Page 24

Searching for the term Strigan gives me nothing. Searching for vampires drinking vampire blood brings up some ancient, long archived diary entries by some Spanish proto-Hunter, but he too is very vague, and sadly also very Catholic, so it’s all devil and demon and God’s righteous fury. Not a lot to go on, except for a rough estimate of the time frame. 7th fucking century. Which would make Cor easily more than one-thousand years old. That can’t be right.

I try looking for Cor’s name specifically, but get zero results on that one. Not surprising. If he is as old as I think he is, he comes from a time where Hunters didn’t ask questions or distinguish between bad and good monsters. And they definitely didn’t try to find out their targets’ names. Geez, the 7th century was hundreds of years before the Spanish Inquisition. I side-eye Cor, trying to imagine him back in those times. Boggles the mind.

Cor blinks his creepy black eyes at me, his face serene. He won’t give me any answers. Maybe he won’t ever. More than a thousand years of experience, knowledge, and wisdom, ruined by a silver box and some sadistic game. One day I will find out what happened to Cor and why, But today is not that day. And tomorrow, he might be gone.

I shake the thought off briskly and turn back to the tablet. As things are, I will have to decide which lead to follow first. I have the rotting vampires and the one that got away. He might be the serial killer we are looking for, or he might not be. Either way, the rotting vampires are somehow connected to Cor and his box, so chances are high I might find out something if I turn that way.

On the other hand, there is Asha and the cultists, and their interest in the weird jewelry Cor wore. Something bad is going on there, but I have zero clues what it might be. I know more about Cor and the rot than I know about cultists or the amulet Arzel was looking for. Makes me queasy. I don’t like not knowing things. It’s a librarian thing.

Cor grunts and pulls the armchair away from me, towards the windows. Then turns it so he can watch the outside, and slides into it, grunting lazily. Vampires don’t need rest, per se, and he could have stood there twenty years, motionlessly, if he wanted to. But why would he? It’s more comfy to sit down, undead or not, and this way he doesn’t have to worry about me getting riled up by his pacing. It’s… considerate.

Why does he keep sliding into my thoughts? Damn it. I grasp the tablet harder and shake my head again, as if that helps. There isn’t much I can research sitting down, and most of the things I can and would like to research would alarm either the Hunter tech support or Asha, which leaves me with a very slim choice of topics to look for. And one of them is the supernatural address book. It’s mostly shops and services that are supe-adjacent or supe-themed, which under usual circumstances wouldn’t help me much. Here, though…

I scroll through the list of shops until I find what I am looking for. 'Looke’s - Purveyor of gems and artifacts’ is one of twelve entries in the jewelry section of the shop list, halfway down and unassuming. I recognize the name, though, and I should have thought of it sooner. The remains of Cor’s amulet aren’t much to look at; they are just some clumps of twisted metal, but,… but. Looke is one of our consultant experts on magical items, and we usually use her to let us know how to lock up or dispose of specific dangerous artifacts without getting ourselves killed.

If anyone can make heads or tails of the twisted bits, tell me something about the amulet that makes things make more sense, it’s her. And maybe she can give me some pointers on why cultists might be interested in it. It’s not her usual gig, but maybe she’ll like a bit of a challenge.

I save the address and phone number into my phone and frown at the tablet, trying to remember what else Stanley mentioned that might be in the Market. If I have to go into the veil, and not just any simple one, but the veil, I’d better make it count. The less times I have to go in and out, the better for me. For everyone, really. Less temptation. So after Looke’s, I should make sure I hit all the spots I want to hit.

Didn’t Stanley tell me something about a cultist playing fang bait somewhere in the market? He didn’t tell me where, and there probably won’t be any record about it, but there has to be a corner where vampires like to hang out. And since they aren’t usually early birds, I’ll have to go there at night. I mentally move Looke’s into the late afternoon and glance at Cor distractedly. He is still sitting there, watching the windows, seemingly happy with just existing and unnecessarily breathing air his lungs don’t need. Kinda cute, how he huffs with each breath, as if he actually enjoys the sound.

Cor shifts a little, as if hearing my thoughts. I quickly look away and busy myself with unnecessary searches until I find some very fascinating old archive entries about cultist convents in early 19th century Albania.

And when I startle awake again, the room is dark; the night has almost passed, and Cor is gone.

COR IS NOWHERE. I stumble through the small living room to look out the windows, then through the kitchen. I check under the bench in the breakfast nook as if he would ever hide there, and I open cabinets and closets that are way too small for a person. My heart is beating out of my throat, and with my half-asleep blood pressure, it makes my head spin. My shoulder hits the door frame and then the wall as I stomp upstairs, always too slow no matter how fast I go. He isn’t in the bedrooms, or in the master bathroom. Which leaves the hallway bathroom as my last resort. I rip the door open as if that would raise the chances of him being there.

He isn’t. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I am out of ideas of where to look without raising suspicion, but I’m not sure it matters to me right now. I trample down the stairs and towards the front door, grabbing the door keys at the last moment before I hit the street outside and twirl in a tight circle, looking around. Nothing. I feel like someone is watching me, but it feels like vague interest and not stalking. Probably a neighbor looking out the window at the crazy, disheveled person squatting across the street. And no sign of Cor.

My heart hammers a few more times against my ribs, protesting the loss of adrenaline, then settles into a less violent rhythm. I walk up the block for three houses and until I can peek around the corner into the other street, then do the same thing in the other direction. I see three people standing in front of the pub that has obviously closed for the night. They are smoking cigarettes in front of the side entrance, paying me no attention. Probably the waiters, barkeepers, or whatever an establishment like that needs.

What did I expect, though? Neon arrows pointing me towards him, or screams and running people? Sirens in the distance? He’s not Godzilla. At night, and especially around here, very few people will pay attention to him. And he didn’t look like he’d go on a rampage, the last I saw him.

I almost walk by my shelter because I haven’t yet memorized what it looks like. The door is closed and no new lights on. No Cor in the window, stalking passers-by from his viewing spot. A breeze blows a bunch of leaves past me, sending cold shivers up my body, making me realize I may wear shoes, but no jacket or sweater. I will catch a cold if I stay outside like this. It feels wrong to just go inside, but it’s not like I have a choice.

I grab my jacket from the hook as soon as I’m inside, then freeze, chewing on my lower lip. There is no place I can reasonably look for Cor. If he is close by, he would have heard me looking and come back if he felt like it. And if he wasn’t close by, if he is out of vampire-ear shot, I won’t be able to find him. On foot or by car, doesn’t matter. He would be too far away to even guess where he might be. And if he was close by and didn’t come, he damn well won’t let me find him now. So what? Do I just… go on with business as usual?

After thirty minutes of walking up and down between the door, the window, and the upstairs windows, I decide I won’t have much of a choice. What I am doing doesn’t help, so the only way I will get anywhere is by changing tactics. Which means, I will try to sleep a little longer in an actual bed, and tomorrow I will hunt after clues. And hope that Cor appears out of nowhere.

The master bedroom has a small TV sitting on the sideboard, which spares me from using up my phone’s battery. I don’t do well in complete silence, it makes me jittery. At home it’s not as bad, because I know the sounds and will be able to distinguish between normal and not-normal, but here, in a strange house, I need some background noise. I have a rainmaker app on my phone, but the TV is better in this case because it also gives off a little light. Makes me feel a little safer, seeing my surroundings and having some noise.

As I change into my nighties, the TV drones on and on about some local rock singer, the biography blown out of proportion and dramatized to lure in especially bored viewers. I’ve never even heard of the dude before, and he doesn’t sound like I would want to. It might be my frayed nerves, but I just don’t find stars too interesting. I don’t dress down completely, because I might forget it every so often, but I’m actually on a hunt. There is no comfort on a hunt, only practical choices, says the Hunter’s Handbook. I put on jogging pants (for sleeping only), and a black t-shirt that has been washed so often, it is incredibly soft and almost see-through. I keep on socks and put my boots next to the bed, just in case I have to get up swift.

Then I settle in, scoot under the blankets, and blink at the depressing life of a person who died too young until my eyes droop closed.

I WAKE UP in almost complete darkness. Again. The TV shows some film noir black and white flick, sending shivering, pale light through the dark room, dancing over the old furniture and breaking against the street-lit windows. I feel like I’ve been asleep for either five minutes or fifteen hours, head hammering against the pulse in my dry tongue. A burst of adrenaline has me up on my feet fast enough to make me stumble before I catch myself on wobbly knees. I remember just in time to stop myself from flipping the safety on my gun. I don’t try to figure out how it got into my hands. Muscle memory is a scary thing sometimes.

I fell asleep. In a strange place. I don’t know where Cor is. But what woke me?

I shuffle forward towards the stairwell, grasping my Glock in a two-handed safety grip. My body still hasn’t woken up fully, and it makes me unsteady. Not a good combination with a gun, so baby shooter stance it is. Wouldn’t do to accidentally shoot someone. Or to miss a shot.

The stairwell lies in complete darkness, and the flickering TV in the bedroom behind me doesn’t help. I stupidly stop right in the door frame with the light at my back, waiting for my eyes to adjust and being a perfect target simultaneously. I bite my lip when I realize my mistake and skitter off to the stairs, doing my best Miami Vice impression as I roll my back along walls and point the gun at all those dark nooks and crannies. There is nobody here to watch me or mock me. But maybe downstairs?

My stomach doesn’t like the idea, but I don’t really have a choice. Or an alternative. Gotta go down there. Gotta look. I shuffle along the wall until my feet touch the first step, pointing the gun down at the first floor as I slowly and quietly move down the stairs, one step at a time. My brain helpfully supplies me with faint memories of which steps are groany and creaky, and helpful tips from the Hunter’s Handbook about how stepping on outermost sides of stairs often stops them from creaking. I manage to dodge most of the squeaky steps, except for two.

The first creak makes my heart plummet into my pants and freeze for a good three minutes. The second one makes me doubt my instincts. There is no way nobody heard that. So either nobody is here, or whoever is there already knows I’m coming and is getting ready to kill me. Or do whatever evil deed they have come to do.