The Black Knight Chronicles

by John G. Hartness

  Sabrina pulled a chair over to his bedside and sat down in it, taking her cousin’s hand.

  “Stevie?” she asked in a small voice. I heard a little tremble, and looked up at her. The look on her face was pure murder, and I really didn’t want to be the guys that hurt her cousin when she found them.

  Greg and I tried very hard to be invisible while she had a moment with her cousin.

  “Stevie, baby, it’s Sabrina. I’m here now, little buddy. It’s gonna be okay. I promise, Stevie, I’m gonna find whoever did this and I’m going to make them pay. Nobody’s ever going to hurt my Stevie again, I swear to God.” She put her head down on the back of his wrist.

  I nodded to Greg that we should give her a minute, and we headed out into the hall.

  “Did you smell that?” I asked Greg as soon as the door shut.

  “Yeah, that was not the typical hospital disinfectant funk in there. It was some kind of floral smell, but something nasty under it, like decay. I’ve never smelled anything like it.” Greg has the super-sniffer of the group.

  We headed down the hall to the waiting room and almost ran face-first into a scowling Alex Glindare.

  “Alex,” I said when we had all recovered from our near-collision. “What’s wrong? I mean, I know what’s wrong, but you look pissed. Has something else happened?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he said in a tone that made it pretty obvious he was anything but fine. “Just a run-in with a busybody nurse. It happens.”

  “Oh,” said Greg. “She didn’t want to tell you anything because you’re not family in her sense of the word?”

  Sometimes my partner is really perceptive, something that’s easy to overlook when he wraps himself in black spandex, which happens more often than it should.

  “Exactly.” Alex took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked down at the floor for just a second. Once he had himself back under control, the questions poured out of him in a rush. “How is he? Is he awake? Did he tell you anything?”

  “Whoa, pal. Slow down a little. He’s still unconscious. Detective Law is in there with him right now, but I doubt she’s learned anything else.”

  “Detective Law? You mean Sabrina?”

  I nodded, just as Sabrina came out around the corner, her hand resting on her gun. I knew she was looking for something to shoot, and I didn’t blame her. She drew up short and put on her professional mask when she saw who we were talking to.

  Alex cut her off before she could say anything. “You look a lot different than in your ninth-grade yearbook, Detective.”

  Sabrina smiled a little before saying, “I told Stevie to burn those things. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alex.”

  “You, too, Cousin Sabrina. I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

  They stood there staring at each other for a second before I lost all control of my mouth again. “Well are you two going to hug it out so we can get on with the investigation, or would you like to just stand here in the hallway and cast meaningful glances at each other all night?”

  Sabrina studiously ignored me while Alex actually laughed. He then looked around guiltily, as if someone might see him laughing and think ill of him for it.

  “It’s okay, Alex,” I said. “You’re allowed to laugh when you’re supposed to cry. You’re Southern, it’s the way things are done down here.”

  He chuckled again and said, “It is indeed, isn’t it? Now, what do you know about who beat the hell out of my husband?”

  “Right now, nothing,” Sabrina said. She made the transition into “cop mode” so quickly it made my head spin. “We found no usable forensic evidence at the scene. The alley just sees too much traffic for us to get anything definite. So now we wait to see when Stevie wakes up and we find out what he can remember. What is it?”

  Alex was smiling a little, but his head snapped up at her question. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that nobody calls him Stevie anymore. Nobody but me. He always said that there are only two people in the world allowed to call him Stevie. His favorite cousin and me. And here we both are.”

  Sabrina’s eyes clouded over again, and she reached out to take his hand. “Yeah, here we are. And here we’ll be until he wakes up. Then we’ll go get the son of a bitch that did this and teach him what pain looks like.”

  “While you two are hanging out here drafting lesson plans on pain, Greg and I will start asking questions,” I said.

  “Who are you going to ask?” Sabrina prodded.

  “We can’t reveal our sources, Detective. Isn’t that what you keep telling your lieutenant?” Greg replied.

  “You guys usually are my sources, you dork.”

  “Good point, but our issues remain unchanged.” My partner put on his best enigmatic smirk, which did more to make him look like he had a sour stomach than a secret, and headed down the hall.

  “I have no idea what he’s babbling about, but you go wait for your cousin to wake up and we’ll see what we can come up with.” I turned and started off toward the elevators, where a little kid was staring at Greg’s utility belt.

  The doors chimed open, and we all got on. The kid’s mother pushed the lobby button, while Greg hit the button for the basement, where the blood bank was kept.

  As they got off in the lobby, I turned to Greg and said, “Where to now, Caped Crusader?”

  He flipped me off as the kid went wide-eyed out the elevator doors.

  Chapter 7

  The morgue wasn’t nearly the creepy, poorly lit place you’d expect based on decades of popular movies and zombie video games, but my impressions of the place could be colored by the fact that I’m dead. It did have a peculiar smell to it, one that kinda lingered on my clothes after a visit. It wasn’t just the stink of hospital disinfectant. It was more like formaldehyde with a touch of rot underneath it. Gave me the creeps.

  But at least the joint was brightly lit, if with ugly fluorescent lights. Living or dead, or walking dead, no one has ever had their appearance improved by fluorescent lighting.

  Greg and I meandered through the hallways between exam rooms and cold storage until we got to Bobby’s office. Robert Daniel Reed was not what anyone expected to encounter in a morgue as a medical examiner’s assistant. The stereotype of a scrawny little bookworm with visions of defiling corpses flew right out the window when you took a look at Bobby. A former Arena Football League quarterback, he’d migrated from North Georgia when his playing career ended (something about a shot to the knee one night in Birmingham) and tried his hand at entrepreneurial undertaking.

  We met Bobby a couple of years ago on a case involving an expensive and prematurely deceased parakeet, and he had become an invaluable resource—a man with an embarrassing bird-related secret in his past and a key to a blood bank. He looked up from what was no doubt a scintillating game of solitaire when we walked in, and his normally cheerful demeanor darkened as soon as he recognized us.

  “What do you guys want?” he grumbled, settling all six foot four inches and 260 pounds back into his office chair, which let out a whine of protest.

  “I’m hungry, Bobby. What’s in the fridge?’ Greg walked over to a cooler on the wall.

  “Stay out of there, Knightwood, that’s a customer.”

  Greg hastily took his hand off the door handle as Bobby walked over to the wall of slide-out drawers. For a dead guy, Greg has a crazy aversion to corpses. I mean, I’m not a huge fan, but as long as they’re lying still, they don’t bug me too much. It’s when they get up and cause trouble that I have issues.

  Bobby reached up and opened a drawer high on the wall, pulling out a sliding steel tray with a pair of Igloo coolers on it. “I keep the stash up here so the boss doesn’t get into it.”

  “Why would that keep him out?” I asked, sitting down at Bobby’s computer and updating his Facebook status with stupid movie quotes. That should teach him to leave a window open when there are other people in the room.

  “He’s five three with lifts in his shoes. He’s
banned us from ever putting the stiffs in the upper drawers, so I know he can’t get into this stuff.” Bobby pulled down a cooler and handed it to Greg. “The usual fee?”

  “Yeah, here. I put a little extra on here because we’re gonna need to fill up before we leave.” Greg reached into his utility belt and handed him a thumb drive. Greg’s deal with Bobby included not just cash, but cheat codes for the latest Xbox games and some hard-to-find manga.

  Bobby stood there looking at us expectantly, and I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You sure you want to watch this? Sometimes people freak out a little.”

  I wasn’t really sure how much Greg had told Bobby about us, so I didn’t know if he understood we were the real deal as far as vampires go, or just thought we were humans with a blood fetish. I know, it’s gross, but it happens. For that matter, drinking blood grosses me out sometimes, and it’s how I stay alive.

  “Just pretend like I’m not here.” Bobby showed no inclination to leave.

  I brought a bag up to my lips, grimaced at the cold plastic, and paused as another thought occurred to me. “That’s fine, Bobby-boy, but if this shows up on YouTube, my next meal comes straight from the source.”

  His eyes widened, and he reached over to hit a button on his laptop, apparently turning off the built-in webcam.

  Greg and I emptied the cooler, putting away six pints apiece before we ran out of blood, and I felt stronger, faster and even smarter when we were done. Running low on blood always leaves me a little sluggish, but this infusion had me cooking on all eight cylinders again. Even ice-cold and tasting faintly of plastic, a little of the life force of the donor seeped through, and I could smell more sharply, see more clearly and hear more distinctly.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of one hand, and then licked the last stray drop from between my fingertips. “Good to the last drop,” I murmured, and Greg belched. “You’re gross,” I chastised my partner.

  “It’s still funny.”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t funny, just gross. How you doing over there, Bobby?”

  Our erstwhile observer had collapsed in his chair and was looking decidedly paler than before we began our meal.

  “I-I-I’m okay. I guess. I . . . I . . . just guess I wasn’t really sure that you guys were . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked around, as if to make sure nobody could hear him.

  “Vampires?” Greg said from behind him, and giggled as Bobby jumped out of his chair. We’re fast, and really quiet when we want to be, and sneaking up on people is one of Greg’s favorite and most annoying tricks.

  “Yeah. That. So . . . are you guys doing that thing up north?”

  Bobby looked at me like I should know what he was talking about, so I played along. “Nah, not this week. We might go back later if the money’s right.” I had no idea what I had just claimed we did.

  “I heard this week’s match was really weak. Like the guy didn’t even want to be there. Don’t know where they get some of these dudes, man. You two would put on a way better show. I hope they call y’all up soon.” He made a shadow-boxing motion and gave me two thumbs up.

  Boxing? Us? I didn’t want to look stupid by asking him to explain now. “Yeah, man. Me too. Hey, if you know anybody who might be able to . . . well, you know, just put a good word in for a loyal customer?” I gave him a business card.

  “I’ll try. I usually just drive the trucks afterward, you know. But if I get close to the big man I’ll try to slip him your card.”

  “Thanks, Bobby. You rock.”

  “I know, baby. I know.”

  “We gotta roll. Later.”

  “Peace.”

  I grabbed Greg’s elbow and turned him to head out the doors of the morgue and start looking for our gay-basher.

  “What was all that about?” Greg asked as we waited for the elevator.

  “I have no idea. But it sounds like black market blood isn’t the only pie our buddy Bobby has his fingers into, and that might be useful information someday.”

  Chapter 8

  As we drove back to the crime scene, Greg and I started to go over the details of the case. “So what do we know?” I asked, as he turned right onto Hawthorne and put the hospital in the rearview mirror.

  “Well, we know that Detective Law has family issues, that some of those issues are currently lying in a hospital bed and that your libido has elected you therapist.”

  “Bite me,” I replied, fiddling with the radio trying in vain to find something other than country music.

  “No, thanks, you’re stale. But anyway, we know that there have been several of these attacks over the past few months, and the gay community has been up in arms for the police to do more about them. Unfortunately, living as we do in the buckle of the Bible Belt, the police were reluctant to get involved until there had been too many attacks to ignore.”

  “How do you know so much about this? There hasn’t been anything on TV to speak of.” I flipped the radio off and stared across the front seat at my partner. “Is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?” I teased.

  “No, shithead. Popular culture to the contrary, being a vampire is not synonymous with sexual ambiguity. I have not ever been, nor will I ever be attracted to your skinny ass. Or any other part of your undeveloped frame.”

  “I dunno, Greggy,” I needled. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”

  “Oh, shut up. If I wanted to go after guys, I’d definitely go after better-looking ones than you. But anyway, there’s been this invention lately called the Internet. You might have heard of it? I read about the attacks on a couple of city message boards that I monitor.”

  “What message boards are these, pray tell?” I was beginning to get a sneaking suspicion I knew the answer, but I wanted Greg to admit it.

  “Law enforcement message boards. The kinds where people talk about hot spots for crime, places the city can’t or won’t take care of, that kind of thing. You can find anything on the web if you look hard enough.” He looked smug as we pulled into the Spirit Square parking lot and got out of the car.

  “Anything except a life, apparently,” I muttered as I followed him into the alley.

  The crime scene unit had finished up, so we had the run of the place, which was just fine with me. It gave us a chance to use some of our more off-the-record abilities to look over everything. I’d walked the alley a couple of times looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary when I heard Greg give a low whistle. I looked back to see him standing at the top of a concrete staircase leading down to a stage door. He waved me over excitedly, and I headed his way.

  “Give this a sniff, dude,” he said when I reached him. He pointed at the door.

  I leaned over and took a big whiff. My sense of smell is nowhere near as keen as Greg’s, but this almost knocked me over. It smelled like rotten food, and blood and serious armpit funk, all overlaid with a coating of cloying floral scent. It was the same as we’d smelled coming off Stephen, only way stronger.

  “Ewww. Damn, dude, how about a little warning next time? That is seriously nasty.”

  “Shut up, you pansy. Have you ever smelled anything like that before?”

  “You mean before Stephen’s hospital room? No.”

  “Me neither, but now that I’ve locked in on it, I can tell it’s all over the alley. I think whatever beat up Stephen smelled like this.”

  “Well, then it oughta be easy to find. Just look for wherever there are a lot of people with sinus trouble, because nobody else could stomach that stench.” I saw something fluttering out of the corner of my eye and went back up the stair.

  “If you get any of that on your clothes you’re totally walking home,” Greg yelled after me as I knelt down beside a dumpster and reached under it.

  “I’ll sit on the roof,” I yelled back as I pulled a brightly colored flyer out from under the dumpster. It advertised a drag show at Scorpio, the city’s oldest and most famous gay bar. There was a smear of blood across the front of it tha
t told me it had been a lot closer to the fight than it was now, maybe even on Stephen somewhere. I stood up, wiping as much of the alley muck off me as I could. This made the second time tonight that club had come to my attention, and I didn’t believe it was coincidence.

  I held the flyer out to Greg and said, “Let’s get back home and plan our wardrobes.”

  “For what?” He asked, trying hard to read the flyer and stay downwind of me.

  “This show is tomorrow night. We’re going clubbing. Now let’s get out of here before the sun comes up.”

  Chapter 9

  The next night found me rolling on the floor of my den as Greg trotted out his finest club garb for our investigative trip to the gay bar. I was sporting a patterned T-shirt under a silk blazer with a pair of designer jeans and the only pair of decent shoes I owned, black loafers with buckles. Greg, on the other hand, came out in a pair of black leather pants and a gold mesh shirt that showed far more of my rotund partner than I wanted to know existed.

  “Dude,” I gasped between howls of laughter, “how many cows had to sacrifice themselves to build those pants? And please don’t tell me I’m seeing the sparkle of a belly ring?” I fell off the couch and sat there laughing as Greg stood in the doorway of his room glowering at me.

  “Shut up, toothpick. I’m trying to look inconspicuous,” he muttered.

  “Dude, we’re going to a gay bar, not Mardi Gras. You don’t have to dress like Captain Jack Sparrow after he slept with a disco ball,” I said.

  He turned on his heel and went back into his room while I sat there wondering what he would come out with next.

  “And since when are you the expert on how to dress for success at a gay bar?” Sabrina asked from the stairs.