I slid into the limo seats, not really enjoying the leather as I should. My palms were already sweating and I was so hungry that I was getting light headed. That coupled with the hangover was really fucking with my normal aplomb.
I looked over at my boss. He wasn't a tall man, or a handsome man, or in any way remarkable physically. However, if anyone, after meeting him, would be asked how tall he was it would be well over six feet, not five six, and he would be two hundred pounds of solid muscle, not one forty-five and lean as a whip. If he was a D and D character, he would have a fucking twenty in charisma.
“Ophelia”, Dammit. Why is he the only one I worked with who didn't call me sugar or angel or some other fucked up thing? “We have a problem.” His legs were crossed, his dark hair was perfect, his voice was soft like a shy teen-age girl's and I was still scared out of my pants.
“There is nothing in there that I did wrong. Who ever Grandma-evil is, she's pretty fucking unconscious, and the zombie-voodoo-whatever it was, is just a bunch of parts for Duffy to scrape off the floor now.” His dark eyes widened just a bit, and I knew that we both knew any bravado on my part was ridiculously false. I just wanted to go home. And get some pizza. And not be in this limo. Unless maybe it had pizza in the mini fridge and then would take me home.
“Ophelia, I didn't mean that at all. I'm sure you handled yourself as you normally do.” He looked amused, rather than angry. The alcohol was leaving my system. I really had to get out of this limo before I completely sobered up.
“My dear, you need to be sober.” He leaned back into the dark shadows of the limo, right before he leaned further into my fucked up little head. Ophelia, you need to use your talents for me again. Sober up....Mmmmm...I think I should feed you.
Yeah, one more thing you should know about me. I know about these people, and non-people, and little witchy Willow like people, because my head is full of whatever is in their heads. Well, not entirely. I can't read minds, but I can can tell if they are human or just pretending to be. I can tell, before I even see them properly, whether or not they are dead, or undead or a ghost. I can tell if they intend to harm me, or anyone else, and I can usually point to who the target would be if that poor sod is nearby. The worst part is the little pictures in my mind. Or, at least I think it's in my mind. Alcohol helps, but not completely. I just thought I had weird dreams when I was a kid, and my kindred, all those people in my family, they just thought I had a dark-Gothic side. Which was true, I did. The first time I saw my boss I was unfortunately stone cold sober. I was on my way to get pizza at Joe's, ironically enough, and I was a starry eyed, thought I was a worldly freshman out about town. He walked out of this little Japanese Zen garden that people like to neck in, right near the other pizza joint, the one I hate that has all the healthy shit on the pie. He stopped and looked right at me, and I swear I saw shapes just zooming right out of him, like tentacles on Cthulhu. They writhed and ducked and speared right into a dozen poor unsuspecting people like little deadly white powdered glass shards. Right into me. No one felt them but me. Well, I'm guessing about that, but I was the only one who ended up on the pavement. When I opened my eyes, there he was, smiling down at me like I was his long lost daughter.
“My dear,” he said in his velvety voice, “my name is Alexander Harris.” I think I laughed about that through the tears running down my face. I mean, come on. He might well have picked Van Fucking Helsing. It wasn't his real name anyway, not that a name really mattered. I knew what he was, he knew that I knew, and he had plans for me. He picked me up off the pavement and whisked me down the block to the old Mason's Temple building where he had set up his offices. (Okay, now think about that for a moment. A Free Mason's building. Lord, the irony.) Trust me when I say, I have reason to be concerned about my well being. It wasn't that he was evil, or good. He was old. Very, very, very, very, very, very, very fucking old. You don't get that way by being nice to freshman girls with a headache.
And use me he has. Repeatedly. But that's another story. Today, in the limo, with my hangover and injured foot, my ex-boyfriend outside, and no pizza in sight, I was getting another little vibe off my boss. I saw it before I had even touched the shiny chrome door handle. He was angry. If you looked at him, even up close, he would have looked calm, even lazily content. Unless you happen to be me. I was seeing blood, and people impaled on spikes, and the very flames of hell. Use me, he would.
No comments:
Post a Comment