Last Ditch Effort

by Isobella Crowley

  The man smiled broadly and raised his glass. “Yessir. How did you guess?” Unsurprisingly, he spoke with a pronounced Southern drawl. “Where the hell are my manners? I’m Tucker Bedford.” He extended his right hand.

  He shook it and managed not to wince. The man had one hell of a grip. “I have some familiarity with alcoholic beverages,” he explained and nodded toward the drink. “Plus, the sprig of fresh mint seemed like a dead giveaway.”

  “Careful,” Tucker retorted and lowered his voice, “some of the folks at a gathering like this won’t take kindly to a man throwing that word ‘dead’ around so carelessly.” His eyes twinkled and he could not decide if he was being charming or threatening.

  “Oh, right, ha.” Remy laughed. “Sorry! I’m new to all this preternatural business, although nothing I’ve seen so far is any more scandalous than what I’ve already gagged my way through while dealing with high-society New York humans. That gets simply terrifying.”

  The Southerner took a swig of his julep. “I’ll bet it does,” he conceded. “Still, in my time…well, I’ve seen nice boys from that other, mundane world wander into this world, thinking they could handle it, and one day, they put their foot down in the wrong place, and…” He snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

  He nodded and summoned an appropriate façade of wide-eyed naiveté. “Gosh, yes. I’m trying to be careful. It’s true, after all, that you never know when someone’s luck will run out. I used to encounter all these cunning old bastards, who’d been scheming behind the scenes for decades, and then, alas, they got overconfident. The old proverb about how there’s always a bigger fish proved itself true.” He shook his head sadly.

  Tucker smiled in a grim way. “Ain’t that the truth.” He moved his left hand in a circle to swish the ice and bourbon.

  His gaze shifted to the drink. “Isn’t it traditional, though, for mint juleps to be served in a silver cup?”

  The other man, too, looked at the glass, then his gaze slid up to lock with his. “Glass, crystal…any is acceptable. The drink itself is what’s important. Besides, if you organized this party, I’m sure you’d know better than to have silver around. Some species don’t much care for it.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “I gather that Taylor—and vampires in general—aren’t particularly fond of silver, but it doesn’t seem to really harm them much. So, in that respect, I imagine they have a clear advantage over lycanthropes.”

  Tucker took a long drink until the glass was almost empty. “Vampires don’t have many weaknesses, it’s true,” he stated. “But, of course, every species has its strengths and, well, its vulnerabilities. Even the most powerful can end up in a bad way. Like you said—if they overstep their boundaries.”

  He let the pause after his last word stretch out ominously. A soft footstep intruded on Remy trying to find something to say.

  “Hello,” Taylor said and looked at the large Southerner with a pleasantly neutral expression. “I’m your hostess. I believe we’ve met once or twice before, Mr Bedford.”

  Tucker extended his hand. “Ms Steele. Nice of you to join us. Mr Davis here and I were discussing the things he’s already learned since he joined up, and how—”

  “The powerful,” she interrupted, “can end up badly if they misstep. Yes, I heard. It’s good that you’re teaching Remy here such an important lesson.” She extended a hand and ruffled his hair.

  He pulled away from her unwelcome display. “Remington, please,” he grated. “I would think this was too formal an occasion for fond nicknames.”

  Taylor arched her eyebrows. “This isn’t a formal occasion, exactly. It’s a party. We can all speak our minds freely.”

  The other man chortled. “That’s good to know, but it seems some folks are upset that we all can’t act freely. Maybe you’ve heard the rumblings. A lady as smart as yourself ought to know that when things like that start happening…well, maybe it’s time to enact some reforms and give the people what they want. Stave off the rebellion, as it were.”

  The intensity with which the man said the word rebellion brought a slight chill to Remy’s spine.

  “Oh?” the vampire inquired. She ran the tip of a red-nailed finger around the edge of her glass, which contained what looked like a Bloody Mary. “I was under the impression that things were quite well-balanced as they were. After all, ‘the people’ is a term that also includes the humans. I feel it’s entirely reasonable to shut them out of our affairs in exchange for their safety.”

  He almost held his breath while he watched. The two stared into each other’s eyes now, and the vibe had turned as cold as winter.

  “That,” Tucker began, “ain’t exactly how it’s worked for most of history. You’re running a very strange experiment here, you realize. Experiments have a way of failing over time.”

  Taylor smiled. “It hasn’t failed yet.”

  The Southerner raised his crystal glass in a mock toast. “True enough, ma’am. Maybe we’ll get lucky and things will all work out well for everyone. Maybe.” He drained the vessel of both alcohol and ice.

  “I’ll drink to that,” the woman replied. She raised her glass, sipped at the red liquid, and nodded to Remy. “I’ll be around. Let me know if either of you requires anything.”

  Tucker watched her leave. Remy was about to wander off toward other guests when the big man turned abruptly toward him.

  “Listen, now,” he drawled, and he could feel the man’s drunkenness by this point. “I respect Taylor. She’s not a lady to be trifled with and she plays by the same rules she enforces on everyone else—she ain’t no hypocrite. But sometimes, even an admirable individual gets too comfortable being in charge. They think they always know what’s best, they won’t listen to anyone else’s suggestions, and when change comes a-knockin’ at the door…well, they simply check to see that the deadbolt’s shut and won’t budge an inch to open it. And at some point, that becomes a problem.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “I…see.”

  The Southerner extended his empty glass in a gesture of emphasis. “It’s a regrettable problem—the kind that would be better not happening in the first place. But sometimes, things are set in motion that can’t be stopped, even if regrets are involved.”

  “I will relay the message,” he said.

  Tucker nodded. “Do so, Yankee Boy. It’s been nice chatting, but I ought to get going. I’ve about drank enough and said enough.” He smiled. “I’ll see you ʼround.”

  “It’s been educational.” He extended his hand and again, it was crushed in that huge paw. The large man sauntered off and disappeared.

  The rest of the evening’s festivities passed by uneventfully enough, aside from one uncomfortable incident in which a ghost possessed a loudmouthed gremlin and forced him to leap into the sink and douse himself in cold water. Fortunately, Taylor stepped in to personally resolve the matter before it could lead to a brawl.

  As the last of the guests filed out hours later, he felt a sharp ache in his bladder. He stumbled toward the bathroom and pushed his way through the door.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he exclaimed. “The toilet’s clogged. It never fails.”

  He sighed. At least he knew where they kept the plunger and brush.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fall Fair Demolition Derby, Middletown, New York

  The early autumn sunshine was bright and warm, and the trees were barely beginning to show tints of yellow and orange. If you looked one way, it seemed like a perfect fall postcard, peaceful and soothing.

  If you looked in the other direction, the place was anything but.

  “I cannot believe,” Remy murmured, “that I am actually, literally standing here in attendance at a goddamn demolition derby.”

  Riley, who floated over his shoulder near his left ear, turned to ask, “Why not?”

  “Because,” he stated. “It’s not very…Remington-esque. That’s the shortest and most accurate answer. Let me get my bearings here and maybe I’ll give you a lon
ger one, as well.”

  After the party, everyone—Remy, Taylor, Riley, and Presley—agreed that Tucker was, as the police would say, a person of interest. It was impossible to be certain that he was among the conspirators since he’d spoken in riddles and vague innuendoes and could have defended himself on the grounds of merely trying to warn Taylor of general discontent.

  But given that she had already pegged him as a suspect following her interview with a dwarfish friend it seemed, Remy thought, a little too coincidental.

  That night, after the party, they’d asked the fairy to sniff Remy’s hand to pick up Tucker’s scent and discussed all the pertinent information as to his recent activities and known whereabouts.

  Today was a new day and Remy and Riley had spent the first few hours of it trailing the Southern gentleman across New York, much as they’d done their first day together while determining James’ activities.

  It hadn’t taken long to find him. After leaving the soiree at Taylor’s house, he’d simply gone to a hotel room in White Plains and spent the night there. In the morning, he had gone to Middletown, a municipality northwest of Tuxedo which apparently was big enough—barely—to qualify as a small city.

  All along the town’s streets were signs advertising the Fall Fair Demolition Derby. Even before Riley’s tracking capabilities pointed him toward the event, Remy assumed that was where Tucker was headed. It seemed like his type of recreational activity.

  He sought out directions to the fairground and as they drove toward them, his fae companion confirmed that they still had the big Southerner’s trail. Finally, they’d parked and gone for a walk amidst the hastily assembled bleachers, the crowds thronging the concession stands and beer tents, and the avenues of trampled grass leading to temporary buildings where the organizers were set up.

  “But,” Riley asked, “what is a demolition derby? It doesn’t seem to make any sense, from what I can see. Is it some kind of punishment ritual for people who are bad drivers?”

  “No, but now that you mention it, that would be an excellent idea. I’d go door to door trying to elect the politician who vowed to put that into law. But no, it’s a…sport, I guess. They put half a dozen idiots in glass-free cars, plunk them on a muddy field, and have them all deliberately crash into one another in an effort to disable their opponents’ vehicles. The last one still operational is crowned the winner. While I could see it being fun to watch, even by my standards it seems a little…stupid.”

  The fairy circled his head as he walked and when he caught a glimpse of her face, he saw that she was squinting in confusion. “Why? What’s stupid about it? I think it’s interesting. And it does sound like fun. Humans can’t fly, so why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves by crashing cars into things?”

  “Oh,” Remy quipped, “some humans do that anyway but they typically get arrested and fined for it. Somehow, the laws don’t seem to apply to rednecks at festivals, though.”

  “That’s strange.” She smiled in a curious way as she stared at the arena, where a couple of modified cars were already set up.

  He thought of something in that moment. “Get back into my armpit, Riley. Since we’re looking for a preternatural, he’ll probably be able to see you and might get suspicious. I’m less conspicuous without a miniature naked girl flying around.”

  She sighed. “Oh, all right.”

  No sooner had she burrowed under his shirt than he caught sight of a familiar figure.

  “Ha,” he said and tried not to celebrate prematurely, “the bastard is out walking the crowd. I’ll tail him for a while and see what he gets up to.”

  Tucker was about two hundred feet from where he now stood and faced away from him as he strolled the grounds. He had exchanged his antique white tuxedo for a less dignified but more appropriate outfit consisting of blue jeans, a red t-shirt, and a battered blue baseball cap. The man was barely distinguishable from half the other guys present.

  Remy tried to avoid looking directly at the man’s back and instead, swung his gaze from side to side to keep track of him, hurried to catch up, then fell into a more casual stroll before he increased his pace again. It seemed to be working.

  The large man stopped abruptly and suddenly, a tidal wave of pedestrians appeared from a nearby beer tent and flowed between them to block the stocky Southerner from his sight.

  “Crap,” he grumbled.

  He kept his eyes angled downward as he tried to push through the stampede. The bodies finally cleared and there, directly in front of him, was his quarry.

  Tucker looked at him, his face largely neutral, but something about the expression reminded him of a man he’d once encountered who always glowered with low, seething contempt whenever his wife’s poodle took a shit. His nostrils flared. Being a werewolf, he likely had an animal’s olfactory superiority and might even have smelled his pursuer before he saw him.

  “Mr Davis,” he said. “What brings you here, if I may ask?”

  Remy smiled to buy himself a couple of extra seconds. Now was the time to think on his feet because, quite frankly, he hadn’t bothered to come up with a Plan B. He wasn’t scared, exactly, but this investigation had already come so far—in no small part thanks to his own efforts—and he refused to screw it up now.

  “Oh, well, to be honest,” he responded, “I kind of always wanted to drive in a demolition derby myself. It looks like so much fun. I saw one on TV when I was a kid and of course, I immediately asked my father if I could grow up to be a derby guy. He was all, ‘Absolutely not, young man. You’re a Rem—er, Davis. We Davises don’t do stupid, dangerous stuff like that. I can’t risk you getting killed or injured.’ But now, I’m an adult and can take care of myself, mostly, so I thought I might as well look into it. You wouldn’t happen to know the owners or chief operators would you?”

  If he was lucky, the answer would be no, and after a few more pleasantries, he could melt back into the crowd.

  Tucker’s subtle sneer widened into a grin. “Well, as a matter of fact,” he began, and Remy’s stomach felt much the way it did when an elevator first began its ascent. “The owner, promoter, and manager of this event is none other than Yours Truly.”

  “Ohhh,” he said and maintained his bright smile with some effort. “That’s…great. Now that I think about it, though, there’s probably a lot of paperwork involved, qualifications and licenses and all that rigmarole, which you probably don’t have time to deal with since you’re running a festival here.”

  “Nonsense,” the Southerner responded cheerfully and hooked his big hands into belt loops. “You’d be amazed at what we get away with at these things. Heh, heh. All you need to do is sign a quick waiver—absolving me of any responsibility for injury, of course—and we’ll have other people crashing cars into you in no time.”

  He clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and reached into a back pocket with the other. “I have one of those very forms right here, in fact.” Some folded, crushed, and not very clean papers appeared in his hand. “Let me see if I have a pen…”

  Riley had become agitated, which made his armpit itch severely.

  “Uh,” he stammered, “well, I almost feel like…isn’t there a training course for this type of thing? It might be better to…”

  He trailed off when he noticed that most of the men clustered nearby now watched him and listened unashamedly to the conversation.

  Tucker laughed. “Nonsense,” he said again. “All you need to know how to do is drive. And don’t hit the driver’s side—your goal isn’t to kill the other guys, only to total their cars.”

  He peered sidelong at the younger man. “Say…you ain’t having second thoughts, are you? I never met the man who said he dreamed of participating in a demolition derby and didn’t actually mean it. Backing out now would be like a betrayal of your dreams.” He shook his head with mock sadness.

  Now, Remy’s teeth clenched and his hands curled into fists. All the hicks smirked at him.

  “And,” the big ma
n went on, “I might have to contact the agency, in that case, to make sure this isn’t some kind of surreptitious effort to shut down this popular, family-oriented festival.”

  He took a step forward. “I’ll do it. The sooner the better, in fact. I’ve already waited long enough. I might as well get on with living out my childhood dream.”

  Tucker, looking pleased with himself, extended the paper and a battered plastic pen. “Well, that makes me as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine. Sign at the bottom, please.”

  Remy skimmed the text of the waiver only briefly before he scrawled, Remington Davis into the blank space above the line.

  “Right,” he stated, “now show me which car I’ll be using, and—”

  “You provide your own.” The man interrupted him. “In fact, it even says that right…here.” He pointed to a place on one of the forms he had just signed.

  He cleared his throat. “Of course. So…ah, show me where to pull up for the…uh, pit crew or whatever to look me over.”

  It didn’t take long. Tucker produced a trio of underlings who personally accompanied him back to his car, stood and waited while he started the engine, and directed him to a makeshift garage.

  “This,” one of the men said with a huge grin, “is a Lexus, my man. Are you sure you want to enter it in a derby?”

  Remy glowered. “It’s three years outdated. And I have no sentimental attachment to it whatsoever.” He tried not to grind his teeth, although the latter part was true. Of the three, the Lincoln was his favorite.

  “If you say so.” The man shrugged.

  The pit crew explained that they needed to remove all the glass for safety reasons, which they did with stunning speed and an array of tools he had never seen or heard of before. That done, they slammed his driver’s side door shut, spray-painted it white, and painted the numeral five in black atop the white.

  “Thanks,” he said and tried to think of all the maintenance costs he’d save as a result of never having to care about this vehicle again.

  The lead mechanic nodded to him. “Buckle your safety belt and head right on over there.”