Fright Court

by Mindy Klasky

  “Sarah!” Allison cut off my increasingly anxious reverie. “You said that you love this job!”

  “Loved. Past tense. It’s never going to be the same.”

  Allison made the sort of exasperated noise that reminded me that she had finished law school. She had stuck with her career plan, even when the going got tough. She had bitten more bullets than I could imagine, climbed out of more disasters than I’d ever experienced in the workplace. Her voice was stern as she said, “So the honeymoon is over. Time for you to settle down to the real job.”

  “But Dan Feld wants to shut us down, and Chris has given him all the ammunition he needs!”

  “Dan Feld is a city councilor, not God. One newspaper article isn’t going to change things.”

  “Thanks for being so understanding.” I couldn’t scrub the petulance from my voice.

  “I do understand,” Allison said. “I’m a lobbyist. I play politics every day of my life. Take my word for it—you can spin this to your own advantage. In six months, the courthouse will have all new computers, better resources across the board, and no one will remember that Chris Gardner was the guy who made it all happen.”

  I grumbled, and I made another threat to abandon my job, but Allison only wished me good luck and hung up. I shook my head and turned back to the first page of the article, reading through the entire thing again, scrutinizing every word.

  If I overlooked the second and third paragraphs, criticizing the court personnel, it was actually a positive piece. Grudgingly, I had to admit that Chris was a master at finding the telling details. He explained that few people even knew that the court was open at night—he talked about a cab driver assuming that only marriages were performed after hours. I blushed as I read that vignette, remembering the way that Chris had yielded to our driver’s insistence that he and I were a happy couple.

  Happy couple, my ass. He’d dumped me into hot water. He had to know how difficult this article would make my night-to-night work.

  As if in answer to my renewed dread, a fist pounded against my apartment door. I glanced at the windows, startled to realize that it was pitch-dark outside. Bracing myself for the enraged vampire boss I was certain to find, I crossed to the door and peered through the peephole.

  Oh, yeah. One enraged vampire, so furious that he was actually pacing back and forth across my doormat.

  I could refuse to open the door. I could pretend to be out for the evening. I could act like I hadn’t read the article yet, like I had no idea it had finally been published.

  And James could stand on the landing and huff and puff and blow the door down.

  I let him in.

  He rushed over the threshold so quickly that I had to stagger back three paces. Apprehension iced my spine, and I wondered just how much of an idiot I had been, inviting him in weeks before. He crossed to my kitchen table and glared down at the newspaper, as if he could set the pages on fire with the power of his enraged eyes alone.

  “I had no idea what he’d write,” I said. I could hear every defensive syllable, quivering in the air between us.

  “You had to have some idea. You knew the type of questions he was asking. You knew the direction he was leaning.”

  “No, James. I didn’t. Any more than you did, when you looked at him in the courtroom. When you had your private little tête-á-tête during the arraignment night from Hell.”

  “Don’t turn this into something about me. I had nothing to do with this.”

  But that wasn’t true. James had agreed that I should do the interview. He’d given me permission; he’d practically told me to slant the article in a way to deflect Councilor Feld. I hadn’t been telling tales out of school—not entirely.

  “I know you’re angry, James. But this isn’t about you. You aren’t even mentioned in the article. Chris wrote about me. Chris spent time with me. And that’s the real reason you’re upset! You’ve resented every second that Chris and I spent together!”

  James had frozen as I started my tirade. I would have thought that a man who didn’t breathe couldn’t become any stiller, but somehow he did. Somehow he settled into his righteous anger, drew into his body until he was so distant that I wondered if I’d ever reach him again.

  I don’t know what I expected to gain from shouting at him. He certainly wasn’t going to take a step back, to widen his eyes in shock, to weaken at the knees and admit that I was right. At least I knew James Morton that well.

  His voice was iron as he reached inside the pocket of his trousers. “Here,” he said, handing me a slip of paper.

  “What is it?”

  “Dan Feld’s address.”

  I wasn’t sure how my fingers freed themselves to take the paper. “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “He wants to see you tomorrow, at five o’clock.”

  “See me?” There had to be some misunderstanding. City councilmen didn’t request to see Court Clerks. Not because of silly newspaper articles. And certainly not through intermediaries. “Why did he talk to you?”

  “He didn’t,” James said. “He talked to DuBois. More precisely, he left half a dozen messages, every one of which was forwarded to me. You’re my problem, Sarah. Dan Feld wants to get to the bottom of this. He wants to hear your perspective on the Night Court, what’s working and what isn’t. And he was absolutely clear that he doesn’t want the judge or me to interfere with anything you have to say.”

  “I don’t have anything to say at all! I won’t say anything bad about you, James. Or about Judge DuBois!”

  “I can’t really control that, now can I?” James shook his head. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.” He turned on his heel and made it to the doorway before he deigned to look back at me. “And after you talk to Feld? I want you in my office. I want to know every single word the Councilman has to say.”

  He disappeared into the night before I could agree.

  * * *

  I wasn’t late getting to the councilman’s office. In fact, I was early—half an hour early.

  I hadn’t slept all day. I was too nervous, too worried about what Councilor Feld would ask me, about what secrets he would demand I reveal.

  James’s slip of paper had directed me to the headquarters of DFI, Feld’s main job, when he wasn’t meddling in D.C. politics. DFI was a corporate behemoth that specialized in providing support for other businesses, things like janitors and car services. I passed through the revolving door, grateful for the lobby’s warmth after the windy bite of an autumn afternoon. I signed in at the security desk and was directed to the eleventh floor. As I waited for the elevator, I started fiddling with my bracelet. I was going to look like an idiot if I played with my jewelry during my meeting. Unable to trust myself—half the time, I didn’t even realize when I’d started to fidget—I slipped off the hematite band and deposited it in the pocket of my suit jacket. I added my coral ring for good measure. I didn’t want anything to threaten my meeting with Mr. Feld, anything to make him think that I was less than a perfect civil servant.

  His staff was well-trained. They offered me coffee or tea while I waited. (I declined, too nervous to consider drinking anything that might stain my carefully-chosen navy suit.) They checked back every fifteen minutes, explaining that Mr. Feld was sorry, that Mr. Feld had been delayed, that Mr. Feld had been caught up in a series of votes over in the District Building. They expected him any minute.

  I smiled and glanced through ancient copies of Janitorial Express and Limousine Digest, pretending that the secrets in those pages were the most fascinating things I’d ever seen. I tried to keep from glancing at my watch. I fought to keep from looking restless. I reminded myself that I had plenty of time before I was supposed to be at work. Plenty of time before I had to report in to James.

  Actually, when I thought about facing my boss, the option of hanging out in Feld’s waiting room seemed better and better. After all, I was actually completing an assignment if I stuck around the DFI building. I wasn’t ducki
ng responsibility. I wasn’t avoiding the supervisor I knew was furious with me. I was being a good employee.

  At six o’clock, the office emptied out. Weary DFI staff filed past the receptionist, bidding her a goodnight, casting a curious look at me. I considered leaving, trying to reschedule my appointment with Feld, but it seemed foolish to leave when I’d already invested an hour building goodwill with the city councilman.

  At six thirty, the receptionist shut down her computer, resorting to reading a novel held surreptitiously beneath her desk. I thought that I should give up, but I couldn’t imagine the look on James’s face when I told him I’d walked away from a mandated meeting.

  At seven o’clock, the phone buzzed, and the reception jumped to attention. “Yes, Mr. Feld,” she said. “Right away, sir.” She looked at me, obviously relieved to be through with her long day’s work. “Mr. Feld will see you now.” I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the decision about staying or going had been taken away from me.

  The receptionist led me to an internal staircase, and we walked up one floor. We passed by a secured elevator lobby, and then we wound through a series of hallways, the twists and turns so intricate that I wondered if the receptionist went spelunking on her days off. We finally arrived at a pair of rich mahogany doors, polished so that they shone like a mirror. The receptionist knocked three times.

  “Come in,” came a muffled voice from inside.

  The receptionist turned the oversized brass knob and pushed open the door, gesturing with one hand for me to enter.

  The office was on a corner of the building. We were on the twelfth floor, the highest level permitted by the District of Columbia. From one wall of windows, I could see the White House, nestled in the middle of its autumn-brown lawn like a decoration on a cake. The other plane of glass showed Pennsylvania Avenue, the long, wide street that marched to the Capitol. The courthouse was just out of sight, to my left.

  Mr. Feld sat with his back to me. His enormous leather chair would have looked out of place, if his desk had not been the size of Montana. A telephone crouched on one corner, filled with enough buttons that it could easily launch the next mission to Mars. A spray of papers filled half the desk.

  My palms itched, and I reminded myself how foolish I would look if I reached out to those papers, if I stacked them neatly, if I tapped them into place.

  The mahogany door closed behind me, and I distinctly heard the latch click into place. I cleared my throat, trying to provide a subtle reminder to Mr. Feld that I was there, that he had demanded my attendance, nearly two hours before.

  I could see his reflection in the glass as he stared out over Pennsylvania Avenue. He was shorter than I expected. A lot older. His hair was thinning, and he didn’t do himself any favors by brushing it straight back from his forehead. His face was fleshy, ruddy, and I was pretty sure that he didn’t get the recommended daily allotment of exercise. In fact, he looked nothing like the vital young city councilor I’d seen on the District’s website.

  “Sarah,” he said, meeting my eyes in the window. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a very long time.”

  I was certain I’d misunderstood him. Chris’s article had only been published the day before. “Mr. Feld?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” he said, turning his chair to face me. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He spent an eternity walking around the desk. “Maurice,” he said, extending his hand. “Maurice Richardson.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THERE WERE A dozen things I was supposed to do. My training said that I should slow my breathing, lower my heart rate, distance myself from the panic that clutched at my throat. I could defend myself. I could kick at the side of Richardson’s knee, swipe his feet out from under him. I could clutch at his arm, apply pressure to his elbow, to his wrist, to his thumb—whatever it took to break bones, to get away from him. I could escape.

  I knew all of that, knew it cold.

  And yet, a corner of my mind retreated into gibbering terror, into frantic, panicked thought. “I— I could see you! You were reflected in the window!”

  He laughed. There was ice behind his amusement, a sheer wall of inhuman emotion. “Morton obviously neglected to tell you a few things, didn’t he? With mirrors, it’s the silver that keeps us from reflecting. You can see vampires just fine, reflected in night-time glass.”

  Great. Now I knew. Not that it made any difference—I’d sprung Richardson’s trap the instant I crossed the threshold to meet with a stranger, the second that the tired receptionist had closed the door behind me. “Where is Dan Feld?” I asked, as if that could possibly matter now.

  Richardson pursed his lips, apparently disapproving of my question. His gaze sliced toward the wall to my left, toward a corner swathed in shadows. For the first time, I realized that there was someone else in the room with us. A man. A living, breathing human man. He was tall and lean, with blond hair that had recently been trimmed in a hundred-dollar haircut. I’d seen him in the pages of the Banner; I recognized him from photos in the waiting room I’d just occupied for two hours.

  Dan Feld.

  The city councilman stood in the corner like a deactivated robot, his eyes staring straight ahead with an utter lack of curiosity. I knew immediately that he was Enfolded, and a million questions sprang into my own mind. When had Richardson gained control over him? Had the councilor ever truly worried about the Night Court, or was that entirely a creation of Maurice Richardson’s malice? And could I hope for any semblance of assistance from the enslaved human who stood in the corner, any aid at all?

  Richardson broke into my panicked thought. “That’s enough, Feld,” he said to his puppet, snapping his fingers like a man calling a dog to heel. “You can sleep now.”

  The blond man slumped against the wall, collapsing in a heap of expensive clothing. He closed his eyes as his chin touched his chest, out cold. So much for my hopes of leading a brave human uprising against the forces of vampire evil. I braced myself for whatever was going to happen next.

  Richardson glided toward me, as if we were engaged in some sinister foxtrot. Wasn’t there a fancy dance move that Ginger Rogers would use, if she were trapped in an office after dark, with a vampire steadily advancing? Ginger would ignore the fact that she was in high heels. She’d step on the seat of the chair behind her, shift her weight to the back of the furniture, tip it over to serve as a shield.

  Too bad I’d never gone to cotillion.

  Richardson came to a stop in front of me, shaking his head. This close, I could see that he wasn’t nearly as old or as out of shape as I’d thought upon entering the office. What I’d seen as fat was all muscle, strong bands that rippled beneath the cuffs of his starched white shirt, that bulged his thickened neck. He pinned me with eyes so dark they seemed all pupil, and when he spoke, his tone was mocking. “So nervous, you are. Like a mouse caught in a trap.”

  He lunged toward me, and I stumbled back, unable to bite off a ragged shriek. Richardson tossed back his head and laughed. When he looked at me again, I saw that his fangs had sprung. “Sudden, sharp movement,” he said around the incisors, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “I expected better from young Morton’s protege.”

  “Young?” I asked, because I had to say something, had to buy some time until I could figure out how to get out of Feld’s office. I might have had a chance if I’d caught Richardson unaware, lashed out in the very first second that he revealed himself. Now that he was standing so close to me, though, now that he was looming over me, and I realized how far outmatched I was in any physical battle… I pretended that I had a right to demand, “How old are you, then? When were you Turned?”

  Those coal-black eyes narrowed. “Morton truly taught you nothing, then. We vampires do not tell our Turning stories lightly. Certainly not to humans.” He sounded so superior, absolutely confident that I wasn’t worth the time it would take to drain. I could see him make some calculation beneath that withering stare, as if he were determi
ning the dimensions of my coffin. “But where are my manners?” he asked after a too-long pause. “Feld keeps some light refreshment for his guests. May I offer you a drink?”

  I would accept anything, if it would get Richardson to move away from me. Afraid to trust my voice, I nodded.

  The vampire crossed to a table against the near wall. A smile played about his lips as he took time plucking ice cubes from a crystal bucket, employing brass tongs that seemed far too delicate for his broad fingers. Five cubes, and then he poured fresh water into my glass.

  Strike that. It wasn’t really water. It had to be the vampires’ potion, the one they used to induce Enfolding. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. I began to see a glimmer of hope, a course of action that—finally!—gave me a chance of getting out of the office alive.

  I took the glass very carefully, every cell in me aware that Richardson could drop the tainted water in a flash. He could grab my wrist, pull me toward him, rake his fangs along my throat and put an instant end to his charade. But he could have done that before. He wanted something from me. He needed me alive. For now.

  He watched with satisfaction as I drank. I recognized the cinnamon tang at the back of my tongue; my throat tried to close in automatic distress. My brain had to promise my body that the water wouldn’t affect me. I had to consciously remind myself to drain the glass, to act like a normal, ignorant human woman, frightened and unaware of what I was consuming.

  Well, the “frightened” part was easy, anyway.

  I folded my hands around the tumbler, trying to believe that the action would keep my fingers from trembling. I was about to deliver the acting job of my life, based solely on one performance that I had seen—Allison, when James had Enfolded her in front of me.