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“—SpecOps-17: Vampire and Werewolf Disposal Operations. Suckers and biters, they call us. My friends call me Spike. You,” he added with a broad grin, “can call me Spike.”
By way of explanation he tapped a mallet and stake that were clipped to the mesh partition.
“What do they call you, Miss Next?”
“Thursday.”
“Pleased to meet you, Thursday.”
He proffered a huge hand that I shook gratefully. I liked him immediately. He leaned against the door pillar to get the best out of the cooling breeze and tapped a beat out on the steering wheel. A recent scratch on his neck oozed a small amount of blood.
“You’re bleeding,” I observed.
Spike wiped it away with his hand.
“It’s nothing. He gave me a bit of a struggle!—”
I looked in the back seat again. The wolf was sitting down, scratching its ear with a hind leg.
“—but I’m immunized against lycanthropy. Mr. Meakle just won’t take his medication. Will you, Mr. Meakle?”
The wolf pricked up its ears as the last vestige of the human within him remembered his name. He started to pant in the heat. Spike went on:
“His neighbors called. All the cats in the neighborhood had gone missing; I found him rummaging in the bins behind SmileyBurger. He’ll be in for treatment, morph back and be on the streets again by Friday. He has rights, they tell me. What’s your posting?”
“I’m . . . ah . . . joining SpecOps-27.”
Spike laughed loudly again.
“A LiteraTec!? Always nice to meet someone as underfunded as I am. Some good faces in that office. Your chief is Victor Analogy. Don’t be fooled by the gray hairs—he’s as sharp as a knife. The others are all A-one Ops. A bit shiny-arsed and a mite too smart for me, but there you go. Where am I taking you?”
“The Finis Hotel.”
“First time in Swindon?”
“Sadly, no,” I replied. “It’s my hometown. I was in the regular force here until ’75. You?”
“Welsh Border guard for ten years. I got into some darkness at Oswestry in ’79 and discovered I had a talent for this kind of shit. I trannied here from Oxford when the two depots merged. You’re looking at the only Staker south of Leeds. I run my own office but it’s mighty lonesome. If you know anyone handy with a mallet?—”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I replied, wondering why anyone would consciously wish to fight the supreme powers of darkness for a basic SpecOps salary, “but if I come across anyone, I’ll let you know. What happened to Chesney? He ran the department when I was here last.”
A cloud crossed Spike’s usually bright features and he sighed deeply.
“He was a good friend but he fell into shadows. Became a servant of the dark one. I had to hunt him down myself. The spike ’n’ decap was the easy part. The tricky bit was having to tell his wife—she wasn’t exactly overjoyed.”
“I guess I’d be a bit pissed off too.”
“Anyway,” continued Spike, cheering up almost immediately, “you don’t have to tell me shit, but what is a good-looking SpecOps doing joining the Swindon Litera Tecs?”
“I had a spot of bother in London.”
“Ah,” replied Spike knowingly.
“I’m also looking for someone.”
“Who?”
I looked over at him and made an instant judgment call. If I could trust anyone, I could trust Spike.
