“Please, Don.” She was clear of tails, or at least she should be—why would anyone follow a skinny, unassuming woman in jeans, a pale pink baseball hat, and a shapeless green fatigue jacket? She’d looped around between two different trains and several short bus jaunts, hopping aimlessly, watching her own backwash with every trick she’d read about and practiced for four years.
Nothing out of the ordinary. She felt invisible gazes on her all the time, sure, but that was just overactive imagination, which she was prone to in any case and besides, had to happen when you started hunting down monsters. There were enough problems in the world without her getting paranoid.
“Well?” Don hopped from one loosely laced combat boot to the other; he really did look like an excited stork. “I’d ask how exactly it went down, but…”
“That’s a dress I’ll never wear again, let’s put it that way.” She’d gotten rid of the gown, bra, and the poor beautiful shoes separately in different dumpsters; her backpack was empty save for the flashlight, a protein bar wrapper, and a few lonely red beads. Bea hobbled for the kitchenette, deciding her bladder, though complaining, could continue its service for a few more minutes. “And the world is now down exactly one bloodsucker.”
“You…” He stopped halfway to the coffeepot, turning on his heels with faint rubbery squeaks. “No shit. You actually staked Christopher Everly?”
“The thing calling itself Everly, yeah.” Her knees and bruised shoulder all throbbed, her kidneys ached, and the gurgle of Don’s coffeepot alternated between the most comforting sound in the world and a reminder of the worst day of her life.
She’d been doing the bills when Jared took the dog out, and he’d groused about wanting to wait for a pot of java to finish brewing.
Don’s fidgeting stilled. “What happened?”
“Uh.” Bea stripped black knit gloves, rubbed her hands together. An excessively casual glance—she couldn’t see any blood, but she’d love to wash anyway. With very hot water. “Well, he fell down.”
“What? He didn’t poof?”
“There was no poof-ing. Unless he turns to dust at daybreak now that he’s dead.” She would have to check the blueprints to figure out if that elevator faced east. If it didn’t, hopefully everyone would assume it was out of service or that the ‘businessman’ didn’t want guests after taking a girl upstairs, and the body wouldn’t be discovered for a while.
“Will he?” Now Don stared at her, expectantly, eyebrows up and mouth slightly open. “They’re supposed to poof, even the ones who stroll around in daylight.”
“You’re the expert, Donny. I’ve only just killed my first one and I’m not feeling too good about it, all right?” Bea shouldered him aside and stopped at the sink, twisting the water on savagely. Liquid handsoap claimed to be chamomile-scented; she’d picked it up two weeks ago on a grocery run, turning over the map of the Everly building inside her head, thinking about contingencies, wondering if crashing the costume party was an inspired good idea or the rumblings of insanity. “I staked him, he fell right down. Boom.” A splatter of swiftly warming water; she grabbed the nail brush and went to work lathering up.
“Shit.” Don had gone the color of old cheese. “Wow. So…”
“So now you go back to chopping cars and doing your podcast, I hit the road.” She might have to hide for the rest of her life, especially if they were both utterly crazy and she’d murdered a human being. “That was always the plan.”
“Yeah.” Was it relief, crossing his lean, beaky face? He’d stubbled up quite a bit in the past few days, and the look suited him, though Callie might not like getting scraped. “It was. But, Bebe…”
That was Jared’s name for me, not yours. At least he didn’t mispronounce it—Bee-tris instead of Bay-ah-tris—like strangers and spam calls did. Not that she’d had a phone for years, now. “Look, if you’re ever linked to the whole thing, a good defense lawyer will get you an insanity plea, or mild conspiracy-to-commit at most. You didn’t do anything really legally actionable, I made sure that was all me.”
“Jesus.” He stared like she’d grown another head. “You...you really fucking...goddammit, Bea. You are the craziest bitch I ever came across.”
“Not like it’s a surprise, you’ve known me since grade school.” She was scrubbing hard enough to hurt, Bea realized, and put the foaming nail brush down with an effort. Rinsing her hands only made them sting more, and she couldn’t be sure she’d gotten every bit of blood off.
Though ‘Everly’ hadn’t leaked much at all. Just dropped, like a switched-off toy. The crunching sound when the stake went in, so different than a side of beef.
At least I don’t have to work in meatpacking ever again. Though she might get desperate, who knew? The smell was awful, the cleanup worse. Still, it was comparatively decent money, long hours, and men generally left you alone when you were swinging one of those knives. Especially if you gave them a long, silent look every once in a while.
She’d hated every minute, even if it turned her into a vegetarian and gave her perfect practice. Maybe she should’ve cut the monster up afterward, scattered the pieces?
What, like you’re gonna revisit the scene of the crime? No use in dwelling on the past, Bebe. Jare had always said that last bit, usually when she had to come up with a practical plan to get them both out of trouble.
“Things are different now,” Don said, giving her one of those looks she knew so well, and oh God but she had been hoping to avoid this.
Be a bitch. It’s not hard. “Why? You’ve suddenly developed feelings for your dead best friend’s kid sister? Come on, Donny-boy. You and Callie are a better couple anyway, she at least feeds you.” Waters you and turns you towards the sun, too. All with that long-suffering look, but she never leaves.
Sometimes Bea caught herself wishing Callie would find a less passive boyfriend just to teach Don a lesson. But it wasn’t any of her business. She’d been here to use his contacts and knowledge, ruthlessly trading on the fact that he’d been her brother’s bestie. She could vanish now, and he would be safe—if he could refrain from telling the world about this entire endeavor on his goddamn podcast.
His listeners numbered only in the single dozen; the man was an encyclopedia of weird folklore and urban legend, sure, but with the on-air personality of a potato. He funded the whole affair with a variety of slightly criminal enterprises, most of which were logistical support for mid-level mobsters.
All in all he and Bea hadn’t done too badly, and he’d come through with the catering job like a champ.
He deserved at least some gratitude. Bea twisted the water off, grabbed for the already-damp sunflower towel hanging from a suction cup hook on the side of the fridge. Looked like Don had been doing a little Lady Macbeth action of his own tonight.
Doing ‘favors’ for the local syndicates was a dirty business. So was monster-hunting. She was hoping ‘Everly’s’ connections with higher-echelon criminal elements didn’t mean they would dig very hard into his demise—or disappearance, if sunlight took care of that surprisingly muscle-dense body.
