Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (21 page)

Three hanging globes lit the room, each in milky glass.

I stood at the door surveying the occupants. The young man I’d seen enter was there. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and eyes burning.
Or were they glowing?
The clog woman either didn’t belong to the group or was smoking. A Korean man in a dark suit stood thumbing through brochures at a nearby table. I had my contact. He seemed professional and approachable.

“Excuse me, sir?” I pressed in and touched his forearm.

“Yes?” He responded in a quick burst. He glanced at me once and then looked away. He had a nice face, roundish with glasses that did nothing for him, and bangs that intruded only slightly on his brow.

“Is this the twelve-step group?”

“Yes.” He nodded, turned and sat on one of the wooden folding chairs, already gathered in a circle.

A woman with wild red hair, like a lucky bingo troll doll, but with a halo of gray at the forehead, stood from another seat and crossed the hall, offering her hand. “I’m Samantha Baumgartner, I facilitate
Supernatural to Supernormal, and Beyond.
We’re glad to have you. Sit anywhere you like.” She gestured toward the circle.

She thought I was here to join the group. It didn’t feel right to lie about my real purpose; wouldn’t it compromise the integrity? That was always a concern in advertising focus groups, sample size and predictability—too little is bad, too many and the results have been manipulated. Wouldn’t an outsider jeopardize safety, or comfort, or some shit like that? Shouldn’t a group be safe? Or had I been watching too much
Oprah?

“Oh. Uh…no. I came to ask some questions about a member.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” she said. A sour look spread across her face like someone had polluted her chocolate with raspberry. “You see, our group—like all twelve-step groups—is anonymous. We only use our first names, and even those are confidential to outsiders.”

She started to walk away, when I stepped forward. “Then I’ll stay, I’ll talk, whatever.”

The clog lady entered and shut the door behind her. From close up, she had the wide-eyed gawkiness of a muppet—Beaker. Her face was long and her hair too high.

“Hello Lenore. Welcome,” Samantha said.

“Thanks.” Her eyes darted in my direction. I thought they might roll out and over to my shoe. She sat and fingered an ironic lifeline on an open palm.

So there we sat: Samantha and Clog Lady, Blue Jeans and the Korean Businessman, oh…and don’t forget, the Undead Socialite. I began to sense an itch in the center of my back. It would certainly drive me crazy for the extent of the meeting.

Samantha began: “Let’s start with the Serenity Prayer, shall we?”

The group spoke, in unison, minus me, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Can you say: Crap?

“Now. Who’d like to start? Lenore? Richard?” Samantha’s gaze lit on one after the other.

Blue Jeans spoke up. Why wasn’t I surprised that a Southern drawl marred his speech. Was it the shit kickin’ boots he wore? “My name’s Richard…”

“Welcome Richard,” they all said, interrupting the man, and so did I. But the Korean businessman said “Witch-it” so I wanted to pee myself laughing, then flagellate with guilt.

“…and I’m a recoverin’ vampire. This week, I sucked the blood from a hamburger pack, instead of a human.”

They clapped and my mouth dropped open in horror and judgment. “Hamburger pack? What the hell for?”

Samantha’s head snapped in my direction. “Richard is working
very
hard on reducing his intake of human blood. He’s working on becoming super
normal
. Good job Richard.” She gave him the big thumbs-up, and me a suffocating grimace.

“But aren’t you a vampire?” I leaned forward onto my knees, for what I hoped was an empathetic stance.

“I certainly am, ma’am, I don’t need you to point that out. Samantha? This doesn’t feel very supportive.”

Samantha sat next to the vampire and gave him a hug while sneering in my direction. “Richard, we are all very proud of you.” And then to me, “Maybe our guest could introduce herself and explain why she’s here.”

They turned sour faces with blank eyes in my direction. Waiting.

“My name is Amanda, and I’m really happy to be with you here this evening.” I know that was probably laying it on a little thick, but hey, I was just trying to spread the love.

“Welcome Amanda,” said the group.

“I’m here because I’m looking for my friend.” There seemed to be some interest, so I continued. “I don’t have many friends because I’m new to this zombie flesh-eating thing, and she’s missing. She’s a succubus. Her name’s Liesl, and I miss her.” They seemed to be genuinely sympathetic. “While looking for her someone told me about another guy who went missing and thought it might be connected so I followed some leads on him and I met his girlfriend but she ran her car into me and she died. I went to his work, which was really scary, and then I nearly got killed in an elevator and then, a bunch of mistakes jumped me but that’s okay ’cause I got laid that night.” They hadn’t started clapping so I went on.

“I went to his bowling league and there was an incubus there with the scariest dick but I got some info from him so I guess he’s cool and now I’m here at his “supernormal” group
101
even though I’m pretty sure everyone knows he’s a wereleopard and in that prayer thingy you said that you should accept the things you can’t change and for sure he can’t change being a wereleopard any more than Richard can change being a vampire or Lenore can change her fashion sense.” I wrapped up my speech, with a quick point at Lenore’s clogs.

Blue Jeans guy was right; this group wasn’t very supportive. They looked shocked and judgmental.

But, I felt better. I really did; more relaxed, too. Maybe there was something to this group therapy bullshit, and sharing. A smile began to spread across my face. I just knew it would look welcoming and open the group up to a discussion. They’d be willing to help me now. I scanned their faces.

The group expression: Anger.

Samantha lit in, “We are horribly sorry about your friend but we can’t help you either. Oliver hasn’t been here in weeks.”

Then, a subtle change.

A hesitant voice crept from the corner. “I can not change been unday’d. Group stupid. I reaving.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Kim,” Samantha said, mothering. She shot a quick glance my way. Hatred. “You are doing so well here. You know what they say, fake it until you make it!”

“Then I be fake uh-til etern-tea. Fuck you. I outta here.” Mr. Kim pulled a cigarette from out of his suit jacket, lit it and crumbled the empty pack, tossing it into a mesh wastebasket by the door. As he strode out of the exit, a thin trail of smoke in his wake, he uttered a second, “Fuck you.”

Samantha, Richard and Lenore were tight lipped and their body language was closed off. Arms and legs crossed, looking at the floor.

“Oops.” I shrugged. “I guess Mr. Kim
outta
here.”

“Get out!” screamed Samantha. Her face was pomegranate red and seemed to be shifting beneath the skin.

“But, I—” I reached for my purse.

“Out!”

I stood up and straightened my skirt. I wouldn’t be treated like this. I was a celebrity for Christ’s sake. Lenore and Richard were smug and accusatory; both had crossed their arms, and shifted away from me.

“Do you even know who I am?”

“Get the fuck out!” she squealed and charged me with fists in the air. She seemed to get bigger as she approached, almost bear-like. Her eyebrows grew together, forming a single caterpillar across her broadening forehead. Her tits sunk to her waist and her chest puffed up like a pony keg. Her head engorged to the size of a Pilates ball.

Shit!
I thought. A werebear.

I rushed the door as fast as my stilettos would carry me. Speeding past McAlinden, or whoever the guy behind the bar was, and out onto the sidewalk. I expected to hear four fat paws pounding the linoleum, but there was nothing but the soft sprinkle of rain.

Peering back into the bar, I was happy to see that Samantha’s freak-out had ended at the group room door. She had returned to her human state and stood there flipping me off.

Unscathed by the nasty potential of a botched werebear attack—what was Samantha going to do, after all, lose her group space?—I settled in to drive back downtown. But my brain snagged thinking about Claire Bandon. Was she, in fact, completely unreliable? I sat in the car outside McAlinden’s and warmed. It did seem I’d been led down a path never traveled, and guess what, there’s no one here waiting at the end, no one to ask. No leads.

Crick, crack
. A ringed knuckle rap sounded on the car window. Passenger side.

It had started raining again; and the individual was obscured by rivulets of water on his side and the dewy musk of condensation on mine. The interior of the Volvo was subtropical by this point, Antiguan only without the mosquitoes—wet clothes can, certainly, create atmosphere. I pressed down on the window button. It slid into the sleeve of the door. A breezy hush entered the car.

The round face and angled eyes of Mr. Kim appeared. I hadn’t looked at him with any real curiosity before, and he wasn’t old, probably thirty five. His poor make-up job bled in the streams of rain, revealing a cage of blue veins.

“Get in,” I told the zombie.

He did as he was told. Wouldn’t you? Or maybe it was simply the rain.

“Thank you. It Miss Amanda, yes?” he asked. His clothes and mouth smelled of smoke. The heat of the car warmed that scent and carried it to me, served up like tiny nibbles in a dirty ashtray.

“Amanda Feral.” I extended my hand. I remembered making fun of his accent, and started to feel marginally guilty
102
. He reached out and shook. His hand was all thumbs. I mean literally, he had five fingers the size of thumbs, like the regular set had been ground down to stubs.

“Please to meet you. I sorry for disturb, I saw you sit in car. Thought I say thank you.”

“Thank you? For what, ruining your group?” I asked; then thought,
Did I just come across another clue, does everyone live like this
?

“For showing me right.” A thin trickle of water left his hairline and traveled to his jaw, before dripping onto what could easily have been a Members Only jacket, minus the epaulets.

“Showing you
right
?” I repeated.

“No. Not right.” His small mouth was twitching, and his tone was elevating. “Right, rike rightswitch.”

“Light,” I said, nodding. I’d shown him the
light
; that was so sweet. Now, if only I could do the same for Karkaroff or Lollipop, even. Lollipop certainly needed to see the light of subtle fashion. Even a dim beam would help. Mr. Kim spoke in that all to easy to make fun of accent, free of articles and verb conjugation; R’s shoved in where the L’s should be.

“Great, glad to help.” I waited for explanation.

He smiled and blinked.

And, I continued to wait for explanation.

“Anything else, Mr. Kim?”

“Uh, uh. I could. Uh, uh,” he scrambled, either searching for words or stalling to spend more time with me. “Uh…I know.” He raised his brows and pointed a finger into the air. “I tell about Mr. Oliver? Yes?”

“Uh…yes. You could, absolutely, do that. That would be
so
super great of you, Mr. Kim.” I put my hand on his knee to prompt him to begin. He looked at my hand and smiled. Then at me. Another smile. “Go ahead and tell me about Oliver,” I stopped patting and withdrew my hand. I slid it under my leg.

“It a sad, sad story. Mr. Oliver very dead, right now.”

“Dead! Shut…up!” I cried and twisted my body to promote full attention. “What happened? How do you know?”

“Oliver stay with me, for a while. Tell me he afraid of ex-girl-a-friend, Rochelle.”

Mmm-hmm. I thought.
Ex
-girlfriend.

“She follow him to work and to bowling alley. She cragee stalkuh gull
103
. One night. After come home from Supernatural to Supernormal and Beyond—bullshit, as you say—front door broke, scream inside. I look through crack. Rochelle pound Oliver body. He dead.”

He gesticulated wildly in the seat as he recounted the tale. Mimicking Rochelle’s facial expressions (insane, then evil) and the spryness of her maneuvers, and the strength of her blows. Which didn’t sound like Rochelle, at all. I would never describe her as spry or strong—whore, bimbo, idiot—those worked. Sorry, if that offends
104
.

“Then, I run for stairs and go out front of building. Hide in bushes. She come out and get in car, drive away.”

“Where’s the body now?”

Mr. Kim looked like a sheep guarded by wolves. “I eat.”

I stared at him for a moment and then acquiesced. It was as good a source of protein as human
105
. A world of food opportunity opened. I asked, “Is that it?” It would have been enough if it were. It was the most information I’d retrieved since the zombie outbreak and finding Shane in my car. So, I was pleased.

But, Mr. Kim shook his head. “There something wrong with weather woman.”

“Wrong? Well yeah, she’s a psycho bitch. What do you mean wrong?”

“After get in car…change.” Mr. Kim’s face lost its helpful glee. A frown and slow darting eyes took its place.

“Change?”

“Yah, change.” He measured his words out slowly, stressing each. “Face, head, body. Change. Make different.”

“You mean like a werewolf, leopard or bear? That kind?”

“No, change to different
person
. Rochelle like
Playboy
centerfold…” He acted out breasts with shy hands at his chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Fake tits.”

“…and, long yellow hair. New woman, short.” He brought tensed hands to his head to indicate a mannish cut, his facial features sharpened in expression.

“Was her face severe?”

“What means severe?”

“Sharp. Angry.” I was more hopeful with that description. I furrowed my brow and pursed my lips. That fit the image I already had in my head.

“Severe. Yes.”

Hmmm. Short-cropped hair on a mannish face—a T.L.D.
106
, if you will—and a professional shapeshifter? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Claire-fucking-Bandon.

There’s that name again. The route she’d sent me on led straight back to her. That bitch.

I kidnapped Mr. Kim and brought him along on my way in to downtown. I couldn’t help but think that I was in danger, not that he’d be much protection. But, two zombies were better than one in a scuffle—at least, it spreads the skin damage around. The fear crept in through my cracks, like a rat flattening itself. Maybe it wasn’t just the proximity to the story of Oliver’s bludgeoning death. But, the degree of manipulation, the lengths Claire had gone to pull off this ruse. And for what? I was freaked out. The woman had really run a number on me, not to mention Oliver.

The tracker’s house was lit up like a holiday sale, every window shone bright through wide gaps of curtain, even the second-story advertised party. The street was crowded on one side, with a long line of parked cars, Mercedes, Bentleys, and a few Italian sports cars, as slim as anorexia. I pulled into Clevis’s circle drive. The house was an unfashionable Tudor, with rough, crème-colored walls blocked in by broad stripes of walnut boards. Beside the entrance a tall window climbed to the second story. Celebrants could be seen dotting the stairs in party dresses and funerary suits, cocktails held high and clanking.

I changed my mind. Mr. Kim stayed in the car, for this was no concern of his, and I’d no intention of causing him harm, after the favor he’d paid me. I carried the coffin from the back seat, and knocked on the heavy wood door; my knock barely made a sound.

A woman answered, Asian, with a black shiny oil slick of hair that reflected light like onyx; her plump mouth was a pincushion of collagen. “Are you here for the shower, darling?”

“Um…” I looked around at the party guests, and saw no ribbon bouquet–carrying bride or expectant mother, and there was no rain, just then. Confused, I responded, “No. I’m here to see Clevis.” I lifted the box; she looked down at it, nodded.

“Follow me. I think he’s in the lounge.”

She slinked off like Ms. Scarlet and I followed, hoping to get a clue
107
. The house was splendidly appointed, compared to most houses—antiques mostly—though the main hall was home to an enormously lavish chandelier that hung like a pierced clitoris, among more sedate furnishings. In competition with mine, it would rank a close 100
^th
, but I’m being generous.

At the top of the stairs, Nick, the incubus from Lutefisk Bowl, chatted up a similarly blonde model-type. She giggled behind an oversized cocktail. I didn’t think she’d be giggling with that big pitchfork of a dick in her.

Just past the stairs, a passage led off to the right, its walls lined with small Picasso figure prints lit from above. It ended in a cracked door, light filtering from its edges, spilling into the thin space to create a checkmark across the floor and up one wall.

Inside, a small bald man—I hesitated to think the word midget, considering my track record of misjudging mind readers—sat behind a broad banker’s desk. He did not look up from his work. Behind him, the wall was plastered with street maps pinned liberally. Small colored flags dangled from the thin tacks.

This was him: the tracker. He looked up at me.

The Asian woman crossed the gap between the door and the immense piece of furniture and sat on top, leaning backward and accepting a kiss from the little man. Her dress, a cascade of chestnut satin, dripped down her legs. She’d be considered gorgeous if it weren’t for the overly enhanced facial features.
Cosmetic surgery doesn’t have to be ugly, people! Go for the natural look. Bold strokes are for Pollack paintings. Slight accentuations are much more attractive
.

I stepped forward and placed the casket on the desk. The man was brown on brown on brown, eyes, skin, suit, with only minor fluctuations in hue.

“What’s this?” he asked in the deep Scottish voice of a more robust presence. His eyes scanned from coffin to me.

“I’m Amanda. I called you about my friend a couple of days ago?”

His eyes were unblinking, unimpressed. Had he known I’d looked inside, even so far as to have fondled the amulet, worn it like a video star, he might be more animated, to my detriment. I decided he had no clue. So much for Milton Bradley.

“Liesl Lescalla? You sent me on a task?”

Still no response. The Asian woman smiled and looked me up and down. I decided she was Chinese; she had the posture of an actress. Hong Kong, maybe. She said, “Nice shoes.”

“…up at Lakeview Cemetery?” I stuck my tongue out of a menacing face and clawed my hands in the air. “Ghosts and shit all around?”

“Ah, yes,” he replied finally. He scrawled his signature at the bottom of a letter and folded it in thirds, slid it gingerly into an envelope. He sealed it with a wet sponge from a china bowl, and gestured to the casket. “Well, there it is.”

“There what is?” I refrained from asking what I really wanted to ask, which was,
Did everyone have to be so fucking vague?

“Open the box.”

“But you said, ‘Don’t open the box’.”

“Dramatic effect! Just open it.”

Asshole, I thought. It is really too bad that I pay attention to people at all. They are so disappointing. I pulled off the lid and lifted the pendant from the black satin cushion, handling it as delicately as an egg. I made sure to widen my eyes, as though I’d never seen it. “Now what?”

“It’s a necklace, is it not? So. Put it on. Go ahead.”

The Chinese woman nodded, a coy smile curled from her lips. I did as instructed, expecting something mystical to happen, a glow perhaps, or the sudden movement in the amulet itself, the emblazoned bodies writhing, something. In the end, not so much. It just hung there. I lifted it and let it thud against my ribs. Nothing.

“What is it supposed to do?”

“It’s just good luck. Like a rabbit’s foot.” He giggled and the woman laughed silently, covering her mouth. “Just kidding. It’s your ticket.”

I lifted the amulet and looked at it again. Ticket? Things were looking up. “For what, where?”

“To the nursery.” Clevis narrowed his eyes.

“Nursery? You mean like a garden center?”

“No, no. The nursery where you’ll find Liesl.” He scribbled a few lines of letters and slid the piece of paper across the desk. “Here’s the address. Do be quiet when you knock.”