a werewolf, boy. I just do,” the witch snapped.

“It is if you want me to do your dirty work.” Sam knew all kinds of uses witches had for werewolves and none of them were nice. “Not to mention hunting werewolves is illegal.”

“Pfft.” She waved away the law as if it were nothing. Probably was, since
she
didn’t plan on breaking it. “I’ve got a rare potion to make and I need some werewolf bones.”

“No.” Sam might not like paranormals very much but he wasn’t going to hunt them down, either.

“Your uncle owes me!” she insisted in a loud, screeching tone.

Sam wanted to cover his ears at the high-pitched noise. “My uncle is dead,” he began to explain as patiently as he could. “I was willing to hear you out, but I’m not going to go kill an innocent werewolf so you can make a potion.” Were werewolves actually innocent? Hadn’t there been that whole werewolf-pack-across-territory-lines mess last year? Sam seemed to remember people—human, non-magical, normal people—getting killed in that little problem. Still, whatever issues he had with werewolves, he didn’t do that kind of work. He had enough problems without getting jailed for killing werewolves, innocent or not.

“This potion can save a loved one!” the witch announced dramatically. “I need those bones.”

“Find a different potion. I’m sure any given werewolf is someone’s beloved too.”

The witch scowled at him then abruptly leant back in her seat. A sly smile crossed her face, more unnerving than her frown before. “Do you have anyone you love, Mr Enderson?”

Sam’s mind shifted back to the image of his boyfriend of ten years screwing his best friend. “Not anymore.” Despite both of them having pleaded for forgiveness, some things Sam wouldn’t forgive. He’d moved out and away from his lover within days and blocked both numbers from his phone. His uncle had been his last close relative. So really, at this point in time, he had no one he could call a loved one. But he’d give her his own bones before he admitted the extent of his loneliness.

The witch stood with a purposeful air. “When you’re on the verge of losing someone you love, come find me and maybe I’ll free you. Until then, enjoy my present.”

With a poof of smoke, the witch vanished.

Gasping, Sam tried to wave away the stench that accompanied the smoke—acrid and with a hint of burnt almonds. Finally, when that didn’t work, he rushed over and opened a window to let the ashy smell out. Great start to his first day as a PI.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ahh!” Sam jumped back from the window to face the empty room.
What the hell
? Was she still there? Was the witch invisible?

“An idiot,” the voice repeated. This time Sam located the source, confirmed when the statue on his desk turned its head and regarded him with eerie yellow eyes.

“What the hell are you?” he managed to ask coherently.

The statue’s stone wings moved, creating a sound like gravel underfoot. “I’m a gargoyle. What are you?”

“I-I’m a human.” Sam swallowed rapidly, trying to get some moisture into his dry throat. “What are you doing here?”

The statue stretched out of its crouch until it stood about a foot tall on the corner of the desk. Its baleful glare pinned Sam in place. “You’re an idiot. That witch has something planned for you and it isn’t good.”

“H-how do you know?” Sam’s heart beat faster than a rabbit chased by a werewolf.

The gargoyle rolled his eyes. “You’re not too bright, are you? Your uncle trafficked with that witch.”

Sam frowned. His uncle had been a kindly old PI, who hadn’t seemed to actually do much from day to day. There was no way he had trafficked anything. He had been the type of man who’d always had a ready supply of candy for eager young visitors like Sam.

“The sweet old man who brought you candy didn’t exist,” the gargoyle answered his thoughts.

Wait… How the hell…
?

“How did you know I was thinking—?”

The gargoyle ignored the question and interrupted, “He would’ve had that werewolf for the witch by the end of the day and walked away with enough cash to eat for months.”

“N-no, that can’t be true.” Sam shook his head in denial. Surely the gargoyle had his facts wrong.

“Have you really looked at the paperwork upstairs yet? I heard you banging about. I assume you actually read some of it?”

“I was moving furniture for tenants.” Sam shook his head. “And no, not yet. I thought they were just old case files that need organising”

Defending himself to a freaking gargoyle made Sam feel like an idiot. The damn thing had been sitting there every time Sam had visited and never once had it appeared to be anything more than an ornament. The creature must be wrong. Sam would have seen it if Uncle Hanson had been a bad guy. He wasn’t stupid. How could he not have understood his uncle’s true nature? Nope, this…gargoyle thing had to be wrong.

The gargoyle clomped across the desk. “Look at the files and check out the back closet in the file room. Your good old uncle had more going on than anyone knew about. That included exposing himself to a lot more than just a witch with teeth problems and a ready hand with curses.”

With those parting words, the gargoyle sank back into his original position. A loud, crackling noise filled the room and the creature became a statue once more. Sam poked at it with his index finger, but it didn’t move again.

“Huh.”

Maybe he was having a dream, one where he was going to wake up in his sunlit apartment in Johnstown with his boyfriend in bed with him.

File room
.

The gargoyle’s words sank in. Maybe he did need to check out the apartment with all the files a little more closely. It wouldn’t hurt to see what other pies his uncle had had his fingers in. As he stepped out of the office, someone knocking on the door had him turning away from the stairs and back towards the front door. Why would someone be knocking? The door was open. At least, he didn’t think he’d locked the door. But then, it was an old place—maybe the latch had locked behind him when he’d escorted the witch inside.

His mind still on the files upstairs, he opened the door and stopped, frozen.

Vampire.

The man could be nothing else. Tall, elegant and having an unearthly beauty, the vampire gave him a smile that exposed his fangs. “I hear you have an apartment to rent.” The vampire’s voice was like Scotch over ice and dripped with sensuality.

A vampire here? In the daylight
? Sam glanced past the vamp. Yep, the sun shone brightly in the sky.

“Ah, you’re not used to us.” The vampire gave him a smile. “We don’t really burn up in the sun.”

That’s a shame. That would be one less paranormal to cause trouble.

“Um, you need an apartment?” Sam had never heard of a vampire living in an apartment. “I thought you people had mansions and crypts and stuff.”