Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (16 page)

“Because, for one, when she T-boned me all of the air bags went off, except hers. Her head was twisted around and looking through the side window. When I got up to her, it was like she was staring at me. It almost seemed set up.”

“That could have been accidental, though.” Wendy sucked a shot from the IV and let out an exaggerated,
Ah
.

“Maybe, but it didn’t look right. Besides, she left the tea place before me. What was she doing there? There is no way it was coincidental. I think she talked to Karkaroff and Karkaroff sent Rochelle on a suicide mission.”

“That makes sense,” Gil said. “Everyone knows the Devil doesn’t do her own dirty work.”

“So I decided to take a look around at Karkaroff, Snell and Associates.”

“What?” Wendy yelled. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

In the bed next to us, smoky-eyed heads were turning, their mouths in dramatically shocked O’s, like all the vacant blow-up dolls got the night off from the local sex shop.

“Shut up. I don’t need any more attention drawn to me than already has been. Now listen. This morning, I got in to see Snell and he was none too happy to see me. He also didn’t have a problem letting me know he has some serious power.”

“What do you mean?” Wendy was distracted by the hot zombie ass passing the bed again. It did seem remarkably solid for dead flesh. She cranked her neck around to get a full view.

I waved off the question and continued, “He was called out of the room, during our meeting, and I snuck in to Karkaroff’s office…”

“Jesus.”

“…so, there’s like nothing in the room. Nothing but mirrors and weird carpet. It’s massive. Oh, and a desk, chair, and get this…a telescope.”

“Telescope?”

“That’s right and the lens is trained on a man in an office. And you’ll never believe who it was.” I stalled for effect.

“Who? Who?” Wendy perked up, right on cue
83
.

“Shane King.” The vampire was the man about town and every female within lubricating range was wet or frustrated. I’d remembered seeing him on a separate occasion with Liesl.
Just talking
, she’d said. Although Shane was clearly smitten, hanging on the succubus’s every word. Dangerous for him. We’d only met once, Shane and I, at some club. Ricardo introduced us I think. Shane wasn’t particularly interested at the time, but he was pleasant, polite. Probably gay, I’d thought. Gil had insisted, no.

“Yum.” Wendy brightened.

“That’s not possible,” Gil spat. “He’s a vampire and you said it was this morning.”

“I know. Freaky, right? Broad-fucking-daylight. So I sneak out of her office and Snell comes back and we talk and he says two really interesting things. One: Rochelle was not Oliver’s girlfriend; and two: Oliver had joined a bowling league, and went to it the night before he went missing.”

“Why would Rochelle lie about being his girlfriend?” Wendy asked.

“No clue. But the league is tonight. Assuming it runs every week. And I checked. Lutefisk Bowl is the only alley that was marked with the supernatural diversity symbol
84
in the phone book.” I held up my index finger and smirked. “Mmm-hmm, ’cause who’s the number one smarty?”

“Are you going over there?” Wendy asked.

“No.
We
are,” I slipped in, and continued without a breath. “But let me just tell you this, after I left the meeting with Snell, something happened that made me certain that Rochelle running into me was no accident. I got into the elevator and the lights flickered off…”

Wendy and Gil had transformed into saucer-eyed story-time children. I find this amusing considering Gil’s gaping mouth is full of razor-sharp teeth and Wendy’s blue veins created a paper maché grid under her foundation. The story turns into campfire fodder.

“…the lights flicker on and off. And the floor jerks and trembles. I reach out for the sides to steady myself and then, and then—”

“What?” Gil shrieked, at exactly the correct moment when a flamboyantly gay man should, although Gil does not fit that stereotype.

“And then, I’m on the ceiling, cheeks shuddering with my screams. The elevator is plummeting thirty floors to my second death. Très dramatic.”

Because of my articulate and lively storytelling style, Gil and Wendy are rapt and gasping. I left out the part about the eyes. I probably seemed paranoid enough.

“And then, just as quickly as it started, the elevator slowed, and, I shit you not, I drifted down to the floor like an autumn leaf.”

“Whatever,” Gil said, the spell broken. “You probably hit that floor like a raw ham. Hah! Autumn leaf.” He was laughing and Wendy’s shoulders were heaving in silent hilarity. Bitches!

“Let’s go!”

Lutefisk Bowl hadn’t been remodeled since it was built—in the ’50s or ’60s, straight out of
Laverne and Shirley
;
Happy Days
would have been too suburban. The lanes were shiny—all twelve of them—and the family man behind the counter carried a friendly grin like a first place trophy. When we arrived, he greeted us warmly and sent his son, a miniature version of himself, down to the lanes to deal with a stuck ball return. The owner’s face was a full house of rosy cheeks, but the sunglasses he wore veiled demonic flashlight red eyes. His name tag read: Gordon.

“I’m sorry, folks,” he said. “All our lanes are full. League night and all.”

I stepped up. “We were hoping to talk to some people that might know an Oliver Calver.”

“Oliver Calver, d’ya say? That name does sound familiar.” He walked away to a clipboard at the far end of the counter. “Here he is, Emerald City Devils, lane 9. Ought to be interesting down there even if no one remembers your fella.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Devils are up against the Hounds of Hell, they’re tournament champs. Gonna be tough to beat. But, I think the Devils have a shot. See here.” Gordon slid the clipboard in our direction. A list—and, I do love a list, OCD me—counted off the teams by lane (see inset). Two were of interest. The Emerald City Devils, and The Horny Incubi—someone there might know Liesl.

“Thanks Gordon,” I said. “Do you mind if we head down there and chat up some of your patrons? We promise not to make a fuss.”

League of Supernatural Bowlers

(Men’s Division)

Lane Assignments

Lane	Team
1	Bigfoot Balla’s
2	Strikes and Sprites
3	The Horny Incubi
4	No Pussy Cats
5	Shiftin’ 4 300
6	Vampirella’s Fellas
7	Supa Chupas
8	Wendigo Tossers
9	Emerald City Devils
10	Hounds of Hell
11	Strikers of the Dead
12	Paddy’s Strikers

“Have at it.” He picked up a pair of shoes from the counter and sprayed them with disinfectant. I feared there wouldn’t be enough sanitizer in the world to clean the germs from this pit. I wondered how much fecal matter I’d picked up since our arrival. I found myself scratching my palms, arms, and oddly, my ass.

We stepped around the service area, which completely blocked the view of the lanes, and for good reason. Daddy could boot the humans before they got too nosey. A retro bowling alley spread out in front of us, decorated in pastel diamond shapes and linoleum. The lanes were sunken and split by conversation pits, each corralling a subset of supernatural beings. It could have been the Illwill games
85
. Vampires vs. werewolves, zombies vs. leprechauns, chupacabra vs. wendigo; they all mingled and guzzled various drinks from frosty mugs like longshoremen.

“So what do you hope to get out of this?” Gil ground his pointy teeth; his eyes twittered over the space like butterflies. He pulled out a cigarette with a shaky hand and stuck it unlit into his mouth.

“I hope to either, get another lead on Oliver, or…” I looked over to the far lanes. The low numbers, 3 in particular. I pointed it out. “Look down there.” They followed my finger. “Incubi.”

We trooped across the room on pastel flecked linoleum until we came up on a short stack of stairs that led down to the pit for lanes 3 and 4. A muscular blond man of about twenty-eight, stood there leaning against the bowling ball cabinet. His jaw was chiseled from Carrerra marble and his eyes were deep pools of spa mud. Gil and Wendy stopped a few yards behind me, both were busy ogling the specimen.

“Excuse me, are you on the team?” I asked pointing to lane 3.

“I am,” he said, lip curling into a smile and then fading, as if a realization swept over him. I didn’t need to rack my brain over what the epiphany had been. It went something like this:

Time frame from smile to frown: less than a second, the cute blond was an efficient demon. Why is it I didn’t feel any better for that knowledge?

“I’m looking for a friend of mine. You may know her. Liesl Lescalla?”

The incubus stared at me, and checked his watch, the progress on the lanes, anything to avoid the boredom of his present situation.

“Does the name ring any bells?” I asked, my lips pursed, my eyes mid-roll
86
.

“Nope.” He didn’t make eye contact. Like I was beneath him—that might have been a possibility before he got all high and mighty, but now, no way. The fucker. I was riled.

“Bitch, you better ask your friends, then. I don’t know why you think it’s okay to be rude. I’m just asking for a little help here. My friend happens to be a succubus, if that changes anything.” I planted my hand against my hip.

That got his attention. He called out to his buddies, “Hey guys!” They turned. Each one precision carved from a delectable food item (cream cheese, chocolate, etc.). Hot as Hell, their hometown. “Do any of youse know a Liesl? She’s our kind.”

There was a welter of voices in the pit, but I couldn’t hear. Not that I was wrapped in gagaland over the incubus. Even if he weren’t a total asshole, the use of the word “youse” would have been a deal-breaker.

A brunette and tan god of a specimen in tight blue jeans broke from the crowd by the ball return and jogged up the stairs. “I’m Nick, you asking about Liesl?”

“Yeah, I’m Amanda.” I offered my hand. He took it. “She’s been gone almost a week. I’m really worried.”

“I haven’t seen her in a while, either. Have you talked to her mate?”

“Her ‘mate’?”

“Yes her ‘other,’ her incubus, whatever.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

He looked at the floor and the ceiling, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Shit, come to think of it, neither do I. I think he’s from out of town, though. Los Angeles, I think.”

“Is there somewhere she might frequent? Somewhere, or someone else I could talk to?”

“You could try the tracker, but he’s very confidential. I doubt he’d give you an appointment without doing him a favor.”

“Anything would help.”

“Let me see if I have his card.”

Nick dug in his jeans, causing the fabric to tighten across his crotch. I couldn’t help it; I stared. His thick penis was outlined in denim. It trailed down his leg, in a most inhuman and frightening way.
Were there two heads?
He pulled his hand from his pocket, withdrawing a business card. I glanced upward to find that he’d been watching me the entire time. He was beaming with pride or evil, but certainly not charity.

“Here you go, Amanda. Talk to Clevis, he might just help you.”

“Uh…thank you, um, sorry for…well, you know, whatever.” I spun and took disingenuous steps across the linoleum. I refused to add to my embarrassment by slipping on cheap flooring. I didn’t deserve an afterlife. I’d be better off dissolving into bile in a cheap pine box. Let the maggots have a home and puff me up with a
snap
,
crackle
and
pop
. So embarrassing.

Gil and Wendy were bounding up the stairs that led from lanes 9 and 10.

“They didn’t know shit,” Gil said, letting his fingers slide through his hair. “Cute though. Is the one in the jeans looking?”

Wendy shook her head.

“Or anything about Oliver, either.” Wendy smooshed her face and shook her head
87
. “Oh…except that he went to a twelve-step group over on Grant.”

“A twelve-step group?” I asked. “For what?”

“They wouldn’t say.” Her mouth hung open, eyes searched the ceiling for anything remotely interesting.

“Okay, let’s get out of here. I for one am exhausted. I don’t even think I could manage a kill, tonight.”

“Oh, come on, not even just a little one?” Wendy chided, in a French waiter accent.

“Nope.” I had no intention of giving in, just because Wendy chose to invoke Monty Python movie lines.

“Not even a wafer-thin kill?” Gil mocked in a bored, this-has-
so
-been-done tone. He searched his manicure for leftover ridges.

“Knock it off!”

We bickered back and forth, all the way to a freeway underpass, parked, and devoured a particularly beleaguered homeless man—that’s right, Wendy and I know how to share. Gil drained his wife from a tear below her breast. It seemed so wrong for a gay vamp to feed this way.