‘It’s about my husband,’ she said.
I waited for her to go on, taking in her details as I did so. Green chiffon Donna Karan dress, pearls round the neck, and were those Blahniks on her slim, elegantly tapering feet? Probably. She was around thirty, maybe a year or two over, and pretty in a carefully put-together way that had taken a lot of time and effort to get right. Her makeup was designed to be worn nowhere but indoors, most likely in a controlled temperature, and her blond hair was styled in a way it would have cost someone like me a month’s pay to achieve, if I’d had a normal job.
Which I didn’t.
I let her twiddle her wedding band on her finger for ten more seconds. Then I said, ‘Mrs DeVane?’
‘Yes?’ She looked up sharply, as if – forgive me if I sound crude, it’s just my style – as if someone in a distant room had farted.
‘You were saying you’re here about your husband?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ She tried to meet my eyes, couldn’t, and dropped her gaze to the floor, her lashes batting furiously.
Usually in this kind of situation, when a woman like this comes to see a private investigator about her old man, she’s distraught, angry. My clients on the other hand tend to be struck dumb. Disbelieving. It’s as if they wished their spouse really was having an affair. At least that would mean he was in some way normal.
Human.
‘I think…’ she ventured. Was she going to get there on her own? I wondered. Normally I had to lubricate them first with the bottle of rotgut tequila I kept in the closet of my pokey little office.
‘I think my husband may be a vampire.’ She shut her pretty Cupid’s-bow lips with a snap and stared at me, as if defying me to laugh at her.
Good, I thought. That’s that out the way. The air’s clear, and we don’t have to shilly-shally round the issue, using euphemisms and hints. I felt enormously relieved.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. Except I didn’t mean it, because without vampires I’d be out of a job and would have to find some soul-sapping nine-to-five rat-race gig. No thanks. ‘What makes you suspect it?’
She continued to stare at me, as though she didn’t quite believe she was having this conversation, least of all with somebody she’d just met. Somebody who’d been recommended to her as a hunter of the undead.
‘Because…’ At this point they usually started to pause again, to fumble for words. To her great credit Mrs DeVane pulled herself together and leaned forward in her chair. She laid an arm palm-up on the desk between us and with fingers manicured to within an inch of their lives she pointed to the inner aspect of her elbow.
I peered at the marks. Four of them, apparently irregularly spaced but in fact two overlapping sets of two. Small, slightly ragged puncture wounds around which the flesh was taking on that typical puffy, puttyish hue.
It was fang spoor. No doubt about it.
Whoah. Back up a minute. A vampire who bites people on the arm? What kind of a dumbass concept is that? I hear you ask. And you’re not alone. Because everybody who goes to the movies, everybody who reads popular fiction – hell, every sentient human in the western world – has been indoctrinated with the notion that vampires go for the throat.
Think about it. Yes, you’ve got the jugular veins there. The carotid arteries too, if you really want to party. But if you want to keep your presence among humanity hidden, if you want to keep a ready supply of food on the go without drawing attention to yourself, then why bite people in one of the parts of the body most visible in public? Crowds of people walking around with holes in their necks will soon start raising questions. Next thing you know, the government will snap out of its self-imposed coma and actually start to take the vampire threat seriously. God forbid that happens, because yes, once again, I’d be out of work then.
Ah. Maybe I’m being too hard on you. I haven’t explained about
I waited for her to go on, taking in her details as I did so. Green chiffon Donna Karan dress, pearls round the neck, and were those Blahniks on her slim, elegantly tapering feet? Probably. She was around thirty, maybe a year or two over, and pretty in a carefully put-together way that had taken a lot of time and effort to get right. Her makeup was designed to be worn nowhere but indoors, most likely in a controlled temperature, and her blond hair was styled in a way it would have cost someone like me a month’s pay to achieve, if I’d had a normal job.
Which I didn’t.
I let her twiddle her wedding band on her finger for ten more seconds. Then I said, ‘Mrs DeVane?’
‘Yes?’ She looked up sharply, as if – forgive me if I sound crude, it’s just my style – as if someone in a distant room had farted.
‘You were saying you’re here about your husband?’
‘Ah. Yes.’ She tried to meet my eyes, couldn’t, and dropped her gaze to the floor, her lashes batting furiously.
Usually in this kind of situation, when a woman like this comes to see a private investigator about her old man, she’s distraught, angry. My clients on the other hand tend to be struck dumb. Disbelieving. It’s as if they wished their spouse really was having an affair. At least that would mean he was in some way normal.
Human.
‘I think…’ she ventured. Was she going to get there on her own? I wondered. Normally I had to lubricate them first with the bottle of rotgut tequila I kept in the closet of my pokey little office.
‘I think my husband may be a vampire.’ She shut her pretty Cupid’s-bow lips with a snap and stared at me, as if defying me to laugh at her.
Good, I thought. That’s that out the way. The air’s clear, and we don’t have to shilly-shally round the issue, using euphemisms and hints. I felt enormously relieved.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. Except I didn’t mean it, because without vampires I’d be out of a job and would have to find some soul-sapping nine-to-five rat-race gig. No thanks. ‘What makes you suspect it?’
She continued to stare at me, as though she didn’t quite believe she was having this conversation, least of all with somebody she’d just met. Somebody who’d been recommended to her as a hunter of the undead.
‘Because…’ At this point they usually started to pause again, to fumble for words. To her great credit Mrs DeVane pulled herself together and leaned forward in her chair. She laid an arm palm-up on the desk between us and with fingers manicured to within an inch of their lives she pointed to the inner aspect of her elbow.
I peered at the marks. Four of them, apparently irregularly spaced but in fact two overlapping sets of two. Small, slightly ragged puncture wounds around which the flesh was taking on that typical puffy, puttyish hue.
It was fang spoor. No doubt about it.
Whoah. Back up a minute. A vampire who bites people on the arm? What kind of a dumbass concept is that? I hear you ask. And you’re not alone. Because everybody who goes to the movies, everybody who reads popular fiction – hell, every sentient human in the western world – has been indoctrinated with the notion that vampires go for the throat.
Think about it. Yes, you’ve got the jugular veins there. The carotid arteries too, if you really want to party. But if you want to keep your presence among humanity hidden, if you want to keep a ready supply of food on the go without drawing attention to yourself, then why bite people in one of the parts of the body most visible in public? Crowds of people walking around with holes in their necks will soon start raising questions. Next thing you know, the government will snap out of its self-imposed coma and actually start to take the vampire threat seriously. God forbid that happens, because yes, once again, I’d be out of work then.
Ah. Maybe I’m being too hard on you. I haven’t explained about
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