Night Owls

6

CHAZ WAS OUT back, counting up the day shift’s register when Justin came in. Four p.m. had come and gone, and four thirty wasn’t far away. Tardiness and Justin simply didn’t go together—it was probably even a picture in some beginner science textbook, Things That Don’t Mix: oil and water, toothpaste and orange juice, Justin and not-on-time. “You’re late,” Chaz said, looking up as Justin shrugged off his backpack.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Justin bent over the keyboard to punch in, and Chaz caught the shadows under his eyes. He decided to let the kid off the hook; after all, it was Val that had him annoyed, not Justin.

“You look like shit. Late night?”

Justin’s shift had ended at one, but Chaz had never known him to head out after work in search of a bar to close down, especially not when he had classes in the morning. His short, dark hair corkscrewed in the back like he’d just woken from a nap, and his face split into a yawn as he straightened up. “No,” he said, when his jaw finally returned to normal size. “Early morning.” Justin knelt and unzipped his backpack, removing the item within as though he’d carried the Holy Grail across campus and down the hill to work.

The book was stuffed in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. It looked old, but Chaz couldn’t make out a title or anything else that identified it. “What’s that?” He motioned for it, but instead of handing it over, Justin drew it close to his chest. World’s nerdiest teddy bear.

“Professor Clearwater called me this morning and asked me to meet him before office hours started. He said he doesn’t want anyone opening it up unless he’s here. Not even Val.”

Chaz frowned. “The professor was just here last night. Why didn’t he bring it then? Or swing by after classes?”

“I don’t know. He said he had things to do today. As soon as he gave me this, he canceled all his classes and his office hours.”

“He sick?”

“Didn’t seem it. Tired, maybe. He probably stayed up grading papers. He does that sometimes.” Henry Clearwater was Justin’s favorite professor, and the respect went both ways. Some students wrote extra research papers to boost a flagging grade; Justin wrote them for fun, and Professor Clearwater encouraged it. They were two nerds in a pod. It was kind of endearing. He spent as much time talking Shakespeare and Milton in the professor’s office as he spent working or sleeping.

“Okay. Well, do you want me to put it in the rare books room until Val gets here?”

Justin bit his lip.

“Let me guess. He told you I’m not to be trusted with it.”

The wince said it all, but Justin went for the diplomatic answer anyway. “He just really doesn’t want anyone else handling it, is all.”

“Uh-huh.” Chaz had no idea what he’d ever done to piss the old man off, or to make him so oddly suspicious, but he wasn’t going to drag Justin into it. Yeah, your mentor thinks I’m some sort of werewolf. Isn’t that crazy? What a kidder. Easy enough to laugh off unless Justin started believing it, too. Then it wasn’t Chaz’ cover that was in danger of being blown, it was Val’s. “Go ahead and stick it on the desk in there. We’ll let Val know about it when she gets in.”

Justin headed out front, the book cradled in his arms. Chaz glanced up at the clock. Val would be here within the hour, and she had some explaining to do of her own.

In five years as her companion, he’d never been dismissed the way Val had dismissed him last night. It had managed to both piss him off and terrify him.

On one hand, he was her right-hand man, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t she trust him with whatever she’d smelled on the air last night? Shouldn’t she have told him to grab a crowbar and try to keep up, rather than bundle him in the car and send him away? He was supposed to be useful for more than making sure the bookstore’s electric bill was paid, and yet when something was going down, she’d sent him home.

Then again, he’d only seen her scared like that once, and even that memory was hazy and half-formed; sometimes he thought he’d only dreamed it until he rolled up his sleeve and looked at the souvenir twisted into his flesh. Which was a good argument for her maybe thinking he couldn’t handle the heavy shit, and that pissed him off all over again.

After Val had sent him packing, he’d gone home and fretted, staring at infomercials and resisting the urge to call her cell to make sure she was okay. If she was off sneaking around—which was what he figured she’d headed out to do from the way she sniffed the air—a ringing cell would be bad. He’d dozed fitfully for an hour or so, waking up anytime the infomercial audiences clapped on cue. Finally, with dawn lightening the sky, he’d grabbed his keys and headed to Val’s.

The window screen he found on the ground in the backyard had nearly given him a heart attack. He’d gone tearing into the house—a spare key was one of the first things Val had given him when he became her Renfield—and took the stairs three at a time. He didn’t breathe until he turned on the bedside light and saw Val’s red hair spilling over the pillow. She was sprawled awkwardly atop the comforter, one leg thrown over the side of the mattress. Chaz had lifted her gently, resettling her the rest of the way onto the bed so she wouldn’t wake up with a crick in her neck.

That was when he’d noticed the fangs and claws, and the dark blood caking her fingers. She was covered in dirt like she’d been rolling in it. Leaves clung to her hair. What the hell has she been up to?

He’d stood over her awhile, wondering what to do—was whoever she’d gone after truly gone? Should he stay and stand guard in case someone sent a minion to stake her?

But, no. If she’d made it home, it meant she was safe. Otherwise she’d have called him. Val was proud, not dumb. Chaz wouldn’t get any answers until she woke up, though, and the combination of knowing she was safe for the time being and seeing her fast asleep had made his own weariness kick in.

Now he sat in the bookstore’s back room, stewing and eyeing the clock and the sunrise/sunset chart he kept tacked to the corkboard. She wasn’t due in for five hours yet. When she comes in, she’s getting an earful.

IT WAS JUST after nine thirty when Val slipped into Night Owls’ back room and closed the door behind her. She was grateful to have the space to herself for a moment, the haven of controlled chaos promising her everything was normal, everything was fine, despite this morning’s brawl. Once or twice a year, she’d get it into her head to give it a thorough cleaning and organizing, but even her best efforts were reversed within a week or two as shipments came in and returns went out. Val embodied the concept of knowing where everything and anything was in the piles of clutter. It was her clutter, damn it, and after what she’d smelled on the air this morning, the scent of dust and books and someone’s tuna fish sandwich was a comfort.

Her peace and quiet didn’t last long.

Chaz must have been lying in wait out front, waiting for the telltale creak of the hinges, judging from the way he burst through the back room door and swooped down on her. “The hell was that about last night?”

Val glanced up at him and winced. Under the best of circumstances, she’d never have called Chaz intimidating. His build was too scrawny, the muscles cording in his folded arms more like stereo wire than steel cable. He did, however, do a high fury extremely well. She could hear his pulse pounding away in his throat. The smell of anger rolled off him in waves.

“It was nothing. I handled it.” The lie came smoothly. Like the invite she’d commanded out of Justin last night, Val tucked the guilt away for later. Telling Chaz what had happened would send him into panic mode, and right now she wanted stability and calm. Or at least a semblance of it. I need to make a phone call first. Get some advice, or directions, or even some help. Then I’ll fill him in.

Chaz stared at her. “Really, now. So much nothing you practically took my legs off shutting me into the car?” He ran a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Val. Whatever it was had you scared out of your wits.”

She sighed, the guilt not completely vanquished. “All right. Fine. I don’t know what it was, not exactly. But it smelled wrong, and it smelled close, so I wanted you out of there while I took care of it.” The last part was true enough, at least. She stood and retrieved a hair elastic from beneath a sheaf of invoices. “Good Renfields are hard to find, you know.”

“Goddamn it, Val, I’m not kidding.” Usually the reminder that he was—technically—her servant got a smirk out of him. Now his scowl just deepened.

“I know you’re not. I’m sorry. Look, whatever it was, it’s gone now, okay?” Val flexed her hands. They still ached from the previous night’s abuse. She was thankful she’d been passed out for the day while they reset themselves: it meant she hadn’t had to feel the bones cracking and warping all over again. She caught Chaz eyeing them and clasped them behind her back. “It probably just wanted a snack. If it was looking for someone, it wasn’t me.”

“Because there are so many other supernatural creatures in Edgewood.”

He had a point. Other vamps passed through occasionally, and a pair of succubi were shacking up a few streets over, but she was pretty much the town’s only permanent paranormal resident. Still, she kept her nose clean—mostly by keeping it out of bloodsucker politics in the first place—so there was truly no reason for something big and nasty and foul smelling to come after her at all. “Maybe they were passing through on their way to Boston.”

It was a weak explanation; the look on Chaz’ face reflected that. But for some reason, he let it go. “Fine. But next time, remember I keep a crowbar in the backseat. I can help.”

I’m not letting you anywhere near a Jackal if I can help it. “Deal.” She finished twisting her hair back into a messy, half-assed bun, and stuck out her hand to shake. Chaz took it, and just like that, they were okay again.

“Listen,” he said, back to business. “Justin brought in a book from the professor for us. He asked if we could keep it in with the rare stuff for now. I put it on top of the other books you keep meaning to get around to pricing.” He held the door open for her as they passed into the front of the store.

Justin was up at the front register, flipping through the latest issue of Rolling Stone. He tried slapping it closed and shoving it to the side when he heard Val and Chaz approaching, but Val had been through close to thirty employees from Edgewood College in the decade she’d owned the store. She knew the sound of cast-aside magazines by now. Combine that with the hangdog look and the fervor with which Justin was straightening a stack of bookmarks, and the kid was busted.

“Chaz says you have something from Professor Clearwater,” Val announced. She looked pointedly at the magazine, but didn’t comment on its presence.

Color crept into Justin’s cheeks. He was one of those kids who never got in trouble in class, so reprimands from authority figures—even the gentlest rebukes—got the guilt flowing. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” He stopped fiddling with the bookmarks and looked at her sheepishly. This was the other reason Val didn’t call him out on reading at the register: a verbal warning would’ve given him fits.

“Did he say anything about it?”

“Just that he’d be in for it later, and that we should leave it sealed up. I guess maybe it’s superfragile.”

“That’s unlike him. He always brings his finds in himself.”

Justin had been halfway through a flinch at her frown. Realizing it wasn’t directed at him, he relaxed. “Maybe he just wanted to get it here. He looked like he’d been up all night, and said something about going back home to sleep. He canceled his classes today, too. Even my directed study.”

That was unusual. Even when classes were canceled, Professor Clearwater made time for Justin. In many ways, the two were as close as a grandfather and his favorite grandson. It was the professor who had suggested they hire Justin, when work-study proved not nearly enough to cover the expenses of living on campus. And boy, had the kid ever worked out. He’d been at Night Owls for a year and a half now, and Val dreaded his eventual graduation. Finding an employee whose worst infraction was to peek through the occasional magazine during slow times was rare indeed.

As rare as the books in the reading room. As rare as someone like Chaz.

Val patted Justin’s hand. “There’s a cold going around. Tell you what—if he doesn’t swing in by ten o’clock, we’ll call and see if he or Helen need anything. All right?”

That brightened him up. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Val.”

Val held the reassuring smile another few seconds, until she was well away from Justin. By the time she reached the reading room and sorted through her key ring (rare books room, bookstore, delivery door, her house, spare key to Chaz’ Mustang, several more whose locks were on the other side of the country . . .), it was gone, replaced with a scowl. Up all night and canceled his classes. Don’t tell me you went Jackal hunting, old man.

But if he had, he’d survived. Justin had seen him in the daylight. The silver key turned in the lock, and Val pushed into the rare books room. She stood in the dark for a moment, breathing in the musty scent of dust and paper, old leather bindings and furniture polish. “Let’s see what you’ve brought us, Professor,” she said, and switched on the light.

Val liked to call the room cozy; Chaz called it the veal box. She had to concede the aptness of that description—even Jarrod’s closet of a dorm room had had a few square feet on it. Still, it was neat and well lit, and filled floor to ceiling with books that had been around since before most of the Edgewood students’ grandparents had been born. Some of the tomes in here were older than the college itself. A few even dated back to colonial times.

Everything was in its place—the books on their appointed shelves, the older ones in glass cases. The box of cotton gloves sat on a ledge to Val’s right, set there for visitors to use while browsing so the oils on their fingers wouldn’t damage the delicate pages. Val probably didn’t need to use them; she doubted her skin secreted much of anything since she’d been turned. But she tugged a pair on anyway, partly keeping up appearances in case Chaz let a customer in, partly because you never could be too careful.

Justin had set the book down in the middle of the rolltop writing desk that served as the room’s reading area. It sat, thick and squat, wrapped in one of those Ziploc bags that could hold enough cereal to feed a small army. Just because the professor had said they shouldn’t open the bag didn’t mean Val couldn’t pick it up and look at it.

Sitting down in the creaky old chair she’d picked up at an estate sale was usually a comfort. Tonight, she sank into it with dread. Books weren’t supposed to be scary; in fact, they should be the very opposite. Books made sense of the unknown. They were physical manifestations of order and sanity.

Why, then, did the book on the desk make her want to slink into the corner and hide?

I’m being ridiculous. He probably found an old Hawthorne or Dickinson and didn’t want to leave it in his office all day. It has nothing to do with last night. Nothing.

But if he had found something like that, wouldn’t it have come up when he brought the fudge by last night? Maybe it was one of the books from his mother-in-law’s estate that he’d mentioned. No, that didn’t make sense, either. He’d have brought it up right then, and even if he’d forgotten, he’d simply have waited and brought the book by during a normal visit.

Giving it to Justin leant an urgency to it.

Val pulled the book closer, feeling its heft as it slid across the desk’s polished surface. She could see plain, mud brown leather beneath the plastic, but no title. The binding and the stitching were hard to assess through the bag. She pressed her fingers to the cover, questing for indents. There. The gold leaf might have worn off, but the title had been stamped into the leather. Val stretched the plastic tight and brought the book closer to the lamp to reveal its name.

“Oh no. No, no, no.” The book fell back to the desk with a thud. Wood creaked as Val shoved violently back in her chair.

The last time she’d seen this writing was in the nest outside of Sacramento. Letters like these had been smeared on the walls and carved into the bodies that were strewn about like discarded fast-food containers. She hadn’t asked anyone to translate. Hadn’t really needed them to.

How had the professor come to possess such a thing? Had the Jackals she’d smelled last night left it behind somewhere, or had he taken it from them? She pulled the seal apart on the bag, just an inch, and sniffed. She could smell the Clearwaters’ house and, beneath that, human smells—the professor’s for certain, and someone else’s. Helen? And there, beneath the fresher scents, she could smell the Jackals’ rot.

Val resealed the bag and shoved it into the top drawer of the desk. She strode from the rare books room, willing herself not to run. The silver key turned in the lock; as she pocketed her key ring, she wished she’d had a dead bolt installed, too. And a moat.

Chaz was already hurrying down the aisle toward her as she spun around. She didn’t give him a chance to talk. “There you are. Good. I need to go out for a little while. No one is to go in that room, are we clear? In fact, I’m taking the register key—” His pale face and too-wide eyes finally registered. “Chaz? What’s going on?”

He spoke in a whisper, but the words seemed to echo through the store. The whole place had gone dead quiet. “We just got some terrible news.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, like he thought he’d have to steady her. Somewhere near the front of the store, a girl hitched a sob. Chaz winced at the sound and took a deep breath.

“What is it?” But she knew. Even before he said it, she knew.

“Henry and Helen Clearwater are dead.”