Fright Court

by Mindy Klasky

  I switched back to the search screen and typed in the name again, purposely capturing the typographic errors. Sure enough, there was the 1952 case. It preceded computer records; I tapped my thumb against my coral ring as I waited for images of scanned pages to load. Again, the individual documents were sealed. I could only pull up blank pages that directed me to consult with the court’s Director of Security.

  James.

  There’d be time enough to talk to him later. I found a brief notation on the earliest filing, sending me back further in time, to Clans v. Maurice Richardsen (1749).

  Those scanned parchment pages were sealed as well, but they sent me to the computerized images of rag paper from Clans v. Maurcice Ricchardson (1846). Another reference, almost lost among pages of redaction handed me off to a scroll documenting Clans v. Maurise Richardsson (1608).

  A chill walked down my spine. I had no idea who this Maurice Richardson guy was, or how he was actually connected to Karl Schmidt. But typos aside (more proof that a decent clerk was long overdue here at the Night Court), it looked like Maurice Richardson had been around for a long, long time. Four hundred years, at the very least, and that was assuming he’d started violating vampire law the very second that he Turned.

  I started working the database then, typing in purposeful misspellings. I searched for word roots, scanning through long lists of any names that started with Ric—. I scanned through every Maurice Richardson document I found, looking for references to older cases, to newer ones.

  In the end, I had twenty-seven cases. Twenty-eight, if I counted the current proceeding against Karl Schmidt. Each action was more horrific than the last—the cases were full of allegations about blood herds, extortion, money laundering. I was engrossed in my handwritten notes, trying to figure out how I could bring order to the court’s complete mess of files, when someone cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Ms. Anderson?”

  “Please call me Sarah!” I shouted, letting my nerves get the better of me. I leaped to my feet, ready to throttle whatever imperial had arrived to make his James-mandated amends.

  Except the man standing in front of me wasn’t an imperial. In fact, I’d never seen him before. I would have remembered that curly mane of chestnut hair, those eyes that were more gold than brown behind their horn-rimmed glasses. I would have recognized that crooked smile, that gap between his two front teeth. I would have noticed the crisp blue shirt tucked into khakis, the razor-sharp crease on his slacks, all neat and orderly, and somehow looking perfectly comfortable.

  “Sarah,” he said amiably, extending his hand. “I’m Chris Gardner. From the Washington Banner.”

  I shook automatically. The newcomer’s fingers were warmer than mine. His handshake was strong, but nowhere near as firm as James’s.

  “Yes, Mr. Gardner,” I said. “How may I help you?” The clerk’s office manual had an entire section on dealing with the press, stressing the open nature of our records, but reminding us that reporters needed to follow standard procedure, requesting files like any other member of the public.

  I was absolutely certain that the manual didn’t apply to the Eastern Empire records. Those couldn’t be requested by anyone. Not that this reporter had given the least indication that he wanted to learn about the supernatural creatures I worked for.

  ”Please, call me Chris,” he said. There was that smile again, that goofy gap.

  I caught myself smiling in response as I said, “Chris.”

  He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. The familiar newspaper masthead was displayed across the top, along with the legend: “Christopher Gardner, Staff Reporter.” There were three phone numbers, two email addresses, and a couple of social networking handles crammed in beneath his title. I placed the card between us, automatically lining it up with the edge of the counter.

  “I’m working on a feature article, an in-depth look at the Night Court. I want to show our readers how the court works, who uses the services, why it’s still important—especially when the D.C. Council’s Committee on Public Safety and the Judiciary has been tasked with cutting so much in costs this year.”

  Why it’s still important.

  He didn’t know the half of it. And I sure wasn’t going to be the one to tell him, not about the real Night Court. Not about the imperials. I glanced over my shoulder at my computer screen. The Karl Schmidt information still glowed there, a beacon to anyone who looked closely at the strange caption. It wouldn’t take long for a trained reporter to ask about the Eastern Empire, about the Clans. I stepped back as smoothly as I could, remembering to smile as I tapped the three keys that would make the screen disappear.

  “That sounds interesting,” I said, keeping my voice polite. Casual. “But I’m probably not the best person for you to talk to. I’ve only worked here for ten days.”

  “All the better,” Chris said. “That would be a great hook for the story—how you’re learning everything you need to know. How you’re settling in to the job. I’d like to show our Banner readers what really happens here.”

  Sure. We could tell them about how it feels when your throat is ripped out by a blood-crazed monster. That would sell a lot of papers.

  I shrugged. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so. I’m not really very interesting.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” He smiled guilelessly, and I couldn’t help but respond in kind. “Look,” he said. “Why don’t I leave you some of my other stories. You can see how I’ve written about people in the past. How I’ve handled this type of in-depth feature before.”

  He set his messenger bag on the counter and opened the top flap to reveal a row of pens.

  Each of the writing implements was shoved into its elastic loop with precision; every pen lined up exactly. Chris had arranged them in order by color—black, then blue, then red, then green.

  He caught me staring at them, and he shrugged disarmingly. “I like to keep things organized.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said, and for just a moment, I felt a line between us, an energy. Chris reached into the bag and took out a folder. He passed it to me, and when I looked inside, I wasn’t surprised to see a neat sheaf of papers, each carefully stapled in the upper left-hand corner.

  Entirely unlooked for, I had discovered a kindred spirit.

  And suddenly I thought that I should talk to a newspaper reporter. I should tell him everything—even about the imperials. Especially about the vampires. There were millions of people in the D.C. metro area, millions of possible victims for Karl Schmidt and his alleged blood herds. Millions of people who could be given a dose of cinnamon-flavored poison, who could be tapped on the forehead and forced to comply, to be Enfolded before they even knew their will had been co-opted.

  I twisted my hematite bracelet around my wrist.

  Of course, I could never tell Chris all that. For one thing, he would think that I was positively, absolutely nuts. For another, James would track him down, Enfold him, and make him forget whatever secrets I divulged. I could definitely kiss my job goodbye then, probation period or no probation period.

  But maybe I could accomplish something almost as good by not telling him about the vampires. I could cooperate with Chris’s investigation, feed him everything he needed for his feature. I could tell him about the human aspects of my job, about what it was like to be a clerk, to organize information and to help the public. All the while, I could endeavor to make the courtroom itself seem boring. Mundane. Too uninteresting for anyone to ever think of interfering.

  If I played my cards right, no innocent human would ever wander into Judge DuBois’s courtroom. No one would ever be put in the same danger that I’d been in, accidentally exposed to ravenous vampire fangs. I could use Chris’s newspaper feature to carve out space for Judge DuBois to do his real work, to keep imperial criminals in line without fear of any human intervention. And with a little bit of extra luck, I might even make the case for continuing our funding, staving off
the D.C. Council’s threatened budget cuts.

  Obviously unaware of my hatching plans, Chris shrugged, making the overhead light glint off his curls. “Think about it,” he said. “I promise, I don’t bite.”

  Human bites were the least of my concerns. I ran my fingers along the smooth edge of the folder he’d given me, sounding tentative as I said, “I’d have to get permission from my boss.”

  “Great!” Chris said, as if I’d just agreed to give him full access to my life, 24/7/365.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I warned. “He’s the Director of Security. He can be really tough.”

  “I completely understand,” he said. “I just appreciate your making the effort.”

  He sounded so sincere. So serious. I was still smiling when Chris walked out of the office, having extracted my promise to call him as soon as I knew whether we could speak again.

  * * *

  “It’s a great idea,” James said.

  “What?”

  That was the last thing I had thought he would say. I’d spent hours pulling together my arguments about why I should do the interview. The court needed to look accessible to the public. Refusal to cooperate might raise more interest than any individual newspaper article ever could, even a long feature, like Chris obviously planned to write. I didn’t know a lot about the court yet, human or imperial; I couldn’t give away too many details. If I agreed to work with Chris, I could shape the article somewhat. I could lead Chris’s inquiry in whatever direction I thought best.

  And no matter what happened, if things went disastrously wrong, there was always a safety net. James could Enfold Chris and make the reporter forget that he’d ever been interested in the court, in me.

  I had figured out why working with Chris was a good idea. I just hadn’t expected James to agree.

  “It’s a great idea,” he said again. “We’ve been under a lot of pressure lately from the D.C. Council. They’ve been questioning whether the District needs to have a Night Court at all. The Judiciary Committee chair, Dan Feld, has gone on record that they can meet their goal by getting rid of us, without affecting any other public service.”

  James’s voice was grim. If the human Night Court was abolished, it would be nearly impossible for the imperial court to do its work. I asked, “Has the Banner taken a formal stand on this? Have they written any editorials?” I was pretty sure that I’d notice an on-point editorial now, but if the issue had been brewing for weeks, or even months, I certainly hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Not yet. And your job is to make sure that they don’t. Or, if they do, that everyone understands just how important our work is here. A good strong article in the Banner could get Feld out of our hair for months, maybe even kill the issue entirely.”

  I swallowed hard. I’d never been involved in politics before. I hadn’t even voted for Student Council when I was in high school. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, trying to sound determined.

  “I’m not expecting anything major,” James said with a tight smile. “Just feed your reporter information about the good work we do for the human Night Court. Tell him how efficient we are. How we provide a valuable service, preserving the constitutional rights of people brought up on criminal charges. Keep the details boring, mundane. And whatever you do, don’t put up a fight about sharing information. If you even hint at hiding facts, your reporter is sure to burrow in like a terrier. Play your cards right, and this should work out well for everyone.”

  I’ll call him in the morning,” I said before standing and crossing to his office door. My fingers settled on the knob. If I intended to say anything else, I had to say it now. If I was going to ask James to back off where the other imperials were concerned, this was the time.

  “James?” He must have heard the determined tone in my voice; his eyes narrowed as they met mine. “If I’m really going to fit in, really going to do my job, you can’t watch over me every single second.”

  His jaw tightened, “Your safety is of paramount importance.”

  “I’m not talking about my safety. I’m talking about making me stand out. Making me different from everyone else. I appreciate your talking to everyone, but I didn’t need them to apologize. I didn’t need them to make promises that everything will be different in the future.” I hurried on before he could protest. “The goal is to have them accept me, work with me as an equal. If you order them to do that, I’m never going to fit in.”

  He was silent for a long time. I wondered if I’d totally overstepped my bounds, if my probation was over now, without any further discussion. Maybe I wouldn’t need to call Chris Gardner in the morning. Maybe my career as Court Clerk was finished, when it had scarcely begun.

  I was astonished by how much that thought hurt. There were so many things that I wanted to do, here at the court. So many things that I wanted to change. I thought of the scrambled imperial files, the mess of records that cried out for a system, for organization, for my peculiar skills at bringing things into line.

  Even if James escorted me out of the building this very second, I’d never forget those files were there. I’d never forget the pull they exerted on me, the urge to fix them, to make them neat, orderly.

  “You’re right,” James said at last.

  I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  A crazed part of my brain wondered if any human woman had ever received apologies from four different imperials in a single night. James didn’t say anything else, though. I could almost believe that the two words—the “I’m sorry” he had forced out of Judge DuBois, Alex Bennett, and Eleanor Owens—were entirely foreign to him. I raised my chin and said levelly, “I accept your apology.”

  He didn’t bother pointing out that he hadn’t actually apologized. Instead, he said, “Don’t think this changes anything. The others will still be nervous around you. Especially when they find out you’re talking to a reporter. Your meeting with Gardner will make your training more important than ever.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I hope you do. Keep focusing on the breathing, Sarah. We’ll start your real training on Monday.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I HURRIED THROUGH the crisp September afternoon, stretching my legs into an efficient, sidewalk-eating stride. I’d been grumpy about setting my alarm clock a full two hours early so that I could have dinner with Allison, but my reward was actually seeing a crystalline sky, achingly blue, without a cloud in sight.

  Allison was waiting for me on the stairs that led to Cafe Luna’s underground lair. The restaurant was three short blocks from my apartment. It was open practically twenty-four hours a day, making it a convenient escape whenever I hadn’t gotten around to grocery shopping (which was far too often.) Cafe Luna had been there for years—its walls were covered in funky paintings of the sun and moon, like some leftover hippie getaway. The service was always friendly and relaxed, with waiters willing to let their customers camp out at tables for an hour or two. Best of all, they served breakfast all day.

  Allison interrupted our quick hug of greeting. “What’s the deal? Have you somehow grown a couple of inches?”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, laughing off the suggestion. I realized, though, that I was standing straighter, that I was keeping my shoulders back. My Old Library sessions with James were drifting into my real life.

  And drifting into my menu choices. Allison eyed me suspiciously when I ordered an omelet, complete with feta, spinach, and mushrooms. “Weren’t you the one who taught me that bacon is one of the four basic food groups?” she asked.

  I winced, tapping my finger against my coral ring. Less than a week, and I was totally going through withdrawal from meat. But fair was fair. I’d promised James. And my vampire co-workers made me a trifle more willing to keep that promise than I might otherwise have been.

  Time enough to tell Allison about all that, though. For now, I shrugged and said, “I spent enough on my new work wardrobe. I’ve got to fit in
to these clothes for a while.”

  “Did you get that ring to match your sweater?” She nodded toward the deep orange coral band. I hadn’t really noticed how it picked up the stitching on the cuff of my cardigan. Reflexively, I extended my hand toward her, letting her look at the blank signet. The motion exposed my hematite bracelet as well, which elicited raised eyebrows and pursed lips from Al.

  “I don’t remember where I got these,” I said. “I’ve had them forever.”

  Allison shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve seen them before. They look great with that outfit. Like you’re a professional. All grown up.”

  I heard the teasing behind her voice, the gentle criticism that only a best friend could deliver. I probably deserved it—Al had been my lifeline through enough bad career choices. She’d let me rant and rave when I was totally flummoxed by working as a nanny for two-year-old twins, after I’d ditched Civil Procedure and Fundamentals of Real Property. And she’d paid for my pedicure after I finished a single week as a waitress at Birthdays “R” Us, a Pizza Emporium for Young and Old Alike. And she’d managed not to laugh when I admitted to working on commission at Kipler’s Kiddie Korral, an elite children’s clothing boutique that specialized in recreating famous movie costumes for the toddler set.

  Court Clerk for the Night Court was clearly a giant step up from those past employment disasters. And I had Allison’s friend of a friend of a friend to thank for pointing me toward the position. Those lobbyists—they certainly knew how to network.

  “Oh!” Al said. She dug into her purse, pushing aside her wallet to extract an envelope. She handed it to me and said, “From Nora. To celebrate your new job.”