Librarian. Assassin. Vampire. (Book 1): Amber Fang (The Hunted)

by Arthur Slade

Dermot never came back to class. That was interesting, and perhaps a little disappointing, but not surprising. After all, he’d done his bit. I missed his scrumptious neck.

  He’d never said how they’d contact me with my “mission” details, so I continued my schooling, bit by bit putting together my Master’s in Library Science with a speciality in Archival Studies. Though there were classes on web systems and metadata, I had to admit I was an old-fashioned tactile girl: index cards kept my brain focused. Give me an old book and I’d be happy. Maybe vampires were naturally anti-tech. But you didn’t go into library science to set the tech world on fire. It was a safe job. You kept information. You cataloged it for future generations. Because someday, that apocalypse was gonna come, and people were going to want to borrow books on building generators.

  I recognized how odd it was for me to be cataloging the human experience. Humans had written a few interesting things in their hundred thousand years or so of valid consciousness, and I’d like to ensure that knowledge remained accessible. Mom said never to fall in love with my food, but she didn’t say anything about falling in love with their books.

  A day passed. Then another. Then a week. I wondered if ol’ Dermot had been some muscled figment of my imagination. I played and replayed our conversation. And, oddly enough, I found myself sniffing every once in a while. As if ... well, as if I could smell his scent. Or I could sniff him into existence.

  Next, I’d be dressing up Dermot dolls for tea parties.

  With each passing day, I grew little more desperate. It was harder to concentrate on classes, and I came very close to snapping at Professor Slemay again.

  A strict regimen had always kept me on target. I was a good twenty hours into researching my next meal. I decided not to do another feeding in Montréal; it was too close to home. I’d found a few promising leads, including an ex-mayor of Toronto, whom I eventually discarded because his death would cause too much of a sensation. A man in Québec City had killed his business partner. Men certainly kept me in business since they committed ninety percent of homicides. It was a bit more fun and challenging to bring them down. And they held more blood—about five and a half quarts on average compared to women’s four and a half quarts. If you only ate once a month, you wanted it to be a good meal. Skinny murderesses weren’t high on my consumption list.

  I hadn’t settled on whom I’d pursue, and I wasn’t hungry enough yet. Frankly, I was bored. The idea of new meal in an exotic locale, well, sounded so perfectly scrumptious. And I didn’t even have a backup meal, though there were enough Mafia members in Montréal. As I mentioned before, that could get a little messy. I’d been shot in the leg once. If you’d ever had to wrap your leg so tightly in Saran Wrap that it cut off the circulation, take the subway home, limp to your apartment, remove a bullet from your thigh and stitch it up … well, you wouldn’t want to repeat the experience.

  Then, on a Wednesday morning, a brown envelope was slid under my door. It was so 1950s. My “mission” actually came in an envelope. Not a disappearing file on my iPad. Or a USB drive that would burst into flames before I could even unplug it from my MacBook. A frakkin’ manila envelope.

  I heard the envelope slide under my door as I was lounging in bed. In a heartbeat and a half, I was up and across the room, wearing only my negligee. I yanked open the door. Empty hallway. There was no one going down the stairs. I lived five floors up. I looked back and forth, sniffed. Not even a scent. Maybe it was the damn drone again.

  I closed the door and unwound the red string to open the envelope.

  Inside were round-trip airplane tickets to Dubai. The tickets were dated for the next day. And they weren’t first class. I assumed that was so I wouldn’t stand out. There was also a Canadian passport under the name Anna Maclean. Hmmm. Obviously, this was my new persona. The disturbing part was the passport photograph of me staring glumly ahead. They’d photographed me at some point without my knowledge.

  I shook the envelope. Nothing else came out. Where was the detailed dossier that I would peruse to figure out whether or not my meal was morally consumable? This lack of information didn’t bode well. I could only assume there would be details once I arrived—that everything ol’ Dermot had promised would come to fruition.

  I set the envelope and its contents on my table. Then I sat in my rocking chair, took a deep breath, and rocked back and forth about a thousand times.

  Once my mind was clearer, I stood up and went over to the envelope. I held up the tickets. What did I have to lose? I could see Dubai. Oil, that great generator of cash, had built a few fancy buildings there. I had a return ticket, so at worst I’d lose a weekend of my life. If I didn’t like the mission, I’d just cut out and go home.

  If I was going that far away, I obviously needed new shoes. So I dressed, spritzed my hair, and went to the John Fluevog shoe store on Saint-Denis. Tomber En Amour was stenciled on the windows. As I opened the door, bells announced my arrival.

  “You have that I-want-a-new-pair-of-shoes look in your eyes.” The saleswoman was in her mid-twentie,s and she gave me such a genuine and friendly smile that even I had to smile back.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Well, I am Genevieve and I’ll not rest until your feet and your soul are happy. Or should I say, soles?”

  It was a lame joke but delivered with a knowing wink, so I laughed. We chatted as she hunted through box after box. She was a philosophy graduate and had a yin and yang tattoo on her left shoulder. I had the odd sense that if I were ever to make friends with a human, she might be it. I was picky. About shoes. And humans. But with her clever guidance, I bought myself a nice pair of black Edwardian Hamburgers with Cuban heels. It was an odd name for a shoe; you had to wonder what the advertising department was smoking. But you didn’t want to get kicked by them. Hey, a vampiress had to celebrate every once in a while.

  “There will be a new line of these in the spring,” Genevieve said. “Would you like a phone call reminder? It will be the only call we make. I promise you.”

  “I’ll be waiting by the phone,” I said. Then I gave her my home number, paid cash, and said goodbye to Genevieve—my new best friend—and strode out of the store.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, I found myself inside an Air Canada plane at Pierre Elliott Trudeau airport, the Edwardian Hamburgers already unstrapped and on the floor. It would be an odd feeling to go through customs as a Canadian. I’d have to get my accent and my sorrys right. If anyone asked about hockey I was a Habs fan. I’d learned which team to cheer for, at least. We landed in New York. After several sorries and a seamless customs experience, I was on my Emirates flight and starting the long journey away from the sun. And back in sight of it again.

  I didn’t sleep on the flight. I was tingling with anticipation. I put in my earbuds and did a little of my homework, studiously ignoring the businessman next to me who kept stealing glances at my feet. I read my Bill Bryson book. Wondered several times if Dermot would be waiting for me at the other end. Then repeated the whole cycle again. A lifetime later, the plane landed, the door was opened, and I entered an airport that was air conditioned to perfection.

  Once I stepped outside, I was slapped in the face by a wrinkle-inducing heat. My skin aged twenty years in ten seconds. This was that land where skin creams went to die.

  A driver was waiting for me, a Saudi Arabian man who looked as though he’d been in that spot since pre-Biblical times. He grunted and drove me in a black car to a hotel called the Arabian Courtyard.

  “This is where I’m staying?” I asked.

  He grunted again and gave a nod. I attempted to tip him, but he waved away the dirham notes with yet another dismissive grunt. I took my overnight bag, stepped into the iron-hot heat again, and strode through the glass doors. I was standing on a marble floor that was so clean it reflected the ceiling. The thick pillars were white and framed in gold. And a chandelier that put the word exquisite to shame hung above me. Color me impressed.

  I
checked in, was given a key card, and ascended to my floor in a glass elevator. My room had pristine hardwood, one white bed, a headboard in the shape of a mosque, and two Aquafina water bottles on the teak side table. At least my unnamed benefactors had not cheapened out on the hotel. Then again, for all I knew, it may have been a cheap hotel in Dubai.

  An envelope waited on the writing desk. It was a heftier pack than my previous orders. I sliced open the sleeve with my fingernail, not bothering with the string—we Fangs carried our own letter openers.

  Inside were several pages of paper. And another envelope. The pages had a name: Nathan Gabriel. And the outline of his life.

  I had to admit, I was expecting a terrorist or some such thing—I mean, the news was telling me every day whom to be afraid of in the world. What I didn’t expect was a middle-aged white guy with nondescript features and accountant glasses. But the more I read, the more I realized Mr. Gabriel was falling well within my parameters for a morally allowable meal. He was a weapons dealer. Had lived in England and Spain, then moved to Panama. He now sold a variety of arms to a variety of regimes: AK-47s, RPGs, and heavier armaments.

  It did appear that ol’ Gabriel hadn’t personally murdered anyone. This might have been a wasted trip. Yes, the weapons he sold caused a number of deaths. But they might have been for freedom fighters or a struggling democratic nation. Gabriel himself wasn’t pulling the trigger. I knew I was splitting moral hairs with a quantum knife, but I had my rules.

  Then I sliced open the envelope with the photographs.

  They were large, high-resolution pictures. In the first shot, he was sitting at the head of a white table in a room with no windows. Three men in handcuffs were seated along one side. In front of Gabriel was a large medieval mace with spikes coming out of the ball shape. In the next picture he was holding the mace.

  I won’t describe the following pictures. But it was very clear he’d ended the lives of three men.

  Photographs could be faked, that much I knew. These ones were dated on the back along with a short handwritten explanation that indicated this was the death of three of his dealers who had kept some of the profits for themselves.

  Gabriel obviously didn’t feel much regret. He was smiling in the last shot, his mace to the photographer.

  There were several problems, of course. This man was not going to be an easy target. The possibility of this had crossed my mind several times on the flight over. The nameless organization that had hired me—the Dermotters, I’d named them—had difficulty getting to this man. How hard would it be for me? Gabriel would have a very complex security system. Maybe he didn’t sleep in the same bed each night. And so I was risking my life for food.

  And frankly, if you had to risk your life every time you had a meal, you’d think twice about where you were picking up that prime rib.

  The flip side was that I needed to shake it up a bit. Life, that is.

  Speaking of shaking, I shook the envelope. A final piece of paper floated out and landed in my open palm. It had a Dubai address and a time on it. Twenty minutes from now. I didn’t want to look like a slob, so I took ten minutes of that time to shower. I had seen signs at the airport reminding women to “please wear respectful clothing,” so I thought it best to explore my demure side. I pulled on a silk long-sleeved shirt, a cardigan, and stretchy black pants. I clad my feet in my Edwardian Hamburgers.

  Going outside was like walking into an oven.

  8

  A KISS BEFORE THE KILLING

  “You’ll have to kill him immediately.”

  The woman who was speaking had introduced herself as Emily, and she was Asian, but her accent was British. I’d sat down at a table in an air-conditioned restaurant called Istanbul Flower, and she’d materialized beside me, stooped to give me a kiss on the forehead, then plopped herself down on the opposite chair. I’d been so shocked by the kiss that I didn’t react other than to stare. “It’s good to see you, sister,” she said.

  Sister? Before I could make a noise or say hello, she’d started into my mission.

  “I need you to remember this,” she whispered. She was wearing a black abaya, with a niqab lowered to show her full face. Half-moon earrings in either ear. “I’ve been informed that you have a good memory.”

  “I never forget a face. Or someone who crosses me. Or kisses me for that matter.”

  “Charming. Focus on my instructions. Your target is on the 108th floor of Burj Khalifa in the residential suites. You’ll have to avoid his security detail.” She unfolded a map of the interior of the building. I stared at it for ten seconds before she pulled it away. “I assume you have that memorized.”

  “Of course,” I said. The truth was, I was a little sketchy about several sections.

  “Good. You’ll have twenty minutes while your target is alone to kill him.”

  “Alone? Won’t his security men be there?”

  “He has his daily nap at 2:15.” She flashed a hint of a smile. “His guard is outside the door. You’ll eliminate the target before he wakes up.”

  “Eliminate? I prefer to think of it as dining.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” she said. And by the look in her eyes, it was the truth. I guess she didn’t know I was a vampire. Perhaps she’d treat me with a bit more respect if she did. “Just do your job.”

  “Do you have any tools for me? You know, suction cups? Explosives?”

  “You provide your own tools.”

  “Any particular orders on what to do with the body?”

  She shook her head. “Death is the only objective.”

  I nodded. She was about as friendly as a wolverine.

  “Do you know Dermot?” I asked. The question surprised me. I kept my face straight, no sign of emotion.

  “I don’t know anyone, sister. I don’t even know you. It’s best to keep it that way.”

  That wasn’t an answer. Her heartbeat had sped up slightly at the mention of his name. A crush? “I see.” I decided there was no point in pressing her further. She checked her iPhone, perhaps updating her Facebook status with Orders Given, then she stood up. “Well, sister, it’s time for me to go. And you ... well, time for you to go too.”

  “Goodbye, sister,” I said.

  She went. It was the third longest conversation I’d had in a year. Dermot. Genevieve at the shoe store. And now Miss Secret Agent.

  I took a cab to the base of Burj Khalifa. Did I mention the heat? I would need a bucket of lip gloss.

  Since the dawn of mankind, men had been building homages to their penises. There was, of course, that multi-erectile construction called Stonehenge and also the leaning tower of Pisa. I was sure many could comment on the symbolism. And finally, most “size-matters” of all, there was Burj Khalifa.

  Burj Khalifa was arguably one of the most impressive buildings on earth. Strike that—it was the most impressive. A giant, segmented erection, although it was usually more politely described as a finger that disappeared into the heavens. Standing at the bottom, I couldn’t bend my neck far enough to see the top. There was a bit of cloud up there.

  The tower offered a rich array of amenities and services that provided residents and their guests an unparalleled lifestyle experience. I’d gotten that info from the brochure. I didn’t really care.

  Gaining entry to the hotel was not so hard, since tourists were allowed inside. In fact, they clogged up the sidewalk, the grounds, and the lobby. I pushed my way past the gawkers and bought a ticket to the observation deck.

  The glass elevator rose forever toward the heavens.

  I did feign being unimpressed by what human beings had created in this world. The Louvre was marvelous. And the city of New York was a jewel. But I’d never been stunned speechless by anything human-made. I must admit I stood agog as I came to the observation deck and looked out. It was dusk, the sun setting in the west. The city spread out before me like a collection of jewels. Beyond that was desert. And distance. The curve of the earth appeared to be
visible. It was perhaps the most beautiful view I’d had during my short time on this earth.

  I took a moment to stare, then went off to kill a weapons dealer.

  9

  OLD SCHOOL

  I went old school.

  By that, I mean I waited until the crowds had thinned, snuck into the women’s washroom, hung my cardigan on a hook, and climbed up a vent. Yes, it could be that simple. It was a moment’s work to remove the vent cover, another moment to pop up there and begin crawling along. The metal sheeting didn’t even creak. I crawled left and right, following the map inside my head. I could be clever sometimes. My mom used to tell me so.

  Which made the getting lost part rather frustrating. I found myself in a vast spider web of vents that doubled back on each other. I thought I might get stuck in a cul-de-sac forever, and they’d find my double-jointed bones a thousand years from now when the tower finally fell. I came across one vent that dropped straight down. I couldn’t see the bottom.

  Never fall prey to your own cleverness. Mom also liked to say that. You know, she really could have put together a tidy little self-help book.

  Eventually, I had to admit my failure, and I quietly undid a vent cover and popped my head out. A rotund woman, who had perhaps had more candy than she needed, was bathing below me, eyes closed. If she opened them at that moment, she would’ve been looking directly up at me. I glanced out the window and got my bearings then pulled the lid back on and continued along what I hoped was the right path.

  I checked my phone. Three minutes until nap time for old Mr. Gabriel. I hit another dead end, then mistakenly crawled into a vent that got smaller and smaller. I backed out and skittered down another artery. It was extremely hard to hurry through a vent system.

  I checked the time. Gabriel was well into his nap. Counting dead sheep, likely.

  I was somewhat certain I was above his compartment. I listened, but there wasn’t a sound, and I couldn’t see through the tin. I undid the screws with my nails. Popped my head out—right beside a security camera. Below me, asleep on the bed, was Mr. Gabriel. A pillow propped up his knees. So he really did nap every day. And, if he was on schedule, he’d been asleep for over fifteen minutes. I’d read that naps were healthy for you. I’ve never had time myself.