Night Owls (7 page)

As rare as the books in the reading room. As rare as someone like Chaz.

Val patted Justin’s hand. “There’s a cold going around. Tell you what—if he doesn’t swing in by ten o’clock, we’ll call and see if he or Helen need anything. All right?”

That brightened him up. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Val.”

Val held the reassuring smile another few seconds, until she was well away from Justin. By the time she reached the reading room and sorted through her key ring (rare books room, bookstore, delivery door, her house, spare key to Chaz’ Mustang, several more whose locks were on the other side of the country . . .), it was gone, replaced with a scowl.
Up all night and canceled his classes. Don’t tell me you went Jackal hunting, old man.

But if he had, he’d survived. Justin had seen him in the daylight. The silver key turned in the lock, and Val pushed into the rare books room. She stood in the dark for a moment, breathing in the musty scent of dust and paper, old leather bindings and furniture polish. “Let’s see what you’ve brought us, Professor,” she said, and switched on the light.

Val liked to call the room cozy; Chaz called it the veal box. She had to concede the aptness of that description—even Jarrod’s closet of a dorm room had had a few square feet on it. Still, it was neat and well lit, and filled floor to ceiling with books that had been around since before most of the Edgewood students’ grandparents had been born. Some of the tomes in here were older than the college itself. A few even dated back to colonial times.

Everything was in its place—the books on their appointed shelves, the older ones in glass cases. The box of cotton gloves sat on a ledge to Val’s right, set there for visitors to use while browsing so the oils on their fingers wouldn’t damage the delicate pages. Val probably didn’t need to use them; she doubted her skin secreted much of anything since she’d been turned. But she tugged a pair on anyway, partly keeping up appearances in case Chaz let a customer in, partly because you never could be too careful.

Justin had set the book down in the middle of the rolltop writing desk that served as the room’s reading area. It sat, thick and squat, wrapped in one of those Ziploc bags that could hold enough cereal to feed a small army. Just because the professor had said they shouldn’t
open
the bag didn’t mean Val couldn’t pick it up and
look
at it.

Sitting down in the creaky old chair she’d picked up at an estate sale was usually a comfort. Tonight, she sank into it with dread. Books weren’t supposed to be scary; in fact, they should be the very opposite. Books made sense of the unknown. They were physical manifestations of order and sanity.

Why, then, did the book on the desk make her want to slink into the corner and hide?

I’m being ridiculous. He probably found an old Hawthorne or Dickinson and didn’t want to leave it in his office all day. It has nothing to do with last night. Nothing.

But if he
had
found something like that, wouldn’t it have come up when he brought the fudge by last night?
Maybe it was one of the books from his mother-in-law’s estate that he’d mentioned.
No, that didn’t make sense, either. He’d have brought it up right then, and even if he’d forgotten, he’d simply have waited and brought the book by during a normal visit.

Giving it to Justin leant an urgency to it.

Val pulled the book closer, feeling its heft as it slid across the desk’s polished surface. She could see plain, mud brown leather beneath the plastic, but no title. The binding and the stitching were hard to assess through the bag. She pressed her fingers to the cover, questing for indents.
There.
The gold leaf might have worn off, but the title had been stamped into the leather. Val stretched the plastic tight and brought the book closer to the lamp to reveal its name.

“Oh no. No, no, no.” The book fell back to the desk with a thud. Wood creaked as Val shoved violently back in her chair.

The last time she’d seen this writing was in the nest outside of Sacramento. Letters like these had been smeared on the walls and carved into the bodies that were strewn about like discarded fast-food containers. She hadn’t asked anyone to translate. Hadn’t really needed them to.

How had the professor come to possess such a thing? Had the Jackals she’d smelled last night left it behind somewhere, or had he taken it from them? She pulled the seal apart on the bag, just an inch, and sniffed. She could smell the Clearwaters’ house and, beneath that, human smells—the professor’s for certain, and someone else’s. Helen? And there, beneath the fresher scents, she could smell the Jackals’ rot.

Val resealed the bag and shoved it into the top drawer of the desk. She strode from the rare books room, willing herself not to run. The silver key turned in the lock; as she pocketed her key ring, she wished she’d had a dead bolt installed, too. And a moat.

Chaz was already hurrying down the aisle toward her as she spun around. She didn’t give him a chance to talk. “There you are. Good. I need to go out for a little while.
No one is to go in that room
, are we clear? In fact, I’m taking the register key—” His pale face and too-wide eyes finally registered. “Chaz? What’s going on?”

He spoke in a whisper, but the words seemed to echo through the store. The whole place had gone dead quiet. “We just got some terrible news.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, like he thought he’d have to steady her. Somewhere near the front of the store, a girl hitched a sob. Chaz winced at the sound and took a deep breath.

“What is it?” But she knew. Even before he said it, she knew.

“Henry and Helen Clearwater are dead.”

7

V
AL WAS MOVING
before the words were out of Chaz’ mouth. He caught her by the elbow and tugged her back to him. Shaking him off would have been easy—Val was far, far stronger. But there were eyes on her here. She spoke through gritted teeth. “I have to go there. See what happened.”

He shook his head, the grip on her arm tightening. “You can’t. It’s a crime scene. There are going to be cops everywhere, and you can’t just go barging in.”

“I won’t let them see me. I’ll make them forget if they do.” She had to
go
. She had to
see
. If the Jackals had killed the Clearwaters, Val could track them. She could catch up to them and . . .

And what?
Take down a pack on her own? She had three small stakes of rowan with her, buried deep at the bottom of her messenger bag—hardly enough to face down multiple Jackals. There couldn’t be a whole nest in town, but without going to the house, she had no way to tell how many there really were. One or two she could destroy on her own, but not without difficulty. Probably not without serious damage to herself. Val closed her eyes and sighed. “You’re right. I have to wait.”

Chaz let go. “If you want to go look around later, I’ll go with you. But he loved it here, and everyone knew it. If more information’s going to come in, it’ll make its way here pretty fast.”

Now that Val looked around, she saw that he was right. More people had trickled in, mostly shell-shocked students who stood in clusters, talking in hushed voices. One stood alone, up at the register. Justin. Val strode straight down the aisle to him. He looked frozen in place, ashen and confused. As she got closer, his dark eyes flicked to her.

“Val, they said . . . They said—”

She caught him as he crumpled and pulled him into a hug. Justin didn’t sob or moan, but Val felt hot tears wetting her blouse. Every now and then he’d tremble, or his thin shoulders would hitch, but he hardly made a sound. He straightened after a while, not meeting her gaze as he went for the tissues and wiped his eyes. It had to be slightly awkward to be held by your boss. “Thank you,” he said at last, pulling away from her.

She nodded and stepped back. “Do you want to go home for the night? Back to campus?”

“No. I think I’ll be better staying, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” He had to be thinking the same as Chaz: people would come here to share news as it was discovered. “Well, you don’t have to stay up here. Go talk to whoever you need to.”

Justin took another few seconds to compose himself, then stepped down and headed for a group of students. They made a space for him as he approached. A girl Val didn’t know slung her arm around Justin’s waist and they leaned into one another, offering comfort.

 • • • 

N
IGHT
O
WLS FOUND
itself hosting its own wake for the professor and Helen. Val sent Chaz to the bakery for a platter of pastries, and had Justin help her wrangle the monster-sized coffee urn they set up for author signings and book club nights. People stopped in and told stories about classes they’d had with Henry or Helen’s unflagging energy on various campus committees. No one knew much about the killing itself, only that the motive appeared to be robbery. Word had it the house had been ransacked.

After midnight, the crowd began to thin. By one o’clock, they were back down to the regulars, only more subdued. Val only saw Justin a few times after she’d relieved him of duty, always standing in a small knot of people, though usually on the outside of the group. The last glimpse she’d had of him had been around eleven thirty, when he’d restocked the supply of Styrofoam coffee cups. As she looked around now, Val realized she hadn’t seen Justin at all for the last hour.

Maybe he slipped out and went home after all.
But it wasn’t like him to leave without letting her know. Her gaze fell on the door to the rare books room, and her stomach dropped. She groped for the hook beneath the register, hoping to hear the rattle of the chain, the clatter of the silver key hanging from it hitting the wall. With the news of the Clearwaters’ murder, she’d completely forgotten to take it away.
Shit, shit, shit.

She grabbed at empty air.

Justin was in the back. Alone with the Jackals’ book. She couldn’t explain why—aside from
that thing creeps me out
—but she found herself sprinting toward the back of the store, determined to yank the damned thing out of Justin’s hands if she had to.

As she passed the end of the shelves and fumbled for her own key, the door opened. Justin backed out, placing his palm flat against the edge of the door and turning the handle all the way to shut it as quietly as possible.

He turned around and yelped when he found himself nose to nose with Val, the momentary fright on his face collapsing into guilt.

“I thought I said that room was off-limits.” She’d said it to Chaz, but Justin had been right there. He’d damned well heard.

His cringe intensified. “I just . . . I just wanted to sit in there for a few minutes. It’s one of his favorite places. Was.” He took the key from around his neck and held it out for Val. “I’m sorry.”

The chiding she’d had ready died on her lips. What harm had been done, really? Justin couldn’t understand the language the book was written in, and he’d carried it around all day before he brought it here.
It could have been warded.
She could smell it on him, the faint tang of rot on his hands. He’d opened the bag, probably flipped through the damned thing. If there’d been any spells set to go off when the cover was opened, they’d have triggered by now. Since the back room hadn’t exploded, she had to assume it was unprotected. Val sighed and took the key. “It’s all right. We’ve all had a long night. Why don’t you head on home and get some sleep?”

Justin hesitated and looked around the store.

Val understood. Here, at least, he was among people. The rooms in Bryant Hall were all singles and most of his floormates would be asleep at this hour. She knew what it was like to lie in the dark, alone and grieving. “You can stay if you want.”

“No. I’ll be okay.” He mustered a smile and gave her an awkward squeeze on the arm. “Thanks, Val.”

She watched him go, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. In a way, Val envied him: when he got back to his room, he’d be able to cry.

It was one of the few things vampirism had stolen from her that she actually missed, now and then. She could look at as many pictures of sunrises as she wanted to online, or watch thousands of videos shot by amateurs on beaches at dawn. Chaz had gotten used to her telling him what to order a couple times a week, and let her sniff to her heart’s content before he dug in.

But being dead seemed to have closed up her tear ducts, and while maybe others could weep
near
her, no one could weep
for
her.

 • • • 

T
HE
J
ACKALS CAME
at closing time.

The store was empty except for Val and Chaz. She was at the register when the bell above the door jingled. Chaz was somewhere near the back; she could hear the rhythmic sweep of the push broom against the tiles.
Stay back there,
Val thought, even though it was useless: she wasn’t strong enough to Command with her will alone, and calling out would let them know he meant something to her.

So she kept her mouth shut as three of them filed in, all trench coats and hidden faces, and hoped the floor in the children’s section was covered in dirt and tiny candy pieces. “Can I help you find something?” Her voice was steadier than she’d expected it to be. The rowan stakes were still in the office. Even if she made a run for it, Val knew she couldn’t take them all at once. Best just to stand her ground and see what they wanted.

If they so much as look at Chaz askance, I’ll make him run.

They wended their way past the display tables, the smell of decay roiling along ahead of them. Two of them were taller than Val, one bulky, one thin. The third was small and slight, and when she stopped on the other side of the counter, she pushed her hood back so Val could see the four long scars running down her cheek. They marred an otherwise pretty face, now that the snout was gone. She’d probably been popular, back when she was human: high cheekbones, pixie-ish nose, full lips. If she gave her hair a wash, she might even turn some heads now.

“Hello, Leech.” She grinned up at Val. In the light, her teeth were jagged and yellow.

Well, almost pretty.
“Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of town?”

“We’re on our way out. Just needed to pick up one last thing before we go.” The two behind her lifted their noses and sniffed.

“It’s here.” The one on the left closed his eyes, panting a little. He looked Justin’s age, maybe younger. His cheeks were a minefield of acne scars; apparently becoming a Jackal didn’t fix your skin problems like vampirism did.

The other one nodded, turning until his nose pointed toward the rare books room. He was, as Chaz might say, built like a brick shithouse. Val wondered if a blow from the fire extinguisher she kept behind the register would even have any effect on him, or if he’d only grin and shake his head at her like the bulldog did in the cartoons, when the cat finally got in a solid hit. “In there.”

The woman’s grin widened. “Did the old man bring you a present today, Leech? Something that wasn’t his?” She leaned across the counter, dropping her voice. “We went looking for it, and it wasn’t at his house. He didn’t want to tell us where he’d hidden it, but he talked in the end.”

“Screamed, really,” said the one on the left, the skinny one.

Val gripped the counter so hard the wood groaned. Blood thundered in her ears; she wanted to lunge at them, tear at their throats and make them howl for what they’d done. Their rancid blood would make her gag, but it would be worth it, so worth it to make the Jackals pay. Her gums prickled as her fangs unsheathed.

“All swept up, Val, just need to—” Chaz froze beside the rack full of maps as four heads swiveled toward him. The dustpan he carried dipped and spilled its sandy contents all over his shoes. “Val?” In his other hand, he held the push broom. He switched his grip on it, getting ready to bring it up like a baseball bat, but before he could, the right-hand Jackal moved.

Its motion was a blur even to Val’s preternatural senses; to Chaz, it must have seemed to reach him in an eyeblink. She couldn’t Command him to run now: the Jackal’s hand slipped around his throat, its grimy black claws making indents in his skin.

For his part, Chaz took it well. After his initial start, he stood calmly, still wielding the broom even though he didn’t have the range of motion to swing it. He glanced down at the wrist holding him and saw the fine, dark fur. “Oh. Uh. Fuck,” was the extent of his commentary.

“How about you show me that book,” said the woman, pulling Val’s attention back, “and he doesn’t have to get hurt tonight.”

“Val, no. Fuck these guys. Don’t—”

Right Hand lifted his other arm almost casually and extended his index finger, the claw hovering less than an inch from Chaz’ eye. The unspoken threat shut Chaz up.

“All right.” Val reached under the register and retrieved the key from its hook. “All right, you can have it.” She let it dangle before the woman, but pulled it back before the Jackal bitch could take it. “I’m going to have to let you in.”

The woman growled. “You don’t want to piss me off, Leech. Whatever you’re trying to pull here—”

“I’m not trying to pull anything.” Val set the key down on the counter. “If you pick up that key, it’s going to hurt like hell. It’s silver. Go ahead and touch it if you don’t believe me.”

The woman jerked her head, and Left Hand reached past her to prod the key with the tip of his finger. As soon as his skin made contact, the flesh turned black. Tendrils of smoke curled up like a cigarette left to burn in an ashtray. The Jackal yanked his arm away and danced backward. He whimpered as he stuffed the injured finger into his mouth.

Val had expected the woman to react at least a little. Instead, she watched her companion’s pain with clinical observation.
She’s not an alpha.
She didn’t smell like one, and an alpha never would have let Val get the drop on it the way she had last night.
But she might be fucking the alpha, or could be an alpha’s pup.
Val tucked that away to mull over later. Provided there was a later.