I move toward the flame, even as it moves toward me... and suddenly, I’m inside the garage, where the faint metallic scent of tools and oil fills my nostrils.
At present, the garage door is shut. Perfect. No way anyone saw me appear in here. I turn toward the connecting interior door.
I don’t bother knocking. A tiny pulse of strength surges through my arms as I plant my right hand on the knob and twist. With a snap, the lock gives way under my enhanced grip. The door swings silently inward. The house inside is dim and quiet.
The faint glow of a television flickers from somewhere deeper inside, perhaps the living room. Slightly burned popcorn is heavy in the air; indeed, an open box of Pop Secret sits on the counter. The smell of popcorn and butter wafts from the microwave.
I let my senses drift ahead, pushing ahead in my mind’s eye, doing that groovy thing I do, which I always equate as a sort of sonar. It’s a neat talent, helping me to forge ahead without risking life and limb. In this case, I’m not too worried about a family of mortals. Still, I do like to know what I’m getting myself into.
First, I hear two heartbeats, coming from close proximity to each other. Maybe a couple sitting together on a couch. I take a step forward, and then I see them: a young couple, half-watching Netflix, half-scrolling on their phones.
I nod to myself, then round the corner from the kitchen into the living room. They gasp when they see me
The young man gasps; the girl screams.
I immediately reach out and take control of their minds, and brush away their fear. And while there, I siphon energy from both, draining them only slightly.
“Hi there,” I say, smiling brightly. “Sorry for the intrusion. I’m Samantha, your friendly neighborhood vampire. I live one street over.” Never hurts to lie a little when implanting false memories. “I need a little help tonight. Can you guys help me? Actually, let me rephrase that: you want to help me, right?”
My words are sweet enough, but the command I give them is anything but. They will help me; they don’t have a choice in the matter, and yes, I sometimes feel like a monster. A monster hunting monsters I can live with that, though I’m not sure what the hell Mark is up to. Anyway, I have no intention of hurting these people. Just need their home.
Meanwhile, their eyes glaze over nicely. The woman sets down her phone, leans forward and says, “How can we help you, Samantha?”
“Welp, I need to set up a discreet camera in your upstairs window. This will be for a short time. It’s to help keep an eye on something going on across the street. You don’t mind, do you?”
I give them both an extra prod, the man especially. He gives me a lazy, agreeable smile. “No, go ahead. Do whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” I say warmly. “You’re both very kind.”
They sink back into the couch, the man half-laughing at something on his phone, the woman tucking her legs under herblanket again and reaching for her phone. I slip upstairs with my bag of goodies. Once in a guest room, I scan the window with the best angle; indeed, it offers the best view of Mark’s house across the street. His cameras are still in place, blinking steadily. He wouldn’t have noticed a thing; my sudden appearance was shielded by the closed garage door. Still, I couldn’t be certain he didn’t have cameras watching the street, which ruled out surveillance from the Momvan. Luckily, I’m nothing if not resourceful.
Next, I carefully position the tiny night-vision camera on the window ledge, tucking it behind a potted plant. I test the feed on my phone: clear, sharp, steady. Perfect. I take a last glance out the window and smile. Mark Healy might think his fortress is untouchable, or that he’s untouchable, that his secrets are safe behind his tech and smart locks.
But he hasn’t met me.
***
I take one last glance at the glowing night feed on my phone, and, satisfied, I slip back down the hall, casting a brief glance at the love bugs entwined on the couch as/I command them to ignore me.
They do, and almost immediately the woman lets out a contented chuckle at something on the TV. The man snuggles deeper under a blanket. Neither of them has the faintest clue that I just broke into their house and planted surveillance equipment outside their guest bedroom window.
“Will it be okay if I pop back here every now and then to check my camera and work my case?”
They both nod absently, not bothering to look at the energy vampire who has them under her control. I step through to the garage.
Closing my eyes, I summon the single flame and see within it my own dining room. The flame flickers, as I step through it; suddenly, I’m standing in my dining room in Fullerton.
The faint hum of the refrigerator greets me, along with the soft creak of the house settling into its nighttime slumber, after a day of sitting in the heat. Tammy’s room is dark down the hall, likely asleep by now. I let out a breath and sink into one of the dining table chairs, pulling my laptop toward me.
Then log onto my account and soon, the camera feed flickers onto the screen, stabilizing after a few seconds of connection.
And there it is: Mark’s house. Dark. Still. Silent.
I sip the cold coffee I’d left on the table, watching the blinking lights of his own exterior cameras, noting the faint glow of an upstairs window and the car parked in the driveway. Yep, he’s still in there.
No action for now, but I know better.
Mark Healy isn’t just a tech guy or the nervous assistant curator who “just happened” to work near the raptor bones when they were stolen. No, Mark is something more, something dangerous. What, exactly, I don’t know; at least, not yet. And if I have to watch this feed for days on end, waiting for him to slip out, I will.
