Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (16 page)

Jagged. Busted. In tragic need of a
Vietnamese nail lady.

Maybe-Thad snapped and lunged, catching
his dorsal fin on the doorframe and shaking the hut violently, immaculately
folded clothing tumbled onto the floor, hangers clanked. I slammed myself
against the far wall and panted, heaving in deeper and deeper breaths until I
could feel my chest wall ache with pleurisy, the virus peeling off my dead
lungs and peppering the breaths of cold night air in a milky white mist.

“I didn’t want it to end like this, Thad,”
I said and leaned forward as close as I dared to the snapping shark, wedged into
the door and exhaled.

The breath poured out of me like a fog,
billowing like a cream flap of velvet in the air between us before taking on a
life of its own. Thin tendrils filigreed from the mass of virus, seeking life
and lung. The fact that a shark didn’t have lungs didn’t occur to me until I’d
expelled all the breath I could and clamped my hands against the clothing
cubbies to steady my shaking legs. I was hoping that whatever had created such
a freak show had seen fit to imbue it with at least that standard of human
tissue.

I couldn’t be sure it would work as I’ve
only ever destroyed a vampire in this manner before, never a shapeshifter.
Though I was optimistic my dragon breath would have some effect. Shapeshifters,
vampires, other supernaturals can’t normally survive the breath. It requires a
human to turn and when it doesn’t find what it’s looking for it gets pissed.
Like tiny little mafia enforcers without sexy British accents or tats.

The frame surrounding the door broke free
and Not-Thad pushed in further—I decided Thad was too fastidious with his
clothing to ever jeopardize his closet in this manner. His teeth snapped inches
from my face. The wind from it’s clamping maw blowing my hair back.

And then, finally, the breath took hold.

The giant creature lurched, fell to its broad
knees and seized like an epileptic. His giant mouth went slack, spittle
dripping from the exposed teeth as more of the breath coiled between them and
down his throat.

When uncertain of anatomy, the best sound
a zombie can hope for is the shuddering wheeze of death.

He flopped a bit and then stilled
completely. Dead. Before long the wereshark began to quiver, it’s flesh
shimmering like salmon gone bad and then it merely shed its legs and a tail
sprouted, fins unfurling flaccidly. Definitely-Not-Thad’s backbone arched and
then fell on the floor. Back to life-less—apologies for the weak Soul II
Soul reference.

“That did not go as I’d planned.” I double-checked
to make sure I had the note in my purse and then sidestepping the fish corpse,
I took my leave. Only to be confronted by a stunned and quite naked Thad.

“Who’s that?” He yelled, pivoting around
me to look at the mess and body on his floor.

“Not you,” I said glancing at his lengthy
but uninspired package. “Shrinkage doesn’t really apply to you, I see.”

“Stop.” He squeezed past and examined the
dead shark, flipping him over on his back. “Oh man. It’s Chuck. He owed me
money.” Thad turned hopefully. “Did he give it to you before he...”

“No such luck.”

Thad didn’t appear to mourn his friend’s
passing, which went along with the shifter’s nature. Death is sort of natural
to them, it doesn’t phase them. Whereas, you or I might be a little freaked out—let
me rephrase that—you might be. I’m usually the cause of death. Though,
for a change I’d like an invite to a funeral. If for no other reason than to
wear my vintage Dior little black dress. It’s probably an inch or three too
short to be appropriate but with a sad floppy hat, who’d notice that my panties
show when I sit down?

“I actually came to grab the note you
left. I’m going to match it up to Mrs. Winterford. I’m pretty sure she was the
one that used you like her henchman.”

“Bitch.”

“For real.” I pressed my palm against his
warm chest, feeling his nipple harden against the side of my palm. Cold hands
and all. “Could you do me a favor?” I asked.

***

I
palmed the folded note and pushed back into the Dunes of Hazard, hoping to
avoid a confrontation with my prime suspect until I’d located her typewriter.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.”
Mrs. Winterford sneered from her chaise lounge on wheels. She stole a disgusted
glance at the van, clearly visible through the window.

“Oh my god,” I said, smiling as innocuously
as I could manage. “I totally am. I’m indebted to you or something.”

“I’ll say.”

“I had a lady’s emergency. I’m sure you
understand.”

The woman clutched her pearls and twisted
them as she frowned. I kept nodding, held her eyes with mine and eventually
through that simple silent exchange she bought the lie.

“Has Wendy or her associate been up and
around?”

“The Mexican,” Mrs. Winterford spat the
word—I was vaguely reminded of the way my mother would say it, jiggling
her shoulders and pronouncing the ‘x’ as an ‘h.’ “She came up and ate every bit
of the breakfast I’d allotted for the three of you and then disappeared back
down the hall. She’s a strange one, ravenous, and I got the distinct impression
that she might be a criminal, you know…” She whispered the next part, her palm
directing the small hiss of sound away from the hall. “…From the barrio.”

I nodded. “You have no idea. I’ll be sure
to have Wendy talk to her about her manners and I do apologize for not asking
for the van.”

The woman squinted as I backed away into
the hall, keeping her in my sights until I forced my way into Wendy’s room,
stumbling into the traveling headquarters of her cloud syndicate. Monitors sat
atop nearly every surface, faces stared out blankly, trained on me. Wendy and
Abuelita gawped.

Wendy’s mouth smacked open “Really?”

“Sorry?” I scanned the faces again. No
one seemed genuinely pleased to see me. How could that be? “I just…how’s the
hunt going?”

Wendy rushed across the room and pushed
me back out into the hall, closing the door behind us and dropping into hushed
tones. “I’ve got business to take care of here, Amanda. I can’t be playing
games. There are vampires in need of a cuddly fix and you know what they’re
like when they’re testy.”

           
“I’ve
just made some progress on the case and—”

“On the what?” she cut me off. “You don’t
have a case, Amanda. All you have to do is make sure we’re out of here in,” she
glanced at her watch. “Six hours. On the road. No more hold ups. No wereshark
lovers. I don’t have time for this.”

“Uh, no problem. Our murderer is right
out there in the conversation pit.”

“You brought that fishy fucker here?”

“No. It’s Mrs. Winterford and get
this…she’s pretending to be handicapped.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

I shrugged. “Also, she doused Becky
Swinton in a bucket of chum.”

Wendy scowled, disgusted and then a
quizzical look took over. “Where’d she get that much?”

“I dunno. It’s pretty easy. You just put
the fish in a food processor or something.”

She slapped her leg, laughing. “Oh!
Chum
! Gotcha. Either way, that’s gross.”
Wendy backed into the room, stony and stabbed her index finger in my direction.
“Six hours.”

The door slammed in my face and it took
everything I had not to throw it back open and give Wendy an ear full. I hated
to admit it, but damn it if Gil wasn’t right. I was annoyed by the power shift.
I’d never been subject to her barbs and bullshit before. She’d simply
complimented my own horrible snarkiness, like the right wine with a meal.

Not so now.

And I certainly wasn’t capable of
reciprocating, particularly when she wasn’t funny. At all. How had I not
noticed? Then again, she was under a lot of stress. Whatever.

Asking Gil to help was out until dusk so
the task of finding the last piece of the puzzle fell on me.

Out in the living room, Mrs. Winterford
had succumbed to some medicinal slumber, leaving me wide open to search the
shit out of the Dunes of Hazard with her snoring as background music. Walking
as lightly as I could, I wound my way through the knickknacks and bric-a-brac
to the bar that serves as the bed and breakfast’s front desk opened the top
drawer and searched through the keys until I found one marked ‘master’.

The first few doors were merely guest
rooms, but eventually I found the woman’s office but no sign of a typewriter
anywhere. I dug the note out of my pocket and stared at the raised ‘s.’ It
seemed like the key to the whole thing. And yet, I was certain the old lying
bitch had done it. Plus, she was certainly guilty of pretending to be
handicapped. Probably bilking the government out of food stamps or medical.

I’d eaten people for much less reason.

And, I’d even arranged for the execution.
No extra charge to Mrs. Swinton. Now that’s customer service, bitch. I replaced
the key and slunk across the room to wake our murderous host.

“Mrs. Winterford?” I looked down at the
woman from a vantage possibly too near for her comfort.

The woman’s eyes sprang open and she
spasmed atop her chair like a fish struggling for oxygen.

“Tell me all about your writing, I’ve
heard good things.”

“You have?”

“Yes. You’re quite famous around here.”

“Well, I’m known for my tight.” She
paused, grinning lasciviously. “Plotting.”

“I’m sure of it. You know what?” I
brightened, flashing my pearly whites. “I’d like to invite you to co-headline
my event at the bookstore tonight. I’m sure everyone will be fascinated by your
latest mystery.”

If that didn’t distract her, nothing
would.

“Oh, no question they’d be interested,”
she agreed.

“Then it’s settled.”

“You’re sure, Mrs. Swinton won’t mind?”

“I’m certain. No worries. In fact, you
better bring extra books, we’re going to kill tonight!”

Sand
Dollar Books sat squat and shabby between, on the left, a palatial espresso
shop complete with gargoyles, roman-esque columns, and a matching Fiat Abarth out
front and, on the right, a modern steel and frosted glass teeth whitening clinic.
The store was like the disappointingly hideous child of beautiful parents, by
comparison.

“Jesus,” I said, to no one in particular.
“At least put a coat of paint on the place. Keep up with the Joneses.”

Even as the words flopped out, I realized
their ridiculousness. Mrs. Swinton could probably barely afford the rent on her
bookstore income and now she had a funeral to pay for.

A shame, of course, but hey, a shark’s
got to eat, too.

I get it.

I decided right then and there to be a
patron saint to my industry and make feeding determinations based on reading
habits. Haven’t bought a book in the last year? Prefer to see the movie? Books
are boring? Just go ahead and get on the dinner table, I’ll be with you in a
moment.

Of course, the other rules of the road
still applied: food had to be peripheral, on the edge of apathy. I couldn’t
very well snack on a philistine who’d end up in the papers. I have scruples—shut
up, I have a few—but I’m not stupid.

I pulled the access van up to the front
of the store and then decided to back up, blocking the decidedly beautiful
frontage of the dentist’s office. I couldn’t do anything about the coffee shop—caffeine
addicts will brave burnt out meth labs if there’s an espresso machine inside.
That’s a proven fact.

I glanced in the side mirror to see Abuelita
pull up behind us in what should have been my slightly dented Volvo. What I saw
made my wallet ache. The car was covered in graffiti, which clearly read ‘Zombie
Bitch’ on the front hood. The windshield was a spider web of fractures.

“Fucking Golden Boys,” I muttered.

Wendy spun around and groaned at the
sight of our ride. “Fantastic. Maybe we could get a rental?”

There was no way I was coming back to Las
Felicitas to deal with a car. I shook my head. Wendy gawped.

“Do you need help getting into your
chair, Mrs. Winterford?” I asked, shifting my attention away from Wendy’s
horrified expression.

On her opposite side, Gil cringed. His
forlorn face was pressed against the window, his body contorting away from the
woman, but not far enough to outrun her groping hand rubbing up and down his
thigh, her pinky giving his junk some come hither pokes.

“Gil!” I scolded. “That’s no way to treat
our hostess! Especially since you didn’t cough up that massage.”

His eyes pleaded.

I clapped sharply, drawing the woman’s
attention, though her claw didn’t recede. “Let go of his junk, Mrs. Winterford.
We have an event.”

She withdrew her hand with a snap and a
sneer.