The Undead Detective Bites

by Jennifer Hilt

  Nevada gives me hives. I scratched my forearm before returning my hand to the wheel. My car, a custom hybrid, was uncharacteristically full. Usually it was just me in my low-slung two-seater, but now Ben slumbered in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window. With his neck exposed, his jugular was tantalizingly close.

  Okay, even vampires struggle with emotional eating.

  Mr. Figgles snored, belly up, in Ben’s arms. The tyrant shih tzu was a rescue and Ben’s idea. The dog grudgingly rescinded his alpha status in my presence. To make up for the complex that gave him, Mr. Figgles hated groomers and anyone with the word “sitter” attached to their name. His favorite pastime was sneaking off to shit in Ben’s leather loafers. The dog wisely avoided my possessions.

  The steep black mountains sped by, illuminated only by the full moon. I was going too fast to see the stars, but I knew they’d be there littering the sky when I stopped. My ears popped as we gained elevation, and even my engine whined.

  I opened the window a crack when we headed into the last mountain pass before Nowhere. My long, dark hair flew around my head; tucking it behind my ears was futile. I closed the window. My leather jacket and jeans gave me no protection against the frigid mountain air. This time of year snow was starting to fall at the highest elevations.

  Coming back here was scientific inquiry, nothing more. No, I had absolutely no ties to this place. I would get in, figure out if Glytr had really infiltrated the community, collect some data and get the hell out. I’d most likely get a paper about this published in a prestigious journal. Maybe I’d get another humanitarian award from UCLA. Small victories—I loved the irony of those coming to a vamp.

  Honestly, though, I was kidding myself. I’d be stepping out of my safe, controlled space at UCLA for certain chaos. Vampires have reputations as drama queens but when you’ve been around as long as I have, avoiding drama is the trick. Sure, that was my real reason for staying as far away from Nowhere as possible.

  Did Fang have anything to do with my return to Nowhere? There was no love lost between him and Elspeth. Shifters and vampires were natural enemies, anything other than disdain between the two species was highly suspicious from both parties. No, Elsbeth hadn’t involved Fang. Still I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been following my career in LA from afar.

  The nighttime drive was a perfect metaphor for how I felt about this trip. Sure, my vamp eyesight was far superior to a humans’ but hurling along at eighty miles per hour was unsettling when I was hardwired to horse-drawn carriages from my Victorian past. This trip still felt like I was charging into quicksand. It didn’t take my genius IQ to figure out why. My unease all had to do with a shifter named Fang.

  I approached a giant two-story billboard so out of place in the dark shadows that at first I wondered if I was dreaming. Then I remembered that never happens. Dreams belong to the living.

  I slowed down, easing my car off the side of the road onto gravel. I flinched, imagining what that would do to my car’s silver finish. I sat there staring at the sign with the car idling. Ben slept on. Mr. Figgles farted. Peace flowed through me with the three of us safely in the car. Outside it was another matter.

  Twin Moons Casino. Games. Entertainment. Live Buffets.

  Underneath the words, an image of a cowgirl wearing a short skirt leaned over, giving me a peek at her ass. She held a lasso in her hand, and a trickle of blood dripped from her ruby-red lips. Her lip color and the blood were done in some kind of glitzy paint which my car headlights caught just right. Her disturbingly young appearance was another reminder that paranormals loved youth as much as humans.

  Wow. According to the date, this casino was opening that weekend. It was really happening. I remembered hearing about this idea ten years before. Then, it had seemed like a pipe dream at most. Now here was the sign in all its gaudy glory.

  With Las Vegas the gambling mecca of Nevada for paranormals, any attempts to spread that wealth beyond the city limits was shunned. Hades might not be out touring her casinos but the long arm of her interests kept private development beyond her immediate realm stunted. Nowhere was far enough from Vegas that it would never be a competitor but still I would bet a pint of fresh blood that Hades had a cut of any casino revenues to prevent any “accidental” fires. Contrary to popular belief, the protection racket wasn’t an invention of human mobsters. They’d only borrowed it from the supernatural monsters already applying the principles well.

  Movement in the scrub brush to the far left caught my attention.

  A wolf, lanky and silver furred, considered me from the other side of the road. He loped across the highway in front of me, and his gray-colored eyes gleamed into my headlights before he disappeared into the vast desert night again. He didn’t slow down or pause.

  I knew this wolf.

  His gait was familiar, but his coloring was all wrong. My wolf’s pelt had been dark. This one was silver gray. Was it my imagination that he seemed to recognize me, or was that just curiosity?

  The wind gusted suddenly with an accompanying howl, an ominous sound that wasn’t from any creature I’d heard before. I shivered and it wasn’t only from the cold.

  A Djinn or red dust devil swirled up from the parking lot gravel, materializing not far from my front tire.

  As if my night wasn’t stressful enough.

  Now this.

  I did not have time for Homer, my own little personal demon. Dust devils were formed from unhappy fragments of lost souls drifting around searching for something in the material world to glom onto. You know that strange feeling you get that something is behind you but when you turn around there’s no one there? That’s a fragment. Alone they don’t cause problems.

  All that changes when enough of them lumped together with the strongest force feeding off the weaker ones. Typhoons, tornados and sandstorms are often the result of a Djinn. In the Southwest, they materialize as dust devils. The predominant force haunts someone or something in the material world. Their entire goal is to wreak havoc. They are basically the equivalent of online trolls in the paranormal world.

  Homer. He was only knee high but his eyes glowed red. He reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil from the old Warner Brothers cartoon. I never told him that. He’d be crushed. As it was, he was like a recurring emotional paper cut.

  Sparks shot off Homer as he advanced. Did I mention Djinns are also electrical powerhouses? He couldn’t kill me but he could cause me some serious pain and slow me down. Just what my night needed when I had a potential epidemic to stop. Not to mention the problems he caused with my electronics.

  I glowered.

  “What the fuck, Homer? You’re following me?” I shoved my hands into my leather jacket pockets, feeling for a weapon. All I found was hand sanitizer and a nail file. It appeared I was going to be MacGyvering my way out of this one.

  Trouble was, Djinn looked like a brown potato with glowing beady eyes, spindly arms and a toothy mouth. Below his mid chest level was just a whirl of dirt, so I never knew the rest of his composition. This always distracted me a bit as I tried to get a peek, out of scientific curiosity of course. And it’s hard to take a potato seriously even with teeth, especially if that potato is made of dirt. His voice was high-pitched and nasal like a preteen boy. Yep, this Djinn was a whiner.

  He slowed. Sparks fell from him like a little shower. “I’ve got a warning for you.”

  “Djinns aren’t messengers,” I said.

  They were too loosely bound for that. But as they were motivated by anything that elevated their own importance, it wasn’t impossible. Usually Homer just showed and talked some shit. He had his pride after all. I admired his pluck but now I just didn’t have the time for this.

  My Djinn looked smug. Smug! I tell you. It must be his damned glowing eyes. “Winter is coming, Silverthorne.” A fresh volley of sparks shot from his mouth to accompany this pronouncement.

  “It’s late October.” I squinted at the Djinn impatiently. “Of course, wint
er is coming. You have anything more specific than that?” I flipped the top of the hand sanitizer tube in my pocket. “Why don’t you whirl around back out into the desert and find some poor jackrabbit to zap?”

  “Vampire, she’s coming. It’s too late for you.” More spinning. More sparks.

  I made a show of glancing around. “Are you filming this? Because if this is for a YouTube video, swear to God, I do not have time.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here.” He whirled closer. “You know the rules.”

  “I’m over two hundred years old. You’re not my keeper or my maker.” Actually, I was the tiniest bit concerned that Homer was here so quickly. It was like he hitched a ride in my trunk. There was a serious surplus of unhappy spirits drifting around the desert for him to materialize so quickly. That worried me. Was it an effect of Glytr’s despair spreading through the community?

  I didn’t ask who the “she” was. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out since the phone call.

  “Why are you telling me this? You’re always going on and on about my demise. I’d think you’d be glad.” I paused.

  It was hard to be certain with his fiery glow, but I swore Homer blushed.

  “You’re worried about me,” I said slowly. My stomach felt slippery. “Homer, am I an exclusive for you?”

  He whirled less violently. His glowing eyes were fixed on the night sky.

  I shook my head.

  This Djinn had made an amateur move by focusing all his energies on me. That was why I wasn’t bothered by his visits on a semi-regular basis. Usually he showed up, gave me a very clichéd villainy spiel, shorted out my electronics and whirled away promising my days were numbered.

  It was a hassle but there were many annoying things about immortality. Magazine subscription notices for one. In a moment of weakness, I’d subscribed to a celebrity tabloid. Now decades later I was still getting renewal notices along with my scientific journals.

  But back to Homer—being exclusive meant that if I ceased to exist so did he. This was on him. Staking was the means to kill me but not at all easy to do. I’d been around a while, I’d survived a good deal of shit. But if I were to be obliterated, my Djinn would dissolve into one of those luckless spirits. He’d never again surface such as he is now. He’d be a voiceless, faceless entity adding power to some other Djinn. Tough luck for him and a very long way to spend eternity. Most Djinns haunted a few beings at once. My Djinn’s exclusivity deal with a higher-level demon was kinda sweet if you didn’t mind the stalking.

  In my life, such as it is, I don’t have many long-term relationships. Compared to immortality, a human lifespan lasts as long as a box of good chocolates—not the drugstore kind.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve much to accomplish before sunrise. I appreciate the warning. I’ll keep an eye out for “Winter.” In the meantime, can we skip the part where you short out something of mine? In case you haven’t noticed, replacing my iPhone is hardly going to be an option out here.”

  Homer glowed brighter and whirled faster. “Ha! Too bad, Vampire. Feel my wrath!”

  I pulled out the hand sanitizer, aimed it hard at the Djinn’s glowing eyes. I squeezed the contents with all my might.

  Thanks to my considerable grip, the liquid arced out of the tube. And in my only good news of the night so far, it scored a direct hit in the Djinn’s eyes.

  More showers of sparks erupted but the considerable ball of energy was disintegrating. A swirling gust of red dust no longer swirled tightly around him. Instead it slowed and spread out like a spinning top unwinding.

  “You’ll be sorry!” The Djinn’s wailing faded out with the fury of a flushing toilet. It was like the melting witch on The Wizard of Oz.

  Maybe I was too big a fan of pop culture.

  Only a small pile of glowing embers remained. I walked over and put my hands over the fire to warm them, but the heat was fading fast.

  I fetched a sleepy Mr. Figgles from the car. His body was relaxed and warm from cuddling up with Ben. He flopped in my arms like melted cheese. I set him down by the now cooled embers.

  “Do your business,” I directed the dog. “Wouldn’t want to start a brush fire out here.”

  Mr. Figgles relieved himself on the smoldering Djinn ashes but insisted I carry him back to the car. I resettled him with Ben, who managed to not even wake up.

  I pulled my iPhone from my back pocket as I crossed back to the driver’s side. Wisps of smoke trailed from the edges of the phone. That fucker. It was toast.

  I tossed the useless device into the scrub brush.

  I climbed back in my car, grateful the radio still worked. I listened to Patsy Cline mourn cheatin’ hearts against the black desert night sky all the way into Nowhere.

  2

  The moon was still bright and above the mountains when I pulled into the Nowhere Motel. I flexed my fingers. I’d been gripping the steering wheel hard since I left I-80. The roads were twisty and bare except for occasional snowflakes that skittered across the path of my headlights.

  The Nowhere motel was a strip of nine freestanding casitas with a one-story office and living quarters set a little apart. The place was from an era before big chain motels which promised a quick breakfast and free cable television. Most of the guests were truckers stuck here when the mountain passes snowed in. Soon this would be pretty common, but right now my car was only the second vehicle in the lot.

  I was glad Ben brought our own linens. It was entirely possible the ones in use here were still the same from the last time I stayed here a decade ago.

  Against the night sky, the red neon “vacancy” sign flicked intermittently. It emitted a buzz that didn’t sound too healthy either. I certainly wasn’t glad to be away from LA, but I did admit it was good to see the Milky Way again. Now that was the same as it was a decade, fifty years, a century ago. I breathed out a sigh as the sight filled me with something more than LA pollution. Yes, the world I knew had changed a lot in the last two centuries, but the night sky never changed.

  “We’re here.” I gave Ben’s shoulder a gentle shake. Mr. Figgles cracked open one eye. He didn’t look pleased.

  “Already? Cool.” Ben rubbed his face with his hands. With his dark hair mussed, he looked even younger than his mid-twenties. Sure, he was easy on the eyes but he had other qualities that made him the best assistant I’d ever had.

  He rubbed noses with Mr. Figgles. My chest tightened in anxiety. I’d brought my human into a paranormal community. Right now, it seemed on par with a box of glazed donuts at a Weight Watchers meeting.

  Ben got out, stretching his arms over his head. A gap of pale skin beneath his button-down shirt and the top of his jeans appeared. I felt irritated with him for being so young. It wasn’t his fault he was vulnerable. Everyone I spent time with was younger than me.

  He glanced around the bare night sky and motel before directing the shih tzu toward a patch of shallow weeds. “We’re not in LA anymore, that’s for sure. I bet this is the original sign for this place. Do you think it’s for sale? For the right price, of course.”

  One of Ben’s many grand plans was to open a dog grooming salon and coffee shop. He was forever acquiring odd design bits and storing them in his Van Nuys storage facility. I suspected much of his salary was wrapped up in that storage shed. Since I’d be outliving him, I never bothered discussing money management with him.

  Ben spent his off weekends hunting for early twentieth century memorabilia. He trucked to Palm Springs once a year for their annual Atomic Ranch tour of homes, but I never understood the human need to romanticize earlier times in history.

  Having experienced many of them, I welcomed indoor plumbing, modern medicine, climate controlled housing and transportation not powered by an animal that excreted every five steps. I didn’t get the fascination with the fifties in particular. Besides the occasional poodle skirt, there was nothing about that era to enjoy.

  “The owner is a bear shifter named Griz. I think he’d so
oner cut his balls off than part with a single tumbleweed on this property. And best to skip shaking hands while we’re here for introductions. Most paranormal find them annoying. Takes forever to get rid of the human scents all over their hand.”

  Having finished his business, Mr. Figgles waited for Ben to scoop him up again. I worked so much I rarely saw my assistant and dog outside our house. I’d mistakenly assumed Mr. Figgles was more active in the wider world. He appeared to do just as little as he did inside my condo.

  The only other vehicle in the parking lot was Griz’s old Ford pickup truck that he’d driven years ago.

  We crossed the parking lot with the frost crunching under our feet. I brushed the silly thought away that it sounded ominous. Ben’s drama was rubbing off on me. A wind gust rattled the nearby scrub brush.

  I held the outer office door open for Ben and Mr. Figgles. When I opened it, the door chimed with an off-key bell. Inside, the front office was empty, surprising since I remembered Griz used to monitor the comings and goings with a hawk-like efficiency.

  The only furnishings were a mostly picked over rack of pamphlets, an empty coffee pot and a plate of powdered donut crumbs sitting on the counter. Behind the counter, a road map of Nevada hung on one wall next to an outdated pinup calendar of some off-brand motor oil from thirty years earlier. The radio on the desk cut in and out with some cowboy’s twang about lost love. It wasn’t a song I recognized. Everything looked the same as it did a decade ago only with more cobwebs.

  I rang the bell on the desk, drumming my fingers on the counter. Something was off. Bear shifters are just as territorial as all the other shifters. I’m sure he noticed us. It wasn’t like this place was overwhelmed with guests.

  Then it hit me.

  The delicious scent filled my lungs, scattering out to my senses, providing a delicious rush.

  Blood.

  The sharp tangy smell of fresh blood.

  Fuck.

  I leaped over the counter, heading toward the door marked ‘private.’

  “Stay here,” I yelled to Ben over my shoulder. “And call the sheriff’s office.”