That Night in Lagos (2 page)

“And you are Inspector Jones, I presume?”
I pressed the conversation onward.

He nodded, a brief and sharp gesture that matched with his brief and sharp mustache and manners. He spun about on a highly polished boot and snapped his fingers at the young African man dressed in a shabby uniform and shorts.

His eyes downcast, the nameless African picked up my valise as Inspector Jones grunted in a thoroughly unwelcoming tone, “Welcome to Lagos.”

“Delighted,”
I murmured and glanced at the assistant, but Inspector Jones declined to provide an introduction.

With that minimum exchange of niceties accomplished, we set off on foot from the pier and entered a chaos of packing crates, hawkers, warehouses and rickety stalls. Chunks of unidentifiable meat hung from tarnished hooks, adorned by clouds of flies. My overly sensitive olfactory senses were overwhelmed by odors of cooking and rot, of unbathed sailors and a carnivore.

That gave me reason to pause.

“Please, Miss Bee, do hurry along,”
Inspector Jones muttered, exasperation marring his attempt at a professional veneer.

“Just a moment. Aren’t these fabrics darling?”
I said, pausing in front of a kiosk.

Fingering a cotton scarf boasting a loud and colorful pattern, I glanced about as if seeking another just as gaudy and poorly woven. Sweaty porters tugging overloaded platforms on wheels pushed through throngs of Africans and foreign sailors. No one stood out as a potential non-human carnivore. Yet the stench lingered.

“Miss Bee,”
Inspector Jones spluttered, “if I’d known you’d come to Lagos for the shopping…”

“It’s a tad too long a journey to embark on for that,”
I interrupted and squinted my eyes.

As soon as my eyes narrowed, energy fields glowed around all the living creatures: the cloud of flies around a large, bloody cow leg glittered like diamonds; the fabric seller glowed rosy as he pushed a piece of silk at me. I swiveled about, studying the crowd. Apart from the scraggly stray dogs, a herd of goats, a few chickens and the flies, all the energy fields were human.

All except one.

That particular energy field surrounded a humanoid beast that was glaring over the crowd at me. I immediately recognized the being from my studies of West African folklore, and groaned.

I was being followed by an Obayifo.

The general consensus regarding the Obayifo is less than flattering. While pleasant in form and face, these vampire sorcerers aren’t particularly kind-hearted even when they aren’t sucking blood from a human. In addition to fangs, they possess a mild form of mind control which, fortunately for me, only works on the uninitiated.

This particular specimen snarled when he caught my knowing glance; his elongated canines were clearly visible to me only because I was resistant to his attempts to manipulate my mind. He stayed in the shadows, his blue-black skin glowing with supernatural energy, his lean muscles flexing with each movement of his manly form. He scowled as I continued my studies.

A word of advice to all would-be paranormal investigators: as a general rule, paranormals don’t particularly appreciate being studied, followed, observed or in any other way having their existence highlighted. Most of them prefer obscurity. Our ignorance is their best defense. Ignore this advice at your peril; I have the scars to prove why.

“Oh, bother,”
I muttered and tossed the fabrics onto a pile. I ignored the urgent pleas of the vendor as he implored me to buy a scarf or three before the mound of cloth disappeared, or the price increased, or a hurricane wiped out the market and I’d regret not purchasing from him. I returned to the Inspector’s side.

“Inspector, I don’t suppose you know the details of my mission?”
I inquired as I hurried him along the unpaved, slightly muddy thoroughfare.

“My superior officer didn’t deign to provide the particulars,”
Inspector Jones replied, clearly miffed at the superior’s lack of confidence in his discretion.

“Possibly because he himself wasn’t aware,”
I said.

Of course, the Director of the Society wouldn’t have revealed the truth to the officer, for by doing so he would’ve broken the second mandate — To maintain the secrecy of the Paranormal Realm in general, and the Society and its activities specifically — and unnecessarily alarmed a normal and oblivious human.

“But this does complicate the matter,”
I observed with a sigh and a backward glance.

The Obayifo had abandoned all efforts at concealing his purpose. Instead, he plowed through the milling crowds, ignoring any who dared protest. Most people were wise enough not to, even if they didn’t understand why. While few humans can view energy, they can still feel at some level the presence of danger. And this creature was certainly that, and more; he radiated vicious intent and blood-lust.

“It would appear my arrival has not gone unnoticed,”
I said, steering Inspector Jones around a steaming pile of animal excrement. Our African companion followed close by, his face disinterested, my valise clutched in his arms as if it held something more valuable than a few changes of clothes.

Unimpressed by my observation, Inspector Jones chided me. “Surely, Miss Bee, you are exaggerating the importance of your presence here.”

I peered between ribbons of fetid meat hanging from a pole. The Obayifo had eliminated much of the distance between us, and his pace was increasing. I could see into his eyes: there was no white, just black with a red pupil.

“Is there a carriage we could utilize, by any chance?”
I asked as I veered about a woman stooped over with the weight of a stack of firewood that was bigger than she was.

Inspector Jones’
eyes narrowed with contempt, in all likelihood assuming I was wilting from the heat, humidity and effort of walking. “Madam, on what surface would a carriage travel here?”
He gestured to the rough and muddy path cluttered with debris, wares, people and animals. “We may at best find a rudimentary form of transport awaiting us at the intersection with the main road. I took the liberty of…”

“Yes, well done, sir,”
I interrupted, wiping at the beads of sweat slipping into my eyes. “And now you may take the liberty of ambling along at a faster pace, perhaps even running.”

So saying, I set the example by increasing my strides, my boots sloshing through puddles of dubious origin.

“Miss Bee,”
Inspector Jones huffed, but he kept up with my pace, as did his stoic-faced assistant.

I didn’t dare verify if my pursuer was gaining, and shortly thereafter we cleared the informal market and its shadows. Direct sunlight blinded and burned us as we entered what could barely pass as a road, complete with roughly hewn cobblestones, carts and uncovered wagons devoid of the usual trappings and glitter of London carriages. One such contraption was waiting nearby, drawn by a weary little horse with a heavily curved back.

As Inspector Jones assisted me up, I stared toward the market’s exit. The vampire sorcerer lurked in the shadows, eyes glittering, not daring to step into direct sunlight. His mouth murmured a curse that couldn’t touch me or my mind. Nor was he glaring at me anymore; rather his hypnotic gaze had shifted to another.

The pitiful excuse of a carriage lurched forward, its wooden wheels wobbling as if preparing to fly off at any moment. The slight breeze produced by our passage did nothing to alleviate the damp, sultry and oppressive heat that caused my clothes to stick to me and my skin to prickle and crawl.

That discomfort was tolerable when compared to the knowledge that the silent African assistant was in some way associated with, or being influenced by, the Obayifo.

I studied the assistant; he was perched on the bench up front with the driver and the two were conversing softly in a language that was alien to my ears. I in turn conversed with the Inspector just as softly.

“Sir,”
I whispered, “how long has the assistant been in your employ?”

Inspector Jones tugged at the high collar of his starched uniform. “A few months, I believe. All in all, a steady enough chap for a native.”

“And the driver?”

“About the same. Why do you ask?”

I re-positioned my walking stick, preparing to transform it into a weapon. “A few months as in close to three?”

“Indeed,”
my companion replied stiffly. “What of it?”

I reflected on the coincidence. Prof Runal had launched the Brownie smuggling investigation just over three months prior to my visit and almost immediately had identified Lagos as one of several possible hubs. There were few phenomena that could set me on edge as much as a coincidence could. That and a badly made pot of tea. At least a coincidence is forgivable but neither should be ignored.

“A steady chap he may be,”
I replied, “but I suspect we won’t be driven to the constabulary.”

“Rubbish,”
Inspector Jones scoffed. “This, madam, is precisely why women are heartily encouraged to content themselves with such professions as are consistent with their delicate constitutions and sensitive nerves. They certainly shouldn’t be gallivanting about in an arena that requires clear and unbiased thought, a steady hand and a stout heart.”

I snorted at his ludicrous statement. “My constitution is decidedly not delicate, and my only sensitive nerves are the ones associated with my olfactory senses. I heartily encourage you, sir, to loosen your weapons and prepare yourself.”

“And I encourage you to restrain your imagination,”
the uninventive man retorted through gritted teeth.

Before we could continue encouraging each other thus, the assistant swiveled on the bench. His eyes wouldn’t fully meet ours as he said in a subdued tone, “Mr. Inspector Jones sir, we must make a detour. Because of roadwork.”

Inspector Jones attempted to formulate an adequate response beyond an initial curse while the horse sped up. The carriage veered sharply off the main thoroughfare and into a quiet and shadowy alley. Ahead of us, the Obayifo stood waiting. As I prepared to jump from the carriage, I glanced at the alley’s entrance. Three burly Africans blocked the way.

We were neatly and efficiently ensnared.

At this point, I realized with some dismay that Inspector Jones was armed with nothing more than a rubber bludgeon. I rapidly mulled over his predicament as the Obayifo stalked toward us and my companion fumbled to release the club from his belt. The sachet of powdered cinnamon that I always stored in my skirt pocket was a wondrous weapon against ants and other creepy crawly insects but would have little effect on a vampire. I contemplated lending the Inspector a knife from my walking stick and that was as far as my contemplations were allowed to proceed before being rudely interrupted.

“Be at peace,”
the Obayifo commanded in a sonorous voice, his eyes fixed on Inspector Jones. The foolish man, having glanced up at the speaker, slumped into his seat, his face slack.

“The only people at peace are dead,”
I said while giving the Inspector a sharp and thoroughly satisfying kick to the shins, which had the added benefit of breaking the spell.

That done and having deduced that both the driver and the assistant were in on the plot, I felt no remorse at delivering a mighty thump to the back of the driver’s head with the metal fist atop my stick. The man behaved as any would, and conveniently collapsed across the bench.