If someone approaches you selling maps to supernatural celebrity homes, beware: this is likely a scam…
—The Bacchus Guide
Unscathed by the nasty potential of a botched werebear attack—what was Samantha going to do, after all, lose her group space?—I settled in to drive back downtown. But my brain snagged thinking about Claire Bandon. Was she, in fact, completely unreliable? I sat in the car outside McAlinden’s and warmed. It did seem I’d been led down a path never traveled, and guess what, there’s no one here waiting at the end, no one to ask. No leads.
Crick, crack. A ringed knuckle rap sounded on the car window. Passenger side.
It had started raining again; and the individual was obscured by rivulets of water on his side and the dewy musk of condensation on mine. The interior of the Volvo was subtropical by this point, Antiguan only without the mosquitoes—wet clothes can, certainly, create atmosphere. I pressed down on the window button. It slid into the sleeve of the door. A breezy hush entered the car.
The round face and angled eyes of Mr. Kim appeared. I hadn’t looked at him with any real curiosity before, and he wasn’t old, probably thirty five. His poor make-up job bled in the streams of rain, revealing a cage of blue veins.
“Get in,” I told the zombie.
He did as he was told. Wouldn’t you? Or maybe it was simply the rain.
“Thank you. It Miss Amanda, yes?” he asked. His clothes and mouth smelled of smoke. The heat of the car warmed that scent and carried it to me, served up like tiny nibbles in a dirty ashtray.
“Amanda Feral.” I extended my hand. I remembered making fun of his accent, and started to feel marginally guilty102. He reached out and shook. His hand was all thumbs. I mean literally, he had five fingers the size of thumbs, like the regular set had been ground down to stubs.
“Please to meet you. I sorry for disturb, I saw you sit in car. Thought I say thank you.”
“Thank you? For what, ruining your group?” I asked; then thought, Did I just come across another clue, does everyone live like this?
“For showing me right.” A thin trickle of water left his hairline and traveled to his jaw, before dripping onto what could easily have been a Members Only jacket, minus the epaulets.
“Showing you right?” I repeated.
“No. Not right.” His small mouth was twitching, and his tone was elevating. “Right, rike rightswitch.”
“Light,” I said, nodding. I’d shown him the light; that was so sweet. Now, if only I could do the same for Karkaroff or Lollipop, even. Lollipop certainly needed to see the light of subtle fashion. Even a dim beam would help. Mr. Kim spoke in that all to easy to make fun of accent, free of articles and verb conjugation; R’s shoved in where the L’s should be.
“Great, glad to help.” I waited for explanation.
He smiled and blinked.
And, I continued to wait for explanation.
“Anything else, Mr. Kim?”
“Uh, uh. I could. Uh, uh,” he scrambled, either searching for words or stalling to spend more time with me. “Uh…I know.” He raised his brows and pointed a finger into the air. “I tell about Mr. Oliver? Yes?”
“Uh…yes. You could, absolutely, do that. That would be so super great of you, Mr. Kim.” I put my hand on his knee to prompt him to begin. He looked at my hand and smiled. Then at me. Another smile. “Go ahead and tell me about Oliver,” I stopped patting and withdrew my hand. I slid it under my leg.
“It a sad, sad story. Mr. Oliver very dead, right now.”
“Dead! Shut…up!” I cried and twisted my body to promote full attention. “What happened? How do you know?”
“Oliver stay with me, for a while. Tell me he afraid of ex-girl-a-friend, Rochelle.”
Mmm-hmm. I thought. Ex-girlfriend.
“She follow him to work and to bowling alley. She cragee stalkuh gull103. One night. After come home from Supernatural to Supernormal and Beyond—bullshit, as you say—front door broke, scream inside. I look through crack. Rochelle pound Oliver body. He dead.”
He gesticulated wildly in the seat as he recounted the tale. Mimicking Rochelle’s facial expressions (insane, then evil) and the spryness of her maneuvers, and the strength of her blows. Which didn’t sound like Rochelle, at all. I would never describe her as spry or strong—whore, bimbo, idiot—those worked. Sorry, if that offends104.
“Then, I run for stairs and go out front of building. Hide in bushes. She come out and get in car, drive away.”
“Where’s the body now?”
Mr. Kim looked like a sheep guarded by wolves. “I eat.”
I stared at him for a moment and then acquiesced. It was as good a source of protein as human105. A world of food opportunity opened. I asked, “Is that it?” It would have been enough if it were. It was the most information I’d retrieved since the zombie outbreak and finding Shane in my car. So, I was pleased.
But, Mr. Kim shook his head. “There something wrong with weather woman.”
“Wrong? Well yeah, she’s a psycho bitch. What do you mean wrong?”
“After get in car…change.” Mr. Kim’s face lost its helpful glee. A frown and slow darting eyes took its place.
“Change?”
“Yah, change.” He measured his words out slowly, stressing each. “Face, head, body. Change. Make different.”
“You mean like a werewolf, leopard or bear? That kind?”
“No, change to different person. Rochelle like Playboy centerfold…” He acted out breasts with shy hands at his chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Fake tits.”
“…and, long yellow hair. New woman, short.” He brought tensed hands to his head to indicate a mannish cut, his facial features sharpened in expression.
“Was her face severe?”
“What means severe?”
“Sharp. Angry.” I was more hopeful with that description. I furrowed my brow and pursed my lips. That fit the image I already had in my head.
“Severe. Yes.”
Hmmm. Short-cropped hair on a mannish face—a T.L.D.106, if you will—and a professional shapeshifter? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
Claire-fucking-Bandon.
There’s that name again. The route she’d sent me on led straight back to her. That bitch.
I kidnapped Mr. Kim and brought him along on my way in to downtown. I couldn’t help but think that I was in danger, not that he’d be much protection. But, two zombies were better than one in a scuffle—at least, it spreads the skin damage around. The fear crept in through my cracks, like a rat flattening itself. Maybe it wasn’t just the proximity to the story of Oliver’s bludgeoning death. But, the degree of manipulation, the lengths Claire had gone to pull off this ruse. And for what? I was freaked out. The woman had really run a number on me, not to mention Oliver.
The tracker’s house was lit up like a holiday sale, every window shone bright through wide gaps of curtain, even the second-story advertised party. The street was crowded on one side, with a long line of parked cars, Mercedes, Bentleys, and a few Italian sports cars, as slim as anorexia. I pulled into Clevis’s circle drive. The house was an unfashionable Tudor, with rough, crème-colored walls blocked in by broad stripes of walnut boards. Beside the entrance a tall window climbed to the second story. Celebrants could be seen dotting the stairs in party dresses and funerary suits, cocktails held high and clanking.
I changed my mind. Mr. Kim stayed in the car, for this was no concern of his, and I’d no intention of causing him harm, after the favor he’d paid me. I carried the coffin from the back seat, and knocked on the heavy wood door; my knock barely made a sound.
A woman answered, Asian, with a black shiny oil slick of hair that reflected light like onyx; her plump mouth was a pincushion of collagen. “Are you here for the shower, darling?”
“Um…” I looked around at the party guests, and saw no ribbon bouquet–carrying bride or expectant mother, and there was no rain, just then. Confused, I responded, “N
o. I’m here to see Clevis.” I lifted the box; she looked down at it, nodded.
“Follow me. I think he’s in the lounge.”
She slinked off like Ms. Scarlet and I followed, hoping to get a clue107. The house was splendidly appointed, compared to most houses—antiques mostly—though the main hall was home to an enormously lavish chandelier that hung like a pierced clitoris, among more sedate furnishings. In competition with mine, it would rank a close 100th, but I’m being generous.
At the top of the stairs, Nick, the incubus from Lutefisk Bowl, chatted up a similarly blonde model-type. She giggled behind an oversized cocktail. I didn’t think she’d be giggling with that big pitchfork of a dick in her.
Just past the stairs, a passage led off to the right, its walls lined with small Picasso figure prints lit from above. It ended in a cracked door, light filtering from its edges, spilling into the thin space to create a checkmark across the floor and up one wall.
Inside, a small bald man—I hesitated to think the word midget, considering my track record of misjudging mind readers—sat behind a broad banker’s desk. He did not look up from his work. Behind him, the wall was plastered with street maps pinned liberally. Small colored flags dangled from the thin tacks.
This was him: the tracker. He looked up at me.
The Asian woman crossed the gap between the door and the immense piece of furniture and sat on top, leaning backward and accepting a kiss from the little man. Her dress, a cascade of chestnut satin, dripped down her legs. She’d be considered gorgeous if it weren’t for the overly enhanced facial features. Cosmetic surgery doesn’t have to be ugly, people! Go for the natural look. Bold strokes are for Pollack paintings. Slight accentuations are much more attractive.
I stepped forward and placed the casket on the desk. The man was brown on brown on brown, eyes, skin, suit, with only minor fluctuations in hue.
“What’s this?” he asked in the deep Scottish voice of a more robust presence. His eyes scanned from coffin to me.
“I’m Amanda. I called you about my friend a couple of days ago?”
His eyes were unblinking, unimpressed. Had he known I’d looked inside, even so far as to have fondled the amulet, worn it like a video star, he might be more animated, to my detriment. I decided he had no clue. So much for Milton Bradley.
“Liesl Lescalla? You sent me on a task?”
Still no response. The Asian woman smiled and looked me up and down. I decided she was Chinese; she had the posture of an actress. Hong Kong, maybe. She said, “Nice shoes.”
“…up at Lakeview Cemetery?” I stuck my tongue out of a menacing face and clawed my hands in the air. “Ghosts and shit all around?”
“Ah, yes,” he replied finally. He scrawled his signature at the bottom of a letter and folded it in thirds, slid it gingerly into an envelope. He sealed it with a wet sponge from a china bowl, and gestured to the casket. “Well, there it is.”
“There what is?” I refrained from asking what I really wanted to ask, which was, Did everyone have to be so fucking vague?
“Open the box.”
“But you said, ‘Don’t open the box’.”
“Dramatic effect! Just open it.”
Asshole, I thought. It is really too bad that I pay attention to people at all. They are so disappointing. I pulled off the lid and lifted the pendant from the black satin cushion, handling it as delicately as an egg. I made sure to widen my eyes, as though I’d never seen it. “Now what?”
“It’s a necklace, is it not? So. Put it on. Go ahead.”
The Chinese woman nodded, a coy smile curled from her lips. I did as instructed, expecting something mystical to happen, a glow perhaps, or the sudden movement in the amulet itself, the emblazoned bodies writhing, something. In the end, not so much. It just hung there. I lifted it and let it thud against my ribs. Nothing.
“What is it supposed to do?”
“It’s just good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.” He giggled and the woman laughed silently, covering her mouth. “Just kidding. It’s your ticket.”
I lifted the amulet and looked at it again. Ticket? Things were looking up. “For what, where?”
“To the nursery.” Clevis narrowed his eyes.
“Nursery? You mean like a garden center?”
“No, no. The nursery where you’ll find Liesl.” He scribbled a few lines of letters and slid the piece of paper across the desk. “Here’s the address. Do be quiet when you knock.”
Chapter 23
A House on Bleak Street
A note on the weather: It does not always rain in Seattle. During certain supernatural spawning there may be some instability in pressure. Do not be alarmed, why not instead watch the human news stations make it into a catastrophe, that’s always fun…
—Paranormal News @ One
The directions led us to a slick walled modern house on the appropriately named Bleak Street. It hung over the freeway on stilts like a creepy French clown. Its windows leaked faint illumination, seemingly from candles. I left Mr. Kim in the car again, though this time he seemed sheepish and disappointed. He was growing on me, like a stray cat.
I lightly rapped on the metal door. Trying to be quiet. So much so, I thought I wasn’t heard, until the clip clop of high heels came, and the door opened. It was wider than a regular door and spun on a central hinge like a revolving hotel entry. A woman answered it.
When I saw the tall black woman before me, the first thing I noticed was her amulet, the same as mine. Then I saw her face, those regal cheekbones and light brown eyes—she was smiling through plump Shiseido Red.
It was Liesl.
“Oh…my…God. Where the hell have you been?” I asked. It’s amazing how quickly one can move from happy to see, to…want to see dead. I was furious.
“Right here. What’s the problem?” she said, turning and clip-clopping back into the house. I noticed her attire. A fluffy white bathrobe stained a bright crimson in more places than not. Through a doorway to our left three similarly stained women lounged at a dinette set, smoking, drinking coffee, and flipping through magazines.
“Smoke ’em on the deck, ladies!” Liesl called.
“Well, seeing as how you’ve been missing for a week, now?”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t been missing. I’m not sure you’re aware—and how could you be, really—but this is the time of year when we multiply.”
“No,” I said, refusing to believe that this whole escapade was an elaborate mistake. One that could still prove deadly, considering. I started to whisper, “I don’t believe it. Where are the kidnappers, Liesl?”
A nerve throbbed on Liesl’s head, pulsing. Across her forehead a slash of red substance bled from her hairline. “You’re such a tweaker, Amanda. Did they come up with cloud for zombies, while I’ve been working?”
“Working?” I crossed my arms. Because really? What the fuck?
“This is the nursery for the little baby inkys and suckys,” she said in a horrendously mouthed baby talk, accentuated by a rapid clapping of her hands. “They are so cute, I just want to eat ’em. Want to see?”
She trod off down a hallway. I followed. Windows lined one wall, they looked out over Interstate 5. I flinched at the sight of the speeding cars, blurring past mere feet below.
The hall opened into a large vault of a room, its far end furnished with a row of seven bassinets, in its center, a mattress soaked in blood. There were leather binding cuffs and chains strewn about. In the corner to my right, two green garbage bags bulged. Even my barbaric nose could detect the subtle hints of iron and slick sweetness. I wondered what had gone on here. A feast? I noted the amount of waste and thought about the poor children in Ethiopia, although, on second thought they probably wouldn’t be interested in my idea of food. But, if you are hungry enough, who knows? I’m just being insensitive; of course, they’d eat it.
Liesl was standing by a bassinet, rocking it gently. When she looked at me, I gestured to the mattress and t
he bags in the corner. “Rough birth?”
She smiled. “Not particularly.” Her expression was flippant, eyes blinking rapidly, playing dumb. “Come look. They’re so lovely.”
And, they were rather cute little critters, which is a much more accurate word than babies, as these were more, well, crittery108. They were round, and long, like those kid toys, Glo-worms, I think they’re called. But their eyes brandished spiraled pupils and were dark red. They were wrapped in plush blankets, like breakfast burritos. The one I was looking at made kissy mewls at me, from a tiny mouth. It must have been a baby incubus, or—what had Liesl called them, inkys?
“This one’s already a flirt,” I remarked. “You’re right Liesl, they are precious.”
She gleamed with pride. “…and deadly dangerous, too. But mostly just cute.” She patted the closest infant’s belly, if that’s what it was.
I had learned so much, over the past few hours, but in many ways, more questions loomed. “Liesl?”
“Yep.” It was in her arms, now. She rocked gently.
“You’ve got to bring me up to date, girl. This is a lot to take in.” And, frankly the whole coming from Hell thing is sort of intriguing, don’t you think?
Unlike those other hambones, Liesl actually had a fascinating story, and a knack for the telling. It is quite rare to hear first hand accounts of Hell, particularly straight from a genuine devil’s mouth. They’re usually so secretive. So I wasn’t completely bored with her yammering.
Liesl elucidated the story with the poise and regal elocution of a debutante, pure finishing school, a real classy bitch.
* * *
An Excursion to Hell
The Moderately Interesting Tale of Liesl, Horny Little Devil Interlude Part Four: In Case You’re Keeping Track
* * *
“You’ve probably noticed an absence of red skin, horns and tail, and I can assure you, I have no pitchfork—because really, do I look like a farmer? The vermillion paste you saw is only for our rituals, to mimic the look of our former selves. You see, we slough that look in the transport process.” Liesl’s eyes wandered off, as though remembering. “I kind of miss the wings though; walking everywhere is so tedious, and these human shoes are pure torture.
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