Promise: Caulborn #2 by Nicholas Olivo Page A

here,” he gestured to the alley, “saw two large blue men throwing a car, so I think the incidents are connected.”
    I nodded, relieved that no one knew I’d been in the museum. “I’ve got someone I can talk to about this,” I said. “Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”
    “Good enough,” he said. “Thanks as always for your help, Mr. Corinthos.”
    I suppressed a twinge of guilt as I shook Frank’s hand; I hated being less than honest with the man. But it’s for the best, I thought as I pulled out my phone to call a cab. I wanted to go home, but there was something I needed to take care of at HQ first. I phoned Petra to let her know I’d be late, then called Megan. “Hey, Meg,” I said when her voicemail kicked on. “Could you ask Herb to call me when he’s got a sec? I ran into some nasty undead tonight and would appreciate his professional opinion.” I hung up and thought that maybe the reason my call had gone straight to voicemail was that Megan and Herb were spending some quality time together.
    After a short cab ride, I was back in my office. Sure, the night had a few rough spots, but I was upbeat. With the Keepers handling the promise, I could finally relax. And there was a chance that I’d be gaining new powers from the Urisk. What other psychic powers might they develop? It was an exciting prospect. I absently scratched at the cross-shaped brand on my forearm; strange that it hadn’t healed or faded after I’d visited the Bright Side. Normally, any injury I sustain is automatically healed over there. I decided I’d talk to Mrs. Rita if it gave me any trouble.
    I thought back on my talk with Laras. He’d been friendly, forthcoming, and convincing that the Keepers would fulfill my obligation to Megan. Still, that page in the Keepers’ language gnawed at me. I grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper and Glimpsed back. I began sketching out the page, the swoopy characters of the Keepers’ language looking like a cross between Korean, Egyptian hieroglyphs, and D’Ni from the Myst video game series. After about fifteen minutes, I had an accurate copy of the page in hand and was on my way to Gearstripper’s workshop.
    To say the shop was a mess would be like saying the Titanic had a small leak. Bare light bulbs hung from their housings, snippets of wire and bits of electrical tape were everywhere, and overall, it had the feel of a giant flea market that had been raided in the wake of a zombie apocalypse. There were several tables littered with electronic equipment in various states of disassembly, and the place smelled like WD-40. Gears stood on a workbench halfway across the room, connecting wires from the back of a computer into a cardboard box. “Hey, Gears,” I called. “Got a sec?”
    “C’mon in, Vinnie.” He waved me in without looking up. “Be with you in a jiff.”
    I picked my way over various electronic components that littered the floor. The walls of the room were covered with cabinets and shelves, canisters and components spilling from them. An autographed poster of Jewel Staite was proudly framed and hung above the main worktable. A second photo of her was tacked up on a corkboard, next to a photo of Petra and me. I wondered what Ms. Staite would think of having a gremlin as her biggest fan.
    Gears turned to me once I reached the workbench, his yellow eyes bright. He’s a lovable little guy once you get to know him, but he always reminds me of a Jim Henson creation gone horribly wrong. Coming in at just over eighteen inches tall with green skin, three-fingered hands, and ears that stick way out, Gears wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. But under that is a technological genius the likes of which the world has rarely seen. And when he’d done something really clever, his sharp-toothed grin split his face in half, like it was right now. “You look like the cat that just swallowed the canary,” I said. “What are you working on?”
    Gears pulled a