Undead to the World Page 2

  Red Dog’s a profiler, so part of my obsession is—was—studying how people think. Everything Terrance is saying makes sense from a psychological point of view, and he’s very good at focusing a listener’s attention. A politician’s son, for sure.

  “Still not hearing a question.”

  “My question? I thought that was obvious.” His smile is predatory. “What’s it like, hearing those whispers? Do they sound like they’re coming from inside your head, like you’re just talking to yourself? Or is it an actual hallucination, a voice you can hear coming from a person you can’t see?”

  I don’t say anything for a moment.

  The strange thing is, I’m not even angry. I should be—it’s what he wants, what he’s trying to provoke—but I’m not, which I suppose is a victory of sorts. No, what I really want to do is answer his question honestly. I want to say, No, that’s not quite it. It’s like hearing voices in another room, a mutter of conversation that suddenly sharpens into something meant for you. It’s like hearing words in the rustle of trees or underneath the static from a radio. It’s like the chaotic, random parts of the universe have suddenly snapped into a new alignment that’s aimed right at you.

  What I say is, “I wouldn’t know.” I turn to look at him. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Come on, guys,” Alexis says. “Leave her alone.”

  “Good idea,” says Charlie coldly. “Or find someplace else to drink.”

  “Hey,” Zev says, grinning like a loon, “take it easy, big guy. We’re just having a little fun—”

  Charlie locks eyes with Zev. “Oh, fun. Why didn’t you say so? I like fun. Want to see my idea of fun?”

  Zev looks away first. “I’ll pass.”

  Charlie turns to Terrance. “How about you?”

  Terrance doesn’t spook so easily. He meets Charlie’s gaze calmly. “You know, I just might … but I’m kinda busy at the moment.”

  “My schedule’s flexible.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Alexis sighs. “Geez, get a room already. Or an arena, or octamom or whatever.”

  Terrance blinks. Charlie frowns. Both of them give Alexis WTF? looks, which breaks the tension.

  “I think you mean octagon, sweetie,” I say.

  “Whatevs.” She turns and heads for their usual table. Sally follows, and after a second so does Zev.

  Terrance drains his beer and sets the glass down in front of Charlie with a smile. “Bring us another round, will you?” he says. “Thanks.” He saunters off.

  “Don’t let them get to you,” Charlie says. “Small town bullies, you know? They don’t have anything better to do.”

  “Yeah, I know. Nothing breeds mean like boredom and ignorance.” I try to sound casual, but I feel a little lightheaded. I should probably go home and take my medication, but I’m not going to give Terrance and his gang the satisfaction of driving me away.

  But then I check my watch and realize what time it is. I finish my beer in a hurry, say, “I gotta go,” and head for the door.

  Charlie’s no fool. He knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t try to stop me. “See you later,” he calls after me.

  “Count on it,” I say.

  I get in the door with plenty of time to spare, ten minutes at least. My dog, Galahad, greets me with lots of happy woofing and ankle licking. He’s a Saint Bernard with a sunny disposition and a drizzly mouth—I don’t need to water my plants, I just get Galahad to stand over them and drool. He’s also extremely bright, so much so that I’ve offered to pay for driving lessons. He just sighs and rolls his eyes.

  Eight o’clock, Friday night. Time for the latest episode of The Bloodhound Files.

  I’m recording it, of course. I don’t have to watch it live. Except I do.

  I take my medication first, an antipsychotic called Erthybon. I’m not supposed to combine it with alcohol, but hey, I’m not supposed to be watching Jace Red Dog hunt down werewolves and vampires, either. You do what you have to.

  I turn on the TV and get settled in on the couch, Gally lying beside me with his head on my lap. I used to put a towel over my thighs, but I eventually just gave up and learned to live with damp pants.

  I can’t really explain my fascination with the show. Yeah, I identify with the main character, but I was never all that interested in the supernatural before I started watching it. Maybe because it’s really different from all the other occult TV shows out there: It takes place on a world where ninety-nine percent of the population are either vampires, werewolves, or golems. Jace is from a different reality—the normal one, I guess—but gets yanked across the dimensional divide to use her finely-honed profiling skills to hunt psychos with an aversion to sunlight and/or silver. I love the characters, but it’s the world Jace lives in that really interests me—all the little details of an entire planet full of supernatural beings. I especially love the fake commercials, which is how the show usually starts.

  “He’s a vampire. She’s a werewolf. Their best friend is a golem with a talent for getting into trouble. Tune in at nine on Thursday for How I Bit Your Mother—on the FANG Network!”

  “Would if I could,” I mutter.

  It’s pretty good, as episodes go. Jace is hunting some maniac who’s killing werewolves with silver-tipped crossbow bolts. She’s helped by a mysterious masked woman who’s the head of a criminal gang, dresses like a pirate, and has a really cool submarine; she calls herself the Sword of Midnight, and carries a dual-bladed weapon that resembles two overlapping clock hands, one slightly shorter than the other.

  For the next hour I’m enthralled. I resist the urge to take notes on the different criminology methods Jace uses, something I used to do compulsively. I don’t touch the TV screen, even once. Overall, I’d say I’m doing well.

  Right up until the end.

  “I think it’s clear where this is headed,” Jace says. She and the Sword of Midnight are studying a table loaded down with ancient texts and scrolls.

  “Yes,” replies the S of M. “There’s no room for doubt.”

  “Then there’s only one man we can go to,” says Jace.

  “Longinus.”

  “What?” I blurt. I know that name. Old Man Longinus lives in a sprawling, rundown mansion on the edge of town, the kind of place the local kids dare each other to trick-or-treat at on Halloween. It’s not exactly a common surname, either; I must have misheard it.

  And then the Sword of Midnight turns and stares directly at the camera.

  No—not at the camera. At me.

  “That’s who has all the answers, Jace,” the Sword says. “That’s where you have to go. Seek Longinus.”

  The screen goes dark.

  TWO

  For a while, I just sit there on the couch and stare at the TV. I have the remote in my hand, but I’m sure I didn’t use it to turn off the set.

  Pretty sure.

  Then again, I’m also “pretty sure” that someone on a TV show just spoke directly to me. Which puts a whole new spin on those two words, and possibly my brain.

  Galahad whines. He knows I’m upset—he can always tell. Then he does something he’s never done before: He grabs the remote out of my hand, springs off the couch, and sprints for his doggy door.

  “Hey!” I say, too startled to be angry. I jump up and give chase.

  I catch up with him in the back yard, where he’s digging furiously. I watch, stunned, as he excavates a quick hole, drops the remote in, then fills it back up.

  I stare at him, then glance up into the sky. Nope, no UFOs or angels. Too bad; if I’m going to lose my mind—again—I’d really appreciate a few special effects added to the mix. “After all,” I say out loud, “if you’re going to go crazy, you may as well go all the way.”

  No invisible people reply. I don’t hear anything but crickets and somebody’s badly maintained pickup in the distance. Ken Tanaka’s, by the sound of it.

  It’s a nice night in September, the tail end of an
Indian summer. The air is warm and a little dusty. I stand there for a while, hugging myself and just listening to the twilight sounds of a small town: children yelling and laughing in the distance, the bang of an old screen door, dogs barking. It’s peaceful and serene and very, very ordinary.

  I try desperately to savor it, but I just can’t. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong.

  And after a few minutes I sigh, dig up the remote, go back in the house and go to bed.

  * * *

  I’m working a breakfast/lunch shift at the diner the next day, so I crawl out from under the covers at an ungodly hour, stagger to the kitchen, and try to deal with the pre-coffee technology problem: you know, how to operate the necessary devices to make coffee before you’ve had coffee. The guy who invented the espresso machine was probably wired on three pots of dark roast at the time, but I’m guessing that for the first decade after coffee was discovered, people got up and blearily smashed some beans with a rock, then stuck the pulp in a cup of lukewarm water. They probably hit their fingers with the rock a few times, too.

  Galahad watches me intently the whole time, like he always does. I don’t know why he finds the process so fascinating—I tried giving him a little coffee once and he wouldn’t go near it—but he does. I think he must have been a barista in another life.

  Then it’s off to Farmers Diner to bring other people their coffee. Yes, I know it looks like there should be an apostrophe somewhere near the end of that word, but that’s how it’s spelled on the sign and that’s who generally eats there.

  I’m not a morning person, but I do enjoy walking to work at this time. The sun’s just starting to rise, the air has that damp, fresh smell to it, the dew glitters where the light hits it—it’s nice. Not too many people are up, either, though I do nod hello to Brad Varney, our mailman. He’s a big guy, hairless as an egg, and it looks like he forgot to wipe off that last bit of eyeliner he’s wearing. I stop him and point it out with a smile, and he thanks me without a trace of embarrassment. Thropirelem may not have any transsexuals, but we do have at least one transvestite—a fact known only to Brad, me, and whomever he chats with online while wearing a cocktail dress and pearls. When he asked me how I’d found out, I told him not to worry; nobody else in town has my eye for psychological markers and incriminating details—like the lacy edge of a camisole peeking out from his open collar when he asked me to sign for a package.

  By the time I get to work I’ve convinced myself that last night’s cryptic message was just a coincidence. The Sword was talking to Red Dog, not me. Longinus is a weird name, granted, but I probably just misheard what she actually said—Ron Shyness or John Highness or something. I blame it on combining booze with my meds and shove it to the back of my brain, where it can play Parcheesi with all the other crazy ideas.

  The diner used to be a Chinese restaurant, once upon a time, and it’s still got the pagoda-style roof and carved dragons over the front door. It’s not locked. It doesn’t have as much window space as most diners, either, favoring small, rectangular panes set high in the wall. Inside, booths line most of three walls, with the door to the kitchen behind the counter and a few small tables in the center. There’s an ancient jukebox that hasn’t worked in years in one corner, and old-fashioned lights with green glass shades hanging from the ceiling over every booth.

  I go in the back, drape my jacket over one of the chairs that function as our staff area, and say good morning to Therese. She and her husband, Phil, own the place; Therese does double duty as bookkeeper and waitress, while Phil handles most of the cooking. She’s a stocky, good-natured woman with curly brown hair and laugh wrinkles around her eyes.

  Phil, on the other hand, is living proof of the principle that opposites attract. Where Therese is friendly, he’s grumpy. Where Therese is generous, he’s suspicious. He’s also short, balding, and Japanese.

  “Morning, Phil,” I say. He’s already wearing a stained apron, and chopping onions. “How’s things?”

  He gives me a scowl. “Mr. Isamu.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I am your boss. You should address me as Mr. Isamu.”

  I force a smile. “Okay. How’s things, Mr. Isamu?”

  “Fine. Get to work.” He turns back to his onions.

  I resist the urge to flip him the finger, grab my apron, and stalk out of the kitchen. “He’s in a mood,” I say to Therese.

  She nods, a worried look on her face. “I’m a little concerned, actually. I know he can be cranky, but this is different. Been going on for the last few days, getting worse and worse. He hardly eats, keeps staring off into space. It’s like his mind is somewhere else.”

  “Well, wherever it is, I hope it has a nice vacation and comes back cheerful and rested.”

  “Arrested?” says a voice. I look up to see our first customer walk through the door: Deputy Quinn Silver. He’s a Native American—though I don’t know which tribe—and, of course, a regular. He once said to me that’s he probably eaten more of our breakfasts than his own mother’s, though he wouldn’t say which he preferred. “Let’s just say she thought rattlesnake was a fine substitute for bacon and leave it at that,” he told me.

  I get him some coffee and take his order. More customers trickle in, every one of whom I know by name. “Morning, Mayor,” I say, filling his cup. “The usual?”

  Mayor Leo Adams beams at me. “Thank you, Jace, that would be wonderful.” Mayor Leo—that’s what everyone calls him—beams a lot, which is probably one of the reasons he’s had the job for so long. He’s got a bit of a paunch, a wide smile, and two wiry tufts of gray hair that stick up on either side of a bald head; he looks a little like a retired clown.

  “How about you, Mr. Falzone?” Today Mayor Leo’s having breakfast with my other boss, the one that owns the hardware store.

  “Please, Jace, I told you—call me Donny.” His smile is as wide as the Mayor’s, but there’s a predatory gleam to it. Donny Falzone may be in his sixties, but he keeps his mane of silver hair immaculately groomed, the top two buttons on his shirts undone, and at least a pound and a half of gold jewelry on his neck and fingers. Like they say, there’s no wolf like an old wolf. He’s charming and polite, but I try not to bend over when he’s around.

  The men wait until I’ve left before resuming their conversation, and talk in low voices when they do. Donny’s one of the town’s movers and shakers, and always seems to have two or three people hanging around him at any given time. Every small town has one, I guess, a local dispenser of wisdom and advice to whom people naturally gravitate. I’ve always wondered why he’s never run for mayor himself; I guess some people are just more comfortable behind the scenes.

  It gets busier after that, but thankfully Terrance and his buddies prefer to sleep in. That’s good; I’m not sure I can handle any more needling after what happened last night. My conviction that I was imagining things erodes over the course of the morning with little surges of memory. I keep seeing the Sword’s eyes drilling into mine from behind that mask, staring right into my soul. Feeling that connection you get when someone does that to you face to face.

  Now, here’s the really weird part. I keep thinking, Why her?

  The Sword of Midnight is a recurring but minor character. I’ve never felt any kind of deep link with her before. So why her and not Red Dog?

  “Because insanity and consistency don’t really get along,” I mutter to myself. I’m out back in the alley on my break, chewing on a breakfast burrito and trying to convince myself I’m not relapsing. “In fact, they probably can’t spend five minutes in the same room without one of them making a snotty remark and the other one pulling a knife.”

  But that’s not strictly true, I argue back silently. Madness, like everything else, tends to follow patterns. Those patterns might shift and change focus, but they’re almost never completely random. So what’s the pattern here? What am I trying to tell myself?

  My thoughts are interrupted by a wheezing old pickup pulling into the al
ley and parking next to the door. Ken Tanaka gets out and gives me a curt nod. I nod back. Ken and I dated briefly, but it didn’t work out; he had certain old-fashioned ideas about how a woman was supposed to act around a man, and I had a wicked left hook. We try to be civil around each other, but he’s not exactly one of my biggest fans.

  I go inside and tell Therese the morning food delivery’s here, then make the rounds with the coffee pot. A booth that was empty is now occupied by our local physician, Doctor Peter Adams, and a redheaded woman I don’t know.

  “Hey, Doctor Pete,” I say. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage, and sourdough toast?”

  “Yes, please,” he says with a smile. Doctor Pete is Terrance’s twin brother, and about the only thing they have in common is their appearance. I have to admit to having a little crush on the Doc, though I’ve never done anything about it. With my judgment, I’d probably wind up dating Terrance by mistake.

  “Hi,” I say to the redhead. She’s quite stunning, with the kind of alabaster complexion that looks ethereal instead of just pale. “You look familiar—haven’t I seen you over by the school?”

  She gives me a wide smile. “Yes, I’ve just started there. Athena Shaker.” She offers me her hand and I take it. Her grip is cool and strong.

  “Jace Valchek. Welcome to town, Athena. What do you teach?”

  “History and biology, mostly.”

  “Interesting mix.”

  She shrugs. “I like to know how things grow, I guess. In fact, I’m trying to get a community garden started down by the baseball field.”

  “Well, there’s no shortage of farmers here; you’ll get plenty of advice, if nothing else. What can I get for you?”

  She orders a ham omelette and orange juice, then goes back to talking to Doctor Pete. I feel a twinge of envy, but push it away. About the only relationship I can handle right now is the one I have with Galahad, and maybe caffeine. No, definitely caffeine.

  The hours plod by. People come and go. I take orders, bring food, clear away empty plates. I catch Phil giving me dark looks more than once, though I have no idea what I’ve done to piss him off.