Although I now existed nicely in the sun, I had gotten used to my late-night hours. My vampire hours. Turns out, working late and private investigations sort of go hand-in-hand. Plus, the night time just...suited me. I felt comfortable under the cloak of darkness...and exposed and vulnerable in daylight. After all, I was just a vigorous hand-washing away from losing my precious amethyst ring down, say, a sink drain, and then where would I be? Back to working the night shift, permanently. And shrieking in the light of day like the pathetic monster I am.
Now, making a mental note to use minimum amounts of soap—I relaxed in the back seat of my minivan and kept a watchful eye on Gunther Kessler’s two-story home.
The lights had been out when I pulled up thirty minutes ago. There was a Dodge Charger parked out front. The home was a turn-of-the-century wooden deal, with a wraparound porch and lots of shutters. A half-dozen wide cement stairs led up to the front door. Very typical for Old Town Orange, an area I loved.
It was past midnight and the kids were asleep. These days, I often left them alone. Tammy was thirteen and Anthony was eleven going on twenty. Meaning, he didn’t look anything like your typical eleven-year-old. After my son had lost his own guardian angel—long story—Ishmael, my ex-guardian angel, had imbued Anthony with all sorts of angelic powers, some of which had caused my boy to grow a bit taller than your average eleven-year-old. And to become far stronger than your average eleven-year-old, too. Hell, far stronger than even your average adult male.
Anyway, now my son acted as his own guardian angel, meaning, he could take care of himself and then some.
Of course, I’m pretty sure Ishmael did all of this to get on my good side, to sort of make up for his negligence in protecting me, back when I was first turned nine years ago.
Truth was, his gesture to help my son did go far. I appreciated it. My life was weird enough without having to worry that my son no longer had his guardian angel.
Now, he didn’t need a guardian angel. Now, my son was a hell of a force to be reckoned with.
And he was only eleven.
Sweet mama.
Now, I was on a quiet street in downtown Orange, near the offices of a private investigator friend of mine, Mercedes Cruz. Mercedes, or Mercy, was a different kind of strange altogether. She was, I was certain, a witch. Of course, she and I didn’t discuss such matters. Nor did we discuss that I was a vampire, although I always suspected she knew. Witches are like that. What we did discuss was our kids, our work, our mutual friends, all while eying each other suspiciously. Anyway, I knew she was doing good work here in Orange, protecting the legal—and illegal—immigrants from those who would take advantage of them. Like I said, good work.
Whether she knew of any local werewolves or not, I didn’t know.
Then again, I wasn’t certain Gunther was a werewolf. I had only the word of my dead ex-husband’s mistress. And even then, he’d only been talking in his sleep.
“What am I doing here?” I said.
Easy. Nancy had caught me in a lull. No pending cases, and certainly no paying cases. And, no, she hadn’t offered to pay me either. Still, try as I might to hate her, I just couldn’t. Truth was, with Danny now dead, most of my anger had died, too. As she’d said, if it hadn’t been her, it would have been another girl at Danny’s strip club.
I know how to pick ‘em.
Earlier, I had run Gunther Kessler’s name through my various databases. Outside of his downtown Orange home, there was nothing to suggest he even owned a home in Arrowhead, where Nancy claimed he had a “killing room.” A place where he turned from human to werewolf on each full moon. And where, apparently, he feasted on the living.
I drummed my pointed fingernails on my steering wheel.
The demoness within me was highly interested in this line of thinking. I could feel her following along, mostly approving of what she was hearing. She enjoyed death and destruction. She enjoyed feasting on the weak. She knew that fear made people less powerful, and her more powerful.
Yesss, came the single word.
For the most part, I’d been able to contain her in a small section of my mind, but she often figured a way out, slipping back into my consciousness like smoke under a doorway. These days, I didn’t mind when she slipped through. Other than being a psychopath hell-bent on taking over the world, I found her company...less and less annoying.
Shaking my head over the insanity of it all, I continued to watch Gunther Kessler’s home, all the way up through the morning.
Interestingly, not one but two cars sporting big, furry mustaches on their grills drove past me on the street. One was odd enough...but two?
I nearly Googled “cars with furry mustaches” when Gunther’s front door opened and he stepped outside. I knew it was him because Nancy had emailed me pictures of him. Not to mention I had done a Google search on him and found his Facebook page. Yes, even werewolves had Facebook pages.
If he was a werewolf.
Anyway, he was dressed in a suit and tie, with his long hair gleaming wet. A medium-sized man, he headed straight to his Dodge Charger parked in the driveway. He clicked it open, got in, and backed out.
When he was halfway down the street, I forgot about the cars with mustaches and eased away from the curb to follow him.
* * *
I didn’t follow him for long.
After a brief stop at a Starbucks—where I longed to follow him inside but somehow restrained myself—he soon pulled into the parking lot of American Title in Orange, off Main Street, about a mile away from where Kingsley worked. Here be monsters.