Fool's Gold

by Jaye Wells

  “Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows suggestively.

  “I said no.” Not just no, I thought. Hell, no.

  “Let me give you my card anyway.” He pulled a greasy rectangle of paper from a stack at his elbow. “When you change your mind, call me. There’s vamps out there’d pay good money to see a prime piece like you fangin’ some pole.”

  Slade laughed out loud this time. I turned to him with an eyebrow raised. The porn king wiggled his eyebrows again, pointing a bony finger at Slade. “Don’t laugh, good-lookin’. I was talking to you.”

  One minute, Slade stood next to me with his mouth agape and his cheeks red. The next, the bell over the door rang and I got a nice view of Slade’s ass before it disappeared.

  Back in the car, Slade’s tight jaw hinted he was in no mood to be teased about Larry’s parting shot. So, I bit my lip and avoided looking at him while I settled into my seat. He turned on the ignition before he finally spoke.

  “I think we should hit Zeke’s address tomorrow. I don’t want to chance getting caught there near sunrise if shit goes down.”

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was about two hours until sunrise. Not a big deal for me, but getting caught at sunup would be an issue for my unwilling partner. The only benefit of being mixed-blood was my ability to be in the sun without suffering debilitating pain. Granted, it weakened me, but I didn’t have to dive for shelter like every other vamp on the planet. “Makes sense.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Liquid or solid?” I asked.

  Slade smiled for the first time since I met him. “Solid. I fed earlier.”

  “Now that you mention it, I could use a burger.”

  He put the car in gear. “I know just the place.”

  Slade insisted we go to the window to order, instead of using the drive thru. Since I’d never been to In-N-Out Burger before, he insisted on ordering me something called a “Double-Double” with “large fries, well done.” I wasn’t sure exactly what any of that meant, but the heavenly aroma of grilled beef made my carnivore’s heart go pitter-patter.

  The chick in the orange apron handed over a box overflowing with burgers and cardboard boats filled with golden fries. Slade carried the feast to a small sitting area next to the parking lot.

  He didn’t wait for me to sit before digging into his food. I smiled at the utterly satisfied sounds escaping between his bites. For someone who’d come across so cold all night, Slade seemed to have a passion for food. He finally slowed down enough to notice I hadn’t tried mine. He pointed at the box with his own burger. “Dig in,” he said over a mouthful.

  I wouldn’t quite call the experience orgasmic, but it was a near thing. “Godsdamn!” I said after I’d inhaled half the thing.

  “Right?” Slade said, shoving two fries into his mouth.

  We spent a few minutes munching companionably, watching cars pass by on Foothill Boulevard. Finally, I washed down my last bite with a gulp of cold soda. I was feeling good. Not just because of the burgers, either. What had started out as a disaster of a first mission—what with Slade being an ass—had turned into a pretty decent night.

  “Slade?” I asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think we should review what we know so far?”

  He grimaced, as if I’d just brought up a taboo subject. “Not much to review.”

  “But we have Zeke’s personnel file. Maybe we should go through it for clues. You know, proof he’s the one whose threatening the Dominae.”

  Slade raised an eyebrow. “Clues? Sabina, we’re not detectives.” He leaned in, whispering so the people at other tables wouldn’t overhear. “We’re assassins. It’s not up to us to prove or deny Zeke’s guilt. It’s up to us to end him. Period.”

  “But the guy on the video was wearing a mask. How can we be sure it’s this Zeke guy? After all, the perp could have opened the bank account under Zeke’s name to throw us off his trail.”

  Slade cocked his head. “Slow down, Kojak. We’re assassins, not detectives.”

  My face went hot at his dismissive tone. Ignoring him, I opened the file. Zeke’s job application was on top. I scanned the page, looking for something. What, I had no idea. I scanned past the work history, since we already knew his last place of employment. Finally, my eyes landed on his chicken-scratched answers to a series of questions.

  I snorted. “Listen to this. ‘Why do you want to work at T&A Video?’” I looked up to make sure Slade was paying attention. He was taking a drink from his soda, but his eyes widened in a facsimile of real interest. “Zeke said, ‘Cause I like to watch people fucking.’”

  Slade spewed a mouthful of soda across the table. “At least he’s honest,” he said once he’d stopped choking.

  I smiled and continued. “‘Please discuss your previous experience in the adult film industry.’ Zeke put ‘Does whacking off to it three times a day count?’’”

  We both laughed so loud that the other customers started sending curious looks our way. Finally, I recovered enough to say, “The funniest part is that these answers got him the job.”

  Slade smiled and took another sip of his drink. A flash of fang peeked out when he pulled the straw away. “You surprised me tonight,” he said, suddenly more serious.

  “I know.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m sorry if I was an asshole earlier. I just had a bad experience with the last rookie the Dominae saddled me with.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mischa Petrov.”

  I groaned and crumpled my burger wrapper, wishing it were Petrov’s head.

  “I take it you know her?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” In addition to being my biggest competition in assassin school, Mischa Petrov was also my nemesis. She lorded my mixed blood over me whenever possible. And despite my higher grades, my grandmother had chosen Mischa as the Primora of the class. The honor ensured Mischa was fast-tracked into getting the plum jobs, unlike the rest of us, who had to serve time collecting tithes and tracking down petty criminals.

  Slade laughed. “In addition to being completely incompetent, that female had the worst case of vagina dentata I’ve ever had the misfortune to experience.”

  I grimaced. “You fucked her?” My newfound respect for Slade took a nosedive.

  He snorted and shook his head. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t let that she-devil anywhere near my unmentionables.”

  I smiled. “Good for you.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “after that horrific experience, I didn’t expect you’d be a pleasant surprise. Especially since—” He cut himself off and looked away quickly.

  I nodded. “Let me guess: the mixed-blood thing?” He nodded, looking sheepish. “Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

  He shifted uncomfortably on the small seat. “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for earlier.”

  “Do you feel bad enough to split the take with me fifty-fifty?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “How about eighty-twenty?” His tone made it sound like he thought this offer was magnanimous.

  I leaned forward, looking him in the eyes. “Sixty-forty.”

  He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at me. Finally, he sighed. “Seventy-thirty. Final offer.”

  “Gods, you’re stubborn,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Despite your luck tonight, I’m still the lead on this mission. When we go in tomorrow, you’re going to have to let me call the shots.”

  I saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

  His lips twitched. “Smartass.”

  I let myself into my house and dropped my jacket and gun holster on the side table. After a night spent in the seediest establishment of the San Fernando Valley, it was time for a shower.

  On my way past the kitchen, I ducked in to grab a beer from the fridge. I peeled back the tab on the can and chugged half of it before taking an extra for the trip to the bathroom.

  The bathroom had pink tiles that I
hated but not enough to make the effort of tearing them out.

  I turned the water on to scalding and quickly stripped from my clothes. My shirt smelled like the inside of an ashtray mixed with grease and onions from the burger. I tossed it on the ground next to the rest of the week’s discarded clothing.

  The needles of water hit me between the shoulders. I gritted my fangs and relaxed into the welcome pain. Placing my palms against the tile, I lowered my head and let the heat and the pressure massage away the tension.

  It’s not that I considered the night’s work a failure. Quite the opposite. We’d covered a lot of ground and found some useable clues about Zeke’s whereabouts. But I was definitely feeling the pressure of needing to both prove to my grandmother that I could be trusted to work alone, and show Slade Corbin I had the stuff to become a great assassin like him.

  I sighed and leaned my head back to wet it. While I lathered up, I thought about ways I could help the investigation move along. My fingers worked over my scalp, as if the massage would make my brain work faster. I rinsed my hair and took a long swig of the beer I’d brought in with me. Surely someone knew where to find Zeke Calebow.

  I continued to ponder my options as I completed my shower, dried off, and polished off the first beer. I pulled on a clean Charlie’s Angels’ T-shirt and some cut-off shorts before padding back into the living room.

  My stereo sat on a shelf I’d created using cinder blocks and slats of wood. The records I played on it were stored in old milk crates. I flipped past the Clash, Joy Division, and Talking Heads. It was a Blondie night, so I grabbed the Parallel Lines album. Once that was on the turntable with the needle lowered, I retreated to the couch.

  I found my black book sitting on the coffee table. Instead of being filled with names of eligible bachelors, it was filled with the names of pimps, bookies, loan sharks, and other types no one would want to take home to their mama—unless they wanted to get disowned.

  With a sigh, I pondered who might be able to lead us to Zeke Calebow. I’d made it all the way to the Fs when a scratching noise echoed through the room. I cocked my head and looked toward the record player. Another scratch. No, definitely not coming from the hi-fi.

  I rose and grabbed my gun from the side table. Keeping toes light on the hardwoods, I moved toward the door.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Keeping my gun in my right hand, I stood to the side of the door and reached for the knob with my left.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  I pulled open the door. An orange streak flew through the air at my legs. Pain exploded on my bare skin.

  “Ow, shit!”

  The cat yowled, as if I was attacking it instead of the other way around. I kicked my leg out, but the godsdamned thing sank in its claws.

  Grabbing it by the scruff of its neck, I ripped the cat off me. Stinging pain flared before the cold sensation of blood flow took over. But I was too busy holding the severely pissed-off feline away from my face.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I shook it a little.

  “Yoooowl!”

  I shook my head and stomped toward the open door. I didn’t throw the cat, but I might have forgotten to gently lower it to the ground before I released it. The furball screamed its rage and pounced toward me. But I ran inside and slammed the door before it could get its claws in me again.

  I leaned with my back against the door, my sides heaving from the adrenaline rush. Looking down, I inspected the angry red streaks on my shins. The wounds would heal quickly thanks to my vampire blood, but right then, I felt like I’d been shredded.

  Scratch, scratch.

  “Go away, Satan.”

  Scratchscratchyowlscratch.

  Shaking my head, I hobbled over toward my beer. Being attacked by a cat with anger issues was thirsty business.

  Blondie was now singing “Just Go Away,” which was pretty fitting, all things considered. I shook my head and picked up the address book again.

  Scraaaaatch!

  “Damn it!” I tossed down the book and jumped off the couch.

  This time, I left the gun on the table and walked directly to the door. But just in case, I picked up a baseball bat I kept near the door for emergencies. I cracked the door, careful to keep the bat between my legs and the opening.

  An orange paw shot through the opening and swiped at the air. “Ha!” I taunted. “Not so tough now, are you?”

  A hiss flew through the crack, followed by two more impotent swipes of the paw.

  “What the hell is your problem, cat?” I opened the door a little wider. The hell beast looked up and dropped back on its butt.

  The cat tilted its head and purred.

  “What do you want?” Even as I asked the question, I realized how ridiculous it was to be having a conversation with an animal.

  “Meow?”

  Now that it had stopped trying to shred me into Sabina jerky, I realized how pitiful the thing looked. It was too thin, for one thing, and its fur was matted and dirty. It didn’t have on a collar, so I didn’t think it had a home. “Are you hungry?”

  “Meow.”

  I pursed my lips and thought about my options. My fridge was full of beer, rotten milk, five bottles of mustard, and some fried rice from a few nights earlier. “Hold on.” I shut the door, careful not to slam it on the cat’s tail.

  Almost immediately, the yowls and scratching started up again. “I said hold on!” I shouted over my shoulder. Throwing open my cupboards, I scanned the contents for something edible for a cat. “Aha!” I yelled in victory. Back behind a couple of boxes of pasta and a can of evaporated milk I don’t remember buying, I found a single can of Spam.

  I pulled back the top and sneered at the wet, hammy fragrance. It took a few good shakes to dump the lump of meat onto a paper plate. It looks about as appetizing as a brick of processed meat could, I guess. With a shrug, I carried the feast back to the door, which was rattling as the cat’s scraping escalated.

  Opening the door wide enough to fit the plate through, I dropped the feast in front of the panting feline. “Bon appétit.”

  The cat’s face dove into the meat. Every few bites, its ears would fold back and it would emit a growl.

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to hiss with your mouth full?”

  Eventually, the beast settled into its meal. I knelt down and watched it. Closer, I could see the notch in its ear and the patches of missing fur that indicated I wasn’t the only foe the cat had tried to best.

  Something warm bloomed in my chest. I didn’t recognize the feeling, but I figured it might be something close to affection. Maybe it was that I felt like I’d spent most of my life fighting, too. Maybe it was that, like my feline dinner guest, I was mostly alone in the world. And, maybe, just maybe, it was that I’d been forced to mold myself into a killer by my grandmother’s order, when all I’d wanted to be was someone who comforted the lost.

  I’d never forget the day Lavinia had told me that I wouldn’t be allowed to enter the Temple to become an acolyte. She’d said that no mixed blood would ever be allowed into the sacred order. Besides, she’d said, she had other plans for me to be of service to the Dominae. A couple of weeks later, I arrived at the school where the Dominae’s future Enforcers were trained.

  I sighed and let my butt drop to the ground. The cat side-eyed me but didn’t hiss this time. “Relax, Satan. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The Spam was almost gone now. Satan looked up from the plate. Speckles of pink meat dotted its whiskers. A pink sandpaper tongue stuck out of its mouth to catch every last morsel. “You really were hungry.”

  “Meow.”

  I sighed and rose from my seat. As much as I’d like to sit in the predawn light with my new pal, I needed to finish strategizing for the next night with Slade. “All right, I need to go.”

  I scratched the fur between its ears but withdrew my hand quickly when its paw swiped at me again. This tim
e instead of being pissed by the aggression, I was amused. “Take care of yourself, Satan.”

  The cat’s head tilted and it watched me until I finally closed the door all the way. With a sigh, I walked back toward the sofa. This time, the drink I took from the beer was a contented one. With a smile, I leaned over the address book. Instead of going letter by letter, I fanned the pages and stopped on random pages.

  I was on the letter H when a name leaped out at me. “Liliana Hartshorne,” I said out loud, testing the sound of it. “Hmm.”

  I’d only met Lili once, and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. But if anyone knew where to find a horndog like Zeke Calebow, it was the faery known as The Faerywood Madam. “Gotcha,” I breathed, feeling excited.

  I would have called Slade to let him know I had a new lead, but the sun’s pink rays were already creeping across the City of Angels. I’d tell him tomorrow when he came to pick me up. I took a celebratory drink, polishing off the beer.

  Scratch, scratch!

  Shaking my head, I rose off the couch. “What do you want now, Satan?” Emboldened by my earlier generosity, I opened the door all the way.

  Satan sat on the threshold. I expected the beast to attack me again. Instead, it sashayed into my house like it belonged.

  My mouth hanging open, I watched the orange ragamuffin stroll casually toward my sofa. It climbed onto pillow I’d knocked off earlier. Satan circled a few times counterclockwise and then two clockwise before laying itself on the pillow like a queen on a throne.

  “By all means, make yourself at home.” I considered shooing the uninvited guest back out the door, but I didn’t have the heart. First of all, I’d kind of asked for it by offering the beast a smorgasbord of processed meatstuff. And second, now that its belly was full, Satan passed out on the pillow and was already snoring.

  I sighed, accepting the inevitable. “All right,” I said, “but just for tonight.”

  One eye opened and regarded me for a moment before closing again. And that was that.

  The next evening, my arms were loaded down as I pushed open the door. When I’d woken up that evening, I realized that if I was going to have a houseguest—even a temporary one—I’d need provisions. Satan had been hiding under the sofa and looked as if it didn’t plan on coming out any time soon. So, I’d headed out to the closest pet store for some basics.