Chapter 6: Morning Pep
Screeech! Jill’s whistle cut through my bleary-eyed fog, synched with the pop music she blasted during Morning Pep. I’d stumbled into the office, exhausted, still thinking about the incredible events from last night. But I made it to work on time—because I meant to quit. I just needed a quick word with Jill.
She never gave me a chance for that quick word. She hustled me into line with the rest of our small office staff and fired up Morning Pep.
Fine. I could do one last ‘Pep’ for old-time’s sake. Exercise would clear the cobwebs as well as coffee.
Jill jogged up and down the line in her spandex, blasting her whistle and berating us according to Concordance Therapy teachings: “You there, Amy! Get that ass in gear. Maria, you gold-bricking tart, are those houses going to sell themselves?”
She reached me last since I stood at the end of the line. That’s where I belonged as the lowest seller of the month. Underachievers received special attention in Concordance Therapy.
She jogged in place in front of me, eyeing me like a drill sergeant. “Rowan! How nice of you to join us on time for a change.”
I jogged in place. “Thanks.”
“How many houses have you sold this month, Rowan?”
“Not many,” I said.
Screeech! Her whistle pierced the room. “Zero!”
“Zero,” I agreed.
“Zero? I can’t hear you, Miss Zero Sales!”
“Zero!” I shouted.
“How many houses are you going to sell today, Little Miss Zero?”
“Ten!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Ten!”
“Something wrong with your vocal chords, douche-water?”
“TEN!”
After Morning Pep, I sat at my soon-to-be-empty desk and waited for my turn to wash up. As the lowest seller, I was the last one to use the crummy, makeshift office shower. By the time I’d get in there, it would be grotesque with hair, soap and shampoo.
Chalk that up to another inspiring day at Jill Thorman Real Estate Agency. My last day, I hoped. I opened my desk drawer, looking for things I wanted to keep. I started filling a box, thinking about the utter insanity of yesterday. At the same time, I scrolled through my email client, deleting personal messages.
Of all the days in my life, nothing even compared to yesterday and all its madness, from the monster in the house to hitting Colin with my car to the broken window and the startling revelations in the brick-lined chamber under the hill. It surpassed my honeymoon with Burke and the sorrow of my grandparents’ funerals. Yesterday existed in its own special category.
When Cherise had uttered her insane pronouncement about vampires, Colin whirled on her. Anger turned his face red as he sputtered, “What the fook did you say that for? You know it’s against the law!”
She’d laughed and waved her cigarette. “Who cares? She won’t believe me anyway.”
“You’re a fookin’ psychopath, you know that?” He clenched his fists, bracing himself as if expecting a fight.
He didn’t get one; he didn’t even get a reply. She spun on her heels and walked back down the brick tunnel, vanishing to who knew where. Her coffin, maybe. Their time machine. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
After she’d left, Colin assured me she was ‘full of shite’ along with other colorful expressions. His accent got thicker the more upset he got. He also proved strong and nimble, able to boost me up the wall and back into the pipe without any trouble at all. But he made no move to follow me up. He looked determined to stay down there in the brick maze.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
“Can’t,” he said. “I’ll go out the back way. Get yourself home, lass. Get yourself to bed. That thing won’t bother you no more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Right as rain, love. It’s taken care of. A terrible misunderstanding—can’t happen again.”
“Okay,” I said, unsure. “Can I still call you if—if something does happen again?”
The stress faded from his face some and he nodded. Then he turned and walked off into the dark.
I crawled back through the tunnels and pipes, over the creek and through the trees, and back up the slope to my own bed. I gave Pookie a treat, taped up my busted window with cardboard, dead-bolted the front door, and tried to sleep.
As I tossed and turned, I couldn’t help but think about Cherise’s claim in light of everything else. Colin’s feat of boosting me up a ten-foot ledge nagged at me. It reminded me of how he’d picked himself up after getting hit by my car. This was more than him being stronger than me just by virtue of being taller, of having more upper body strength. He possessed something beyond ordinary men.
But a vampire? He’d been out in broad daylight with me, right there at Lotomaw House, when I’d run him over. But then, I’d been half ready to believe he was a time traveler. I didn’t know which way to turn.
Eventually, darkness found me and I fell into a restless sleep. In my dreams, a shadowy figure chased me through an endless brick maze. An oily tulpa with a humanoid shape, showing a hole for a mouth and empty, crimson cylinders for eyes.
Jill sat down with a loud ker-flumph! on my desk. An avalanche of real estate listings and junk mail toppled to the floor. “We missed you at Boardgame Night last night.”
“Stuff came up. Wasn’t feeling well. Sick, you know.”
“Can’t keep your story straight?” she asked, eyes sparkling.
What can I say about Jill? She was my boss and my friend, but I didn’t like her. She’d introduced me to Concordance Therapy, too, which is where I met Burke, and what a great find that turned out to be. The only halfway decent person I knew anymore besides Mom and Pookie was the mysterious Colin. My timelord vampire with his cosplaying companion, his fake detective agency, and more secrets than the rest of Selkie Bay put together.
I sighed. “I was sick. Something did come up. When it rains, it pours.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Jill. “Are you coming to Concordance Therapy tonight?”
“I don’t think so.” I put my high school yearbook in the box.
“What are you doing with your touchstones? You’re not quitting, are you?”
“Well, I—”
“You can’t quit,” she said, grabbing the yearbook. “Nobody quits the Jill Thorman Real Estate Agency.”
“I’m dead broke—”
“Rowan, things have been tough for you, I can see that. I thought I was your friend. You can tell me anything, but you’re keeping secrets.” She put the yearbook back on the shelf. We were supposed to use our ‘touchstones’ to connect with clients. I had my yearbook, a Strawberry Shortcake doll, and a photograph of the Oregon Ducks football team to give the guys something to talk about. The touchstones worked. Give Jill credit for that one.
“I suck at real estate, Jill. I’m going back to junior college, study bookkeeping.”
“You can’t afford it!” she snapped. Then she recovered her composure, patting my arm. “Look, I’m sorry I stuck you with the murder house. Nobody can sell that place. I’ll give it to Maria, all right?”
“Sure, but—”
“No buts! I’ve got a new listing, a sweet condo in a new complex. It’s near the university and it’s priced to move. I already put it on Craigslist and the leads are pouring in. I know you can sell it. Anyone breathing can sell that place. It’s a no-brainer.”
I smiled. I needed cash. “Thanks, Jill.”
“No problem. See you at Therapy tonight?”
“I don’t know, maybe not the best thing right now.”
“Rowan, you’re backsliding.”
“No, it’s just—”
“Backsliding! Do you want to make a sale or not?”
I sighed. “I do.”
“See you tonight at six.”
I nodded, and she rose from my desk, wandering down the hall. “Maria!” she bellowed. “Where are you, you yeast infection? I’ve got a new house for you! Time to learn some colorful, local history!”
I started unpacking my box, worried about staying, worried about how I would tell Maria and Jill about the monster. I could not let Maria go out there by herself, not after what happened to me. I worried about everything.
I was answering an email from a prospective condo buyer when our shop bell tinkled. It was a small office and we could all hear the door chime. Amy at reception said hello. A familiar yet unwelcome woman answered back.
“I have an appointment,” she said. Cherise.
I froze, fingers gripping the mouse and staring straight ahead at the Outlook screen. A new email arrived, a newsletter from the realtor’s association. Ice water ran down my back as I stared at the innocuous bulletin.
Jill, a veritable Pavlov’s dog when it came to our shop-bell, burst out of her private office and power-walked into the lobby.
Jill, that’s not a prospective buyer. I got to my feet. But I stayed in my office nook, uncertain. What could Cherise want with us? Then I remembered—her name matched that of the mysterious owner of the Lotomaw House. Maybe she’d come to fire Jill for her year-long failure to sell the house.
One could only hope.
“Hi there!” Jill boomed. Her voice carried down the hall. “I’m Jill Thorman.”
“Cherise Braden.”
“You own the Lotomaw House?” Jill asked. Cherise must have nodded, as Jill gave a nervous laugh. “I’m your realtor, then.” I could understand Jill’s confusion—Cherise looked too young to own a property listed in mid six figures. Even in the height of last decade’s real estate insanity, it would be crazy to sell that much house to a nineteen, twenty-year-old girl unless she was an heiress or her parents co-signed or something.
“No,” said Cherise, “I don’t want you. I want my agent, the one showing my property.”
“That’s Maria. She’s my sharpest agent and she’s handling that listing moving forward. Maria!”
“No,” Cherise repeated, annoyance flickering. “My agent is Rowan Butterfly Sparks. I met her on the property the other day. She’s doing such a fantastic job that I’m taking her out for brunchies. We’re going to work on some ideas for selling the house.”
“I see,” said Jill, taken aback.
“What do you think about a lifelike diorama recreating the murders?”
“That’s an—interesting idea,” Jill said.
“Just in time for Halloween!”
I stood in my nook, stunned. But what could I do—call the police? Accusing Cherise of being a vampire would not go over well. Jill might even call County Psychiatric on me.
I grabbed my winter coat and stepped into the lobby. “Good morning.”
“Ms. Sparks,” Cherise said, looking me up and down. “How presentable you look today. So fashionable and professional, as always.”
“Thanks,” I said, knowing she mocked me. Last night, I must have looked a horror in a frumpy sweat suit, covered with mud and slime. God, Colin must have thought he was hugging the Swamp Thing. Or the Lotomaw House Monster.
Her own steampunk cosplay hadn’t varied much—blue cashmere replacing leather and an old-fashioned parasol replacing her bandoliers. She also wore a black beret instead of a top hat. When she reached out with one glove to shake my hand, I almost pulled away. Even through the layers of silk, her grip felt as cold as death.
“Splendid!” Jill said. But confusion and anger showed on her face. I’ll admit, it pleased me to see her off her game for a second. “Rowan is also, um, a vigorous agent.”
Just can’t bear to compliment me, can you? I looked at Jill. “I’ll get on that condo listing as soon as I get back.”
“Don’t worry,” Jill said with a grin full of twisted malice. “I’ll let Maria handle that one. You’ve more important things to do. Keep me updated, hmm?”
Jill giveth, Jill taketh away.
No doubt my boss was pissed off by me not telling her about Cherise’s “appointment”—Jill micro-managed us, wanting to know every detail of every client contact. But Jill’s anger didn’t matter. Far more important to find out what Cherise wanted—and maybe, just maybe, she’d be a bit more forthcoming than my mystery man.
We stepped out into a light drizzle. Cherise popped up her parasol, offering me shelter. After a moment, I accepted with a sour smile of thanks. We strolled along the wet sidewalk, headed toward the eateries. Jill’s office was in an upscale bit of mini-mall between Highway 101 and the town.
“Pick your poison,” I said. “Taco Time, the Flying Fisherman, or the Honolulu Luau Bar-B-Cue.”
“Jakarta Joe’s,” she said. “I don’t eat.”
“Because you’re a vampire, right?”
“You catch on fast!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you want, Cherise?”
“A white chocolate caffe mocha.” She kept walking. The umbrella went with her.
I hurried to catch up. “I’m serious! You didn’t drag me out here to talk about that house. Did you?”
“It would be nice if you simpering husks could sell it, but you’re right. That’s not why you’re here.” She offered no further explanations but marched on to the coffee shop. On the sidewalk outside, she closed her umbrella and shook it dry with such violence I feared she might strike someone.
I held the door open with my best plastic smile. Morning Pep had done some good after all. It put me in a business frame of mind, ready to cater to the whims of every indecisive, time-wasting buyer I’d ever shown a double-wide, backwoods rat-trap to. But somehow, I didn’t think anything in my real estate career would prepare me for “brunchies” with Cherise. I was not wrong.
Five minutes later, we sat in a corner divan with two white chocolate caffe mochas, her treat. A tattooed barista named Steve lounged at the counter. A handful of tired customers clattered away on their laptops, doing whatever it is those people do all day in coffee shops. We sat far enough away that no one could overhear.
I opened my mouth to speak but Cherise raised a hand, stopping me. Then she dumped some of her mocha on the floor. Opening up her jacket pocket, she removed what looked like a medical supply blood pack.
My jaw fell open and my stomach tied into a knot. Disgusting.
She squirted a dab from the nozzle onto a fingertip, offering it to me. “Taste.”
“I’m not putting that in my mouth.”
She shrugged and licked her finger. Without further ado, she squeezed a good third of the intravenous bag into her mocha, stirred it around, and took a long sip. Discolored coffee treacle flowed up the straw.
I stared in horrified fascination. It could all be an act: a bag of corn syrup and food coloring, perhaps. But somehow, I didn’t think so. After a few minutes of slurping her vile concoction, a flush had entered her waxy, almost pallid features. The touch of color improved her looks and I felt that unhappy feeling of not quite measuring up to a younger, prettier woman.
“Now then,” she said, fixing me with a winning smile. “I’m sure you have questions.”
So many rushed through my head. “You’re Colin’s sister?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Then explain. I’m tired of riddles and half-truths.”
“He’s my brother in blood.”
“Which means?”
“Which means we share the blood of the Braden line.”
“He’s your half-brother? Same father, different mothers? Something like that?”
“We Blooded are bound by spirit, not born in flesh.”
“You’re not giving up on this vampire thing, are you?”
“Would you like me to open up someone’s circulatory system as a demonstration of my supernatural talents? How about that barista? I despise hipsters; that’s reason enough. A grown man wearing a Rainbow Brite t-shirt is not ironic, it’s childish.”
I tried to steer her madness back on track. “Are you my stalker? The slashed tires? The broken windows?”
Her smile bared bone white teeth. “That’s not my style and you’re not my type. But I did play an itsy-bitsy role in all that, for which I apologize. After all, we’re to be sisters now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Colin didn’t tell you that part, did he?”
“He sure as hell didn’t!” I said, louder than I meant. Heads turned in our direction and Steve gave us a disapproving frown. I cringed, lowered my voice. “Colin only said that the stalking would stop.”
“It will.”
“Why?”
“Because last night he claimed you before our clan.” Her bright, green eyes burned into me, a vivid viridian, almost luminescent. “We can’t touch you anymore. You’re under his protection.”
“Under his protection?” It made no sense. Braden Services was not the police.
She glanced at her drink. “A shame, too. Your fear tasted so sweet and you have so much more to give, don’t you?”
I stared at her with undisguised horror. “You—fed—on my fear?” She nodded.
“I was not the only one to enjoy your suffering.”
“How?”
“The distillation is too arcane to explain to one such as you.”
“What? Why?”
“Fear flavors the valves of the terrified heart. Adrenaline tenderizes the blood. Terror is an acquired taste.”
“You’re—you’re the monster. The thing in the house.”
“I’m no shapechanger; I am a creature of reason and enlightenment.” Her eyes took on a glazed look.
I steered her back. “I saw something in Lotomaw House. Colin saw it too. You called it a sloo-something.”
“The sluagh is a weapon: summoned, shaped, and fed on fear. Nothing more. It cannot harm you anymore. Soon, it will grow hungry but you’re off-limits. That presents a dilemma. Tell me Rowan, how do I feed my beast?”
“I don’t know!”
“You have no enemies you wish destroyed?”
“What? No.” Not even Burke deserved what I’d gone through these last couple of months. Or maybe he did, but I wasn’t the one to wish it on him.
A pained look cross her face and she growled. For a split second she looked less than human. “Can’t anyone useful join this fucking clan?”
“I’m not joining any clan. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her composure returned and she took another sip of her mocha, like a cat playing with a dead mouse. My coffee sat untouched. I didn’t think my appetite would ever return.
At last, she said: “But you will join, you see. Colin pledged for you. He’ll take it slow, try to warm you up to the idea in a gradual fashion, sweep you off your feet with talk of moonlight and magic, eternal love, the dark embrace, and all that bullshit.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Colin—would do that? “Then why are you telling me?”
She laughed. “He wrecked my plans, why shouldn’t I ruin his?” She laid a glove over my hand. “Listen, sister-to-be. Colin’s pledge is the only thing keeping you alive. Otherwise, you’re just another mortal to stalk, kill, and destroy.”
I pulled my hand away. “Why me? What am I to you?”
“Less than zero. Invisible.”
“Then why choose me?”
“Patience, sister. It wasn’t my idea. Your true tormentor is about to arrive.”
“Who?” But she fell silent, sipped her mocha and toyed with her phone. I sat at the table, feeling ill, terrified, betrayed by Colin—if I could believe any of this shit. A minute stretched into two, three.
Then the shop-bell tinkled and my ex-husband walked in.