gaze met mine, but was too much the gentleman to comment on the intense, nearly golden shade of my eyes. Still, he stared a tad longer than social convention should allow.
“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
“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
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