Night Owls

2

THE KID HAD been stalking the aisles for the better part of ten minutes, drifting from the self-help books to the horror shelves and back again. He’d browsed through psychology and human sexuality; he’d run his fingers over the spines of every book in the science section twice. When he finally gave up and headed to the front to ask for help, he walked with that cringing don’t-judge-me posture Chaz usually saw on grown men looking for books written by “Anonymous.”

Chaz paused in Travel, pretending to set the U.S. guides in alphabetical order by state. Really, it was just the best place to stand and listen in on the conversation at the register without appearing like you were eavesdropping.

Which, of course, he was.

Val had taken over an expanse of the counter, intent on using the late evening lull to match packing lists to invoices and get some bills paid. The way she was bent over them, you couldn’t tell how damned tall she was; she actually had an inch or two on Chaz, putting her close to six feet. She tucked an errant lock of dark red hair behind her ear, unaware of the hilarity rapidly approaching.

The kid didn’t even wait for Val to look up from her paperwork before he blurted out his question: “Where do you keep your books on vampires?”

Chaz couldn’t help the snicker.

Val shot a frown in his direction, but he could see her fighting to keep a straight face, too. “Fiction, or nonfiction?”

“Non, please. Do you . . . Do you have any that say how you can tell if someone is one?”

Chaz faked a coughing fit to hide his laughter.

“Up that aisle,” said Val, “past the astrology books on the left. We have a ton on vampires.”

“Thanks.” The kid took off at a run in the direction Val pointed, nearly crashing into Chaz on his way by. “Sorry,” he muttered before heading deeper into the store.

Chaz got a decent look at him: pressed khakis, collared shirt, hair definitely not styled at the local Supercuts. He headed up to the register. Val stood with her arms folded, waiting for it. “Roommate?” he asked softly. He set his armload of books down on the counter and pretended to look them up.

“Girlfriend,” said Val.

“Five bucks?”

“Yep.”

Chaz swept a lock of pale blond hair out of his eyes and turned around to peer at the kid, who was now running his fingers along the spines of books in the proper section, lips moving as he read each title. “What makes you say girlfriend?”

“Eyeliner. You wear it to impress a girl, not your new roommate.”

“No way. I didn’t see any.” The kid hadn’t looked the eyeliner type; not with those clothes, at least.

“Trust me, it’s there.”

Chaz shrugged and returned to punching numbers on the keyboard, occasionally making the computer go ping, like he’d done something useful. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the kid to make a selection. Val said when you added in the ponytail, Chaz’ picture ought to be in the dictionary next to “slacker.” On his third run through the stack, the kid returned, clutching a book close to his chest. Sure enough, an unsteady line of kohl ringed the kid’s eyes. Chaz swore under his breath.

Val grinned triumphantly before she turned to ring up the sale.

“This one, please,” said the kid. He glanced at his watch—a fancy chunk of silver from Tag Heuer that also didn’t jive with the eyeliner—and smiled. “I’m glad you guys were still open.”

Chaz pushed himself up to sit on the counter and pointed at the hours painted beneath the owl on their picture window. “It’s early yet. We’re here until three.”

Night Owls Books sat just off the campus of Edgewood College, making it the perfect place for an almost-all-night bookstore. Since it was only eleven o’clock, a few clusters of students sat on the couches up front, laptops out, textbooks open. More would arrive after the library closed half an hour from now.

Chaz took a look around to be sure the three of them were the only people in earshot. The studying kids didn’t look likely to get up anytime soon, and Justin, tonight’s other late-night employee, had exiled himself to the children’s section sometime around nine-thirty, determined to undo the damage from the whirlwind that was Activity Night. He had yet to resurface. Leaning around Val, Chaz snagged the kid’s book and peered at the title. “So, you think the girl you like might be a vampire, huh?”

The kid turned crimson. “Um,” he said.

“Tell you what. I’ll save you ten bucks. She wear a lot of black?”

“. . . yes.”

“Burns incense and smokes clove cigarettes?”

“Um, yes. To the cloves.” The kid rolled his eyes toward Val pleadingly, but she knew better than to try to stop Chaz mid-defanging.

“Listens to Bauhaus and the Cure, and other bands who probably broke up before you two were born?”

“. . . yeah.”

Chaz hopped off his perch and ambled closer, so he could lean in and drop his voice. “Son, does your dream girl write really, really bad poetry? Especially stuff with angels and blood and graves?”

The kid blinked, torn between acknowledging this last and his loyalty toward the girl. He went for a noncommittal shrug.

“Yep. Not a vampire,” said Chaz with a firm nod. “She starts drinking blood, you tell her that shit’ll make her sick. The human stomach can’t digest more than a few drops.”

“Uh. Oh.” The kid managed to look both defeated and relieved at the same time. It was like Chaz had stuck a pin in him and let him deflate. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of silly, isn’t it?” He backed away from the register, not making eye contact. “Thanks anyway,” he said toward Val, and sped out the door. Dating the Paranormal remained on the counter like an accusation.

“Huh. Girlfriend. You were right.” Chaz dug into his pockets. “Five bucks, we said?”

“Fifteen.”

“What?”

“Your little speech just lost us a sale. Oh, and add that book to your shelving pile, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and forked over the cash. “But I was right, wasn’t I? The lady friend’s not a bloodsucker.”

He fled down the aisle when she brandished the stapler.

Chaz had been through this a few times in the five years he’d been working for Val: a student coming in, convinced their roommate or love interest was some kind of otherworldly creature—vampire, werewolf, demon. Most of them were just normal kids who’d fallen for a very good angsty act. Only once in all that time had one of the kids been right.

That was why, after the kids left with their purchases (or in this case, empty-handed), Chaz would turn to Val and ask the question: were they right? He asked because he knew her secret: she could smell the supernatural on these kids the same way you might smell the traces of a girl’s perfume on her boyfriend’s jacket.

Valerie McTeague was a vampire, and Chaz was her Renfield.

It wasn’t a bad gig, all things considered. Chaz’ daylight duties mostly consisted of the mundane: keep the bookstore up and running, deal with bank deposits and customer service departments whose hours ended before nightfall, sign for the shipments that showed up while Val was home hiding from the sun. Only rarely did the paranormal requirements of his job kick in—less now than in his early days. Val hadn’t dragged him to a meeting with the colonies out of Boston for almost three years. She hadn’t been to one herself in nearly that long.

They didn’t really talk about it.

When the eleven-thirty munchies hit, Val lifted the petty cash box from its spot beneath the register and gave it a good rattle. It was Chaz’ official duty as a Night Owls minion to go to the cafe next door, charm the elderly twins behind the counter, and bring back coffee and pastries for the late crew.

“You know,” he said, making his way up front from the back of the store, “you could always just buy a dog whistle. It might be less humiliating.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t hear it.” She grinned and passed him the same ten dollar bill he’d handed over earlier. “New flavor tonight. I’m tired of cinnamon.”

“Gotcha.” He pocketed the bill and shuffled out the door, whistling as he went.

He didn’t notice the figure in the beige trench coat lurking outside.

VAL WATCHED CHAZ swing around to the left, heading in the direction of the cafe. The other man’s posture suggested he was watching Chaz go, too.

She went back to her invoices; she could feel the figure staring through the window. If she looked up, she knew she’d catch his eye beneath one of the owl’s painted wings. Chaz had only been gone two minutes. He’d be back within fifteen, he always was. Come on, you old bastard. You planning on waiting all night?

After a moment, the bell jingled merrily. Val glanced up, looking bored. The man had only taken two steps inside. He removed the crumpled fedora from his head and craned his neck, summoning a defiant glare, but none of the other customers had noticed his entrance. Satisfied, he bustled up to the counter. His sharp blue eyes stared up at Val from a wrinkled face.

One hand reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim white box. It thumped heavily on the counter as he set it down.

“Helen made fudge,” he said, and smiled at her. “I thought I’d bring some for you.”

“That’s . . . that’s so sweet of you two, Professor. You’ll have to thank her for us.”

“Us,” sniffed the old man. He stole a glance toward the door, as though he’d find Chaz glaring in at him. When he turned back to Val, his gaze was hopeful. “Is the room open?”

She smiled and reached beneath the register, where a silver key hung from its chain. Most of the time, customers who wanted to look in the rare books room had to leave their licenses up at the front while Val or Chaz escorted them to the door and unlocked it for them. The professor, however, received special treatment. He’d been coming to the store for five years now, and had brought as many precious titles to Val as he had bought from her. She was thinking of having a key made for him, so he could come and go as he pleased.

Now, though, she dangled the key above his outstretched palm and let it drop, the chain pooling atop the key. He closed his fingers over it, his expression beatific. “It’s all right if I browse?” His voice was a reverent whisper.

“Yeah,” she said. “Go on back. There’s a pile of unsorted stuff on the stool. Maybe you’ll find a gem.” He bustled up the aisle with determination, a treasure hunter nearing the X on the map.

“WHAT I DON’T get,” Chaz said ten minutes later, dropping his voice as Val sniffed at her cup, “is why he’s so totally convinced I’m a werewolf, yet he doesn’t come around here with crosses and garlic for you.”

Val snorted. “I guess you’re just more sinister looking.”

“No, but think about it. Have I ever, I dunno, not come into work when the moon’s been full? Bitten a customer? Peed on the rug? No. But you, shit, he at least has to have noticed that you’re nocturnal.” A couple came up to the register, and Chaz turned around to ring up their sale, shaking his head.

When they were gone, Val set her cup down and peered up at Chaz. “He has noticed. He thinks I have a skin condition. Don’t you remember Helen sending along all those homemade salves last Christmas?”

As Chaz opened his mouth to argue, the rare books room door squealed, announcing Professor Clearwater’s exit. He turned the key and gave a satisfied nod as the tumblers slid home with a click, then headed to the front of the store with an armload of books.

He and Chaz spent a long moment exchanging chilly stares as he set his pile down. “Will you set these aside for me? I’ve some books at home from Helen’s mother’s estate that you might be interested in trading.” He spoke to Val, but his gaze never left Chaz.

“Of course. I’d be happy to take a look.”

“Thank you.” Professor Clearwater held out the key for Chaz to take, a sudden gleam in his eyes.

Chaz returned the look with a feral grin and closed his hand around it, making a show of transferring the key slowly from one hand to the other before returning it to its hook.

The professor looked almost disappointed. He shook his head and tipped his hat. “I’ll be on my way,” he said, and tottered to the door.

When his silhouette disappeared around the corner of the building, Chaz let out a growl. “Did you see that? He was watching to see if I could hold silver. Crazy old fuck.” He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket with extra force, then eyed Val’s. “You done sniffing?”

She slid it across to him as he opened the fudge.

IT WAS EARLY enough in the semester that the store was dead by closing time. Outside, the street was quiet except for the occasional scatter of leaves drifting across the pavement. The other storefronts were dark, proprietors and customers long since gone home for the night. Night Owls was on Edgewood’s main drag. Were it not for the influx of students every September, the sleepy college town might otherwise be called a hamlet.

Val walked Chaz to his car, an ancient, ’84 Mustang that looked like it would just barely be able to make it out of the parking lot. But, in the way of well-built older vehicles, it ran like a dream on regular oil changes and tune-ups. Chaz swore it would outlast pretty much everything on the planet in the event of a nuclear war—with the exceptions of maybe the cockroaches, Twinkies, and Val.

Chaz slid behind the wheel and waved the envelope containing the morning’s bank deposit at her. “You know, usually it’s the man who’s supposed to escort the woman to her car.”

“I’m bucking the trends. Look at me go.”

“You’re protecting the profits. Let’s not be coy.”

Val grinned. “Gotta keep my investments safe.”

Chaz glanced around. Even the crickets had gone to bed. “Yeah, from all these thugs hanging out in Edgewood. I think someone ran a stop sign the other day. Or rolled through it.”

Val opened her mouth to retort, but before she could speak, her nostrils filled with the scent of blood. Not a bright, fresh-from-the-vein smell. This was old, congealing, like blood left to pool in a dark place and forgotten. She wanted to retch as her taste buds kicked in and helpfully supplied the rancid companion to the smell.

“Val?” Chaz started getting out of the car. He squawked as she shoved him back down into the driver’s seat. “The fuck?”

“Go home, Chaz. Get the hell out of here.”

“Val, what—” He just barely swung his legs back inside before Val slammed the door shut.

“GO. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

He looked ready to argue, but something in her glare made him reconsider. Although she couldn’t hear his muttered curses, his lips were easy enough to read as he jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car.

Val watched until his taillights disappeared at the end of the street. She turned her face to the wind and braced herself. Then she inhaled deeply.

Blood and rot and crawling things. Skittering, slithering. Writhing. The thickness filled her nose and went straight to her brain, to the place where pure animal fear ruled. She realized that the soft whimpering she heard was coming from her own throat.

Then, just as suddenly as the scent had appeared, it was gone. All the breeze carried now was the dry earthy smell of dying leaves. Her heart slammed; her hands were shaking. Every muscle screamed at her to run as fast and as far as she could.

No. Even as she thought it, the fear had begun leaching away. Val willed her fists to unclench. Deep breaths, as much to make sure no traces of that horrible scent remained as to calm herself down. For years, she’d been the scariest thing in Edgewood, aside from finals and dissertations.

Now it seemed something new had rolled into town. She hoped it hadn’t come here looking for her.

She’d thought she’d left that all behind.