by Alex P. Berg
He started singing.
In the cool of the night
Under stars shining bright
We meet once again, baby
In the cool of the night
My heart takes flight
To be joined with yours, maybe
Your body grows closer
Your scent an elixir
Making me go crazy, baby
I don’t want to be the enforcer
But I can’t help but wonder
What you have in store for me, maybe
Now I can taste you on my lips
Your skin so tender and sweet
But you know I want more
Not just your kiss I adore
So lets make sure to be discreet
Creatures of the night
Creatures of the night
Oh yeah
Diamond’s guitar playing intensified during the chorus, his fingers strumming hard against the strings, all while Big D punctuated each cry of ‘Creatures of the night’ with a trio of cymbal crashes. After a brief melodic respite, Diamond kept going with the next verse.
With the moon up high
And a cry in the sky
I feel my body ache for you
Deep down in my bones
For a curse I atone
I feel my body change for you
You draw me in with your eyes
But I can see you despise
The secret I can’t bear to keep
But I can share it with you
Give a part to you
So together let’s take this leap
Now baby you’re changing, too
Feeling the rush of love in you
Filling you like you never thought it could
I bet you never knew
Having it inside you
Would feel this wild and feel this good
Creatures of the night
Creatures of the night
Oh yeah
Creatures of the night
Creatures of the night
Changing me, changing you, through and through
Creatures of the night
Creatures of the night
Alive, and real and oh so true
As the song came to a close and Diamond repeated the refrain, he started to wail on the guitar, his fingers blurring over the strings. Big D took his lead, beating on the drums with a renewed vigor, using his big arms to great effect on the toms and cymbals. Diamond closed his eyes and started rocking back and forth, his head banging forward and back as the music flowed through him. A huge grin spread across Big D’s face.
“Alright, that’s enough,” said Benson, waving his arms to try and get Diamond’s attention. “Hey! Are you listening? ENOUGH, I SAID!”
Diamond stopped abruptly and opened his eyes. “Right. Sorry, boss. I get caught up in that one. It’s a really good song.”
“It is, isn’t it…” Benson stared in Diamond’s general direction, stroking his chin. He kept it up for a few long seconds.
“Uh…boss?” said Diamond. “You okay?”
Bensons startled, his sunglasses slipping ever so slightly on his nose. He pushed them back up quickly. “Huh? Yeah. Peachy. Hey, why don’t you and Dennis take a break from cleanup and spend the morning practicing some of the old Cobra classics. You know, “I’ll Never Forget You,” “My Baby Wore Black,” “Hard Rockin’ Afterlife,” and “Tears of Blood.” All the hits.”
“Boss, you serious?” said Diamond. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Benson didn’t hear him. He’d already turned and started to walk toward the stairs, apparently oblivious to our continued presence.
Steele didn’t let him off the hook that easy. She joined me and called out to him. “Benson! You know we’re going to need you to pop by the station. Someone needs to identify the body.”
The manager paused in midstride, refusing to turn his head to look at us. “That’s, ah…not going to work for me. Not at the moment. Too much to do. Too much to think about. I’ll send someone in my stead.”
The man didn’t ask for our permission to continue leaving. Steele stared at his back as he approached the stairwell, as did I. Not going to work at the moment? Did that mean what I think it meant?
Diamond dropped the guitar and hopped off the stage, rushing to our side. “Whoa. Brahs. Body? What the heck happened to Chaz?”
“Sorry we weren’t more forthcoming earlier,” said Steele, turning to face him. “But unfortunately it looks as if Chaz is dead. My condolences.”
Diamond stared at us blankly. “Wait? Are you serious? So…when Benson said to practice. Does that mean…?”
Big D ran up, hopped off the stage, and clapped Diamond on the back. “Dude! This is it! Your big break!” He glanced at us. “I mean…that’s terrible. Chaz was a good guy. What happened?”
“Your concern is touching,” said Steele, her tone of voice indicating she thought the opposite. “But we’re not at liberty to talk about it. It’s an active investigation.”
“Look, I know this is a lot to process,” I said. “But since you’re both here, I need to ask you the same thing I asked Benson. What can you tell me about Chaz’s fascination with the occult?”
Shay sighed. “Daggers…really?”
Diamond answered despite my partner’s attitude. “I mean, he was into it, for sure. Zombies. Werewolves. Vampires. Especially vampires. All of it, really.”
I gave Steele a knowing glance. “Is that so? Ever heard of a place called Club Midnight?”
“That’s the one club Chaz liked to go to, isn’t it?” said Dennis. “South side of town, I think. Lots of dark, brooding types there. Not really our scene.”
“So you’ve never been?” I asked.
“Look, brah,” said Diamond. “Normally I’d be super down with talking to you about vampires and goth clubs and stuff, but if Benson said what I think he did…I need to practice. Big time. Dennis? You got me on the drums?”
The big stagehand smiled. “You got it, dude. Sorry, detectives. Another time?”
The pair of roadies climbed back onstage and retreated to their instruments. Shay and I turned and headed toward the door, joining Rodgers who’d been hanging back, keeping an eye on the action.
He shook his head as we neared him. “You just won’t quit, will you, Daggers?”
“Quit on what?” I said. “The fact that Chaz looks to have been murdered by a vampire? No way. Especially not after what we learned here, what with Chaz’s interests and Benson’s…well, Benson. And don’t act holier than thou. You were right there alongside me emotionally when we found those tracks in the park.”
“Tracks which turned out to be from a camel,” said Rodgers. “Which, you have to admit, isn’t the most macabre of beasts.”
“Suffice to say there are a number of odd things going on in this case,” I said. “But who’s to say what qualifies as a creature of the night and what doesn’t? I’ll bet camels have loads of blood in them. Maybe they’re not a vampire’s first choice, but you know…in a pinch.”
Shay furrowed her brows and pursed her lips.
“Don’t give me that look,” I said. “Deep down inside, you know I’m making good points. So…where to? Club Midnight?”
“We’ll get there,” said Steele. “But we need to go after the obvious targets first. Remember, we still don’t know where the rest of Yellow Cobra’s members are, or even if they’re okay. That’s our first priority.”
“Right,” I said. “Where did Benson say they were staying? The Banks Hotel?”
Shay nodded. “A suite, supposedly.” She slipped a hand into her jacket, producing the key we’d found at the crime scene. “What do you want to bet it’s room five oh one?”
8
The entrance to the Banks Hotel stood across the street from us, its teal sign with the hotel’s name in a stylish white script partially obscured
by an array of tall pines. The trees followed a path that curved inward to the hotel proper, shading the tall pastel pink building within and protecting it from the unwashed gazes of plebeians on the street. Rickshaws clattered past on the cobblestones outside, their drivers yelling at one another in less than civil tones. Chances were the trees protected the hotel from unwanted verbal assaults as well.
“Can I help you?”
I turned toward the owner of the mobile beverage cart in front of me. Apparently, the person before me in line had been served while I’d gaped at the hotel. “Yeah, I’ll take a couple coffees. And…do you have any tea? Steele, you want tea?”
Shay stood at Rodgers’ shoulder, next to a dull brick building at the side of the street. She shook her head. “No. Give me the coffee.”
“Really?” I said. “It’s not cappuccino. It’s not, is it?”
The vendor, a tusk-faced orc of dubious mental ability, looked at me blankly. “A cappu-what?”
“I told you, I didn’t sleep well,” said Steele. “Just get it. I’ll suffer through the taste and be better off for it.”
“If you insist,” I said. “Three coffees, then. And do you have any kolaches, or donuts, or fritters? Anything made out of fried dough?”
“I thought you stopped eating those,” said Rodgers. “I remember hearing something about a diet.”
“Old habits are hard to break.”
Of course, said habits were easier to break when fate conspired against me. The vendor continued to stare at me blankly.
“Fine. Just the coffees, then.”
He produced what I wanted, so I paid him, handed the drinks to my crew, and set foot on the path to the Banks Hotel. The pines loomed over me, but seeing as I’d never joined the military and taken part in one of our nation’s numerous bugbear uprising campaigns, the stroll didn’t induce in me a sense of PTSD. Instead, I found the pine’s thick boughs and healthy green needles soothing. If ever I met the Banks Hotel’s landscape architect, I’d have to commend him or her on designing an environment both functional, beautiful, and that kept New Welwic’s winter extremes in mind.
The hotel’s front came into view, an elegant façade set under a broad awning of alternating black and white stripes. A red carpet stretched from the edge of the gilded doors to the foot of the path. A doorman held the gates open for us as we approached.
Once inside, I took a sip of my brew and looked around the lobby for the stairs. “Room five oh one, was it?”
“Yes,” said Shay. “But given the locale, I’d feel more comfortable with an escort. Wouldn’t want to ruffle any feathers. Follow my lead.”
She veered to the side, toward the front desk. A charming young woman, dark of skin, wearing bright red lipstick and a sharp gray suit, smiled as we approached.
“Welcome to the Banks,” she said. “Checking in?”
Shay shook her head. “I’m Detective…er, Captain Steele, of the 5th Street Precinct. These are detectives Daggers and Rodgers.” She flashed her badge. “Is this yours?” She produced the key in question from her jacket.
“Ah, why yes, it appears to be,” said the young woman. “Did one of our guests lose it?”
“Do you have a manager I could speak to?”
The young woman nodded. “Of course. One moment please.”
She left, leaving us to ourselves. Shay took a sip of her coffee and made a face. “Ugh. Just as terrible as I remembered.”
“I warned you,” I said. “That cappuccino foam makes a world of difference.”
“It’s caffeinated,” she said. “That’s all that matters at the moment.”
I took the opportunity to survey the lobby interior. A few curved sectional pieces, upholstered in a mustard yellow fabric, made a rough circle in the center of the room, surrounding a low, wide table the same teal color as the sign outside. Though the furnishings screamed swank, I noticed a few chinks in the armor. Cracked tiles, chips in the paint, a missing button on one of the sofa chairs’ cushions.
I heard the clop of heels, followed shortly by the arrival of another woman, this one slightly older than the first but no less charming. She held her hair back in a long ponytail, and a pastel pink ascot tie gave some color to the sharp grey suit she also wore.
“Sorry for the delay,” she said. “Traci Gilmore, maître d’. How can I help you?”
Shay gave our introductions again and held up the key. “We found this on one Chaz Willy Wilson, a member of the rock group Yellow Cobra. We understand he’s staying here with his band mates?”
Traci sighed. “Yes, that’s right.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” I said. “Have they been giving you problems?”
Traci took a moment to respond. “We value the business of all our guests, especially those long-term residents like Mr. Wilson and his associates. But it’s precisely because of our guest policies that Mr. Wilson and his Cobras, if you will, have made themselves more well-known than they should’ve. There’ve been a few…incidents with other guests. Accusations of vulgarity and impropriety of varying degrees. I’m assuming you’re here because of another one?”
“Not precisely,” said Shay. “On the bright side for you, Mr. Wilson is now in our custody. You won’t have to worry about him again. But we do need to locate the rest of his band members. Perhaps you could show us to their room?”
“Of course,” said Traci. “Follow me.”
She headed around the side of the desk and toward the stairs. Rodgers, Steele, and I hustled after her. Her heels clacked on the polished stone steps, as did Steele’s.
“So, Ms. Gilmore,” I said as we climbed. “If you don’t mind my asking—if the Yellow Cobras have been such difficult guests, why haven’t you asked them to leave? As far as I understand it, they’ve been in New Welwic on a permanent basis for what…a year now?”
She sighed again. “I couldn’t answer that question, but they haven’t been at our hotel for that long. To be honest, having them stay here started as a misbegotten promotional stunt. Mr. Fillgary-Banks, who owns this hotel, is a fan of their earlier work, and he thought having them stay with us could help spruce up business for the winter months. We already have a reputation as a retreat for some of New Welwic’s more exotic and eclectic personalities, you see. Regardless, they’ve been far more trouble than they’ve been worth. The events the Cobras committed to playing for us in exchange for reduced room fees were a total flop, we’ve received numerous complaints about them with regards to noise, and even for our clientele, their sobriety—or lack thereof—is sometimes hard to justify. And that’s not even counting the more egregious stuff.”
We reached the fifth floor landing and hung a left. More of the hotel’s distinctive teal paint covered the walls, interspersed by sections dressed in the more flamboyant pastel pink.
“What sort of egregious stuff?” I asked.
“Well, there was the incident where Mr. DuPrat exposed himself to one of our other guests,” continued Traci. “And of course the continued infighting between Mr. DuPrat and Mr. Wilson.”
“That’s B. B. DuPrat,” I said. “The guitarist?”
“Correct,” she said. “Some of their disagreements could get rather vocal. Anyway. Here we are. Could I see the key?”
We paused at the end of the hall in front of room 501. Shay gave Traci the key. The manager placed it in the lock and turned it.
“Shouldn’t we knock?” said Rodgers.
“It’s before noon,” said Traci. “I think you’re giving these gentlemen too much credit.”
She pushed open the door, took two steps in and paused. Her jaw dropped. “Holy…”
Only through years of dedicated practice did I manage to keep my own jaw muscles in line. The scene wasn’t quite as wild as the one we’d found at the Moxy’s ready room—but it didn’t lag far behind.
9
I walked forward into the living room, stepping carefully to avoid the broke
n glass and jagged, lacquered wood splinters—the sad remnants of a guitar if the fractured neck strung with frayed strings was any indication. A hole gaped in the ceiling; the chandelier which had hovered there lay shattered and spread across the floor, its crystalline shards sparkling in the morning light. The balcony windows’ drapes had been thrown open, and outside, a wicker chair hung precariously from the edge of the railing. Inside, an industrious creative type had turned a stretch of the living room wall into a piece of modern art using spaghetti and meatballs in lieu of paint. Someone else had taken to playing a game of rock music-inspired darts on the opposite wall. At least that was my explanation for why numerous drumsticks protruded from the lath and plaster.
“Well,” said Shay. “At least we found the rest of the band.”
So it appeared. The living room contained a pair of couches. On one of them sprawled a man with a pair of long brown braids spilling from the red paisley bandanna that covered his head. He wore a pair of elaborate leather chaps, and though he’d misplaced his shirt, thankfully he still wore pants underneath the leg protectors. Based off Diamond’s descriptions, he’d be Sammy Styles, the bassist.
On the other couch, face down and sunken deep into the cushions, lay a slender guy wearing tight white pants and a puffy white shirt, though the latter had seen better days. Numerous scrapes and tears marred the cloth, and someone appeared to have spilt one or more drinks on it. A shock of platinum blond hair topped the guy’s head, but despite its volume, I still caught sight of a pair of pointed ears peeking out. An elf. Therefore, the man was B. B. DuPrat, the guitarist.
By process of elimination, that made the lean, wiry guy on the floor Ritchie Roth—or so I assumed. His puffy, voluminous black hair certainly seemed fitting for the drummer of a rock band, as did the plain black t-shirt and torn jeans he wore. Of course, who knew why his clothes were covered in mud, or why a fresh black eye glistened on the right side of his face.
