Page 2 of Strange Lights

I’m still standing in the entryway, swaying Eldi gently, like a sucker, when she startles. She swiftly kicks me in the ribs and simultaneously whacks me hard across the face with Goat. I get a whiff of barnyard stink with a side of coppery blood. Never mind the cuddling⁠—the loft will do just fine.

2

Calvin St. James

With Eldi taken care of, I should go down to my office and get something useful done, but I barely have the energy to kick off my ruined shoes and fall into my bed. My unconventional office hides in the secret depths behind one of the wall panels of my maybe magical Winnebago. I say “maybe magical” because I haven’t got a clue how the impossible maze of rooms and artifacts it contains exists. Advanced, unknown technology might be more accurate than magic. I’ve never heard of a magic object quite like it. But then again, who really knows all the secrets of magic?

The Winnebago itself seems sentient enough to warrant a nickname: She’s Winnie when she does something particularly helpful or infuriating. Sometimes I wonder if she’s really a machine or if she’s actually a living being. In any case, she came to me when I needed her desperately, so I try to respect the mysteries she keeps.

I planned to clean up a bit and rest for only a second, but when I wake, it’s to a pounding on the front door and someone calling my name in a loud, singsong voice. The sun shines through the shades with a ferocity that feels personal. My head is throbbing from a lack of quality sleep; it feels like someone is knocking on my skull, not the door. My scant few hours of shut-eye were haunted by images of lights in the night sky and ethereal voices calling for me to look up. I’m no stranger to a brutal hangover. I had a wild phase in my twenties like everyone else, but I didn’t even drink last night. It’s unfair; no one really warns you how rough the thirties are on a body.

“Reggie!” the voice calls with another enthusiastic rap on the front door. “Rise and shine.”

I know that voice. Calvin St. James. He’s a fellow traveler who runs a podcast and various social media accounts out of his Airstream. He, like me, follows the paranormal and unexplained. While my aim is to keep the supernatural tucked safely away from polite society, Calvin tries to shine a light on everything strange he runs across. His goal is to debunk legends and monsters with science and data while looking pretty doing it. I do not care to be perceived. Calvin lives for his audience.

When we first met, Calvin was determined to make me his archnemesis. Only after he mistakenly tried to pick me up in a bar, that is. Once he realized that our differing views on the validity of lake monsters were too big a hurdle for a new relationship to overcome, he chose a new dynamic: to be grudgingly friends. It took him a long while to realize I can’t be bothered to compete with him, even when he discredits something I believe in. He finally accepted that I’m not in the market for an archenemy, and we’ve come to a congenial understanding. Keep your enemies close and your friends closer, I always say. Friends make the most dangerous enemies. Calvin’s “If you can’t beat them, join them” philosophy aligns well enough with mine that we get along these days.

I have several other reasons for not begrudging Calvin’s presence in my life. Calvin is, inadvertently, part of a misinformation front, keeping the world of creatures and magic safely hidden. He works for my end goals without knowing it. He’d be so mad if he knew, which I can’t deny gives me a small twinge of smug pleasure every time I’m reminded of the fact. Sometimes his evidence is legitimate: Some monsters don’t exist, and plenty live only in myths. Other times his evidence is a cleverly planted false trail I’ve laid to lead him to the wrong conclusion, because magic and monsters undeniably do exist. Outside of that, I love to argue with Calvin for fun, debating the existence of ghosts and Bigfoot solely to rile him up.

Calvin can’t stand the “not knowing” that comes with being a sentient speck on a floating space rock. I hate that part too, honestly. The difference is that I’ve been forced to accept the uncertainty that comes with being human.

I have a confession, though. A not-insubstantial reason that I don’t mind Calvin’s habit of trailing me around the country is baser: He’s sexy as hell. And I’m a creature of simple pleasures. Might as well keep the eye candy around.

“Reggie!” he calls again, rapping the door loudly.

I groan. He’s persistent. Swearing, I stumble to my feet and wrinkle my nose when a whiff of Eau de Butcher Shop rises with me. I fell asleep in yesterday’s bloody clothes.

“Where’s the fire?” I call to Calvin as I scramble to pull on clothes that aren’t covered in bloody toddler handprints. I shove my ruined shoes in the cupboard under the sink and hastily check my face in the mirror. My hair is a lost cause. With my undercut, I look like a half-drowned river rat if I don’t style my hair properly. I scrape the top strip of long hair into a messy topknot, discarding the crunchy remnants of a dried leaf along the way. It will have to do.

“Come on, Reggie, I’ve been waiting all morning,” Calvin yells. He’s usually not this impatient. He must have news.

Eldi manages to sleep through the racket. I double-check that she’s breathing⁠—not that I’m worried or anything, but a murder charge wouldn’t be a great turn of events for me. Finally, I throw open the door right as Calvin is mid-knock yet again.

I snarl, “What?”

He takes an immediate step back with his hand still upraised, wrinkling his nose, surprise verging on fear flashing in his eyes. He looks a lot more composed than I do. His wavy brown hair curls across his forehead, and he’s dressed in dark jeans (without holes⁠—I don’t think I even own jeans without holes) and a striped Henley. With his tortoiseshell glasses and suede shoes, he looks ready to give a lecture at a prestigious university. I, on the other hand, look like I spent the night drinking to forget failing freshman English.

“Yikes,” he blurts out. Can’t say I blame him for that reaction, but it isn’t exactly flattering.

“You almost woke the baby,” I mutter as I shove my way past him, closing the door behind me.

“Rough night with Eldi?” he asks.

“You could say that. What do you want at this hour?” I say shortly. I’m not a morning person.

“This hour? It’s after nine. And I have a lead you’ll want to hear about.”

I gesture toward the cups he’s holding. “One of those coffees had better be for me.”

“I know better than to show up before noon without a peace offering.” He fails to hide a wry grin. “New tattoo?” he asks, his eyes on the new patch of brightly colored ink on my upper arm.

I nod and take the coffee. I’m surprised he even noticed the little doodle of Eldi’s that fit the empty space on my skin. Some people collect coffee mugs; I collect tattoos. The idea that the story of my life is written across my skin, tangibly recorded in perpetuity, is a comfort to me. It’s as if the mark my life experiences leave in this beautiful way somehow counteracts all the emotional scars I rack up along the journey. And I know it probably doesn’t say anything healthy about me, but I like the way the needles feel, the way the pain centers me, reminds me that I’m real. The euphoria in the absence of pain once it’s over is addicting.

“I thought you were headed for the werewolf sighting in Yellowstone next,” I say as I sip my latte.

Calvin may live out of his Airstream, but he doesn’t skimp where coffee is concerned. He has one of those industrial espresso makers you find in coffee shops⁠—a massive hulking thing that takes up most of his kitchen space. He swears it saves him money in the long run, but I tease him unceasingly about the indulgence. The only thing that would stop me is if he revoked my free-latte privileges.

“I was, but I’m thinking about a pit stop first,” he says with a pointed look.