Honeymoon of the Dead

by Tate Hallaway

  “My lawyers will take care of it. They can make anything disappear.”

  “Good for you. We should probably get Garnet out of here. But . . .” Dominguez’s jaw flexed uncomfortably, as he pointed to his chin. “You’ve got a little, uh . . .”

  Sebastian wiped his face on his shirt hem, smearing the blood into a red streak. “Better?”

  Dominguez rubbed his face and shook his head, like he just couldn’t take it anymore. I used a bit of spit and my sweater sleeve to clean Sebastian.

  “You look great,” I said, and he really was starting to. Most of the deep lines in his face had filled and his skin had lost its sickly pastiness. He’d be perfect with a couple more pints, but somehow I doubted we could talk Dominguez into donating anytime soon.

  Still, he could go for hours without another drink now, I was certain. “How long until bail is set?” I wanted to know.

  “Where are these lawyers of yours, Von Traum?” Dominguez asked.

  “I was told she’s on her way,” Sebastian said. Taking my hand, he helped us both to our feet. To me, he explained, “I have a retainer with an international firm. They’re sending a representative, a Ms. Yendoni.”

  “I hope she’s a fast talker,” Dominguez said. “You didn’t help your case biting cops.”

  “She’s an expert in these matters,” Sebastian said confidently. Still holding hands, Sebastian led me over to the nearby bunk. We sat together, our knees touching.

  “So it’s going to be okay?” I asked. My neck throbbed dully, but Lilith’s fierce, fiery presence steadied me.

  “I think so. My lawyers understand my ‘special needs.’ ”

  I wondered if that included providing for Sebastian’s, shall we say, particular diet. I shook my head lightly. Some things were better not known. “What can I do?”

  Squeezing my hand, Sebastian gave me a peck on the cheek. “You’ve done a lot already. Thank God you came when you did, I would have been beyond feral soon.”

  Given how he had been, I could hardly even imagine that. I nodded, feeling the jagged edges of skin catch painfully on my collar.

  “There’s still those kidnappers to catch—Larkin Eshleman and his gang.” I was startled to hear Dominguez refer to Larkin like some kind of hardened criminal. Not noticing my reaction, he continued. “I have a plan to smoke them out, and I need your help.”

  “No,” Sebastian said before I could open my mouth to agree enthusiastically. “Garnet is not to be put in the line of danger.”

  “Don’t take me for an idiot, Von Traum,” Dominguez said. The testosterone level in the room suddenly skyrocketed. I coughed.

  “How about I decide for myself, boys,” I suggested; Lilith hummed pleasantly at my show of force. Sebastian and Dominguez sensed the Goddess’s presence and had the decency to look chagrined.

  “Of course,” Sebastian mumbled by way of apology.

  Dominguez just grinned, like, despite my show of feminism, he’d won something over on the other alpha male. “Good,” he said, nearly gloating. “Let’s go, Garnet.”

  I gave Sebastian one last kiss and he promised I’d see him soon.

  Dominguez made a detour on our way out to stop in front of the communal holding area where they’d put James. Ironically, he was easy to pick out. Not only was he pacing back and forth nervously, he was the most dapperly dressed guy—well, if you looked past the blood spatters. The crisp blackness of his trench coat stood out in the dreary gray of the concrete block room, and his silvery tie with its rich mahogany stains was positively the most colorful thing in the place.

  Even the other two men in the room seemed drab and lifeless compared to James. On a bench along the wall, one guy slumped nearly lifeless, though I thought he must be asleep. The other leaned against the far wall tracking James’s back-and-forth movement with tremulous, bulging eyes. Apparently, the usual customers on a Saturday morning were pretty hard cases.

  “Smythe,” Dominguez said, “I want to talk to you.”

  Apparently, that was James Something’s real last name, because at Dominguez’s words he slowly came to a halt. He glared at Dominguez and me for a moment and then spat on the ground. “You!”

  Dominguez shook his head sadly. “Whoever told you that it was possible to kill a vampire with a stake was a complete idiot, pal,” Dominguez said.

  The freaked-out guy leaning against the wall sputtered wordlessly.

  James studied Dominguez as if trying to discern any trace of trickery. Frankly, I was giving Dominguez a similar sort of look although mine was more akin to astonishment, since it was kind of against the unspoken rules of the Veil to go blathering the truth about vampirism. I felt like nudging Dominguez in the ribs in the classic “Hey, don’t tell” gesture. With some effort, I held back the impulse.

  Instead, I shrugged my sweater up to cover the scabbed-over wound on the back of my neck.

  James noticed my movement and took a step closer, trying to get a better look. I turned that side of my body away. “You fed him,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  Dominguez shook his head as though disgusted at James’s ineptitude. “Of course! Do you have any idea how dangerous a hungry vampire is? What the hell were you trying to do at the coffee shop, Smythe? Get yourself killed?”

  “Hardly.” He sniffed. “I struck a blow for the Van Helsings.”

  Wait, the whats? The whos? Wasn’t Van Helsing that vampire hunter in Dracula? This didn’t sound very Marxist or anti-Illuminati. In fact, it sounded like something altogether different.

  “A blow? Well, you botched it, friend,” Dominguez taunted. “You hardly even gave him a scratch.”

  “I could have killed him if I wanted to.”

  “Sure, buddy. Instead, you were trying to what? Out him as a vamp? I’ve got some news for you, Smythe. No one noticed. Your little operation failed.”

  Freaked-out guy’s eyes bugged out wider as he listened intently to every word.

  Older guy on the nod just kept on snoozing.

  Smythe, meanwhile, looked angrier. “There’s still time,” he said through clenched teeth. “This isn’t over yet.”

  “Oh, I think it is,” Dominguez said. “You’re in jail. You’re going to go down for assault with a deadly weapon. You might even face extradition. Word is you’ve had some run-ins with the law in Great Britain.”

  James paled slightly, but his jaw remained clenched. “It’s all for a good cause.”

  “What the heck cause is that, exactly?” I muttered to myself.

  Everyone looked at me, even freaked-out guy. Dominguez gave me the way-to-blow-my-whole-shtick glare. Freaked-out guy seemed interested in the answer because he kept flicking his gaze over to where Smythe fumed.

  “I’ll tell you what cause it is,” he said, in that tone that implied a well-rehearsed rant was about to follow. “It’s truth. The truth they keep hidden from us. If people only knew what kind of monsters really ran the world they’d revolt, I tell you.”

  It was now quite clear James wasn’t talking about the Illuminati at all, but about all the things that go bump in the night that people aren’t supposed to see.

  I snuck a glance at Dominguez to see if he caught the difference, but he kept his eyes locked on James.

  “Demons,” James said. “Devil spawn walking around, running the world. It’s worse in Europe, you know. They hardly even disguise it.”

  Freaked-out guy nodded his head like he couldn’t agree more. Dominguez nodded too, though clearly trying to encourage James and draw more out of him. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Dominguez offered.

  James snapped to attention, and I sensed Dominguez had pushed things too far with that. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said. “You’re one of their dupes.”

  “And you and Larkin Eshleman orchestrated this whole thing?”

  “Who?” Smythe sneered.

  “Eshleman, the one you helped to organize Garnet’s abduction.”

  Smythe looked at me. “Why wo
uld I do that? I don’t give a rat’s ass about the ghouls, just the vampire.”

  “I’m not a ghoulfriend, I’m his wife.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Even I could tell we weren’t going to get much more out of James.

  “We’ll see, Smythe,” Dominguez said in perfect cop-ese. “Despite what you say, I plan on catching your cohorts and putting them where they belong.”

  “Have fun, but they’re not with me. I work alone,” I heard Smythe mutter as we walked away.

  I hated leaving Sebastian in the jail cell, but at least people were on their way to help him. For myself, I was glad that I seemed to have solved the Goddess war for the moment. I had a niggling sense that Athena hadn’t had Her last word yet, but I felt fairly confident that Lilith secured the first real victory.

  After I returned my visitor’s badge to the dispatcher at the desk, Dominguez showed me to his car. I thought James drove the most ubiquitous, unexceptional car, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dominguez had a silver Ford Taurus, arguably the single most popular and nondescript car in the country. The only stand-out feature was its license plate, which was U.S. government issued. As I walked around to the passenger side, I was pleased to note that it seemed to be flexible fuel capable.

  “So,” I said once I’d buckled myself into the gray interior. “What’s the plan, G-man?”

  Dominguez did not seem to appreciate my rhyming skills because he frowned rather sullenly at me before starting up the engine. “I’m thinking sting.”

  “The musician? Because, honestly, in that genre I prefer Modest Mouse. Although I do like that one song of his about the fields of holly. Do you know that one? It’s really kind of pagan.”

  I would have sung the chorus, except Dominguez was shaking his head slowly and sadly.

  We turned up John Ireland Boulevard with the white, Federal-style capitol behind us and the copper-domed Cathedral of Saint Paul to our right. I might not be Christian, but a person couldn’t help but be just a tiny bit awed by the sight of the towering church with its ornate stonework and impressive angel statues guarding the doors. Hints of stained glass made me wish I had an excuse to go to Mass.

  “I meant,” Dominguez said, “a sting, like in the movie with Robert Redford and Paul Newman where they trick those guys out of their money.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen it. Any movie made before 1999 was before my time. “So, uh, who are we going to rob?”

  Dominguez rubbed his face with his hand. “Maybe I’d be better off on my own. Unfortunately, I need bait to catch the guys who kidnapped you. And you, my dear Garnet, are it.”

  I nodded. Dominguez might think me an idiot, but I sort of suspected as much when we were talking to Sebastian in the cell.

  We made another turn onto Summit Avenue, passing an out-of-place-with-the-upscale-mansions chainsaw carving of a woman in a Victorian-era dress holding what was probably supposed to be a parasol but, thanks to the crude cuts in the tree stump, looked more like an oversized mushroom to me.

  “So, are you up for it?” Dominguez asked.

  My stomach growled. At first I thought it might be some kind of editorial comment from Lilith, but then I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat all morning. “Maybe after lunch,” I agreed.

  Dominguez laughed a little, but then pursed his lips slightly. “How about we make lunch part of the plan?”

  The Ford’s suspension bounced unhappily along the pitted street. Between spots of hardpack the plows hadn’t removed and potholes caused by thawing and freezing, the ride could hardly be called smooth. I would have complained that the government really needed to send their cars to a good repair shop, but Dominguez was busy filling me in on everything he’d learned since my kidnapping.

  Turns out the FBI isn’t the completely useless organization that I’d always sort of figured it was. While I’d been dealing with concussions and Goddess wars and arrests, Dominguez and his people had pinpointed an area of town they thought my kidnappers were headquartered.

  “Headquartered?” I repeated. “You make them sound a lot more organized than I think they are. Larkin is still living with his mom, I think.”

  To be truthful, I was having some trouble thinking of Larkin as part of this anti-Illuminati group. After the whole part where he slipped me a Mickey, I shouldn’t have so much trouble thinking of him as a villain, but he just didn’t fit my own personal profile of a big, bad guy. Larkin and those soft blue eyes and goofy goatee totally had me fooled, I guessed.

  He was just so darned cute.

  When my heart fluttered girlishly, I got suspicious. This guy just drugged and kidnapped me! Maybe there’s a bit of that love spell I cast on Larkin so long ago still lingering in the air. Did I ever remember to reverse that? Or had I only done the back-to-my-messed-up-normal spell?

  Dominguez interrupted my musings to remind me how foolish I’d been generally.

  “You’re being naïve. These kids that kidnapped you have an extensive and sophisticated website, which they maintain thanks to thousands of dollars in donations—many of which come from international sources. They might be living with their folks, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

  “Hmm, I guess you have a point there.” I noticed I still wore the plastic hospital bracelet. I tried to twist it off to no avail. I wondered if Dominguez carried a Swiss Army knife with one of those little scissors attached. He seemed like the Boy Scout type. I’d have to ask him once we got wherever it was he was taking us.

  Houses rolled past the window. Someone had built a snow woman in the yard, complete with a fancy Queen Mum- type hat and feather boa.

  When we bounced over another ice mound, my body ached dully. Between the drugging and the nasty tear on my neck, no doubt I looked well and truly trashed. At least I didn’t feel as bad as all that, thanks to the crazy, vampire-love mojo that kept the back of my neck from screaming with pain.

  “I hope this little sting operation of yours doesn’t call for a lot of heavy lifting,” I said. “I’m not sure there’s any place left on my body to bruise.”

  Dominguez nodded sympathetically. “All you should have to do is sit there and look pretty.”

  I figured I could handle that. Well, as long as the “pretty” standard wasn’t too high.

  We passed the governor’s mansion, which looked surprisingly sedate compared to the other houses on the same block. One could only guess it was the governor’s place because of the large, light blue Minnesota flag flapping in the breeze from atop a tall pole. Surrounded by a forbidding wrought-iron fence, a bronze statue of a stylized man seemed to be pushing a big boulder with arms that had turned into steel girders . . . or something. We drove by so fast, I couldn’t really decipher the meaning of that little bit of public art.

  On the other side of the street stood another incongruous tree-stump-and-chainsaw creation. This one was a rather forlorn-looking woman in a simple peasant dress holding a water jar. Someone had placed a knitted, deep purple shawl around her shoulders—I guess to keep off the cold.

  “Minnesota nice” was legendary, but who knew it extended to inanimate roadside sculpture?

  “So where are we going, exactly?” I asked as we continued along the wide parkway. The median dividing the lanes was like a miniature park complete with lilac bushes and the occasional bench. The trees were well-established oaks and there were even some elms that had survived the great Dutch elm disease die-off in the seventies. The bare branches arched over the street like the roof of a cathedral. Adventurous gray squirrels leaped the gaps and built bushy leaf nests near the uppermost tips.

  “A greasy spoon on Lake Street called Susan’s Cafe. You’ll like it.”

  “Do they have vegetarian options?”

  Dominguez took his eyes off the road long enough to lift his eyebrow. “Depends. How picky are you? If you can’t have your eggs cooked on the same grill as bacon, you’re out of luck.”


  My stomach gave a hungry little rumble. “I’ll cope,” I said.

  We crossed into Minneapolis on the Marshall Avenue Bridge. I always fondly thought of it as the “hippie bridge” because no matter which party was in office, sometime around rush hour, a small group of protesters would gather with hand-painted signs to yell about the various injustices in the world. When I saw a sign I liked, I reached over and beeped Dominguez’s horn. Powering down the window, I gave the woman a two- fingered peace sign. She and her colleagues returned it with much happy cheering.

  “Knock it off—this is a government car,” Dominguez said snappishly.

  “Sorry,” I said, though I couldn’t suppress a smile.

  The street name changed to Lake, and with the switch came a whole “attitude” shift as well. Most of the time I tended to think of Minneapolis as the funkier, artier city, but here it became more gritty and ugly-urban.

  I was happily surprised to see that the creepy old church that had perched on the Minneapolis side of the river with the proclamation “Prepare to Meet Thy God” had been replaced by a spiffy new condo building and a cool-looking restaurant.

  But that was the end of the fancy stuff.

  Gas stations and billboards proliferated. The traffic picked up, and it wasn’t long before someone in a dented old Cadillac cut in front of Dominguez, causing some choice Spanish curses to tumble easily out of Dominguez’s mouth.

  “Evil ley line,” I explained. “Lake Street has bad energy.”

  “Hmph,” he said. “I could almost buy that.”

  From Mr. Normal Despite Being Psychic that was a ringing endorsement. I nodded.

  When I lived in the Cities, a friend had proposed the idea to me, and I thought it made a lot of sense. There was a New Age belief that certain areas had a positive energy flow because they were once part of the routes the faeries used to walk. There was a whole theory out there about religious sites being built at the spots where ley lines crossed.

  Lake was the opposite of that, a kind of negative energy draw. People drove crazy here, more garbage filled the street, and businesses had trouble staying afloat. There was even the husk of a burned-out building that had yet to be refurbished.