Bones and Bagger (Waldlust Series Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter 28

“Bring us what they want.”  That’s what No Face ordered.  The ever-mysterious
they
.  Even if
they
stood up and identified themselves, there was the even more mysterious
what
.  I reran the conversation in my mind.  Gabbing with a psycho chick sits right next to mop-the-bathroom-floor on my list of fun things to avoid.  I’d made an exception.  Try as I might to make sense out of what Soyla had said, my mind fixated on the part about melting body paint.  I needed to get control of my mind.  Easier said than done.

Dry bones.  I’d said something about dry bones.  “So my love already knows,” Soyla had said.  I pushed away thoughts of Soyla’s melting paint—all but a few—and concentrated on dry bones.  The mental exercise got less fulfilling, but like all sacrifices, if it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t benefitting anyone.  Dry bones linked Sarah Arias and Soyla.

Not quite right.  Dry bones linked Sarah Arias’s master with Soyla’s leash holders.  Opposite sides.  I stood and opened the window to the balcony.  I call it a window but it’s really one of those floor to ceiling doors from a couple hundred years ago.  I stepped out on the tiny balcony that overlooked the street.

The last time I went through that window it was head first and my feet weren’t touching the ground. Courtesy of the diplomatic representative of The Seven.  The little bastard had to stand on his tiptoes to reach my neck and gain enough leverage to heave me out of my own flat. BTW.  Bastard isn’t a curse word.  At least not according to Nellie. 

Normal Saturday traffic passed below.  I glanced at the park across the street, the one to the right. Late autumn had turned the grass brown and the chestnut trees stood cold and lonely.  Bare of leaves.  Dry bones.  Sarah Arias didn’t ask me for anything.  She just recommended I not give the others what they wanted.  No Face wanted me to bring him what “they” wanted.  Pronouns are slippery animals.  I could have misunderstood “they” in a thousand different ways.

But I didn’t think so.  No Face meant “they” as in others.  Sarah Arias didn’t want anything.  No Face wanted what someone else wanted.  Soyla and her masters wanted something.  Everyone thought I should do the work. It took a few seconds for my brain to register an icy prickling at my ankle.

At first I dismissed it as a spring gust but the wind wasn’t blowing anywhere else.  And although the evening felt cool, it didn’t reach icy.  I looked down into a translucent furry face and two loving eyes.  The pant looked more like a grin as Karl completed what he’d been doing on my ankle and put his leg back down.  He’d finally learned to go outside. 

“Bad dog,” I said, and two things indicated I’d spoken louder than I intended. First, I heard a cough on the porch below followed in a few seconds by Herr Doktor waddling out to have a look at this unauthorized animal.  Old faker understood English much more than he was letting on.  The second bit of immediate feedback?  Karl decomposed on the front balcony.

Of course Herr Doktor couldn’t see Karl.  I waved at the old goat and he stood there for a few seconds gazing up and fighting the normal human DNA setting that would force him to wave back at me.  Satisfied I was still a crazy American, Herr Doktor disappeared back under the balcony. 

It would be a while until Karl felt confident enough to reconstitute, so I stepped over him and returned to the living room.  Helmet took a glance out the door for his dog.  Catching sight of rotting Karl, he stood up in outrage.  Someday I hope to introduce Helmet to Herr Doktor.  They’d love each other.

“I don’t need this right now,” I said to Helmet as I returned to the desk chair. 

I’d been getting somewhere when Karl interrupted me with his trick, and I struggled to return my mind to the thread. Demons hadn’t entered my frame of reference until Soyla’s team kicked things off.  They wanted dry bones.  In exchange for Sparky.  Not a fair trade, because the possibility existed you could strike up a genuine friendship with dry bones.

So Soyla wanted the dry bones.  No Face wanted me to bring him what “they” wanted.  The only “they” I could think of pointed back to Soyla.  Logic said if I was right about the “they” then I could safely assume No Face also wanted the dry bones.  Sarah Arias?  She wanted me to avoid any presentations having to do with dry bones.  Congratulations me.  But I wasn’t there yet.

I still didn’t know what dry bones meant.  Soyla and No Face could keep on wanting, and Sarah Arias didn’t need to worry about me handing anything over to anyone.  Not until I solved the mystery of the dry bones.  I examined my conclusion from different angles.  No holes.  They said the same thing about the Titanic.  Five souls depended on me getting this right.  Four, if I didn’t count Sparky.

On top of that, I had a command performance with The Seven in less than twenty-four hours.  The Frankfurt Marriott.  I hoped all the weekend rates were taken and they had to pay full price.  I picked up the smartphone and set a reminder to go off an hour before the designated time.  The Seven involvement.  A big omission from the nearly-perfect equation I’d derived.  It could reset all my progress back to zero.

The benefit of no time to spare is that you’ve got no time to spare.  If I left The Seven out of the nearly perfect equation then that’s where they’d stay.  I thought they were a wildcard anyway.  Sure, the cute little man-eater did break into my house and beat me like he’d caught me stealing chickens.  But that’s The Seven’s shtick.  The thing that powers their mystique.  But it just didn’t add up.

The Seven needed reasons to get involved.  I mean, I’m sure they had more important things to do, like judging European Explorer cooking contests…and shrinking a guy’s head takes a lot of personal involvement.  No way they’d mess up next year’s necklace with a trip to Germany just to kick my butt. The Seven wanted something.  They could get in line. One thing became clear as I ran everything through my mind. I needed a beer booster.

“Hey Helmet,” I said, “Bring me a beer.”

The ghost stood from the chair and dumped the newly reconstituted Karl on the floor.  He assumed the military attention pose and snapped a Nazi salute.  Looked a lot like how the Romans used to do things.  And with is arm still stretched nearly parallel to the ground he rotated his hand until his palm faced upward.  He then raised the important finger in the kind of salute even the non-Nazis among us would understand.  I don’t think the Romans would, though.

I walked to the kitchen.

Helmet had repositioned himself nearer the computer in the short time I’d been gone and I suspected he’d been opening up new web sites dedicated to Charlemagne.  Can’t blame a dead guy for taking up new hobbies.

I wanted to get out the door and get things going.  Thing was…where would I go?  I could find my way out of the flat and downstairs.  Once I left the building it would be like stepping off into the middle of the Pacific Ocean.  I knew I was getting close, but close never seems to get me there.

One thing I did know for sure. I had better things to do than wait around for my appointment at the Marriott.  No time for a business meeting, a lecture on the best way to baste a human leg, or whatever the reason Bram Stoker’s version of the Seven Dwarves wanted my pink body standing in front of them the next evening.

Desperation often drives me to stupid acts.  But then, stupid acts are different from acting stupidly.  Or something like that. I looked on the desk for my smartphone.  Not there.  It was sitting in the windowsill and on the charger. 
Right
.  I checked it.

“Way to go, Helmet.”

Soyla’s latest pic waited on top.  I navigated to the right screen and saw the message I wanted sitting in the queue. No surprise there.  My normal couple of dozen texts from the bagger gang wouldn’t be dinging in. It was a sure bet the mini hell No Face suspended them in wasn’t covered in the roaming plan.  Odd that Germany was, though.

I opened the text I’d received from The Seven, the one ordering me to the Frankfurt Marriott for a meeting the next day. Here’s what I typed:

“Unable. Call ahead next visit and we can do lunch.”

I pushed the send button and heard the noise indicating my little rebellion had begun.  Big rebellion against little people might be more accurate.  No way to tell if anyone ever refused a summons from The Seven.  No way, I thought, because The Seven wouldn’t let the person live long enough to boast. 
Put that in your rusty black cauldron
, I thought,
and boil it.

Scheduling conflicts resolved, I sat back down at the computer, and to the notion of a ticking clock taped to a case of dynamite.  How long could a person last in a demonic painting?  Not long.  Maybe about as long as the average nutcase criminal would be willing to put up with Sparky. Even if I did bring No Face “what they want” and he kept his end of the deal and released my friends?  No guarantee they wouldn’t come back damaged. 

Do the words Faustian bargain ring a bell?  I’ve already said I knew demons existed.  Not so sure about the red guy with a pointed tail and pitchfork, though. What I’ve seen of the natural and supernatural sways me towards yes. I mean, based on the demons I’d seen moving in and out of alternate dimensions? Denying the devil in command would be more a political statement than a demonstration of common sense.  Back to the Faustian bargain.

If I believed all those novels, plays, and movies, No Face and company would honor the contract.  To the letter. Sell your soul for a hundred million dollars?  It’s wired into your bank account—contract satisfied.  If the fatal heart attack hits a few seconds after transfer confirmation? Not covered in the fine print. But my choices were limited, unless I figured out how to storm a castle in an alternate world.

I glanced up at the computer screen without really seeing.  Faulty contract or not, I’d use brute strength to power myself through the situation and let the chips fall where they would.  Some comfort in knowing things don’t change. Good plan.  Something else bothered me.  The text I’d just sent, the one declining an order from The Seven.

Stupid.  So stupid, I thought, that it would take careful planning to commit an act of greater idiocy.   Unnecessary.  I could have bought twenty-four hours with no worry of interference from them by just keeping my mouth shut.  You bet they’d come after me with bare feet slapping and spears sharpened at five past nine.  But that would be five past nine the next night.  I checked my phone for the timestamp on the message I’d sent.  Five minutes prior.  No time, no space.  Way to go Einstein.

A noise outside my window alerted me that either a flying cow made a large deposit on the little balcony, or someone just landed there.  Since I held no American hostages I was confident it wasn’t a Navy Seal team come to collect on the bill with laser sights and silenced weapons.  Much worse.  I’d left the door open so I didn’t need to suffer the anticipation of a moving latch and creaking hinges. 

The little guy walked through the door wearing jeans and a sweater.  Probably bought in the children’s section.  A flash of cold white from behind and I watched as Karl played the guard dog and flew across the room at the intruder.  Furry moron went right for the face.  If saliva really is the first step in the digestive process then Karl’s kissing attack would break down the man’s cellular structure.  In about a thousand years.  Brilliant.

“Care for a beer?” I said.

Dark eyes stared back at me with an intensity born in a harsh jungle where people hunted each other for food.  I expected my death to begin with where the beating left off before the little guy left my apartment the previous night.  It’s how things are done with The Seven.  He didn’t respond.  At least not in any audible way. I think he turned up the glare a level or two.

“How about a bite?” I said. 

If I’d wanted to recall the stupid text I sent, it went double for offering a bite to a cannibal.

Chapter 29

The pygmy didn’t return Karl’s kisses.  Ghost dog got the message and sat down with tail wagging and pale tongue panting.  Perhaps there’s no word for rejection in doggie language.  Helmet did the walk/float thing and situated himself between the cannibal and me.  I’d never seen such a look of pure intimidation on Helmet and I suspected it may have been what caused the French to raise the white flag back in 1940.

The cannibal didn’t seem as impressed as I was. He considered Helmet for a moment and I swear I saw the hint of a smile cross his face.  He’d planned on making me the main course. Now he had desert.  Perhaps ghosts tasted like ice cream.  Little Dynamite crossed his arms and brought a hand to his chin.  Overly theatric for my taste but he did have both the stage
and
audience attention.

He did the whisker-rubbing thing until even Karl got the obvious message.  He yawned, did the tail-chase thing, and settled in for a nap.  When the cannibal final spoke, he did so in the same British accent he’d used the night before.

“I say. Stand down there, old chap.”

Helmet did not relax an iota.  I noticed his right hand sitting on top of the pistol holster attached to his belt.  I wondered if the Lugar could fire a substantive bullet. The cannibal spoke.

“Gaius Teutoberg,” he said, “how do you prefer to die?”

Great
.  Another in a long series of questions for which I had no good answer.  What would I say—I’m partial to slow strangulation and a simultaneous disembowelment?  And don’t forget to eat all of my heart.

Ridiculous.

“How do I what?” I said.

Little Dynamite took a step toward me.  Helmet stood his ground between us.  

“Come on man,” the little guy said, “I spoke clearly enough.”

“Never thought of it,” I said.

“A fair answer,” Little Dynamite said. “I accept.”

He accepted?  Accepted what?  A big question mark must have formed over my head because Little Dynamite exhaled loudly.

“The beer, man,” he said.  “Step lively.  A man could die of thirst in this place.”

“Right,” I said, and stood to fetch the beers.  “You two get to know each other.”

Helmet looked over to me and I mouthed, “It’s OK.”  But he didn’t relax the hard stance as I left the room. They were both standing there when I returned with two cold bottles.  Karl still slept by their feet.  I handed the little guy his beer.  The pint bottle looked gallon-sized in his cute little murderous hand.

“Thank you, kindly,” he said, and took a long draw.

That brief inattentiveness presented the best moment for me to attack.  I doubted a better opportunity would arise. But it didn’t feel right.  You didn’t raise a beer with somebody you were about to eat.  You’d need a fancy cocktail for that.  And Little Dynamite expected me to make a move when he appeared most vulnerable.  That would mean he’d cocked himself in anticipation of something stupid.

We didn’t clink bottles but the little guy did raise his in a combination of thanks and a half-toast. I raised mine too and felt stupid.  Why was I toasting him?  Because he’d save my sweet meats for last?

“Bernard,” he said.

Both Helmet and I looked around.  I should have gone ahead and jumped Little Dynamite when the chance presented itself. Now I’d need to face a second horror named Bernard.  I was as dead as Helmet.

“My name, buffoons,” he said.  The tiny smile returned to his equally tiny, round, murderous face and I understood he was having fun at my expense.  Two could play that game.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Buffoons,” I said.

I thought the smile would disappear but it only grew wider.  And yes, his teeth were pointed.

“Most charming,” he said.  “Do you mind terribly if I sit down, old boy?”

“Well, we were kind of busy,” I said.  “So why don’t we drain this one and let us get back to work.”

Bernard walked around Helmet to the computer.  I didn’t want him to see the Charlemagne sites and the photos Helmet had brought up.  But then I also didn’t want him in the flat.  Wish in one hand, poop in the other.  Which one fills up first?  Bernard sat down at the computer.

I felt stupid standing there staring at Helmet so I walked over to behind the little guy.  Besides, I had to admit I was interested.

“Not so close old boy,” said Bernard.  “There’s a good chap.”

The cheerful Brit had left his voice and I heard all business in the casual warning.  At least he considered me somewhat of a threat.  It made me feel better about the situation.  I mean, Bernard launched me out the window the night before with no sweat at all.  Things like that can bruise a guy’s ego.  Despite that, he’d just thrown me a bone by acknowledging his need for caution with me.  My turn to smile.

Helmet did stand down.  He quit with the Gestapo stare and made his way over to the computer to stand next to me.

“Good old Charlemagne,” Bernard said, and I saw his eyes scan quickly down the article on top and then zero in on the enlarged photo of the golden casket.

“Ever meet him?” I said.

“Heavens no, man,” he said. “I was frolicking about in the jungle when this guy ruled Europe.”

“Right,” I said. 

I thought my typical one or two word sentences would come in handy this time.  As cute and cuddly as cannibal pygmies tend to look, it’s best to remember the heartless man eater lurking below the facade. I’d try not to provide a reason for this awkward peace to morph into violence.

“Why so interested?” he said.

What to say.  The Seven certainly knew about Soyla, the Blood Feud, and maybe the dry bones.  I needed to deliver them to Soyla so Sparcius would live and to No Face to retrieve my friends from the demonic art project.

“No special reason,” I said.

Bernard swiveled in his seat to take a long look at me.  Real disappointment in that round face of his.  He sounded tired when he said,

“I’ve asked how you prefer to die.”

That statement made my stomach gurgle.

“You have three choices,” he said.

“They are?”

Bernard switched back to the pleasant voice.

“If you interrupt me again,” he said, “I will eat one of your eyes while you watch.”

“Sounds a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it?” I responded. 

Did I really say that?  Out loud? Bernard pretended not to notice I’d just interrupted him.  Maybe he spent a lot of time working out my three choices and he wanted the opportunity to impress Helmet and me with his preparation.  And then he’d eat me.

“The second,” he said, “You cease your tiresome mistruths and you respect my time by telling me what you think I should know.”

“Or?”

“Or we move to option three.”

I didn’t think I’d like that option a great deal more than the first.  The Seven enforced the secrecy standard vampires obeyed. Thing is, the rules aren’t written anywhere.  That benefited The Seven as much as it frustrated us more normal vampires.  Based on their reputation for ruthlessness in policing secrecy, Bernard needed to know nothing.  That left us with option number three.

If he expected me to jump at option two it wasn’t going to happen.  I’d not be spilling my guts.  Well, metaphorically, anyway. Best to hear option three before committing myself.

“And?” I said.  “Door number three?”

Bernard smiled. I don’t know if he intended it to look as hungry and malevolent as that expression came across.  If he did, he’s an Oscar-worthy actor.  If not, I’d do well to remember the raw intensity of a powerful being teetering on the edge of sanity.

“Door number three leads to your spice rack,” he said.  “I suspect I’ll need to improvise.”

Point taken.  The three options boiled down to only one choice.  Think about it.  I could interrupt Bernard and watch with one eye as he snacked on the other.  That could happen every time I opened my mouth and as often as I regenerated the missing eye.  The implied threat of option three and the spice rack was my execution followed by dinner for one at Gare’s.  Kind of classless to cook a guy in his own kitchen.

Option two—my telling Bernard everything I thought he should know—was the only option, and it did nothing to prevent the clever little ankle-biter from doing the other two as he saw fit.  Threaten, heck.  He could eat eyeballs like popcorn while I entertained with tales of demons, angels, souls lost in cursed paintings, and evil masterminds that coveted mysterious treasure.  There’d be a Hungarian beauty and the stooge.  Somebody always plays the stooge. I should change my name to Somebody.

A no-win situation.  Bernard would listen to what I had to say, assess the damage to vampire secrecy, and take appropriate action to clean it up.  He knew something about Sarah Arias already.  In fact, he’d shown her deference.  It was the bit about semi-public rumbles with the demon gang and bringing the whole bagger crew in on my condition that would seal my fate.  And theirs.

“Let’s talk,” I said.

“Smashing,” Bernard said.  He looked like a radiant pickpocket turned choirboy.  This guy had more looks than Lady Gaga. He took a sip of his beer and turned back to the computer.

“Now let’s start again,” he said. “Why the interest in Charlemagne?”

“Helmet’s new hobby,” I said.

“Helmet?”

I pointed at the ghost.  I could tell our first foray into option two didn’t start the way Bernard wanted it to begin.  He sat quiet for a moment while I’m sure he weighed whether I was yanking his chain.  Or maybe he was only wondering how many of my eyeballs it would take to ruin his appetite for the main course later.

“What about the white woman?”

“Who?” I said.

I’d honestly drawn a blank.  There were a lot of white women running around over the past day.  Not to mention Germany is a nation of white women. I picked one from the list.

“Soyla?”

Bernard rolled his eyes. Perhaps he wished he’d drawn the three-week trip chopping through the Amazon jungle versus a couple of days with the idiot in Germany.

“Not her, he said.  “Don’t you think we know all about her?  Think, man,” he said. 

Bernard literally swallowed his anger. I saw his Adam’s apple move and everything. If he’d expected an adult conversation he was coming to grips with the notion he’d come to the wrong place. 

“I don’t mean Caucasian,” he said.  “We’re beyond racial considerations.”

Great.  An equal opportunity cannibal.  The latest administration could have created a new department around that kind of affirmative action. Technically, Caucasian has nothing to do with skin tone, but I kept my mouth shut.  For once.

“White woman, man,” Bernard repeated.  “The watcher.”

That lit the light bulb.  “You mean Sarah Arias,” I said.

And speaking of my supposed guardian angel, where the heck was she?  No Face and his crowd were bad alright.  But The Seven? Little Bernie here?  By comparison, he and crowd could destroy the world—one person at a time.  Sarah Arias confronted Bernard the night before and now he called her a watcher. A bit more of her watching would have come in handy about the time Bernard landed on my balcony.  Probably out buying cigarettes.  My luck.

“Yes,” said Bernard. “Sarah Arias.”

That kicked off the short version of the long story.  I considered keeping Sparky out of it, but I decided old Sparcius should take credit for his work.  He’d started it all with that stupid knife joke.  The one that deflated my lung.  I thought he’d stay a few days and leave.  Gone for decades.  Toilet not flushed and the cat left pregnant.   Typical Sparky visit.  But it didn’t turn out that way.

So I ratted out Sparky.  He could fend for himself…If he got away from Soyla.  I outlined Soyla’s high-speed pass and the declaration of a Blood Feud.  Next came No Face.  That surprised Bernard, which made me sure he’d been watching me, probably from the hotel next door. 

I suspected Bernard left his room for only short stints and even then only at odd hours. Germans watch everything.  No doubt they’d notice a little cannibal buying an outdoor bratwurst in the walking area. That kind of news would spread.  Even in an Old World type of town whose people were more German and standoffish than tubas and beer belches.

Chances were that Bernard conducted an electronic surveillance.  I left the third story windows open to keep my flat cool and smelling fresh.  Perhaps Germans will discover air conditioning within the next thousand years.  It would have been simple for Bernard to hop up on the balcony—he’d proven it already twice—and snoop around.  He could copy my hard disk or install a program that would give him remote access to my computer.  He could monitor everything. Speaking of everything, he probably installed an IP camera somewhere in my flat. At some point Bernard had seen enough to warrant a more personal investigation. 

I didn’t see a way to keep the bagger crew out of the rundown of current events.  Rescuing them from the painting would be my primary goal and I had to make it clear how much I cared for the gang—and how much I trusted them.  Bernard wouldn’t believe I didn’t bring them in on my condition.  I’d end up finger-food and then sushi if I tried that route. And my friends would end up dead. Or damned.