by Vered Ehsani
After finishing the packing and telling all our acquaintances some farfetched story about untold wealth awaiting us in the East Africa Protectorate, we waved a last goodbye to the family home and set off for the ship, Gideon floating alongside the carriage.
As we left behind our home, the sensation of being watched passed over me; upon perusing my surroundings, I could find no one (and certainly not a giant Mantis) so much as glancing in our direction, despite Mrs. Steward’s assertions that all of London was witnessing our disgraceful departure.
After a moment, the feeling passed, and I reminded myself that whatever had been watching me as of late would soon be an ocean away.
Once we boarded the ship, I was free for the voyage: no investigations to conduct, no tea parties to attend. As delightful as that was, the novelty wore off after a few days. Fortunately, my boredom was soon relieved.
One morning, as I promenaded along the deck, I paused at the railing to watch the ocean, hoping something might leap out and entertain me.
As I waited, a high, faint voice whispered behind me, “Are you the undead investigator?”
We hadn’t been formally introduced, but I was so startled that rather than ignore the person (the socially appropriate response to such an intrusive and offensive question), I turned to face a young woman with a pleasant, rosy countenance, a charmingly plump figure and dark-blue eyes.
As soon as I breathed in, my overly acute olfactory senses detected a hint of wet dog, yet her energy field was human. She must’ve spent some time in the companion of a werewolf, I concluded, which only added to my dismal assessment of her.
But back to her question.
There was only one sensible course of action: I feigned indignant ignorance. “I beg your pardon, miss. But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, nor do I wish to at this juncture.”
I put on my most haughty expression and glared over her head with an intensity that would knock a mortal to her knees or to her death.
Unfortunately, she had neither the good manners to drop dead nor the delicacy to swoon away. In fact, she remained perfectly healthy and conscious, and on top of that, she giggled.
I spun away in a righteous huff. Rough waves, heavy winds, slightly salty shower water, unbathed sailors and a repetitive menu: all these annoyances I could tolerate. But this! A woman who clearly spent far too much time in the companionship of werewolves, on the same ship as myself… Really, this was too much for even my stout constitution to handle.
“Wait, please don’t go,” the woman almost pleaded. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She smiled brightly and extracted an envelope from her small purse. She forced it upon me. “And I have a message from Prof. Runal.”
How did she know him? Not that it mattered, but I had to marvel at the unsettling coincidence. My heart thudded as I reluctantly accepted the envelope sent by the Director of the Society. I scowled in a rather uncivilized manner and then blushed. What next? Would I growl?
As if summoned by the rhetorical question, the outline of a wolf’s energy began to form by my side, an image I instantly banished. I wouldn’t let myself lose control again. The wolf energy that hid within me would have to stay hidden.
I took a deep breath and brought myself into line. “Yes?” I said.
She smiled again, as if her mouth was incapable of any other expression, and extended a hand. “Pricilla White. What a pleasure to make the acquaintance of one of such capacity.”
I didn’t acknowledge the second part of her introduction. My capacities were my own business and not to be broadcasted about so freely.
I nodded my head once. “How do you do, Miss White? I’m Beatrice Knight.”
“Oh, please do call me Cilla. All my friend do,” she gushed.
I mumbled some incoherent and noncommittal sentiment before turning about, determined to abandon this new and unwanted acquaintance. I really had been enjoying my solitude.
“What do your close companions call you?” she asked. She was a most persistent creature.
“Bee,” I said, before I thought better of it.
“Well, I think we shall be great friends. Don’t you, Bee?” she said as she followed me. “That’s what Prof. Runal told me. Oh, and he mentioned that an acquaintance of his will be meeting you in Nairobi. You know, to continue the undead work. How exciting for you.”
I frowned and decided to correct the error she had now twice made. “There’s nothing undead about the work I do, nor am I an undead investigator. For a start, I’m very much alive. And contrary to common, and therefore uninformed, belief, paranormals as a whole aren’t dead nor are they some version of dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her pale skin blushing. “I beg your pardon.”
And before I could protest her forwardness, she linked an arm around mine and pulled me along the deck. In a state of mild indignation, I allowed her to lead me as I battled with my desire to swat her over the head with my hefty walking stick.
For two full turns around the deck, I pondered the wisdom of befriending her, but how many social options could I hope to find in East Africa? I daresay, there would be few and far between.
Perhaps, all things considered, an acquaintance with one who was already informed of the Society and its members wouldn’t be such an intolerable thing after all, even if she did smell like a dog.
Chapter 8
