Unfallen (4 page)

Rob grabbed my hand in both of his. We stood there for a couple seconds, looking at each other, and heat painted itself up my throat, flushing my cheeks. The duffel bag between us slumped, dispirited, like it just wanted a shower and a plate of Mattie’s roast chicken.

I could relate. My stomach made a noise like a monster in a cavern, and that managed to crack us both up. We laughed, in a kind of hysterical-screamy way I’ve heard at a lot of Camps. It means the worst is pretty much over. Or at least, that you
think
it is.

“Come on.” I tugged at him. “Let’s find something to eat. Then I hope you have a smoke. I’m dying for one.”

He unfolded himself, gingerly. “Yeah. They can’t give us demerits for smoking on a train, either.”

“Cool.” I took a deep breath, and steadied myself. When I opened my eyes again he was watching me, anxiously, and I wondered…

But I tugged at him again. “Find me a vending, Maguire. Where’s this train headed, anyway?”

“North, I think. How far do you think we’ll get?”

I could’ve lied to him. But I didn’t. I made up my mind not to, for as long as I could help it. “I don’t know. As far as we can.”

As far as they let us.

It would have to be enough.

5:04
PM

I
greeted the day bleary-eyed, heaving, and still drunk.

Which is, really, just the way I like it.

I had just finished yarping dryly over the commode when the doorbell’s sweet soft chime penetrated my hangover with all the finesse of a lead sledgehammer. Head pounding, heart throbbing, and kidneys aflame, I splashed cold water on my face and lifted my head to observe two bloodshot blue eyes staring out of the mirror.

Well, that was no shock. They were mine.

The doorbell hammered my temples again. I scratched at my armpit, lifted up the hem of my Cribbage Pie T-shirt. It didn’t smell like vomit. I sighed happily and groaned as the pounding drilled through my head.

I made it out into the hall, kicking an empty Shivlitz bottle aside. It tinkled and broke. I stamped up to the door as the doorbell sounded again, and then I realized the pounding was not strictly in my poor aching head. It was coming from the door as well.

I sighed, and turned the knob, lifting my gun. In my line of work, you never, ever answer the door unarmed.

I jerked the door open and would have shot Bruce, except for the dead body. It fell face-forward and hit my floor with a dull thud, and I looked up at Bruce, who was sweating and wide-eyed in an expensively hideous sport coat and blue polyester pants. He had lost his hat, and he was unshaven, and his left eye was almost puffed closed. Someone had popped him a good one. Not as good as the guy on the floor, though.

A chill exhaled out from the body on the floor, raising my skin into goose bumps.

“Well,” I said after a moment. I hadn’t seen Brucie in two years. “You’d better come in.”

5:22
PM

Bruce held the ice pack to his left eye while I fixed myself a drink. “You gotta help me, Izzie.”

“You dumped a dead body on my hallway floor, Bruce. No dice.” I poured Scotch into a glass, contemplated the amber liquid, and took a long pull straight from the bottle. “Ahhh.”

No day was so bad a good bottle couldn’t fix it.

“Come on, be a good girl. I’ll pay you.” His mournful brown eye fixed on me. His coat was a particularly loud shade of polyester today, brown and red plaid with threads of charming neon green.

I dropped down across from him, propping my feet up on the rickety kitchen table. A fly buzzed lazily over the unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner. A leaden bar of sunlight pressed against the wilting tomato plant in the windowsill. I contemplated my boot toes. “How much?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Does it have to do with the dead body?”

“No, just his heart.”

“What?”

“He needs his heart back.”

I eyed my boots even more closely, took another pull from the bottle. “Doesn’t look like he’s missing it.”

“He’s a
vampire
, Izzie. They stole his heart.”

“Oh.” I took another pull. It exploded in my stomach. Maybe once my head stopped hurting I could find something to eat. “Where’s the heart?”

“Church on the corner of Parkinson and Vine. A group called the Pickers is holding it for ransom.”

“None of this explains why you dumped a dead body in my hallway.”

“You were in the neighborhood.”

I winced. “I don’t handle paranormal clients anymore, Brucie. I presume the dead body would be the one paying me?”

“He’s not a dead body. He’s just resting. And his name is Viktor.”

“What happened to his heart?”

“I told you, the Pickers are holding it for ransom. Come on, Izzie. You’re my friend.”

“No, Brucie. I’m going to finish my drink and call the police.”

“No police, Izzie. Please.”

“I could lose my license over this, Brucie. A PI scrip doesn’t cover dead vampires on my hallway floor.” I hauled myself up and stamped across the kitchen. A search of my cupboards revealed one slice of moldy bread and an abandoned packet of ketchup from McWendy King. The fridge held one chunk of green cheese and an empty bottle of mayonnaise, two soda crackers, and a bottle of Schiltzo Light Malt Almost-Beer. I eyed the pile of dirty dishes. No help there.

I opened the cabinet over the micron. A venomous-green bottle of synthabsinthe glowed next to an empty vodka bottle. The Scotch was all I had left, and I’d already demolished it.

I took another pull off the bottle and turned back to Bruce.

“Where did you say that heart was?”

6:42
PM

“That’s it,” Bruce said. “You’re really saving my life, Izzie.”

I jammed my sunglasses back up on my nose and shifted uncomfortably on the car’s pleather seat. The dusty-colored Church of the Holy Redeemer crouched under the haze of afternoon heat, the graveyard to one side throbbing green. I blinked and scratched at my forehead, yawned.

Bruce had insisted that the body needed to be left somewhere dark, so it was propped in my hall closet between the golf clubs and the ancient vacuum cleaner left over from the last tenant. He was a nice-looking guy, or would have been if he’d had a pulse. He was even dressed well, in a blue-black Fez Harmani suit. The suit jacket, shirt, and his broad chest were a mess of hamburger; and he was starting to smell. Nice dark hair, nice high cheekbones, and a powerful stink.

Just like a man to ruin everything with one flaw.

“Why did they steal the heart, Brucie?”

“They’re holding it for ransom.”

“Why?”

“Goddamn union. They want better pay, a health plan, all that shit.”

“Union?”

“Werewolves. Best help for a vampire nowadays, since the Fair Labor Act went through.”

I closed my eyes, leaned my head back into the seat. My sunglasses did nothing to stop the sun from pounding spikes right through my head. I needed another bottle of Scotch. I wasn’t carrying any silver bullets—I didn’t
do
paranormal cases anymore. “One day I’m gonna kill you, Brucie. Come on.”

“I can’t.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “They’ll be sleeping anyway; lupins sleep from midafternoon to past dusk. Just get in, get the heart, and get out. That’s all.”

I pulled my sunglasses down and examined his pasty, sweating face. The shiner was really starting to puff up and turn a nice deep purple. “Why can’t you come in?”

He pulled his bright orange polyester collar away from his throat. This close, I could see two scabbed-over pinpricks right over the jugular.

He’d been bitten, but not drained. My old pal Brucie was a human servant. My skin crackled with gooseflesh. He really couldn’t go into the church. Werewolves might not notice me, but they would
definitely
notice a human servant bursting into flame in the vestry.

“Oh, Christ,” I said, and Brucie winced. I doubted it would do anything—I was an atheist. Pretty much every reasonable PI these days is. “One of these days, Bruce. Okay. Stay here.”

I got out of the car.

6:50
PM

The church door was unlocked, and a powerful zoolike stink wafted out. I wrinkled my nose. Last time I tangled with a werewolf, I’d lost a chunk out of my right thigh and had to take a loss on the job.

It’s generally bad form for a private eye to kill the person she’s sent to find.

I eased into the dark frowsty cave of the church. There was a susurrus—I pushed my sunglasses up on my head and crossed the vestibule, tried the double doors that would lead into the nave. They were unlocked. I eased one open, nearly choking as the smell blazed out. It was worse than that bar over on Seventh Street, and
that
was saying something.

The pews were shoved all around, and I saw huge fuzzy shapes lying curled on the floor. My gorge rose, and I wished for another drink. I took my time, studying the church, and my eyes snagged on something interesting.

The altar had been cleaned with one ruthless sweep, candles and clutter and a large iron crucifix lay in a messy pile to one side.
And I thought
I
was irreligious.
I breathed through my mouth. Sweat trickled and tickled down my back. The only thing left up on the altar was an iron casket the size of a football. I was betting that was the heart. If it wasn’t, it was a good decoy. Werewolves weren’t usually bright enough to set a decoy out.

I eased into the nave and ghosted up the carpeted walk. I’ve never been one for visiting churches. The sound of werewolves breathing folded around me, and I had to stop halfway to the altar and try to retch soundlessly. The smell was
that
bad.

One of the werewolves was dreaming. Little canine yips came out of his huge razor-toothed snout, and his clawed hands wriggled a little bit.

Oh, Brucie, I’m gonna kill you for this
. I consoled myself by calculating how many bottles fifty thousand yen would buy.

6:58
PM

The huge hairy creature screamed as I shot it twice. It had swiped me a good one in the ribs. I ran for the church door and the blaze of westering sunlight, hearing snarling yips behind me. They
had
been asleep, but one of the things that wakes up werewolves is the sweat-smell of a Scotch-soaked licensed PI.

I would add that to my long list of life lessons if I could just get out of here
alive
.

I made it out the door and flew down the walk, clutching my gun in one hand and the small iron casket in the other. The fucking thing dragged my arm down, but I skidded through the church gates and heard a long howl behind me. I threw myself in the car and Brucie gunned the engine. I had to shoot the one trying to scrabble in through the window. Its face disintegrated into meat. The bullets weren’t silver, but I bet they still hurt.

I lay panting and bleeding in the front seat and eyed Brucie, who was whistling happily in his polyester sport coat. Oh yes. I was definitely going to kill him one day.

Today, though, I just shut my eyes and wished for a drink.

7:42
PM

“You’re a real pal, Izzie. I mean it. I owe you big-time for this.”

“The next time you fuck up and let werewolves steal your boss’s heart, I am
not
bailing you out. I just got razor burn up my chest from a goddamn werewolf, Brucie. I hate you.”

“You’re a pal, Izzie. A real pal.”

Brucie opened the closet door and started fiddling with the dead body. I dropped down at the kitchen table and took the rest of the Scotch in one long, endless swallow. It didn’t matter. I could buy more soon. “I hate paranormal cases. No more paranormal cases. You hear me, Brucie?”

No answer.

The tomato plant in my kitchen window had finally died. It was now a shriveled black stick poking up from its red plastic pot. The flies attacking my dirty dishes lay on the counter, small black bodies. Maybe the heat was too much for them too.

I propped my boots on the kitchen table, and heard a small, soft sound, like a baby gurgling.

“Brucie?” I called. “Hurry up so I can get paid.”

I didn’t hear the vampire. The only thing I felt was a sudden yanking on my hair as he wrenched my head back and drove his fangs into my neck.

12:03
AM

I opened my eyes to find myself lying on my bed, my hands crossed on my chest, the room completely black. Someone must have drawn the shades. I was usually too drunk to do it.

I wasn’t hungover, which was so novel I immediately sat up and reached for my gun. It wasn’t on the nightstand. There was an empty space where my gun should have been, a space my fingers drifted through and patted again, just to make sure.

I was definitely starting to feel strange.

I was
parched
. But the strangest thing was that I didn’t want Scotch. Or vodka. Or even tequila.

“Good evening,” Viktor said from the door. His voice was pampered silk, with a slight Hungarian twist. His silk suit still hung open, but underneath the huge hole was a slice of pale, perfect, hairless chest. “I am Count Viktor Razinoff, and you are Izzie Borden, no?”

I reached under my pillow. My gun wasn’t under there, either.

“Charmed,” I husked, and blinked. I could hear a faint, low pounding.

He grinned, showing his fangs. For a dead guy, he looked pretty chipper. The pounding was his pulse, strong and evenly-spaced, galloping along.

“Might I interest you in a new line of work? The pay is wonderful, and the benefits are… well, negotiable.” His smile widened. “I seem to be undergoing a slight manpower shortage. So hard to find good help nowadays.”

“I want a health plan,” I muttered, and he laughed. I reached up and rubbed my throat, feeling the small pinprick scars over my jugular. “Where’s Brucie?”

“Bruce’s position is now vacant,” Viktor murmured. “What do you know about killing werewolves?”

“You generally need silver bullets,” I said. “And you should always aim for the head.”

His smile was infinitely warm, infinitely welcoming. “You’re hired.”

“Great,” I muttered, hauling myself off the bed. “Just one thing, Viktor.”

“Anything, darling.” His eyelashes fluttered. Now that he wasn’t dead, he didn’t smell quite so bad.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, and felt the fangs prick lightly, razor-sharp. “I need a drink.”