Shallastra, Part Three

The bellman sent by Musgrave wore a maroon jacket and a clip-on bow tie. His name was Paolo, and he was older than most of the other college-age bag carriers at the Arden, maybe 28 or 29. And he was nervous.

            I tried to offer him money, but he shook his head as if I’d insulted him. “I’m just doing what Mr. Musgrave asked.” He did check Rachel’s tight jeans out as we rode the service elevator to the top floor, just below the Overlook, but I couldn’t blame him for that. I was more pissed off with her for not waiting in the room, but I’d learned not to argue when she really wanted to do something.

            He led us to the end of a hallway. No guest rooms on this floor, just storage areas. The guest elevator to the Overlook bypassed the floor entirely. He unlocked a door and flicked a light switch. “Up there.”

            Narrow wooden stairs pointed upward. They looked shaky, but Paolo went first. “It’s okay, they’re safe.”

            I wasn’t so sure, but I followed, with Rachel right behind me. Paolo unlocked a door at the top and scrambled through.

            I reached for Rachel’s hand, but she ignored me as we crawled into the upper level of the Arden. Paolo yanked a chain hanging from the ceiling, and a single big bulb from above threw a yellow cone of light around us.

            Darkness extended in both directions around us like tunnels into the unknown. The air smelled like damp hay and sour vinegar. The three of us stood between stacks of crates, and the floor under my feet felt like it could give way at any minute.

            “Have you been up here before?” I looked up at the thick rafters, expecting birds and bats.

            “I found him.” Paolo reached into a pocket. “That’s why Musgrave sent me.” He turned on a slim flashlight. “I thought you knew.”

            I looked at Rachel. “You okay?”

            “Oh yeah.” She punched my arm. “Except, you know, I’m going to run away like a girl in a horror movie the first time we hear a weird sound. Are you going to try to hold my hand so I’m not scared?”

            “Actually, I want you to hold my hand so I’m not scared.” I turned. “Where was he?”

            Paolo flashed his light around. “It was nine years ago. I was practically just a kid. They sent me up here to look for a box of old photos to hang in the lobby. It was me and another guy, he never came back after that summer. Anyway . . .”

            He pressed his hand against a crate. They were numbered, although the strips of tape were dry and falling off. “Down here. It was 10886. This is—oh, god.”

            He stopped and pointed. “Back there. Behind those crates. It was—he was . . . right there.”

            Paolo stepped away, shaking. Rachel put a hand on his arm. “Do you need to go back?”

            “No. I just . . .” He thrust the flashlight at me. “I’ll wait by the stairs. Okay?”

            He fled. I didn’t blame him.

            I slid into the space between the crates. The roof slanted down, and the rafters bumped my head. I leaned down, pointing the flashlight.

            I saw cobwebs and mouse droppings, and a stain in the wood floor that might have been blood. The air smelled foul. I circled the light around, looking for anything left behind. But after nine years there wouldn’t be any evidence I was likely to spot with a little flashlight. Maybe this was a stupid idea.           

            I pushed myself back. I didn’t want to ask Rachel to go back there, although I knew she’d do it. Maybe she could sense something that I couldn’t see. Maybe—

            “What’d you see?” Rachel pulled on my arm. “Do you want me to—”

            Oh, hell. “There she is.” I pointed. “Take a look.”

            Rachel whirled around.

            Shallastra stood right behind her. Her hood drooped over her face, just like last night, but now she held a long dark dagger in one hand, just like the one that Ben had drawn in his notebooks, stabbing the red demon. She pointed it directly at the spot where Ben Stephens’ body had been found nine years ago.

            Then she lifted the dagger above her head with both hands and dropped to her knees, driving the sharp point into the wooden floor. She wrapped her hands around the handle and pushed it down into the planks. The dagger wavered, and then it vanished. Her hands were empty.

            Her head bobbed up. I could see her eyes, glowing white. She jabbed a finger downward, just like last night.

            Then she faded away. Just like last night.           

            “Did you see that?” I grabbed Rachel’s arm.

            “Uh, yeah.” She pulled away. “She wants us to go down.”

            “Yeah. I got that.” I should have figured it out last night. “Hey, Paolo?”

            “Y-yes, sir?” He was still near the stairway.

            I turned the flashlight off. “What’s the lowest level in the hotel?”

            “Uh, there’s a basement. Nobody goes there.”

            “Well, I think we need to go there. Can you show us?”

            He peered into the darkness. “Who was that?”

            “A ghost. Sort of.” I held up his flashlight. “Mind if I keep this for a while?”

            “She doesn’t mean any harm.” Rachel put a hand on Paolo’s arm. “But we really need to do this.”

            He glanced at Rachel’s big hazelnut eyes, then at my face, and then back to her again. “If you say so, ma’am. Okay.”

           

“So here’s what I think.” The elevator descended slowly, but I had to talk fast. “Shallastra’s not really a ghost, but somehow she came to life when Ben was murdered. And she’s been behind the wave of suicides and deaths ever since. He created her to be an avenger.”

            “His avenger.” Rachel leaned back, her eyes half-closed. “That’s what in those books. Vengeance for people who got hurt.”

            “So, like an angry ghost—”

            “Yeah, I get it. The only way he could work through what happened was to create a character to deal with it.” She sighed. “Shallastra couldn’t protect him, but she could avenge him. The way she did in his drawings. When he died, she was all he had left.” She wiped a hand over her eyes. “Poor kid.”

            “Uhh . . .” Paolo stared at us. “What are you talking about?”

            “Ghosts.” I took Rachel’s hand, and this time she didn’t yank it away. “Sorry.”

            “Hey, everyone knows this place is haunted.” The elevator stopped. “This way.”

            We were one floor below the lobby. Paolo led us down a narrow hall past a small office marked PERSONNEL and another one with a big sign that read SERVERS—DO NOT ENTER. He stopped in front of a tall door with no sign.

            “The only guy I know who goes in here is the fellow who takes care of the porch.” He turned the knob. “Mostly because he keeps the best vacuum cleaner hidden somewhere, and the rest of his stuff for polishing the brass and other things. But it’s kind of spooky.” He shivered. “And that’s before I heard you guys talking about ghosts.”

            “You can stay out here.” I pushed on the door. “Thanks.”

            He was right. The basement was spooky as hell. A plank over a dirt floor, a string of light bulbs hanging from an extension cord across the ceiling, half of them burned out, thick beams holding up the roof, and at least one rat scuttling away from the glare of the light.

            I turned on Paolo’s flashlight. A tall metal storage locker stood in one corner. Rachel and I stepped off the plank and trudged through the wet dirt. I pulled on the handle and flashed light inside.

            A broom. A can of brass polisher and a stained rubber glove. A dustpan and a collection of dirty rags. And a porn magazine from the 1980s. Rachel snorted.

            I looked behind the locker. Behind a tall slab of plywood I found the vacuum cleaner. Well hidden. Well, if a guy needed the best vacuum in the place, I couldn’t blame him for hiding it where no sane person would ever look.

            “Uh, Tom?” Rachel’s voice was a whisper. “I think we’re on the right track.”

            I turned. Shallastra stood behind us.

            “It’s okay.” Rachel held up a hand. “She wants to show us something.”

            I trusted Rachel’s psychic feelings. So I waited.

            Shallastra turned and stepped over the plank toward the other side of the basement. She stopped next to a pile of cinder blocks and jabbed a finger at her feet.

            I stepped forward. “What’s down there?”

            She pointed again. Then she vanished.           

            Damn it. “Rachel? Get me, uh, that dustpan.” It was the closest thing I had to a shovel.

            “Right here.” She tossed it at me.

            I thrust the dustpan down into the dirt. Fortunately it wasn’t hard, and we brought up a pile of earth in a few minutes. I handed the dustpan to Rachel and buried my hands in the hole. It had to be here. Right down here . . .

            “Uh, what are we looking for?” Rachel scraped dirt away from the side of the hole. “I mean, these are my last good jeans here, but I don’t really care about that so much. Actually, this is kind of fun, you know? Better than horseback riding.”

            “I don’t know.” I leaned down. “But it’s here. It has to be.” I hoped. “If not—”

            “Hey! What the hell are you doing here?”

            I had it. Something long and heavy, wrapped in plastic. I ignored the voice as I pulled it up, and then I dropped it on the ground with a grunt.

            Rachel was standing up, wielding the dustpan like a blunt mace. Paolo stood at the door, his hands at his sides, one arm twitching as if he wanted to throw a punch.

            Haldane stood below a light bulb, his half-bald head gleaming bright, his eyes red with anger. “You can’t be down here! Get out!”

            “Nice hotel you’ve got here.” I got to my feet, Rachel’s hand on my arm. I held the object from the dirt in my hands. “I wonder what this is.”

            “It’s nothing. It belongs to the hotel. Paolo!” He raised his voice. “Get them out of here!”

            “Actually . . .” I didn’t want to unwrap the thing, but Rachel and I could see the shape through the plastic. “It’s a knife. A big knife. I bet there’s blood and DNA on it, even now. I bet the blood belongs to Ben Stephens. I wonder what else they can find on it. What do you think, Rachel?”

            She reached out and cautiously put her hand on the plastic. Then she jerked it back. “Oh yeah. It’s all over that thing.” She looked right at Haldane. “His stuff. I mean, I can’t testify in court or anything, but—”           

            “You killed Ben Stephens.” I put the package under my arm. “You molested him and then you killed him and hid his body up in the attic, and then you buried the dagger down here—as far from his body as you could. And when the ghost came, you ignored it, and people died.”

            “No. No! It wasn’t like that!” Haldane took a step back, but Paolo blocked the door. “You don’t understand! He was a good kid! I didn’t mean—I didn’t want anything like that to happen, but . . . oh god—what’s that?” He pointed a finger behind us, into the darkness.

            I’d seen too many movies to fall for an old trick, but Paolo’s face turned white with shock too. So I turned, slowly, and Rachel lifted the dustpan again, ready to smack Haldane over his head.

            Shallastra stood in the shadows. She stood steady on the cold dirt under her boots, and then she pushed her head back, exposing her face for the first time.

            Her eyes were white, her hair short and black. She had a nose like a hawk, and a chin as blunt as a cliff. She looked at me, and then at Rachel. And she nodded. Just once.

            Then she was gone.

            Haldane dropped to the dirt. “No, no, no . . . you don’t understand . . .”

            I handed the package to Rachel, wiped my hands on my pants, and slid my cell phone from my pocket. “I’m calling the sheriff, and then Musgrave. Paolo, could you keep an eye on him?”

            Paolo grinned. “Just doing my job, sir.”

We returned Ben’s notebooks to Amanda Stephens the next morning. Sheriff Forrest wasn’t likely to need them as evidence if the DNA tests showed what I expected, especially since Haldane had more or less confessed to the murder in front of three witnesses—four, counting Shallastra, but I didn’t think she was going to be called to the stand.

            Mrs. Stephens cried, offered us cookies and coffee again, and cried some more. We told her everything, and even though she didn’t quite believe all of it, she seemed satisfied at getting some answers about her son’s death. It wasn’t much—not nearly enough—but she thanked us for listening. And I’ve learned that sometimes that’s okay.

            Back in the room we packed up. I wanted to go swimming one more time, but Rachel was anxious to get back to the city. “I know where the monsters are there. I don’t like wondering what’s going on in the shadows.”

            “Yeah.” I felt tired and depressed. Sure, I’d caught a murderer, but this weekend was supposed to be romantic. “I’m sorry. I just wanted us to have a good time.”

            “What? Shut up.” Rachel threw her nightgown into the suitcase and walked around the bed. “You were great, Thomas Hale Jurgen.” She kissed me. “We can do this again anytime. I mean, maybe without the ghosts—or whatever Shallastra really was.” She tilted her head. “Next time with a new bikini.”

            A knock at the door interrupted us. Irritated, I expected a bellman eager to carry our luggage out, but it was Donald Musgrave. He held out an envelope.

            “This is for you.” He looked embarrassed. “I found your website and checked out your rates. There’s a check, and a bonus, and a certificate for—well, I’ve never done this before, but it’s a lifetime pass to the Arden. For you and whoever you want to bring here.”

            “Okay.” I looked inside the envelope. “That’s pretty generous of—”

            “Hey, wait a minute.” Rachel stalked to the door. “What’s with this ‘Whoever you want to bring’ business? I was the one here helping him.”

            “It’ll always be you, Rachel.” I tucked the envelope into my pocket. “Maybe you could change that and send me a new copy.”

            Musgrave grinned. “Absolutely.” He reached out to shake Rachel’s hand. “Thank you so much. Have a good trip home.”

            “What about Haldane?” I had to ask.

            He ran a hand over his thick black hair. “Well, he’s not exactly fired yet, but he’s not allowed on the property.” He leaned forward. “You know, I never really liked him. But he worked for my father a long time. I’m just glad . . .” He looked up. “I just hope the ghosts are gone.”

            I nodded. “We’ll see the next time we visit.”

            Rachel kicked my ankle. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

# # #

            

Vampire Lovers

Tom Jurgen has fought vampires before, but his latest client is a vampire who suspects his girlfriend is cheating on him. The truth is more complicated—and much more dangerous.

Vampire Lovers, Part One

A tall man in a long dark coat looked around the coffee shop, spotted me, and walked slowly to my table at the corner. “Tom Jurgen? I’m Clifton Page.”

            I stood up to shake hands. Page had thin white hair and pale skin, a long nose and slender fingers. His palm was cold, although at nine o’clock on a warm summer evening the fans overhead were swirling slowly and the air conditioning kept the air mild.

            “You’ve probably heard this before.” Page sighed. “It’s my girlfriend. I’m afraid she’s—unfaithful to me.”

            Yeah, that was familiar. Half my cases are cheating partners, and the other half are bogus workers comp cases and various insurance scams. The rest . . .

            I know. That’s more than 100 percent. The rest go into a different computer file highlighted in red. I’m a P.I., not an accountant.

            “What can you tell me?” I moved my coffee and opened up my laptop.

            His gray eyes looked old and weary. “Jillian Donovan. I’ve known her about six months.” Another sigh. “Everything was fine—movies, plays, museums. She stays over one or two nights a week, but lately she’s been going home earlier. She used to stay until just before sunrise, but now she’s gone at two or three in the morning. I’m starting to wonder.”

            Tailing someone in the middle of the night would be a challenge, and not just because I’d be sleepy. But . . .

            My fingers froze at the keyboard. Cold hands, meeting after dark, leaving before sunrise—my friend Rachel says I’m not that quick on the uptake, but I can pick up a clue every now and then.

            I looked at Page. “This is going to sound like a strange question, but—are you a vampire?”

            He blinked, as if it was obvious. “Yes.”

I managed to resist the impulse to shove my chair back and flee the coffee shop screaming “Vampire! Vampire!” at the top of my lungs. Mostly because Page was between me and the door.

            I’ve met vampires. I’ve even staked a few. I’ve been dealing with supernatural creatures and crimes since I was a reporter. It’s one reason I’m on my own now as a private detective.

            But I don’t go looking for monsters and demons. Somehow they just seem to find me. I knew I had a reputation for dealing with weird cases. I just didn’t know it had leaked through to the other side. 

            Page was my first vampire client. But I had a cable bill to pay.

            So I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair. “Tell me about . . .” I looked down at my screen. “Jillian?”

            Page smiled. “She’s younger than me—I’ve been undead for 82 years, and I was 46 when I turned. She’s been a vampire for 32 years, and she was 21 or 22, I think. Anyway, we met at the park one night and we just sort of clicked, but she’s always been mysterious about where she lives or what else she does.” He shrugged. “It’s not so unusual, really. We guard our homes very carefully.”

            I’d never really chatted with a vampire before, so I asked the first question that popped into my head: “So vampires go on dates?”

            Page laughed. It was an odd sound from a vampire. “We’re not all soulless maniacs, Mr. Jurgen.” He stroked his throat. “Well, soulless, yes. But we get lonely like everyone else. I don’t want to kill everyone I see. I stopped hunting humans decades ago. Now I just want . . . companionship. A friend. Like everybody else.”

            What about blood? But I kept that to myself, along with the obvious question—do vampires have sex like regular humans? But I wouldn’t ask a regular client about his or her bedtime routine, although some had insisted on sharing the details with me (“She never did THAT before!”). A few had even pushed pictures in my face (“This is so you can identify him . . .”).

            At least Page wasn’t trying to kill me, or anyone else in the shop. I sipped my coffee. “So, here’s a question—do you have a bank account?”

            He smiled and reached into a pocket. “Yes. I even write checks. How much do we start with?”

            I glanced at my laptop. “Let’s go over some details.”

Rachel—my upstairs neighbor and sometime girlfriend—wasn’t exactly happy that I was working for a vampire. “Are you completely INSANE?” were her exact words, minus a certain amount of profanity, But I couldn’t blame her, seeing as how we’d actually met each other when she was running a support group in her apartment for victims of vampire attacks.

            But Rachel was a freelancer herself—graphic design—so she couldn’t argue about any paying job. Still, she forced all her vampire-hunting gear on me: a big silver cross, a bottle of holy water, a heavy mallet and a sharp pointy stick, and a copy of the New Testament that a street preacher had shoved into her hand years ago.

            “I swear, Tom Jurgen—” Rachel punched my chest, her hazelnut eyes blazing, her red hair swirling around her head. “If you get turned into a vampire I will stake you, cut off your head, stuff garlic down your throat, and leave you out in the sunlight to burn into a crisp. I want my stuff back, all right?”

            Then she kissed me. It’s how she shows she cares.

            So with the memory of her kiss on my lips, a bag of vampire-killing tools in the back seat of my Honda, and a Taser in my windbreaker, I was parked on the street opposite Page’s three-story apartment building in the Irving Park neighborhood at 1:30 in the morning. Page owned the entire building; his apartment was on the third floor.

            Of course Page didn’t have any photos of Jillian Donovan. But he’d spent almost five minutes describing her in minute detail, until I was afraid I was going to hear about birthmarks on her butt. Basically, Jillian was a short slender blonde who looked about 25. She usually wore jeans or corduroys. She carried a black leather purse, and she almost always had some sort of hat—sometimes a stylish fedora, other times a White Sox baseball cap. As a Chicago Cubs fan, I tried not to hold against her. She used Uber a lot to get home.

            It was enough. I figured I wouldn’t see too many people matching that description coming out the front door in the middle of the night.

            One advantage to a nighttime stakeout is that hardly anyone’s on the street to wonder why you’re just sitting in your car doing nothing for hours at a time. On the downside, you look a lot more like a stalker at 1:45 a.m. than you do at most other times. So I kept the lights off and the radio low and concentrated on trying not to speculate about vampire sex.

            An hour passed. Wow, a lot of idiots call into talk shows in the middle of the night. Why were these people awake? Oh, wait—why was I awake? Or was I awake? I turned the radio down and splashed water over my face from one of my bottles.

            I wanted to call Rachel. But I’d just wake her up, and then she’d yell at me. What time was it?

            Damn it. The clock read 2:10. Did I fall asleep? I’d met another P.I. once who claimed he could stay awake for 36 hours straight without closing his eyes once. Then he got hit by an SUV on Lake Shore Drive in broad daylight. Idiot.

            So I rubbed my eyes and peered across the dark street. If I’d missed my target tonight, well—as Scarlett O’Hara and a lot of other P.I.s say, tomorrow is another day.

            But then the front door opened, and a woman walked out, peering at her cell phone.

            Slender and young, she wore a wide-brimmed hat with a long red feather on her head, and a big leather purse slung over one shoulder. She stayed back in the shadows near the door, peering at her cell phone. Checking her Uber ride? I put my hand on the ignition.

            Then a door slammed, as loud as a gunshot.

            I couldn’t really see them clearly in the darkness, but one man in a green T-shirt had thick shoulders that looked like he ate steroids for breakfast. The other guy was short and bony, his arms tensed for a fight.

            Jillian shoved the phone into her purse as they approached. I waited for her to attack. She was a vampire like Page, after all. She could probably take these two guys out and still catch her Uber.

            Instead she ducked her head and ran.

            She fled like an Olympic sprinter in the shadowy moonlight, her legs pumping hard and fast. But they chased her, the thin bony guy in the lead, and I was pretty sure she couldn’t keep up her pace for more than a block or two.

            So without thinking about it too much I twisted the key, wrenched the wheel, and jerked the Honda around. I cleared the side of the car across the street by half an inch, then hit the pedal. Fast and—well, not so furious. But I reached the corner before Jillian and leaned over to push the door. “Get in! Now!”

            The short bony guy leaped forward and grabbed her leg.

            Jillian tumbled onto the sidewalk. But she rolled over and kicked a foot up into the guy’s crotch, and he doubled over, grunting, and dropped to his knees.

            I pounded the horn, a long honking blast. Jillian looked up. I leaned over and popped the door open. “Come on!”

            She darted forward. The bigger guy in the green T-shirt stopped to check on his partner, and that gave her enough time to jump into the passenger seat. “Are you my driver?”

            I hit the accelerator.

            I don’t usually do this sort of thing, by the way. My heart was pounding like a drum solo.

            She glanced over her shoulder as she scrambled around, fumbling with the seatbelt. “Thanks.”

            “No problem. I love driving for Uber.” I checked my mirror. “Who are those guys?”

            “I don’t know.” Jillian leaned back, trembling. “Just get me out of here.”

            “Sure. Back home?”

            “Yes. No. Wait a minute.” She leaned her head against the window, catching her breath.

            “You want to call the police?”

            “No!” She jerked up. “I mean—I was visiting my boyfriend. I don’t want him getting mixed up in this.”

            “So who were they? Private detectives? Man, I hate those guys.” I took the first right turn.

            “No. It’s not like that.” She sat back against the seat. “Just find me a motel.”

            “Sure.” I pulled over next to a hydrant and searched my phone. “So, there’s a Holiday Inn a few miles away, and a Red Roof—”

            “Whatever. Just get me somewhere fast.” She rubbed her face. “Sorry. I’m just upset. Will this screw up your fare?”

            I had no idea what an Uber driver would say. “Don’t worry about it. Sounds like you just need to get somewhere safe before the sun comes up, right?”

            “Something like that.”

I took her to a Comfort Inn near the corner of Diversey and Clark. She didn’t need me to come in with her, but she did shove some extra money at me, even though Uber would already have paid me for the trip. If I was really an Uber driver. So I watched her go in, and then waited on the street for half an hour in case she came back out.

            She didn’t, so I drove home. I was planning on calling my client in the morning until I remembered he probably wouldn’t be answering his phone after sunrise. So I pulled over again, yawned once or twice, and called Page.

            “Yes?” He sounded sleepy too. I checked my clock. The time was 4:05.

            “It’s Tom Jurgen. Jillian is fine, but I need to tell you that she was attacked leaving your building.”

            “Oh my g—” He seemed to choke on the word. “Is she all right?”

            “She’s fine,” I said again. “I picked her up and took her to a motel. She thought I was her Uber driver.” Somewhere in Chicago a very confused Uber driver was probably wondering what had happened.

            “What happened?”

            “Two men. One large and stuffed with muscles, in a green T-shirt, the other shorter and skinnier. Both male Caucasians, no weapons that I could see. Jillian denied knowing who they were or why they were after her.”

            “It’s them.” Page groaned. “Oh, g—” Another choke. “It’s them.”

            “Who?”

            “Can you get over here? Before dawn?”

            I tried to hide another yawn. He was the client, after all. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

            “Thank you. It—I know it’s hard on humans. I’ll pay you more. Just please come soon.”

            I spotted a Starbucks down the street. “Just let me get some coffee.”

The vampire’s lair looked like a normal apartment, except for the thick curtains over every barred window. A few candles burned in tall silver candlesticks. Page formally invited me inside, even though I was pretty sure that being invited in worked the other way around. He offered me coffee, but I still had half my Venti left.

            He wore sweats and slippers, like any ordinary guy binge-watching Game of Thrones in the middle of the night. He sat in a big reclining chair and looked at me as I sagged onto a leather couch. “Tell me again who you saw. Please.”

            I described the attack as accurately as I could. “I can say again that Jillian is unharmed. Shaken up. The only other thing . . .” I hesitated, but Page was still my client, and I owed him the truth. “She said she didn’t know the attackers. I’m not sure she was telling the truth.”

            “You have to protect her.” The menace in his voice made me nervous.

            I shook my head. “I’m not a bodyguard. I can recommend a security service, but they may not have experience with—clients like you.”

            Page leaned back with a sigh. “I know who it was. At least, I know who they’re working for. He’s been trying to get to me for years. Now he’s trying to hurt me through Jillian.”

            “Who is it?”

            He looked away from me. “An old enemy.”

            I remember with a jolt in the pit of my stomach that I was working for a vampire. They aren’t usually nice.

            “I’m not sure there’s much I can do.” I leaned forward, hoping to stand and leave. “And this is outside of what you hired me to do.”

            His gray eyes turned a sharp red. I slowly moved my hand, reaching for Rachel’s silver cross in my windbreaker.

            “Just make sure she’s okay.” His voice was a whisper. But a plea, not a threat. “That’s all I want, and that’s what I’m paying for. I’ll take care of the rest.”

            I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to help you kill anyone. I can’t.”

            He frowned. “I just want to keep her safe.”

Vampire Lovers, Part Two

So I went home and slept for a few hours until Rachel called me. She was working at a job in the suburbs. I told her everything.

            “You actually rescued someone? “ She laughed. “And you didn’t get hurt?”

            “It wasn’t like I had to wrestle anyone.” I knew Rachel’s laughs pretty well by now. She was pissed off and worried, but she didn’t want to show it. “Thanks for the vampire gear, by the way.” I hadn’t needed it, but I was glad to have it.

            “Well, hang onto it for a while. I’ll call you later.” She hung up.

            After a shower and a bowl of cereal, I called the motel and asked to be connected to Jillian Donovan’s room. I wasn’t sure how deeply vampires slept, but—

            “I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “That guest has checked out.”

            Huh? “When?”

            “An hour ago. That’s really all I can tell you.”

            I turned around. The sun was streaming through the blinds in the window behind my dining room table, where I set up my laptop every day and do most of my work. “An hour ago?” It was 11:30 in the morning.

            “I really can’t give you any more information. Guest confidentiality, and all that.”

            “Right. Thanks.” I hung up.

            Now what? I’d had a whole story worked out about being worried after the attack and offering to drive her home tonight, but Jillian had left—in broad daylight.

            Which meant she wasn’t a vampire.

            I debated calling Page. But after minute my reporter’s survival instincts took over, and I realized I needed more facts before outing her. So I did what I should have done in the first place: I ran a check on Jillian Donovan.

            Within 15 minutes I had her address—Edgewater neighborhood—occupation—video production consultant—and her Facebook page. It was marked to “Private,” but the profile picture matched. So much for no photos.

            Now I was thoroughly confused. I called Page and got his answering machine. I was actually grateful to have some time to think over what to say, so I told him to call me this evening. Then I saved what I had Jillian in a file and stood up to stretch.

            After checking my email and doing a few odds and ends on other cases I had going, I peered into my refrigerator and realized I needed bread and a few other groceries. So I grabbed a shopping bag and headed downstairs.

            Out on the sidewalk a car door slammed. I ignored it for a moment, then remembered last night. When I turned around, I saw the same two men walking toward me.

            The muscular guy wore a different T-shirt, and the bony guy limped a little. When I looked at my front door and got ready to run, Bony Guy lifted a hand. “Wait! We just want to talk!”

            They’d intercept me anyway. And I’d left my Taser inside. So I waited as they approached, hands at their sides.

            “You Tom Jurgen?” Bony Guy huffed and puffed, out of breath from chasing me half a block. Not like last night. “We need to talk to you.”

            I backed away. “How did you find me?”

            He glanced at his partner. “Adam got your license plate. You’re a P.I., right?”

            Damn it. How much did they know about me—and Jillian? “Why did you attack that woman last night?”

            “We didn’t attack her!” Bony Guy stomped a foot on the sidewalk. “She just ran away before we could talk to her.”

            “You tackled her to the ground. I saw it. That looked like—”

            “And then she kicked me in the balls! What did that—”

            “Shut up, Dego.” Adam thumped him on the chest. “Look, Jurgen, we only want to talk to you.”

            I tensed. “What about?”

            Adam handed me a business card. “Call our boss. He’ll explain.”

            PATRICK HURST, the card read. DI PEST CONTROL. A phone number, email address, and website were listed below. “What’s this all about?”

            “We’re sorry we scared her.” Adam nodded at the card. “Just talk to him. Okay?”

            I slipped the card in my pocket. “Okay. I’ll call.”

            He patted Dego on the shoulder. “Come on.”

            I watched them drive away. Then, even though I was hungry, I went back home to call Patrick Hurst.

The DI Pest Control office on the northwest side looked like a legitimate business. A big sign above a one-story building, two white vans with the DI logo in a gated parking lot, and three assistants taking calls inside. A young African-American woman took my card and picked up her phone. Moments later I was sitting in front of Patrick Hurst’s desk.

            Hurst had short gray hair and big heavy arms. His face was long and hard. He leaned back behind his desk and held my card up with both hands. “Tom Jurgen, huh? Private eye?”

            “You wanted to talk to me. What can I do for you?” 

            He dropped the card on his desk. “You’re working for Clifton Page. Right?”

            “I don’t generally give out the names of my clients.” Cops and lawyers and angry spouses had asked the same question, with varying degrees of success depending on the situation and how loud they yelled. “So what do you want to talk about?”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Hurst snatched up a photo frame from his desk. “Look at this.”

            A family—mother and father in front of a house, two small children smiling at the camera. Both the father and son looked like the Hurst sitting in front of me. The little girl was smiling with braces in her teeth.

            “Your family?”

            Hurst gazed at the photo. “My mom and dad, and my sister. I was nine years old. She was seven. Why it didn’t kill me, I don’t know.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “That was 28 years ago, and I visit their graves every Sunday.”

            He set the picture face down on his desk. “I’ve been hunting that thing ever since. Now I know where it lives.” He folded his arms over his chest. “And you can help me.”

            My client. Destroying a family. Who was I working for? But I couldn’t just sell Page out based on a photo and a sad story. I’ve worked for disreputable clients before, just like lawyers who defend the scum of the world. Some of them are scum, but my only job was getting the facts.

            “I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s an empty phrase, but I needed to say it. But then I had to ask: “So you want me to help you kill Clifton Page?”

            “I want to stop it from killing anyone else!” Hurst pounded a fist on the desk. “Look, how many people do you imagine it’s killed by now? I don’t know how old it is, but they need blood every day to survive!” He glared at me like an angry husband. “Come on, Jurgen. You can’t be on the side of a monster like that.”

             I wasn’t sure whose side I was on. I thought about all the people I’d seen over the years who’d been killed by monsters—vampires, shapeshifters, demons. Maybe Hurst had justice on his side. Or at least revenge. This was getting more complicated than I’d imagined.

            But Page was my client, and he wanted me to protect Jillian. And she wasn’t a vampire.

            I sat back in my chair. “So what would you want me to do? I mean, if I was working for Page.”

            He leaned forward. “Help me get close to it. Help me destroy it.”

            Oh hell. “You know where he lives. Your people were there last night. What do you need me for?”

            Hurst’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “To get me inside. Or draw it outside. Where I can kill it.”

            I remembered Jillian running down the sidewalk. “Is that why your people tried to kidnap that woman in the middle of the night?”

            He frowned, angry. “They were only supposed to talk to her! Give her my card, like they did with you today! She didn’t have to run!”

            “They didn’t have to tackle her.”

            Hurst shoved his chair back. “Are you going to help me or not?”

            I stood up, nervous. And not just for my own safety. “I don’t think so. Sorry.”

            He crumpled my card in his fingers. “Then get out.”

                       

I drove a block away, parked, and called Page again. Still no answer. Vampires apparently sleep very soundly in the daytime.

            So I spent a few minutes debating the ethical pros and cons of my next obvious step. In the end I didn’t seem to have a choice. Hurst had found me in less than 12 hours. I’d found Jillian Donovan, so Hurst could too. And Page had asked me to help protect her.

            “Hello?” She picked up on the second ring.

            “Jillian Donovan? This is Tom Jurgen. I drove you last night—”

            “Yes, thank you. Um—how did you get my number?” She sounded suspicious. With good reason.

            “I’m, uh, not really an Uber driver. I’m a private detective. Clifton Page hired me.”

            “Okay?” Now she was really puzzled.

            “Those men last night? They work for a man named Patrick Hurst. He has . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put it without panicking her. “He’s looking for Page.”

            “Oh, god.” She gasped. “Is he some kind of—vampire killer?”

            At least I didn’t have to pretend now. “He says Page, uh, killed his family when he was a child.”

            Silence. Then a cry of disbelief. “Cliff doesn’t do that anymore! He doesn’t hunt! He . . .” Her voice faded. “Wait a minute. What did he hire you for?”

            I hesitated. “You’d probably better ask him about that. I’ve tried to call him, but—”

            “You can’t wake him in the daytime. I’ve tried.”

            “Here’s the thing.” I wanted to keep her calm, so I kept my voice steady and low. “Hurst wanted me to help him kill Page. So I’m concerned he may approach you. Or, you know, something worse. He claims they weren’t trying to kidnap you last night, just talk, but he seems a little unhinged. You might want to get somewhere safe where he or his men can’t find you.”

            “Oh, god,” she said again. “I have to get to Cliff’s place. Can you take me there?”

            “Is that a good idea? They know where he lives. And he won’t be awake until—”

            “I’ll feel safe there. He won’t let anything happen to me.”

            I hated the idea. Jillian might feel safe, but I wouldn’t. Still, Page would want me to do what she asked. “All right. Tell me where to pick you up.”

            She gave me her address. Which I already had, but I didn’t want to creep her out by letting her know. “Twenty minutes,” I told her.

            “Hurry,” she said.

Vampire Lovers, Part Three

Jillian unlocked Page’s two deadbolts with her keys and reached inside to flip on the lights. Last night Page had been sitting in candlelight, but now two antique lamps glowed in the far corners of the room. She tossed a dark hat onto the coffee table as she went into the bedroom to check on him. I didn’t follow her. A sleeping vampire in his coffin isn’t exactly on my bucket list.

            I made sure the deadbolts were securely locked, set Rachel’s bag of vampire-fighting gear on the floor, and checked my jacket for my Taser. I looked at my cell phone for tonight’s sundown. 6:29. The time right now was 4:15 a.m.

            Jillian came out of the bedroom with a sigh. “He’s fine.”

            “Still asleep?”

            “It’s like a coma.” She sank down into his chair, running her fingers over her short hair. “I didn’t get any sleep.”

            I sat on the leather couch. “Maybe we should talk.”

            “About what?” She seemed surprised.

            “Things that are maybe none of my business. You don’t have to answer anything.”

            She blinked, then pointed a finger. “What’s in the bag?”

            I hesitated, but I figured I had to tell her the truth if I wanted the same from her. “Stuff for killing vampires. A friend loaned it to me.”

            She stiffened, starting to rise. “Is that what—oh, hell! I can’t believe—”

            “Hang on.” I lifted a hand. “I’m not going to kill him. Not unless he tries to kill me, and I don’t expect him to do that. We’ve met a few times already. I’m pretty sure if he wanted my blood it would be gone by now.”

            She shook her head angrily. “He doesn’t kill people! Not . . . well, not anymore. Not for years. He stopped. He wanted—he said it was getting too dangerous, but I think he was really just tired of it. Not like he developed a soul again, just—it started to bother him. He never wanted to talk about it. I could tell.”

            She slumped in the chair.

            “Where does he get his blood? And his money, for that matter?”

            “He invests, like everyone else.” Jillian shrugged. “He’s had a long time to grow his money, and for a long time he didn’t really have any, you know, regular expenses. And the blood—well, there’s a black market. And people willing to let vamps feed because they get a kick out of it.”

            “He thinks you’re a vampire.”

            She looked at the floor and nodded. “Yeah.”

            “How does that work?”

            Jillian stood up and started pacing the hardwood floor. “Vamps . . . turn me on. I loved reading about them when I was a little girl. And no, I’m not talking about Twilight. More like Dracula, and Interview with a Vampire. Then when I met some real ones at college—”

            “They didn’t try to kill you?” I glanced at Rachel’s bag.

            She laughed. “The first one I met was a prof who taught film studies at night. When I figured out he was a vampire, I made him tell me everything. He was like Cliff—he gave up attacking humans 20 years ago. We didn’t do anything . . . I mean, like that. He was my professor.”

            She stopped pacing and sat down again. “He just told me what to look for. So when I met Cliff, I knew how to act. Most vampires don’t want relationships with people. They don’t trust them. Us. And a vampire can live a long time, but people get older. And turning a person into a vampire—it sounds fun, but the thing is new vamps don’t have much impulse control. They’ll attack anything. Even other vampires. So anyway, I pretended to be one.” She shrugged again. “It worked.”

            “Was it hard?”

            “Sometimes.” She rubbed her nose. “I have to be careful about history, pretending to be a lot older than I am. But I can fake it pretty good, and I just say I just don’t remember when I screw up.”

            I looked her over. Tight jeans, a black leather vest over a loose T-shirt. “So you’re really—what? Twenty-five?”

            “Twenty-eight. I had to write my own autobiography just to keep everything straight.” She grinned. “But it was fun. I watched the Berlin Wall come down. I saw Rent on Broadway. That kind of stuff.”

            I have enough trouble keeping the truth straight with Rachel. I couldn’t have handled something like this for five minutes.

            Okay, I’ll be honest—I really wanted to ask about vampire sex. But that definitely came under the heading of “None of my business.” So instead I asked, “What happens if he finds out?” I didn’t want to say “when.”

            She glanced around as if he might walk through the bedroom door. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it would last this long. I mean, I like him. A lot, actually. He can be nice. And funny. And the, uh . . .” She blushed. “Forget it. I’d miss him. I just wouldn’t want him to be mad at me.” She sighed. “But I guess there’s no way around that now, right?”

            “I’m no Dear Abby, but you should probably be the one to tell him.” Mostly, I thought, because Page was somewhat less likely to kill her than me.

            She grimaced. “Yeah. One of these days.”

            The bedroom door opened.

            “Jillian?” Page staggered in a black robe and his slippers. “What time is it?” Then he spotted me. “Jurgen? What are you doing here?”

            His eyes were dazed, as if he was dizzy, still half asleep. Jillian jumped up and ran to him. “It’s okay. Just sit down. Do you want me to get you some—” She glanced at me. “Something to drink?”

            His face looked paler than before. “Yes. It’s . . .” He kissed Jillian’s cheek. “Why are you here? Jurgen, what’s going on?”

            I stood up. “You probably want to sit down and drink—whatever you drink. We can explain. Both of us.” I shot a look at Jillian. She nodded.

            Page dropped into the chair, his eyelids drooping. Sundown was still an hour and a half away.

            Jillian brought out a jar filled with thick red liquid. “Here. Drink this.” She knelt on the floor next to his chair.

            Page downed three-quarters of the blood the way I sometimes swallow half a beer on a hot day. He blinked and wiped a hand across his lips. “Okay. Better. That’s—”

            Then he looked at the window and saw streaks of sunlight through the dark curtains. He jerked up in the chair, and Jillian caught the jar before it spilled on the floor. “What is this? What are you doing here?” He twisted to glare at Jillian. “What is happening?”

            I stood up. “I tried to call you. Stuff’s been going on. Do you know a man named Patrick Hurst?”

            “Oh no.” He clutched the arms of the chair. “Is he back?”

            Jillian put the jar on a table. “Cliff . . . we have to talk.”

            Page twisted around toward her, his eyes wide. “How did you get here? What did he . . .” Then he looked at me, and I felt my blood freeze. And when you’re facing a vampire, that’s a very scary sensation.

            Jillian put a hand on his arm. “I can explain. It’s—it’s going to be tough, but I need you to listen. Please?”

            For an undead being who didn’t breathe, Page gave a good impression of a man taking a deep breath. He sat back. “All right. I want to hear it.” He nodded to me. “All of it.”

            But before either of us could speak, a loud knock pounded at the door.

            “Page!” Hurst’s voice thundered through the door. “Let me in and nobody else needs to get hurt!”

            What the hell? “He can’t get in.” I looked at the deadbolts. And the door was thick as a vault.

            But Page lurched up. He grabbed the jar from the table and finished it in one quick gulp, then threw it down on the floor, shards of bloodstained glass splattering across the wood. “It’s time to finish this.”

            “Cliff, don’t!” Jillian grabbed at his arm, but he pushed her away and stalked toward the door.

            “Hurst! Is that you?” He didn’t have a peephole.

            “Hah!” Hurst’s voice was harsh. “It’s about time, you coward! How are you when people aren’t defenseless? Open up, you monster!”

            For a moment I thought Page would back away. Instead he drew his shoulders up, looking six inches taller and six times more menacing, even in his dark robe and slippers. He snapped the two deadbolts, pulled the door open, and stepped back.

            I fumbled for my Taser.

            Okay, Page was a vampire. He’d killed people. But he was my client. And Jillian was watching us.

            Hurst marched into the room in short khaki jacket belted at the waist, looking like a big game hunter. I expected a crossbow, or at least a stake. Or maybe a flask of holy water. But his hands were empty.

            Adam and Dego stood behind him. They looked nervous. I didn’t blame them.

            Jillian darted to Page’s side. “Get the hell out of here!”

            “Page.” Hurst smiled. “Clifton Page. Vampire. Monster.”

            Page pushed Jillian away. “It’ll be okay. Just let me talk to him.”

            “Talk?” Hurst laughed. “We’re not going to talk. It ends now, tonight. One way or the other.”

            “Fine.” Page jabbed a slim, sharp finger at Hurst’s face. “Whatever you want with me, it doesn’t have anything to do with these people. Let them go away. And then . . .” He lifted his upper lip, and I could see sharp fangs waiting to strike. “We can have it out. If you’re man enough.”

            “Screw that!” Jillian swung around and grabbed a candlestick from a side table. “I’m not leaving! You have no right! You don’t know him!”

            “I know he killed my family.” Hurst kept his voice quiet. His body was taut, like a cobra ready to spring. “My sister was only seven. Do you even remember it, monster? Or were they just something to play with and destroy? Like ants on the sidewalk?”

            Page licked his lips, his tongue red from the blood he’d just drank. “Oh, I remember them. Their taste, their smell. They begged for their lives. Most of all, they pleaded for you. So I let you live.” He shook his head. “Maybe that was a mistake.”

            “He doesn’t do it anymore!” Jillian stomped a foot on the floor. “He’s different! He’s not a monster—”

            “It is a monster! And you’re its whore!” He leered at Jillian. “Do you like his bed, slut? Do you lie there in its coffin with your legs spread wide, ready to take it? Do you groan when it plunges down—”

            “Don’t you talk to her like that, asshole!” Page took a step back, ready to strike. “Do you really think you can destroy me? I’d like to see you try.”

            Hurst smiled.

            I had my hand on my Taser, and my eyes on Dego and Adam. They looked nervous.

            “Hey, Dego!” I pointed at Hurst. “Do you guys really want to be part of this? You work for a pest control company, right? Killing bugs, not battling vampires. Is this what you signed up for?”

            Dego looked at his partner. They backed away toward the hall.

            Hurst laughed. “You’re right, Page. I can’t hurt you. We all know that. But I can hurt someone else.”

            He reached under his jacket and came up with a handgun. He pointed it straight at Jillian’s chest.

            “No.” Page snarled. “No!”

            Hurst smirked. “Yes.”

            Several things happened at once:

            Page lunged forward. I fired my Taser. Adam, the big guy, ran away. Dego reached out to grab his boss’s arm.

            Hurst’s gun went off, and Jillian screamed. I fired my Taser.

            The bullet went wild, shattering one of the antique lamps. The Taser’s dart hit Hurst in the leg. Dego pulled Hurst down as he twitched from the electric shock. Page jumped on him like a mad dog, his fangs flaring.

            Then Jillian was on top of Page, pulling at his shoulders. “Cliff! Cliff! No—no! Please!”

            Page’s fangs slashed at Hurst’s neck. I grabbed at his arm. Dego punched his face.

            Page reared up, fresh human blood dripping down his chin, a snarl on his face. But Jillian slapped his cheek. Hard enough to leave a deep red mark on his pale skin.

            “Damn it, Cliff, stop!” She grabbed him in a hug. “You don’t do this anymore! You promised me! Please stop! Please . . . please . . .”

            For a moment I was afraid Page would fling her away and finish Hurst off. But then he froze, his long fingers wrapped around Hurst’s throat. Dego punched him one more time, then scuttled away on his knees.

            I grabbed a handkerchief from my back pocket and pressed it against Hurst’s throat. He was bleeding, but Page’s fangs hadn’t punctured any arteries. He was gasping, his face red, and he peered up at me with hatred in his eyes.

            “You too,” he grunted. “I knew you were on its side.”

            I wanted to punch his face, but I kept the pressure on the wound. “You’re done here, Hurst. Let it go.”

            He pushed my hands away. “I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “You’re defending this—this thing?” He glared at me. “Do you have people you love? A family?”

            “Is that a threat?” My heart was pounding. “Don’t even—”

            “No! But what if you lost them to a monster like that?” He glared up at me. “What would you do?”

            I thought of my parents, who lived far away. My brother in California. And Rachel. Right upstairs. “Yeah. But none of them would want me to turn into a monster like you.”

            Page was on his feet, holding Jillian tight in his arms. He looked down at Hurst, one foot next to his face.

            “You were a brave young man when I killed your family.” His eyes were gray and tired. “You wanted to fight me then. I could say I’m sorry, but we’d both know I’m lying. But I’m not lying now. If I see you again, I will kill you.” He nudged Hurst’s shoulder with his slipper. “Go. Now.”

            Hurst rolled over, holding my handkerchief to his neck. He rose to his shaky feet with Dego holding onto him and stumbled to the door.

            Adam was in the hall behind them. He and Dego caught Hurst before he fell over. “Come on, Pat. Let’s go home.”

            Dego looked over his boss’ shoulder at me. Thanks, he whispered.

            I nodded. Good luck.

            Jillian led Page to the couch. I retrieved my Taser and locked the door again. Page slouched down, and Jillian ran to the kitchen.

            Page looked up at me. “Thank you.”

            I sat in his chair, shaking. The remains of the shatter lamp lay in shards on the floor. “We’d better get rid of that handgun. Do you think the neighbors will call the police?”

            He smiled. “I’ll talk to them. There won’t be a problem.”

            Jillian came out with a fresh jar of blood. “Drink this. Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine.” Page sat up. “I’m—sorry. I don’t like being threatened. Or when . . .” He took a sip, then handed the jar back. “When my friends are threatened.”

            Jillian looked at me. I nodded.

            She knelt next to the couch. “Cliff? I have to tell you something . . .”

I gave Rachel her bag of vampire-killing equipment back. “Thanks. I didn’t need it.”

            “So you didn’t . . .” She mimed a staking motion.

            “No. Actually, I saved his life. Or unlife, I guess. So, do you have any beer?”

            She punched my shoulder. “Does today end in a Y? Get in here and tell me what happened.”

            “Love conquers all, I guess.” By the time I’d left Page’s apartment, he knew the truth about Jillian. How that would turn out I had no idea or opinion. But I’d seen less likely relationships succeed.

            Rachel brought me a beer and sat down next to me. “Just tell me one thing: How do vampire lovers, you know—do it?”

            I took a long swallow. “I didn’t ask.”

# # #