correspondence.”
Sounds of papers shuffling. “If you can sign here, please, sir.”
“Fine. Give.”
More paper shuffling.
Then a sharp intake of breath.
“There you are. And thank you very much for your time.”
“Leaving so soon?”
“I have several more of these to deliver.” Sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. “I’ll let myself out.”
“You don’t understand,” began the raspy voice. “You can only leave when—”
The door opened, then slammed shut. “Start the engines. We need to leave. Now.” Laws was walking as fast as he could.
YaYa picked himself up from the ground, then began to run.
They made it to the SUV at the same time, jumped in, then Yank sped away.
Holmes turned around in his seat.
“What was it?”
For one of the first times Yank noticed fear in Laws’s eyes. They’d been in plenty of situations and the man had seemed always in control and capable of taking anything thrown at him. Seeing his fear stirred the butterflies in Yank’s stomach.
“What was it?” Holmes repeated.
“I think … I think it was a vampire.”
CHAPTER 15
WOODY’S BOATHOUSE, LAKE ARROWHEAD, CALIFORNIA. AFTERNOON.
Laws still wasn’t certain what he’d seen, but the uneasiness it had created within him had sent his Spidey senses thrumming. He’d seen Ms. Murphy lock the door from the inside behind him when he’d entered, but what she hadn’t seen was the wad of Silly Putty he’d shoved into the space where the lock would go. It was a good thing too, because it had appeared that Mr. Van Dyke hadn’t intended for him to leave.
Van Dyke’s appearance was that of a two-hundred-year-old version of the man in the pictures. The man standing next to Schwarzenegger and Nicholson and Magic Johnson had a vibrancy the man who’d stood before him lacked to such a degree, he might as well have been the husk of who he’d been. And why?
They sat in a booth in a corner of the bar by windows facing the water. They’d only ordered waters, much to the displeasure of the sixteen-year-old waitress who snapped gum like it was an Olympic event.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” Holmes said.
His back was to the corner, and he occasionally glanced up to see who was entering and leaving. So far no one had sat by the booth next to them. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t much traffic.
Laws took a drink of his water as he glanced at his three teammates. He was normally cool and collected, living by the dictate WWSMD—What Would Steve McQueen Do. Growing up in Hollywood, Laws had been surrounded by the uncool, the wannabe cool, and the supercool. Although he’d never met McQueen, Laws’s father, who’d worked on several of his films, including Bullitt , told him that the man was the coolest he’d ever met.
Laws began slowly describing the man’s appearance. “I just thought he was sick, but then as he was signing the document, I happened to glance at one of the pictures. I could see my reflection perfectly, but his was smudged. I remember blinking my eyes several times, thinking it was me, but no, it was as if someone had come and wiped their hand across his image.”
“I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection,” Yank said.
“That’s fiction written by people following the tradition of Stoker,” Laws said, unable to keep from being the Encyclopedia Supernatural.
“Our mission logs reference human smudging in reflective surfaces,” Holmes said. “But it could refer not only to a vampire, but to someone possessed, like with a demon.”
“Like that makes it better,” YaYa said. “Thanks for the clarification.”
Holmes sipped thoughtfully at his water. “No problem.”
“Let’s talk this out, though. If it is a demon, what kind? Given we’re dealing with druids, it could be anything, not necessarily those from Christian ideology. Perhaps like the thing that had you,” Laws said, nodding his head at YaYa.
The young man absently rubbed his prosthetic hand.
Sounds of papers shuffling. “If you can sign here, please, sir.”
“Fine. Give.”
More paper shuffling.
Then a sharp intake of breath.
“There you are. And thank you very much for your time.”
“Leaving so soon?”
“I have several more of these to deliver.” Sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. “I’ll let myself out.”
“You don’t understand,” began the raspy voice. “You can only leave when—”
The door opened, then slammed shut. “Start the engines. We need to leave. Now.” Laws was walking as fast as he could.
YaYa picked himself up from the ground, then began to run.
They made it to the SUV at the same time, jumped in, then Yank sped away.
Holmes turned around in his seat.
“What was it?”
For one of the first times Yank noticed fear in Laws’s eyes. They’d been in plenty of situations and the man had seemed always in control and capable of taking anything thrown at him. Seeing his fear stirred the butterflies in Yank’s stomach.
“What was it?” Holmes repeated.
“I think … I think it was a vampire.”
CHAPTER 15
WOODY’S BOATHOUSE, LAKE ARROWHEAD, CALIFORNIA. AFTERNOON.
Laws still wasn’t certain what he’d seen, but the uneasiness it had created within him had sent his Spidey senses thrumming. He’d seen Ms. Murphy lock the door from the inside behind him when he’d entered, but what she hadn’t seen was the wad of Silly Putty he’d shoved into the space where the lock would go. It was a good thing too, because it had appeared that Mr. Van Dyke hadn’t intended for him to leave.
Van Dyke’s appearance was that of a two-hundred-year-old version of the man in the pictures. The man standing next to Schwarzenegger and Nicholson and Magic Johnson had a vibrancy the man who’d stood before him lacked to such a degree, he might as well have been the husk of who he’d been. And why?
They sat in a booth in a corner of the bar by windows facing the water. They’d only ordered waters, much to the displeasure of the sixteen-year-old waitress who snapped gum like it was an Olympic event.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” Holmes said.
His back was to the corner, and he occasionally glanced up to see who was entering and leaving. So far no one had sat by the booth next to them. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t much traffic.
Laws took a drink of his water as he glanced at his three teammates. He was normally cool and collected, living by the dictate WWSMD—What Would Steve McQueen Do. Growing up in Hollywood, Laws had been surrounded by the uncool, the wannabe cool, and the supercool. Although he’d never met McQueen, Laws’s father, who’d worked on several of his films, including Bullitt , told him that the man was the coolest he’d ever met.
Laws began slowly describing the man’s appearance. “I just thought he was sick, but then as he was signing the document, I happened to glance at one of the pictures. I could see my reflection perfectly, but his was smudged. I remember blinking my eyes several times, thinking it was me, but no, it was as if someone had come and wiped their hand across his image.”
“I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection,” Yank said.
“That’s fiction written by people following the tradition of Stoker,” Laws said, unable to keep from being the Encyclopedia Supernatural.
“Our mission logs reference human smudging in reflective surfaces,” Holmes said. “But it could refer not only to a vampire, but to someone possessed, like with a demon.”
“Like that makes it better,” YaYa said. “Thanks for the clarification.”
Holmes sipped thoughtfully at his water. “No problem.”
“Let’s talk this out, though. If it is a demon, what kind? Given we’re dealing with druids, it could be anything, not necessarily those from Christian ideology. Perhaps like the thing that had you,” Laws said, nodding his head at YaYa.
The young man absently rubbed his prosthetic hand.
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