Midnight Bites (The Morganville Vampires)(115)
We were operating on a bona fide secret mission, dispatched by the Founder of Morganville herself, the vampire Amelie—an ice-cold queen of a lady, and I was not on her list of Most Favorite right now, but I was incidental to this plan. Michael was her agent. Hmmm, he’d looked so nice in a James Bondian tuxedo at our wedding. . . .
I had to shake myself and put away the hot mental image for later. We—or he, more precisely—had work to do. This carnival was two towns over from Morganville, so we had to be on serious best behavior. This wasn’t home, with its peculiar rules and dangers. It was the real world, which was in many ways more dangerous for us, because whatever the rules might be, we probably didn’t fully understand them.
This was one of those no-name traveling shows that still honored the old tradition of “novelty acts” . . . or, more properly, freak shows, which I’d read about in books. Books that responsible adults frowned upon, but I’d lapped up as a kid. Said “novelties” usually included ancient mummies that were usually fakes or so badly mauled it’d take that dog-headed Egyptian god a week to put it back together . . . and, of course, the usual set of human oddities. Real tall, real short, real fat, fake facial hair, fake shape-shifting acts . . . and this one had one actual, real vampire, locked in a cage just like the mangy tiger and the totally depressed lion. That was a “special” freak show, only for high-rolling customers who got off on seeing what they assumed was a guy in makeup biting the neck of a partner in crime . . . only he was a real vampire, and those were real victims, and Amelie wanted it stopped, immediately.
She wasn’t concerned about the human lives being lost, of course. That was never going to be any vampire’s primary concern. She wanted to rescue the neck-muncher, and make sure nobody ever caught a clue that there was such a thing as a real, genuine vampire in their midst. Oh, the carnies knew, of course—if they hadn’t known before grabbing said bloodsucker, they certainly had by the time they started feeding him victims.
If Michael had received instructions on what to do about that situation, he didn’t tell, and I didn’t ask.
Right now, we were paying attention to one of the carnies making the rounds, checking to make sure everything was locked up and turned off. He was a big, burly guy—a roustabout or a strongman—and he was carrying a flashy knife on his belt, plus a wooden baseball bat, the better to beat you with, my dear. From the look on his face when he came out of the dark ride, it didn’t seem that security was his favorite job in the world when nothing happened. He looked more like he hoped to find an excuse to use the bat on something that would beg him to stop.
Michael suddenly cocked his head. In the moonlight, his eyes still had small pupils, like I would have had in full sun. Great night vision, vampires. One of the many depressing advantages they had over the breathing version of humanity. He squeezed my hand, gently, and nodded toward the ride that Batty McMurder was just leaving. Oh, great. Perfect.
No, I really meant that. Perfect! I practically wiggled with excitement. I loved haunted house rides, because, hello, mechanical scares, nothing actually dead and lurching in there. Well, normally. Tonight might very well be an exception.
We hurried across the open ground. Michael didn’t make any noise, and I tried to minimize mine, but the thump of my combat boots still sounded way too loud. He stopped me before I jumped up on the deck of the ride, urgently making a shushing motion; I eased up carefully, and immediately saw why—it creaked . . . a lot. Moving slowly made the creaking sound more like the general creepy noise made by the wind, and less a neon We’re up in your business, sneaking around sign.
Michael kept hold of my hand, and led me under the leering glare of the Grim Reaper into a darkness that smelled like mold and engine oil. And boy, I mean darkness. It was a close, claustrophobic kind of inky emptiness, and except for the tight grip of Michael’s cool hand on mine, I wouldn’t have been able to tell it from space. No, I lie. At least in space, there are stars.
From the feel of the floor under my boots, we were on some kind of raised wooden walkway—probably a maintenance area. I felt a rising panic as we kept walking. What if something fell on me, like a giant hairy spider? It was Texas, after all, home of all kinds of stinging, biting, poisonous creatures. I wanted to hold up my free hand and sweep the air in front of me, but that was kind of useless; Michael was going first. He’d keep me safe.
It was a bit of a shock when I saw that the darkness was going a little gray, and at first I thought there was something wrong with my eyes, but no. There was a thin strip of light up ahead, on the left, like what would escape under the bottom of a door. It revealed an upright coffin with—appropriately enough—a cheap-looking mechanical dummy dressed in vintage Dracula drag, which would probably launch out at the creaking, trundling carts when the power was on.
There was a hidden door behind Dummy Drac.
We crossed the tracks, and I stepped carefully to avoid tripping any switches or getting my boots caught in the rails. I was glad I’d worn the heavy things, because a rat ran out of the dark and raced over my laces, heading for cover on the other side. I managed not to squeak, though there might have been a dry rattling in my throat. Might.
Michael took hold of the knob of the door and lightly turned it, then shook his head. Locked, obv. That posed no serious issues for him, but it’d make some noise; the glow of the light under the door made me less of a blind human liability, so I pulled my hand free of his and pulled the snub-nosed revolver out of my belly pack. I didn’t like guns, particularly, but they were real useful around humans who meant me no good. I had a knife, too, but if it came to hand-to-hand with Mr. Batty out there, it wasn’t going to be an even match, and I liked advantages.