Hellforged

Juliet was six hundred and fifty years old, give or take a couple of decades, so the vampires she was talking about must be close to prehistoric. I was about to ask her who these Old Ones were, when the front door opened.

“Over there! That’s her!” In the doorway stood the vampire junkie, looking even more wild-eyed and disheveled than before. With him were two plainclothes cops.

“That’s the vampire who took me over the limit!” he shouted, pointing at Juliet.

4

THE BUZZ OF CONVERSATION DIED AS THE TWO COPS—A human and a zombie—moved into the room. One of each meant the Goon Squad, officially known as the Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force, whose task was patrolling the monster-infested parts of Boston where regular cops didn’t want to go. I recognized these two: Norden and Sykes, the Goon Squad’s finest. A couple of months ago, they’d dragged me out of my nice, warm bed to arrest me. It wasn’t much more pleasant seeing them now.

Norden, the human, swaggered over. He hadn’t gotten any prettier since the last time I’d seen him. He was short, maybe five-eight. His skin was greasy and pitted, his eyes mean, his mouth curled in a permanent sneer. His partner, Sykes, towered over him by nearly a foot. The big zombie, with his broad shoulders and bull neck, rivaled Axel in size. Sykes hung back from his partner to wave surreptitiously at a table of zombies.

“Hey, Carlos,” he said.

Carlos grinned. He was good-looking for a zombie; his smile was nice, not nightmarish. He raised his mug in salute. Sykes nodded, then shifted his focus to the bar.

Juliet stirred her Bloody Mary and watched the Goons’ approach from under her lashes.

“Name?” Norden demanded.

Juliet said something in rapid Italian. She looked at the cop expectantly, then threw up her hands. “Non capisco.”

“Huh?” Norden turned to me like he expected me to translate. His face screwed up into a scowl. “Oh, God. It’s the shapeshifter. What, does this place attract every freak in Boston?”

“Well, you’re here, so …”

Behind Norden, Sykes stifled a laugh, and I liked him a little better. He wasn’t bad for a Goon. When these two had dragged me out of bed, Sykes had been almost polite about it. Norden was the finalist in the Mr. Jerk America contest.

“We’ll need your temperature reading and a saliva sample,” Norden said, turning back to Juliet.

Except Juliet wasn’t there.

In fact, the bar had only half as many patrons as there’d been two seconds ago. All the vampires had disappeared. If I could have just one vampire trait, it’d be that superfast movement ability.

Juliet was probably home by now, calling Councilor Hadrian to complain. Whenever she was mad about something, she called Hadrian—she had that vampire’s number on her speed dial. He couldn’t do much, but he did have a talent for calming her down.

“Damn it, Sykes, where were you?” Norden growled. “You were supposed to put that silver bracelet thing on her so she couldn’t do that.”

“Wasn’t any reason to think she’d run.”

“They always run, Sykes. You’re supposed to grab them before they can.”

“No one to grab now. Let’s go.”

But Norden wasn’t finished. He looked around the bar, his gaze washing over everyone like a beacon of hatred. It landed on Axel. “We’re gonna search the premises.”

Axel stepped out from behind the bar. “What for?”

“This citizen complained of illegal blood-taking in this establishment. We got a right to search it.”

“What citizen?”

All heads swiveled toward the door. The junkie was nowhere to be seen. Either his conscience had gotten the better of him for lying about Juliet or he’d decided to try his luck at a bar that had some vampires. I could guess which.

“We’re still gonna look around. You got a problem with that?”

Axel walked up to Norden. The two of them stood toe to toe. Except it was more like toe-to-tiptoe, the way Norden had to crane back his head to try to stare Axel down. But it was Axel who blinked first. He shrugged and went behind the bar, where he picked up a towel and started wiping beer mugs.

Norden smirked at Axel’s back, then looked around for his partner. Sykes sat at the table with his zombie pals, who’d poured him a beer from their pitcher. He grabbed a fistful of pretzels and started to chow down, then laughed at something Carlos said. “Sykes!” Norden yelled. “Quit screwing around and do your job.” Sykes shot his partner a murderous look as he slowly stood up. He leaned over and said something to the zombies, who roared with laughter. Then he lumbered across the room to join Norden.

“We’ll start with the bathrooms,” Norden said. “You take the ladies’.” Sykes growled, but he went with Norden toward the RESTROOMS sign at the back of the bar.

“Hey,” said Norden. “Which one’s which?” The signs on the doors, recently added by Axel to amuse the norms, said BOOS and GHOULS. Norden scratched his head for a second and then said, “Oh. I get it.” He pushed open the door marked BOOS and went into the men’s room, one hand on his gun.

The way Sykes glared at the closed men’s room door, I expected the wood to start smoldering. The big zombie turned toward GHOULS and tapped on the door, opening it a crack. “Anyone in there?”

No one answered, so he pushed the door fully open and disappeared inside. After about a minute, both Goons were back in the hallway.

“You find anything?” Norden demanded.

“Yeah.” Sykes nodded, and Norden leaned forward. “The ladies’ room is out of paper towels.”

Norden swore, clenching a fist like he wanted to take a swing at his partner—which would’ve been about as smart as using a bull elephant for a punching bag. After a second, Norden seemed to realize that. He turned and disappeared into the rear storeroom. Sykes cast a longing glance at the table where Carlos and his friends sat, then followed Norden.

I finished my beer and ordered a glass of club soda. More flavor.

T.J. slid onto a bar stool beside me. Most of the customers had drifted out. “Man, what’s that blood bag’s problem?” he asked me. “He’s costing me some serious tip money.”

“Just his charming personality, I guess. I’ve run into him before, and he was the same then. He really hates PAs—makes you wonder why he ever wanted to be a Goon.”

“Why would anybody want to be a Goon?” He drummed on the bar, restless, his gold ring flashing. “Do you know what time it is?”

I pulled up my sleeve to read my watch. “A little past five thirty.”

“Might as well start cleaning up. Hey, that’s a cool watch. Can I see it?”

“Okay, but be careful.” I unfastened the black leather strap and handed him the watch. As he studied it, I explained. It was a new watch, and I enjoyed showing it off. “Besides the two dials, it’s got a built-in compass and temperature sensor. But the really great thing about this watch is that this dial”—I pointed to the upper one—“keeps accurate time in other people’s dreamscapes. When I go in to exterminate a pod of Drudes—those are dream-demons—I need to keep track of how time is passing outside. If the client wakes up while I’m still inside the dream, I can get stuck there.” Being trapped in someone else’s dreams was not my idea of fun. It was like endlessly watching a stranger’s home movies, only freakier. “I give the client a sleeping pill, so I’ll know how much time I’ve got. But time passes differently in dreams, and most watches get screwed up. So far, this one hasn’t.” I knocked on the wooden bar for luck. I’d never had a watch last more than a couple of dreams before it died. This one had kept on ticking through a dozen Drude exterminations. I knocked on the bar again, just in case the good-luck gods hadn’t heard me the first time.

T.J. laid my watch on the bar and picked up his tray, then went off to clean tables. Norden and Sykes were coming back down the hallway from the storeroom. From the look on Norden’s face, they hadn’t found anything more interesting than some kegs and cartons of bar snacks.

Norden stopped. Across from the restrooms was a metal door with a NO ENTRY sign. And the door seemed to mean it: Three deadbolt locks lined up above the doorknob. Norden tried the knob, then shook it. Even if the knob had turned, I don’t know how he thought he’d get through those deadbolts.

“Bartender!” he shouted. Axel leaned out just far enough to see down the hallway. “What’s in there?” Norden pointed at the locked door.

“Nothing.” Axel started to go back to his station.

“Nothing? It’s locked up like freaking Fort Knox.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Open it.”

“That’s my apartment.” Axel spoke as though everyone knew that. Well, everyone did—everyone who hung out at Creature Comforts, anyway. And the other thing everyone knew was that you never, ever violated Axel’s privacy.

Apparently, Norden didn’t think he was everyone. “I said open it.”

The remaining customers turned to stare as Axel came all the way out from behind the bar. The angle of his head, the tightness of his shoulders broadcast a warning.

“What’re you waiting for,” Norden said, “a warrant? We don’t need one. Not in the Zone.”

“You’re not going through that door.” Axel stood in front of it, his arms crossed. The warning in his posture morphed into a threat. Subtle, but definite.

Norden didn’t do subtle. He stepped back and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. He stood that way for three or four long seconds. Then he gestured to his partner. “Okay, Sykes, break it down.”

Sykes planted himself in front of Axel. It was like watching one of the Rocky Mountains saunter over to the Sierra Nevadas to compare size. They faced each other, tension pouring off them. Everyone watched; Carlos half-rose from his chair. The bar was silent, waiting for the explosion that would come when one of these two made his move. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">