Night Owls

8

CHAZ HEARD THE woman’s threat float through the door. It should have chilled him, he supposed, but he had something slightly more pressing to address first. “I take it you two are acquainted?” Now that the three were gone, his pants-shitting fear was rapidly melting into anger. He figured that nearly getting his eye poked out—oh, and then nearly getting killed on command, let’s not forget—gave him the right to kick up a bit of a fuss.

Val locked the door and leaned back against it. “Chaz, I’m sorry. I—”

He didn’t bother tamping down the fury in his voice. She fucked up, she gets to hear it. “No. Not good enough. I asked you earlier tonight if you knew anything, and you said no. Then these three whatever-the-fucks walk in here and it’s clear you and the woman have met before. I’m guessing shortly after we parted ways last night.” His knuckles had gone white on the broom handle. “You lied to me. Which, you know, whatever, I expect you to now and then. I’m sure there’s obscure vampire shit I’m not allowed to know. But not when it’s important. Not when one or both of us could get killed.”

“I know. I was wrong.” She spread her hands wide, but stayed where she was. “I thought it was taken care of, and I screwed up, and I’m sorry.”

He realized he was shaking. Chaz wasn’t the kind of person you crowded when he was angry. He didn’t take well to being placated, either. He’d never swung on her—never would—but Val was giving him his space all the same. He throttled the broom a little longer, then let it clatter to the floor. Better than a stress ball. “What now, then?”

“Now . . .” She hesitated, but seemed to think better of something—probably a suggestion that he go home, which wouldn’t go over well. “I’m locking up and going to the Clearwaters’. You coming?”

The words were barely out of her mouth before he answered. “Hell yes.”

CHAZ WAS QUIET as he drove to the professor’s. The ride wasn’t long enough for her to tell him very much, aside from that the creatures were called Jackals and she’d chased the woman out of Bryant Hall the night before. He gripped the steering wheel and kept quiet. Sure, not asking questions was borderline petulant, but he hadn’t had a chance to properly seethe yet. Five years as her Renfield—five years under the impression she told him the important shit—made this omission hard to simply shrug off.

Chaz killed the engine in front of a sprawling old Colonial a block down the street from the Clearwater house. He would have thought that every house in the neighborhood would be lit up, but only a few seemed to have anyone left awake. They hopped over a low fence, sneaking past a two-car garage and into the backyard. When he squinted, Chaz could make out the faint spindly shadows of a swing set just before the tree line, but even those melted away as heavy clouds covered the moon. Val led them across the yard and into the woods.

The darkness didn’t hinder her, but Chaz didn’t have the luxury of night vision. He moved quietly enough, drawing on what little knowledge he’d retained from his Boy Scout troop back in the day, but as far as he knew there wasn’t a badge for skulking around in the pitch blackness with a vampire. Or trespassing on a murder scene to see if the crazy dog-people had left any clues behind. Without the moonlight, he was blind out here. Chaz waved his arms in front of himself so he didn’t get a branch to the face.

Everything was so quiet. He could hear the shuffle of leaves beneath his feet and his own harsh breathing, but other than that, the night was silent. No night birds called to one another, no crickets chirped. Nothing went scurrying through the underbrush at his approach. Was it the kind of silence that descended when animals caught the scent of a predator?

Val’s the predator here. Nothing else. She’d have called it off if there were Jackals lurking.

But if Val was nearby, he couldn’t hear her anymore. Did we get separated? Chaz stopped walking and peered around, straining to make sense of the darkness. His eyes were as wide as they could go, but all around him was seamless black. He felt his breath grow ragged and raspy edged with panic. His chest tightened even as he gulped down a lungful of air. Shame mingled with the fear; he didn’t think chickenshit went with the whole Renfield persona. He didn’t know if it was more embarrassing for the Jackals to know he was afraid, or for Val to see the fear on his face.

Cold fingers closed over his. Somehow, he managed not to yelp. Or piss his pants. It’s only Val.

“Come on,” she said, and gave his hand a squeeze. “I’ll lead you.”

Relief flooded through him, stronger than the shame. He could feel like a pansy in the morning. In the daylight. “Yeah. Okay.” He closed his eyes and let her tug him forward through the woods.

CHAZ COULD FEEL the wrongness as soon as they crossed onto the Clearwaters’ land. He couldn’t have said quite what felt so wrong, but the knot of fear that had settled in his stomach twisted into something new. Where before he’d been afraid of Jackals jumping out of the shadows and killing them, or cops tramping through the trees and arresting them, now the panic was on a purely animal level. His lizard brain wanted him to run, and his logical brain couldn’t think of a good reason not to. Except for Val. Her presence kept him from letting the flight instinct take over.

By the time they reached the flagstone steps of the patio that had been Helen’s last home improvement, Val was breathing through her mouth. She’s smelling them. It must have been overpowering.

Once Val had started leading him along, he’d kept the freaking-the-fuck-out down to a minimum by wondering how they’d get inside. Turned out it wasn’t an issue: the back door had been torn off its hinges. The only things keeping anyone out were a few strips of police tape strapped across the doorway to deter the law-abiding. Now that they were out of the woods and in semifamiliar territory, Chaz let go of Val and reached into the pocket of his Windbreaker. “Here,” he said, and pressed a soft bundle into her hands.

“Are these from the rare books room?” Val stared at the cotton gloves, then at Chaz.

“Yeah. I thought . . . fingerprints. I don’t know if you’d leave them, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to have them. Plus, you know. I’d be smearing them all over the place.” Talking made the fear recede a bit, enough that he could tamp down the urge to snatch up Val’s hand again. I have to be the world’s worst minion.

She tugged on the gloves while Chaz fumbled out a pair of his own. “Can’t have my employees getting arrested. It’s bad publicity.”

They exchanged tense smiles; Val lifted the yellow tape enough so she could duck through it, but she seemed reluctant to pass through the doorway.

“Val, what’s— Oh.” It dawned on him: she’d been in the house before—the professor often had her come by to appraise his newly acquired rarities—but now that her former hosts were dead, had their invitation been rescinded? Chaz stepped around her. His boots crunched on broken glass as he walked into the kitchen and turned around. “Come on in.”

Val gave him a nod of thanks and joined him across the threshold.

The kitchen was a shambles: scratches covered the hardwood floor, as if several dogs had come scrabbling through and dug deep gouges with their claws. The table had been overturned, the contents of the cabinets strewn about the room. Val sniffed. “No one’s inside. Hasn’t been anyone here for a few hours.”

“What about the cops? Is there a car out front?”

“Wait here. I’ll check.” She headed off into the dining room, then along the hallway that led to the front of the house.

While he waited, Chaz dug his penlight out of his pocket. Outside, it might have given them away, but in here, unless anyone was patrolling the backyard, he figured it was worth the risk. He thought he could re-create the Jackals’ movements by the marks on the floor. They seemed to have gone straight through the kitchen and deeper into the house. The ransacking must have happened afterward; he found human footprints in the rubble.

When Val came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, Chaz had just about forgotten his earlier terror. As hard as it was to be rooting through a dead friend’s cupboards—and now that the professor was gone, Chaz couldn’t help but think of him as a friend despite the whole I-think-you’re-a-werewolf bit—he was doing something, and that steadied him.

“Nothing unusual here,” he said, straightening up from looking under the sink. “Unless you count an industrial-sized bag of salt.”

Val raised a brow. “If the professor knew what was coming . . .”

“It becomes ordinary, yeah.” Salt was for rituals and protection. Chaz hadn’t totally dozed through Val’s Vampire’s Minion 101 lessons. But what was Professor Clearwater doing performing rituals?

“All right.” She glanced at the stove clock: four thirty. They had an hour before sunrise, an hour and a half if they wanted to push it. “Let’s start in the library, then. The real one.”

VAL LED THE way upstairs, following the trail of debris. At the top of the landing, a bloody handprint smeared down the wallpaper. Ragged claw marks marred it further. One of the Jackals had taken some damage. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt fabric, singed fur, and something oddly sweet. Across the top step, rune marks were melted into the rug. Val smiled. “You clever old son of a bitch. They tripped your wards.”

Chaz leaned down and touched the rune, which was brown and shiny in the beam of his penlight. “Do you think he killed any of them? The ones at the store didn’t seem all that hurt.”

“God, I hope so.” Not that a dead Jackal balanced out the Clearwaters’ deaths. A whole nest of dead Jackals couldn’t do that. But it helped to know they’d gone down fighting nonetheless.

A few steps down the hall, a long, greasy streak of ash on the floor answered the question. Laid atop it was a snapped-off rowan stake, its bottom half covered in ichor. “They got one, at least.” She didn’t want to look at it too long. She’d seen plenty like it on the West Coast, and heard the screams that went with the burning.

The library door hung crooked; the top hinge was all that held it up. The lower was still fastened to the frame. Runes drawn in blue chalk covered the door. Val could make out some of them—spells of protection, spells set to ward off evil—but others were completely unfamiliar. She traced one with a gloved finger, smudging the chalk. Even out here, with the room closed off, she could smell the blood: Jackal and human, making her want to gag.

Making her want to drink.

She clenched her fists and fought against the fangs and claws that were clamoring to come out. Her dead heart thumped to life, her already-sharp senses kicking even higher, amplifying the coppery tang on the air. She spoke through gritted teeth. “You should stay out here.” Without waiting to see if Chaz obeyed, she shoved through the door and into the library.

The furniture had been smashed to splinters. Not a book remained on the shelves. All around the room were piles of ruined covers and torn pages. And everywhere, the blood. The scents mingled in her nose—the heady smell of human blood with the rot and sulphur of the Jackals. She struggled with the urge to drag her finger through a puddle of the human kind and lick it off like frosting. No. This is the professor’s and Helen’s. They’re your FRIENDS.

But maybe just a taste . . . Wouldn’t it be like honoring them, in a way? She’d never drunk from them in life, wasn’t that respectful? Wasn’t it all just going to waste, there on the floor, soaking into the Oriental rug, dripping down the walls? Wouldn’t it be cleaned up tomorrow and discarded like trash? Blood was meant to sustain life, and if the original owners were dead, well, wouldn’t they have wanted it to go to a good cause? Feeding a friend was a good cause. In fact, it was an excellent cause.

“Val? Are you all right?” Footsteps shuffled behind her, and Val groaned.

She could hear his heartbeat, the rush of blood through the veins at his throat, at his wrists. Living blood would be so much nicer. Drinking blood that had cooled was like drinking coffee gone cold. Chaz would let her do it. He was her friend. He’d understand if she—

“No. I won’t!” She slapped her hand down on an empty shelf and was alarmed to see her claws out. I didn’t feel them. Her tongue snaked out and prodded the tip of a fang. She wrapped her arms around herself and counted to three. Then five. Then ten. When she felt more in control, more herself, she hissed, “I told you to stay out there.”

“You went quiet. I thought . . . I thought maybe something happened. They’d left one behind, or you’d set off a ward, I don’t know.” He sounded sheepish; Val half expected to see him scowling at the ground with his hands shoved in his pockets when she turned. Instead, he shone his penlight on her face, and looked relieved to see she wasn’t hurt. “Fangs, huh? That bad?” His eyes never wavered from her own.

“Look around. It’s as bad as it can get.” Breathe. Stay calm.

“Yeeeeah. I don’t think I’m going to. I’ve seen enough out of the corners of my eyes to know I don’t want to look at it full on.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I came in to see if you were okay, is all.”

“I am now.” She gave him a sharp-toothed smile. “Why don’t you go downstairs and check the other library? Never know. Maybe he hid something there.” It was a weak out and they both knew it. But it saved Chaz some face, and she didn’t want him too close just now. He had no idea how close he’d come to being a snack, and she still felt shaky. If the bloodlust rose again, it was better if he was in another part of the house. Better if he were in another part of town, but he’s not going to leave me here alone.

He edged backward, sliding his feet along so he wouldn’t trip over the debris. His gaze stayed on her until he was in the hall. “If you need me, yell.” Then he was out of her sight, and she let out a ragged sigh.

She’d been way too close to the edge. Chaz had seen the fangs and claws plenty of times before; she’d shown him both years ago, so he knew what he was getting into by being her Renfield. He’d seen her feed and he’d seen her fight, but she’d always been in control, even when she was all scratchy and bitey.

Over the years, he’d witnessed things that would have turned other men’s hair white. There wasn’t much Val could do that would faze him, which was good, but it also meant he hadn’t been afraid of her just now, when he should have been. I could have killed him. I could have been on him before he could draw breath to scream, and God knows if I could have stopped myself once the blood started flowing.

Val pushed the thought away. Dawn was creeping ever closer, and if she wanted to find anything useful, she was going to have to get used to the gore. She found an overturned chair that still had three legs intact and set it upright. She grasped the backrest to help steel herself and inhaled deeply. This time, it wasn’t as bad. She tuned the bee-swarm gabbling of the Jackals’ blood to a distant drone in her head, and made herself concentrate on the human scents.

They didn’t rouse the hunger. Instead, the lump of dead flesh that was her heart twinged with sorrow. The two people who’d always been so kind to her were gone. No, that made it sound like they’d died peacefully. They’d been ravaged, their home desecrated. Sorrow gave way to anger, and that was enough to focus her thoughts. Val opened her eyes.

Once more, to be sure I’ve got this. She breathed in, letting the scent wash over her again . . .

. . . and froze.

“Someone else was here.” Whoever it was hadn’t bled much. That was why she’d missed it the first time around. It was about as noticeable as a drop of water in a glass of wine compared to Helen’s and the professor’s blood. Val let go of the chair back and started hunting around the room, playing hot-and-cold with the new scent. It wasn’t anyone she knew, though if a student had been visiting when the Jackals attacked, that would explain it. But no one had come into Night Owls with rumors of a friend fleeing from the murderer, and no one had mentioned anyone else being missing.

She crashed about, digging through the wreckage. She was probably destroying all kinds of forensic evidence, but it didn’t matter—they’d never be able to arrest the killers, anyway. Finally, she found the place where the scent was strongest. From beneath a heap of ruined books by the door, Val unearthed a backpack. It had seen better days—its zippers were held on with paper clips; the bottom was patched and frayed and patched again. The two strips of canvas that had passed for straps had torn away. Had a Jackal grabbed the third person by this, and they broke free because it was so damned old it fell apart?

She tugged open the zippers and dumped the contents out on the ground: a half-empty bottle of spring water, with crosses drawn in Sharpie on the label; a well-worn Bible with “Motel 6, Tulsa, Oklahoma” stamped on the cover; several silver coins, and a piece of notebook paper filled margin to margin with Latin text.

Anger turned to outrage as she recognized the last. She snarled as she crumpled the page, throttling it like she’d do to the backpack owner’s neck if they ever met.

A member of the Brotherhood had been here. And they’d left the Clearwaters to die.