streets with the rest of us. That’s why you get them here in the South, in equatorial Africa, for all I know at the Arctic circle in the summer when there’s daylight all the time. As for the teeth, they can retract their canines at will, and the rest of their gnashers are subject to the same rot and crookedness as the rest of us.
I transferred the image of Oscar’s face to my laptop and ran it through the database of known undead. There was no match, but I wasn’t surprised. It sounded like he’d been a vampire less than a year, not long enough to have made his mark yet. If you’ll pardon the expression.
‘Okay,’ I said, handing the phone back to her.
‘So what happens now?’ she said, in a voice so shaky it was almost a whisper.
‘Now, I need to get to work proving your husband’s a vampire.’
‘Proving…?’
‘The evidence you’ve given me is strong, but it’s not enough to be one hundred per cent certain,’ I said. ‘I need to run some tests. You needn’t concern yourself with the details.’
‘And then?’ she said. ‘Once you’ve proved he’s… one of those ? What happens then?’
I studied her, feeling genuinely sorry for this woman. A wife who hires a private eye to confirm that her husband’s cheating on her doesn’t need to ask what happens afterward, because she’s usually got a pretty clear plan herself. Divorce, or revenge, or both. But when your hubby’s found to be one of the living dead? Try taking that one into a marriage counselor’s office.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs DeVane.’
I hate this part. Giving evasive answers. Because there’s only one acceptable outcome if your target does indeed prove to be a vampire. The bastards need to be eradicated, every last one of them. Independent of what your client wants. I have a responsibility to my clients, and it’s one I take very seriously. I’m a professional. But I also have a responsibility toward humanity.
‘Might we discuss the costs?’ she said, sounding more assertive, as if she was back on familiar ground.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I charge a flat fee. No expenses. Fifty per cent up front. Cash.’
‘How much?’
I told her.
I don’t think I’d ever actually seen a person gape until then.
‘Holy shit,’ Mrs DeVane said. An instant later she clapped a shocked hand over her mouth.
‘It’s un holy shit I take care of,’ I said. ‘Hence my fee.’
She promised to have the cash by the next morning. As we both rose, I noticed her giving me the once over.
‘Ms Creed?’
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive me, but… how old are you?’ There was an imperiousness in her tone I hadn’t heard before. I imagined this was the way she spoke to all the hired help.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘You don’t look like…’
‘Like all the other vampire hunters you’ve met?’ I put out a hand and, after a moment’s pause – as if I’d done something presumptuous – she shook it. ‘I’m good at my job, Mrs DeVane. The best.’
She left, the scent of Christian Dior lingering. I sat back down in my scarred old office chair, fired up the laptop once more, and got straight to work.
*
The alarm clock screamed at me from miles away and I thrashed blindly up through layers of sleep before knocking it off the bedside table.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, immediately wishing I hadn’t as a spike drove through the middle of my skull and stayed there, throbbing viciously. I pressed my hands over my face to shut out the brightness. My mouth felt so arid I thought there might be cacti growing in there.
Every damn payday. Every time I swore I’d never do it again, and guess what?
The problem was, it really was a shitload of money Mrs DeVane had delivered to me in a suitcase (Versace luggage, which she hadn’t let me keep), and with that kind of payout it’s only natural to go a little crazy. Lots of women would have gone on a shopping spree. Me, I like to have a good
I transferred the image of Oscar’s face to my laptop and ran it through the database of known undead. There was no match, but I wasn’t surprised. It sounded like he’d been a vampire less than a year, not long enough to have made his mark yet. If you’ll pardon the expression.
‘Okay,’ I said, handing the phone back to her.
‘So what happens now?’ she said, in a voice so shaky it was almost a whisper.
‘Now, I need to get to work proving your husband’s a vampire.’
‘Proving…?’
‘The evidence you’ve given me is strong, but it’s not enough to be one hundred per cent certain,’ I said. ‘I need to run some tests. You needn’t concern yourself with the details.’
‘And then?’ she said. ‘Once you’ve proved he’s… one of those ? What happens then?’
I studied her, feeling genuinely sorry for this woman. A wife who hires a private eye to confirm that her husband’s cheating on her doesn’t need to ask what happens afterward, because she’s usually got a pretty clear plan herself. Divorce, or revenge, or both. But when your hubby’s found to be one of the living dead? Try taking that one into a marriage counselor’s office.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mrs DeVane.’
I hate this part. Giving evasive answers. Because there’s only one acceptable outcome if your target does indeed prove to be a vampire. The bastards need to be eradicated, every last one of them. Independent of what your client wants. I have a responsibility to my clients, and it’s one I take very seriously. I’m a professional. But I also have a responsibility toward humanity.
‘Might we discuss the costs?’ she said, sounding more assertive, as if she was back on familiar ground.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I charge a flat fee. No expenses. Fifty per cent up front. Cash.’
‘How much?’
I told her.
I don’t think I’d ever actually seen a person gape until then.
‘Holy shit,’ Mrs DeVane said. An instant later she clapped a shocked hand over her mouth.
‘It’s un holy shit I take care of,’ I said. ‘Hence my fee.’
She promised to have the cash by the next morning. As we both rose, I noticed her giving me the once over.
‘Ms Creed?’
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive me, but… how old are you?’ There was an imperiousness in her tone I hadn’t heard before. I imagined this was the way she spoke to all the hired help.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘You don’t look like…’
‘Like all the other vampire hunters you’ve met?’ I put out a hand and, after a moment’s pause – as if I’d done something presumptuous – she shook it. ‘I’m good at my job, Mrs DeVane. The best.’
She left, the scent of Christian Dior lingering. I sat back down in my scarred old office chair, fired up the laptop once more, and got straight to work.
*
The alarm clock screamed at me from miles away and I thrashed blindly up through layers of sleep before knocking it off the bedside table.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, immediately wishing I hadn’t as a spike drove through the middle of my skull and stayed there, throbbing viciously. I pressed my hands over my face to shut out the brightness. My mouth felt so arid I thought there might be cacti growing in there.
Every damn payday. Every time I swore I’d never do it again, and guess what?
The problem was, it really was a shitload of money Mrs DeVane had delivered to me in a suitcase (Versace luggage, which she hadn’t let me keep), and with that kind of payout it’s only natural to go a little crazy. Lots of women would have gone on a shopping spree. Me, I like to have a good
Similar Books
