Hannah Jayne (16 page)

The pipe was hidden under a stack of VERM propaganda.

The Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement. Vlad.

I worried my lower lip. Has VERM moved on from picketing and protesting to ... cleaning up?

“Sophie?” Nina was asking.

“Yes, vampires, no,” I said, forming sentences that would make my high-school English teacher weep.

Harley looked at the group of us and smiled softly. “Thank you so much. It really means a lot that you came here to hear my talk. I hope you enjoy it.”

“They all read your book. My copy. But they’re all going to buy their own. And the Kindle version, too.” Nina looked at each of us, smiling politely, the edge of one sharp fang just visible against her pink lips.

“Loved it,” Vlad said.

“Going to buy a copy for my mum,” Will reported.

“Sophie?” Nina prodded.

There was a table heaving under the weight of Harley’s books, and I eyed the cover, the faded images of vampires, werewolves, witches, and ghosts covered with big red X’s. I felt a snarl growing.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve been sleeping with Nina’s copy underneath my pillow. She doesn’t sleep so much, you know.”

Harley looked adoringly at Nina. “I know, she’s such a night owl.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Will said.

Java Script was starting to fill up and Harley ushered us to our seats—a few reserved folding chairs in the front row.

“You’re not planning on throwing your panties up there, are you?” I asked Nina, nudging my head toward Harley’s vacant podium.

Nina waggled her eyebrows. “Who said I’m wearing any panties?”

I shuddered, then rolled around in my chair and was half relieved, half terrified, to see Vlad and his cronies sitting in the back row. Their arms were crossed, and their faces were drawn and stern.

“Hey, Neens, has Vlad borrowed your car recently?”

Nina snarled. “He better not have. He still has a nineteenth-century driver’s license. Buggy certified.”

Just then, Roland Townsend, Harley’s sweaty little agent, took his spot behind the podium. His bushy eyebrows were just barely visible over the wooden rim. He cleared his throat, then fished another yellowed handkerchief from his suit pocket and mopped his brow.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please may I have your attention? Please?”

The slight din of conversation in the room quieted and Roland cleared his throat again.

“How many of you believe in ghosts?”

A few people in the small crowd raised their hands halfheartedly; others didn’t even bother looking up from their iPads.

“Okay,” Roland continued. “How many of you believe in the afterlife? Heaven? Hell? Spirits who walk the earth even after their corporeal being is physically dead?”

I cut my eyes to Nina, who stayed rapt. I stared at Will, then, who rolled his eyes and flashed me his “Can you believe this guy?” half smile

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, you know my client Harley Cavanaugh from his previous best sellers. The book that stayed on the New York Times Best Seller list for a record thirteen weeks, Ghost Hoaxes and its follow-up—also a best seller—Haunted Hoaxes. Now Harley Cavanaugh comes to you with his soon-to-be best seller, the book that blows the pearly gates off the myths of angels, demons, vampires, and the like. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Harley Cavanaugh to San Francisco and Java Script!”

There was a small smattering of applause as Harley came out from behind a maroon curtain with a handwritten EMPLOYEES ONLY sign safety pinned to it. He was grinning wildly, hands splayed, apparently under the guise that the group of us, two homeless guys, and a couple of tourists who recently walked in were his very adoring public. I decided that a latte and a donut (hey, dire times, okay?) would make this situation more palatable. When I turned toward the aisle behind me, however, I was shocked to see that every folding chair was taken, and there were several people—people who looked like they knew where they were and had actually intended to be here—standing in the aisles, grinning, and clutching copies of Harley’s book.

“Christ,” I mumbled, sinking back into my chair.

“We’ve all heard of ESP. Heck, every one of us has probably had a premonition that turned out to be true. Am I right?”

I craned my head to see delighted heads bobbing all around me.

“And does that mean each and every one of us here is psychic? Of course not! There is a sixth sense, indeed—but it’s not the one you’ve been fed through movies and tall tales and so-called ‘true accounts’ of run-ins with Big Foot, Dracula, angels, and ghosts. But don’t get me wrong. All of these things exist. As do aliens, and unicorns, and mermaids, and—and—”

“Leprechauns!” someone from the audience supplied.

“Witches!” Another hoot from behind me.

The energy in the room was heavy, tinged with electricity as people shouted out their mythological creatures. Though people were smiling, nibbling cookies, and pawing through Harley’s books, the reading started to feel a lot less jovial and a lot more like a hate rally.

I leaned over to Nina. “I don’t think we should be here,” I whispered.

Nina waved me off, her eyes intense, focused on Harley.

“Right!” Harley said, quieting the crowd, hands up, preacher style. “All of these things do exist.” He took a long pause, his eyes glittering as he scanned the crowd. Finally he pressed his index finger to his temple. “In the mind!”

I gaped at the eruption of applause and felt physically ill when I saw Nina, next to me, her small hands clapping away.

“You can’t be serious,” I hissed at her.

“Shhhh,” she said emphatically, not taking her eyes off Harley.

I sat through another forty-five minutes of Harley’s “patented technology” and

“psychological studies” that proved the nonexistence of half the demon population. Half the demon population that I had the privilege of validating week after week at the Underworld Detection Agency. He blew the cover off trolls—blaming the Brothers Grimm and the occasional land baron for creating the “silly little bridge dwellers.”

Naturally, he forgot to mention that trolls are not silly. As a matter of fact, they pride themselves on their intelligence (hence the constant questioning). Unfortunately, they do not pride themselves on bathing (hence the putrid stench of blue cheese and feet whenever one strolled by). He said that werewolves were nothing more than a Hollywood mock-up of an old Native American legend; ditto for witches (but they were the progeny of Disney); and my personal favorite, vampires.

I stiffened and glanced at Nina, who sat back in her chair coolly, as if about to witness a chat about organic gardening rather than her lover bash her existence.

“Now, we’ve all noticed the proliferation of vampires in the last five years. Vampire books, vampire movies, and, of course, vampire sightings.”

Nina’s attention remained fixated on Harley. Her pallid glow was obvious in the fluorescent Java Script light.

“Now, we all know vampires don’t glitter.”

Applause.

“Or fly.”

Applause.

“Or exist.”

Huge, hooting applause as though Harley had just made the revelation of a lifetime or had just moon-walked across Market Street. Harley sat back and basked in the cacophony of crowd adoration. His research may have been flawed, but his crowd control was not. He had the stage presence, the somewhat serious lip purses, and the easy stance of someone who knew exactly how to be the apple of his public’s eye. Even Will sat rapt, and Vlad and his cronies, though struggling to look cool and nonchalant, were clearly at attention.

“We know that the so-called vampire—or night walker, as you’ll often hear them referred—”

And I just have to break in here, because as someone really, really well-versed on what it is that vampires do (and more so, what they like to be called), I feel it’s important. Night walker falls with frightening speed immediately down to the bottom of the list. Just above pointy-toothed bloodsucker and Nosferatu. And for good reason, too. Vampires no longer spend their nights “walking,” pacing, prowling, whatever. It’s modern times and all the vamps I know have gotten with the program and either spend their evenings holed up playing Bloodsport and protesting various improper vampire images (Vlad), or boogying away at the latest vamp hot spot (Nina); this week it’s an underground club in the Haight called AB Negative.

Harley continued strutting around the makeshift stage as though he was about to heal the lame and blow the cover off Kim Kardashian’s week-long marriage once and for all. He dashed ideas of zombie takeovers, mutant fish, and the Rapture.

“And don’t even get me started on the succubae!” he declared, laughing as though we were all having a friendly Carrie Bradshaw–style chat over brunch and our Manolos.

I edged the tiny spiral-bound notebook I kept in my purse out and balanced it on my lap.

The notebook was a nod to Alex and the police officers who always carried a little leather-bound one to jot down clues and pertinent information. Mine had fluffy clouds and glittery pink kittens, but it was still able to carry the badass clues that a seasoned crime fighter like me could include.

Sophie Lawson, Undercover PI, All-Around Badass.

I opened to a blank page and listed all the myths that Harley debunked in his ser-mon—vampires, werewolves, succubae—then drifted off as he went off on a tangent about losing his luggage outside Transylvania. I tried to poke Nina with my pen when Harley said something about graveyard dirt in the overhead compartment (hello, cliché?), but she was still rapt, back arched, chest pressed forward, lips glossed and pursed, like she was hearing the Word of God or the sound of the Red Cross collection bus pulling up.

Java Script erupted into a chorus of applause and I was snapped back to Harley, grinning wildly; his mousy agent, Roland, doing the same, yellowed hankie hanging out of his breast pocket.

“He’s brilliant, don’t you think?” Nina said, clapping spastically. “Just so brilliant!”

I leaned over and lowered my voice. “Nina, you realize that we’ve sat here for”—I checked my watch—“over an hour while your new boyfriend reported on how you—you, Nina—could not possibly exist. How can you call a guy like that brilliant? I mean, he’s close-minded, and small-thinking, and—and—”

“So beautiful.”

Nina’s dark eyes were fixed on Harley as he leaned over, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, signing book after book. He nodded and grinned at the crowd. If I weren’t relatively certain that he was a grade-A magicless breather, I would have thought there was some sort of glamour going on.

“I have to get out of here,” I muttered.

I filtered through the people and pushed open the double glass doors out front, breathing in deep lungfuls of Muni scented air. I could see Nina through the window, buzzing around Harley; the book that turned her existence into a joke was clutched to her chest. Suddenly I wanted to cry.

“You okay, love?” Will asked, letting the door snap shut behind him.

“Don’t you think this is ridiculous?”

“What? That people would line up to meet an author? A little bit, but, you know, to each his own fancy, right?”

“Not that people want to meet a writer, but that they want to meet this writer. This guy’s a quack. His debunking is as serious as—as—”

“Most people’s proof that there is a fourth element?”

I crossed my arms and slumped against the building. “I guess.”

“You’ve got to admit, the guy found a niche. He’s got to be making millions. Not a single person has walked out of the store without a copy of that thing. And I heard they’re talking about giving him his own show.”

I blinked. “They’re giving Harley Cavanaugh a reality show?”

Will shrugged. “Why not?” He nodded toward the twelve-foot-high poster of Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist. “He’s debunked all the city myths. You have to admit, that’s kind of interesting.”

“He debunked the haunting of the abandoned army hospital in the Presidio. Big whoop. I could have done that. Ditto the whole thing about the Lincoln High rape and murder.”

“You have to admit the reports of people hearing toilet paper rolls unrolling by themselves is enough to give anyone the willies.”

I stomped my foot. “No one haunts a bathroom! And people are considering this guy a guru because he does some higher math and determines that vampires can’t exist? If vampires can’t exist, then who’s paying half my rent, huh? Tell me that Johnny DeBunkerpants!”

“Sophie, calm down. You’re attracting attention. And that’s not easy to do in this city.”

“And werewolves? Werewolves can’t exist because they would need a retro virus to fully rewrite their DNA? Oh, really? Then I spent the last five years chaining up, what, a hirsute who just happened to look fabulous in Armani and had a penchant for raw meat? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.”

Vlad pressed out the door next, head bent, with Harley’s book open and balanced on his palms. I felt my eyes widen and a fist of fire scorching my insides.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. You, Vlad? You don’t exist. According to this, you don’t exist!”

Vlad used his index finger to hold his place and flopped through a fourth of the book, holding it out for me to inspect. “And according to this, neither do you two.”

I stared at the text, my mouth falling open.

Angels—Fallen and in Grace—

And the Vessel of Souls

One of the most popular religious myths is that of angels not only as Guardians of the living but as Guardians of a mystical, mythical Vessel that is said to contain all human souls while in the stage commonly referred to as “limbo.” Texts abound documenting the where-abouts of this Vessel, and references have gone so far as to say that the graced angels, as a way of keeping the Vessel safe from the clutches of the fallen, will hide the Vessel as they say

“in plain sight.” Each iteration of the so-called Vessel of Souls is protected by a Guardian—a human graced and chosen by “higher” mythical authorities, charged with the protection and care of the Vessel. According to legend, the Vessel’s shape can shift and the Vessel itself can take any form. I have done exhaustive research on the Vessel of Souls and have documented here the many iterations of the Vessel and its legions of human Guardians.