“Lynne Hong.”
“Hi, I’m calling to find out whether Channel 10 aired your story about a zombie death in the New Combat Zone.”
“How do you know about that?” she asked sharply.
“I was in the Zone last night when you interviewed Officer Sykes. I didn’t catch the news, so—”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Vicky Vaughn.”
“Well, Ms. Vaughn, the answer is no. We didn’t air the story because there was no story.”
“But Officer Sykes—”
“Has been suspended due to allegations he assaulted a fellow officer. There’s no evidence to support his claims.”
No evidence. I’d hydroplaned across Creature Comforts through the evidence. And Hong was letting the story go.
“Did you actually investigate his claims? Or did you just take Hampson’s word for it?”
“Of course I investigated—or tried to. Sykes’s partner wouldn’t talk to me. I called Creature Comforts multiple times, but no one answered. The police department maintains that no zombie was murdered in the Zone. I can’t go on the air with unsubstantiated allegations from a suspended cop with a grudge.”
“A zombie did die in Creature Comforts. And there may have been a second death.”
“A second—?” Hong paused, presumably to grab a pen. “Who? Where?”
I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t want to get Daniel in trouble. I wasn’t even sure what he’d meant. “I don’t know. It’s just a rumor.”
Hong made a disgusted sound. “I can follow up rumors. But only if I have some information to go on.”
“You do have information. What happened to T.J. isn’t a rumor. It’s real. Keep trying with Axel, the bar’s owner. He’ll talk to you.” I started to hang up.
“Ms. Vaughn—wait, you said Vicky Vaughn? You’re the PA who pulled that vampire off a human a few months back. The story was on CNN. You never returned my calls. You’re some kind of werewolf, right?”
If there’s one surefire way to keep me talking, it’s to call me a werewolf. “No, I’m not a werewolf. I’m a shapeshifter, of the Cerddorion race. It’s not the same. Shapeshifters—”
Not that Lynne Hong cared. “That happened in Creature Comforts, too,” she said, talking over me. “What’s going on in that place?”
This time I did hang up.
A game show was coming on the silent TV. I checked the time and jumped. I had to pack. But first a shower. I turned off the television, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed down the hall. Just short of the bathroom, I stopped. Something seemed out of place, and it took me a second to figure out what it was. Juliet’s bedroom door was open—my roommate always slept with her door closed and locked. For the space of two breaths, I hesitated, then I stuck my head through the doorway. The coffin lid was open. I turned on the light and confirmed what I already knew. Juliet’s coffin was empty.
In the years we’d shared this apartment, Juliet had never stayed out all day. Not once. She wouldn’t disintegrate into dust or anything if she slept somewhere else—but she always said that nothing recharged her like returning to her own coffin each dawn.
Then again, she’d mentioned something about a new man, about going back to his place. Maybe she’d found another way to recharge her batteries.
Don’t wait up. J.
Weird chanting echoed through my mind, making me glance back at the empty living room. I shook it off, went into the bathroom, and started the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed and rooting around the back of my closet. I dug out my small duffel bag, tossed it on the bed, and unzipped it. Armfuls of underwear and sweaters and jeans went from dresser drawers into a tangled heap in the bag. I found my passport in a desk drawer and zipped it into the outside pocket. It was still current—a good thing, too. Last time I’d renewed it, the monsters were still in hiding. Now that we were common knowledge, the government required “paranormal status”—backed up by DNA test results—on passport applications. If Kane failed with his civil rights case, I might not qualify for a passport after this one expired. For now, though, it was easier for me to leave the country than to cross a state line.
I stared at the jumble of clothes spilling out of my bag. I had no idea what I’d thrown in there. Not that it mattered. I had a closet full of clothes at Maenllyd, and Mab would make sure my bathroom there was stocked with toiletries. What I really wanted to pack were a few of my favorite weapons—the bronze dagger with the mother-of-pearl hilt, a pistol or two. And the Sword of Saint Michael, since Difethwr was back. But then I’d have to check my bag, and those weapons were too valuable to entrust to airline baggage handlers. Mab had weapons; her collection was far larger than mine.I stuffed a couple of wayward sweater sleeves into the bag and zipped it up. It was time to go meet Daniel.
IN THE LOBBY OF MY BUILDING, THE STRONG SMELL OF AMMONIA tickled my nose and made my eyes water. Two zombies, wearing jumpsuits with DIRTY JOB CLEANING stenciled across the back, pushed mops across the floor.
Clyde looked up from his Boston Globe. No News of the Dead for Clyde—he wouldn’t be caught undead reading that rag.
I greeted him. “I met the new doorman last night,” I said. “Nice guy.”
Clyde harrumphed. “Former doorman, you mean.”
“He quit?” That surprised me.
“Presumably. He deserted his post. Lord knows how long the building went unattended last night.”
Huh. Maybe Juliet had come home. Maybe she and her admirer Gary hit it off so well that the two of them ran away together. The idea made me smile.
“That wasn’t even the worst of it,” Clyde continued. “He left the lobby in shocking condition. Filthy, just filthy. I had to call in the cleaning company, and we weren’t on their schedule for today. They’ve only just arrived. I had to sit here for hours with a reeking mess. The smell was so horrendous I was forced to cover my nose with my handkerchief.”
Dread squeezed my heart with icy fingers. One of the zombies lifted his mop to dunk it in his bucket. Black slime dripped from the mop head in long strings.
Abandoning Clyde, I ran to the nearest zombie. “Did you find any brass buttons while you were cleaning?”
He kept his head down, straight brown hair hiding his eyes, and swiped up more black goo with his mop.
The other zombie came over. He was older and shorter than the mopping one. “Ricky’s a good worker, but he’s not too bright. He’s shy around strangers. Let me.” He touched Ricky’s arm and spoke softly. “Ricky, tell the nice lady. Did you pick up anything here?”
Ricky kept looking at his boots, but he quit mopping. He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he dug into his pocket. He pulled out his hand, closed in a tight fist, and held it against his chest. He glanced at the older zombie, who nodded. Then, all at once, he smiled and held out his open palm. Sitting there were three slime-streaked buttons.
“Shiny,” said Ricky.
It’s happened again.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to dispel the adrenaline that had my body on red alert. Nothing to fight. Nothing to flee—as much as I’d like to run out of here screaming. I opened my eyes again. “Clyde,” I said over my shoulder, “call the Goon Squad.”
Ricky’s face tightened in panic. He dropped his mop and clutched his fist against his chest, shielding it with his other hand. “You’re not in trouble, Ricky,” I said, making my voice gentle. “But the police officers will need those buttons as evidence. Here …” I dug into my own pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “This money is shiny, too. Can I buy your buttons?”
“Money?” Ricky gazed at the coins doubtfully, and I moved my hand so they’d catch the light. He tilted his head at his supervisor, who nodded. Ricky carefully placed the three buttons in my hand, then scooped up the coins. He held them out to his supervisor. “Shiny!”
Clyde hadn’t picked up the phone. I strode back to his desk and dropped the buttons on the blotter. “Gary didn’t quit,” I said. “He was killed. The same thing happened yesterday to another zombie in the Zone. Call the Goon Squad, now. Ask for Brian Sykes. No, wait.” I remembered what Lynne Hong had said on the phone. “Sykes has been—Um, he’s on leave. Ask for Elmer Norden.” Norden was a jerk, but he was as outraged as Sykes when those detectives cut short the Creature Comforts investigation. “No more cleaning until he gets here.”
Clyde stared at me, phone in hand. “But the lobby—”
“Is full of evidence. Don’t disturb it any more than it’s already been disturbed.”
“What if someone comes in?”
“This is more important than a clean lobby, Clyde. Anyway, we’re in Deadtown. Besides a few day-shift workers, everyone’s home sleeping behind blackout shades. Who’s going to come in?”
My question was rhetorical. But as if in answer, the street door opened. Lynne Hong, wearing her red parka, marched across the lobby, looking determined. Pretty brave of her to venture into Deadtown alone, even in the middle of the day.
“Ms. Vaughn,” she said. “I’m glad I caught you. I have some questions about our phone conversation.”
“I can’t talk now.” I was already late for my meeting with Daniel. “But I can tell you I was right. There has been another zombie death, and it happened right here. The night doorman is dead. His name was Gary, and that black stuff over there is all that’s left of him.”
Hong pulled a reporter’s notebook from her bag. “You said Gary?” she asked. “Last name?”
“I don’t know.” I nodded toward the doorman’s desk. “Clyde can fill you in. And Norden—Sykes’s partner—should be here in a few minutes. I’m late for an appointment.”