Kids shrieked with laughter as they dodged and splashed in the dozens of jets spouting water in varying heights.
“Got Drio a ticket for tonight after the drop.” Rohan sat down beside me.
I nodded, my attention on a little girl, maybe two or three, naked and dancing like a fiend through the plumes of water.
“Was that you?” he asked.
“I wasn’t that young when they redid the park and put this fountain in, so no nudity for me. No, wait, I lie. But that was much later and it was a dare.”
“Leo?”
“Good guess.” The little girl jumped up and down in the fountain, her laughter shaking her plump belly. I smiled. “Ari and I had many the water fight here.” I stood up, my hand extended. “Come on. I need to be in a happy place right now. I’ll tell you what I learned there.”
The glass and steel dome of the Bloedel Conservatory rose up from behind the fountain like a perky nipple. We jogged down the short flight of stairs by the large Canadian flag waving in the breeze, and around to the front of the building, hit with the warm, moist air piping out of the dome.
“Did you ever have a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine?” I said.
“That thing used to frustrate the fuck out of me. It took half an hour of serious grinding to get a fraction of an inch of ice, but those snow cones looked so cool on TV.”
“I know. All that effort for basically nothing and you’d be deaf at the end of it.” I nodded at the food truck selling artisan shaved ice parked by the front doors. “They’re charging a fortune. We should start a handmade shaved ice truck, but use those things to make them. Tap into the nostalgia factor.”
“Sell the interminable wait as half the attraction,” Rohan said, holding the door for me.
“World domination through ice. And making people smile on a regular basis. That would be a nice change.”
The world transformed from a sunny Canadian day to a tropical bubble, the humid air fragrant with rich earth and tropical flowers.
“Rough time with the incident?”
I nodded and paid our admission and we stepped through the turnstile onto the path marked with one-way directional arrows.
Rohan craned his neck up to the tree canopy brushing the condensation-streaked glass panels. “Whoa.”
The flagstone path wove past leafy ferns jutting out of rock beds and Birds of Paradise plants splashing red at our feet, leading us to the small wooden post and rope bridge. Rushing water from a tiny falls splashed into a pool on our right, while on our left was another pond where fat koi swam lazily in ripples of sunlight, framed by spikes of bamboo.
Blue and red parrots cuddled on a branch next to giant fronds of plantain banana plants that made me feel like I was in A Bug’s Life.
“You have a destination?” Rohan said, sidestepping the tourists reading instructional notices about the ecosystem.
“This way.”
Tiny white hummingbirds swooped and darted by my head, cawing out to the plump orange fuzzball birds flapping past, cheeping. A brilliant blue and gold parrot carving away at a hunk of wood eyed us suspiciously.
“Did you have a favorite place as a kid?” I asked.
“My mom’s studio.” Rohan ducked to avoid a blur of brown feathers careening at him. “I fell asleep more times than I could count listening to her and her recording engineer bickering at the soundboard.”
I led him to a carved wooden gazebo. We sank onto the bench waiting for a family taking selfies to pass by, soaking in the hum of generators, chatter, and twittering escalating in volume from the doves and finches darting overhead.
Once we had some privacy, I told him about Jake. “The thing that triggers Sweet Tooth? I think it’s an addictive personality. Take Naomi, for example. In college she was into extreme sports. Now she’s a workaholic. When she had her episode she was acting a lot like she did when she was younger: dangerous stunts, not giving a damn about her own safety, going all full tilt. Jake’s compulsive behavior was around food. The drug sparked a serious loss of control in both of them in ways that were fundamental to issues they were already dealing with.”
“Christina doesn’t have that type of personality?”
“No. We’ve been lucky that it didn’t adversely affect more people.” Two tiny yellow birds with orange faces frolicked in a rock pool by our feet. “That looks fun,” I said.
“Do you ever wish you were oblivious to all this?” he asked.
“Allowed to frolic my way through life?”
“Something like that.”
I pulled him to his feet. “No. I did that, remember? Ultimately, I’d rather be the one slaying monsters than the one not knowing to look under the bed.”
He smiled like my answer pleased him.
Passing cacti and some plant dripping with fuzzy pink pods, we stopped at the final wooden perch before the exit. I made him say goodbye to Charlotte, the flame-colored parrot with the electric blue neck plumage, inhaled one last breath of the tropics, and headed outside to the hazy panorama of the city spread out before us, over the pine, fir, and cypress trees stretching out to the edge of the park.
We peeked over the bridge at the top of a tall waterfall, ridged with paths leading down to the manicured gardens below. Neatly landscaped flower beds in a riot of colors were interspersed with a lazy stream and stepping stones. A bevy of brides jostled for the best photo op for their wedding party.
Passing the fountain once more on our way back to our cars, I spread my arms wide, turning my face to the mist. Rohan swung me up in his arms.
“Rohan Liam Mitra, don’t you dare.” I tightened my hold on him. “If I go down, you’re coming with me.”
“That’s cute.” His lips brushed against my ears. “But I know your ticklish spots.”
Bastard proved it, too. I shrieked, letting go of him to whack his hands away and stop the torture. He took grievous advantage and tossed me into the water. I landed on a jet that fired up–right up my ass.
Rohan doubled over laughing, half-heartedly fighting me as I dragged him in. Parents smiled indulgently. One cow-licked little guy in a red aqua suit stared at Rohan with wide eyes as my darling boyfriend liberally splashed me with long sweeps of his leg. “Wanna help?” Rohan asked.
The kid hesitated for a second then let me have it, jumping up and down in a frenzy. Water flew up my nose.
“That’s it! Water fight!” I corralled a bunch of youngsters onto my team and the war was on. My clothes must have absorbed about seventeen pounds of fountain juice because when I finally sloshed my way out of there, water streamed off me like a river.
I acked on the hair plastered to my mouth and Rohan snickered. “Shut up. You look like a drowned rat, too.” I popped my trunk, pulling out the thick beach blanket that Ari and I kept there along with our first aid supplies and an emergency road kit.
Rohan shook himself, more dog than rat. “You got another one of those?”
I closed the trunk and wrapped the blanket around me. “Nope.”
He sat on the hood of his car, parked next to my Honda, and wrung out his shirt. “I can’t drive back like this. Shelby will get wet.”
“Isn’t that your dream?” I waggled my eyebrows. “I’m sure you could find somewhere private to service her. Lube her up. Rotate her tires.”
“Ha. Ha. Come on. Let me use that.”
“No can do. So sorry.” I pulled the blanket tight around me. “You’re a creative boy. You’ll think of something.” I finger-waved, got in my car, and with a twist of the ignition, roared off.
Chapter 11
The drop was scheduled to take place at 6:30PM in Crab Park, a stretch of green on the edge of Gastown. I stared out the window at the crowds milling on the sidewalks in Vancouver’s downtown east side. It was home to our most marginalized citizens, many of them homeless, drug addicted, or forced to turn to prostitution to survive. After passing one of the open “markets,” with the goods on offer set out on blankets on the grimy sidewalk or stuf
fed in trash bags and shopping carts, we hit the overpass leading to the waterfront park.
Chinese stone lions carved in intricate detail flanked each side of the road like sentinels. Beyond it, the Burrard Inlet winked blue in the sunlight.
Rohan parked my Honda, the more nondescript of our cars, in a small lot across from the park facing a stand of trees. To our left were the train tracks with an endless stretch of parked railcars, and behind that, gentrified condos in retrofitted brick buildings that still bore traces of their original use. Faded ads painted directly on the bricks proclaimed “janitorial supplies” or “wholesale grocers.”
The most mouthwatering smell of BBQ hit us when we exited the car.
We looped around to the water side of the park. Shipping containers in rusts and greens were stacked under the towering cranes at the port terminal directly east. There was the occasional distant siren and scrape of metal wheels and pulleys from the cranes.
Cyclists and joggers used the seawall path, exercising to the cry of seagulls. This stretch of the seawall was practically empty compared to deeper in the downtown core to our west. Even fewer people were in the park itself. It was hard to believe that thousands were close by in densely packed glass office towers, under the towering sails of the Pan Pacific hotel that was designed like a giant ship, or milling around the plaza that was home to the Olympic flame from when we’d hosted the 2010 Games.
Mounds of bright yellow sulfur were stockpiled across the Inlet, with the North Shore mountains looming over it all.
I buttoned up my cardigan against the breeze drifting off the water.
Even though Ro and I had shown up to the drop early, we had no idea if the park was already being watched. Crab Park itself wasn’t particularly exciting. Mostly grass, there was that one stand of trees with a scraggly rock garden. Some vagrant with matted hair and dirty clothes slept the snorey sleep of the drunk on one of the scattered wooden benches.
I had to check twice to confirm it was Drio, then I grimaced like a snotty brat. “Do we have to stay here?” I picked up my feet, stepping gingerly like the park could give me cooties. “I want ice cream.”
“Anything for my girl.”
Gagging loudly at Ro’s earnest–and bullshit–tone would have blown the charade so I settled for a soft snort.
We followed the path up to the small stone marker anchoring the rock garden, stopping to guess the language written on its plaque. Really we were checking on the navy backpack full of cash that Drio had tossed into the bushes under a tall pine tree behind the monument. He’d gotten here a while ago with the cash-filled backpack, put it in the drop spot, and then hung around in his guise as a homeless man to keep an eye on it until Candyman showed with the drugs. It was beat up and dirty enough that no one was going to want to abscond with it. To the casual observer, it would look like the backpack had been stolen and dumped here.
Keeping up my whiny persona, I made Rohan go back to the car.
“You sure Drio will spot the guy? His eyes were closed.” I wriggled in my seat.
“Are you going to fidget the entire time?”
“It’s possible.” My stomach growled and Ro shot me an exasperated look. “What? I’m hungry.”
“I’ll feed you after.” He reached across me and rolled up the window. Not that it helped because the car now smelled of grilled meat.
I pulled a granola bar out of my purse. Ro gazed longingly at it and even though I tsked him, I slapped the extra one I’d started carrying for him into his palm.
He flipped over the package. “This is a real granola bar. Not even dipped in chocolatey coating or with a ton of chemicals and sugar.”
“Yeah, you’ve broken me. Happy?”
“Yup,” he said, munching away.
The drop time came and went. At 6:40, a black Trans Am came off the overpass and turned the corner by the trees to the park. It was out of our sight line but three minutes later, Drio texted the word Go.
The Trans Am must have pulled a U-turn because it blew by us as we pulled out of the lot. Rohan proved quite adept at blending in traffic farther back, while keeping the car in view.
“Trained, were we?” I said.
“Oh yeah. The driving module rocked.”
Hmm. Maybe I could make them teach me all the cool things I’d missed. Not until I’d exposed all the corruption and destroyed Rabbi Mandelbaum obviously, but after that. It was important to make plans for the future.
I fiddled with the radio until I found Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage.” I relaxed back against my seat, planting my feet on the dashboard. “Appropriate music achieved. Car chase away.”
The Trans Am darted down Powell Street. Rohan trailed it, keeping to just above the speed limit with deft surety. Our path took us past one-story businesses painted in colorful murals from the yearly mural festival, Sugar Mountain tent city set up across from the sugar refinery, and a jumble of auto repair shops, light industrial factories, and the microbreweries popping up everywhere in town.
We turned left. Traffic slowed to a crawl, down to a single lane due to construction. I drummed my fingers on the door. “I could run after it faster.”
Rohan honked at the bus that cut in front of us, blocking our view of the Trans Am. For several tense blocks we couldn’t tell whether or not the car had turned off anywhere, but we caught up with it around the back of Playland.
Right before the Second Narrows Bridge, the driver cut across two lanes of traffic to the off-ramp. Rohan veered sharply and I careened into the door. “We’ve been made,” he said.
The Trans Am blew through a three-way stop, flying under an underpass and whipping down a narrow service road.
I pointed out the window. “À la peanut butter sandwiches.” I blew out one of the Trans Am’s back tires. The car fishtailed, but the driver regained control.
I fired again and he jumped a curb, drifting sideways into a parking lot and crashing into one of the trees planted in a semi-circle along the fringes. The hood crumpled with a hiss.
Rohan screeched to a stop. “Nice work, Mumford.”
“‘Amazing Mumford,’ thank you very much.” I grinned, happy he’d gotten my Sesame Street reference. Flinging my door open, I strolled toward the car and the driver scrambling out, who sported a Metallica T-shirt and a mullet. The haircut was evil, but he didn’t sprout horns or shoot fire and pestilence.
“You human?” I said.
“The fuck kind of question is that?” He stomped around his car, running a hand over his busted-up vehicle like he might cry. Rohan’s expression was pure sympathy.
Sheesh.
“You trying to get me killed, lady? Throwing nails or whatever is illegal.”
“Yeah?” I grabbed the navy backpack off of the passenger seat. “So’s couriering for drug dealers.”
He frowned. “Huh? I got paid to go to the park and outrun anyone who followed me. Sure as hell not getting my bonus now.”
I unzipped the backpack. Rolled up newspapers with the same weight as our stacks of cash spilled out. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
Rohan slammed the guy against the Trans Am’s door. “Who paid you?”
“Some dude. Came to the Go-Cart track where I work.” The man he described, white, average height, short brown hair, jeans, jean jacket could have been any one of a million people.
Rohan tossed him away. The driver fell on his ass, threatening lawsuits. Ro turned back with a cold smile. “You’re going to forget this ever happened or I will find you. Got it?”
The driver threw up his hands. “Yeah, man. No problem.”
I took my car keys away from Ro and tossed him my burner phone. “Call Drio.”
Soon as we were back in the car, Ro hit the speakerphone button. “What happened?”
“Guy showed up,” Drio said. “Walked over to the monument, stared at it a second, and left. Didn’t take anything with him, but the backpack was gone.”
“Any drugs?” I pulled out of the lot.
“No. Candyman must have found out about the wreta.”
“You headed for the airport?” Ro said.
“Yeah, you bastard.” Drio hung up.
“Glove compartment,” I said.
Rohan opened it and removed a small device. He turned it on. “Hello, Plan B.”
We’d gone in to the drop assuming a double-cross, which was why I’d sewn a tracker into the backpack. If Trans Am dude hadn’t taken the backpack, then Candyman must have portalled it out of there, confirming him as another demon. The blinking dot on the tracking screen showed an address not far from the wreta house, over by Boundary Road, the street delineating the border between Vancouver and Burnaby.
We hit the address up that night for maximum skulking.
In the daytime, this cozy cul-de-sac would have been filled with kids riding bikes or playing street hockey, overseen by neighborhood watch, but at 2AM, everyone was snug in their beds. We blended into the shadows in our all-black attire and black leather gloves.
The house was a cookie cutter replica of its boxy neighbors. If there was a ward on it, it was nothing we could sense and wasn’t designed to keep Rasha out. Rohan made short work of the lock on the back door, and we crept inside, flashlights on. The place was minimally furnished but someone lived here: there were a few dirty dishes in the sink, some cigarette butts in the ashtray in the living room, and a rumpled bed.
Glass shattered in the basement. We ran downstairs, flicking on the light, and jumping the stairs two at a time.
The single unfinished room with its concrete floor and exposed insulation between the joists was a disaster. Glass was smashed on the floor and boxes of corn starch were ripped open and strewn over the walls and floor like a Rorschach test.
The oshk was using its single human arm to rip apart a moonshine-type still with cattle prods attached to it. Shit, no. I was not being Tased like a side of beef.
Rohan and I rushed the demon. Ro executed a roundhouse kick, slicing its arm off, while I trapped it in a web of current, kicking the cattle prod into the corner out of its reach.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 98
