Feeding Frenzy (The Summoner Sisters Book 1) (5 page)

I snort.  “About me?  There are seven people who range somewhere between dead, undead, and dying out there.”

“And we’ll find them.”

I nod absently.  “It doesn’t feel Celtic.  I think I’m going to officially remove them from the list.”

“No?  Don’t think they’re going under the hill?”

I shake my head.  “No...the MO is wrong.  If it was the Fair Folk it’d be like...people lured off from the group, or somehow ‘lost’ on their way home.  Making out with a dude and taking him away is a little more vulgar than they tend to be.  I’m also going to say not Hindu.  I’m not seeing a connection with justice or godliness or self-actualization of any kind.  Also, I could be wrong, I guess, but if the
Asura
were around, I think they’d have friends tagging along.”

“So, Mesopotamian, Nordic, Greek?”  I nod slowly, trying to figure out how it adds up.  “I’m going to say not Nordic,” my sister muses.

“Why’s that?”

“Similar to what you were saying about the Hindu pantheon.  What’s the joke?  What’s the lesson?  Where’s the giant?”

“Fair enough.  Which means it’s either a smaller pantheon, or Mesopotamian or Greek.”

“The smart money being on one of the big players,” she reiterates as she thinks out loud.

I nod again and park the car in front of the motel.

“So,” I turn to my sister once we’re back in our room.  “Which do you want to get: the goat, or the incense and silk sheets?”

“A sentence not oft spoke.  Since you’re offering, guess I’ll go for the things that don’t pee on other things.”

“A smart choice, and only fair, since you got the raven last time.”

“So much scat,” she whispers, her face tightened with pain at the memory.

I look over the pile of cash we took home from Finnegan’s two nights ago.  It is very small, and it’s not because the bills are large.

“Welp.  I don’t think this will buy us sheets, let alone a goat,” I comment.

“Do you think the Greek pantheon would accept mutton as a sacrifice?”

“Only if it was nice and lean,” I joke.

“Knew you were gonna say that.”

“But in all sincerity, I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”

“Say it, I know you want to.”  My sister rolls her eyes.

“Iocaine powder!” I assert in a bad British accent.  If you don’t know why that’s hilarious, I am adding you to my List of Things To Inspect In My Down Time, because you might be nonhuman.

“Is that out of your system now?” Lia asks dryly.

“For the moment, yes.  And onto the grim game plan.  We still don’t know what it is.  We don’t have any money for the banishing ritual it will need when we
do
know what it is.  So, I think we have to let the victims linger another day in limbo and work like hell for a good take tonight so we can end this ASAP.”

“You can really see why other people in the biz take to thievery.  It’d be like playing Sims with the infinite money mod—just, way more enjoyable, with less waiting,” Ophelia grumbles.

“Yes, but I’m not ready to enter in the necessary cheat code for that particular mod into our actual life, though.”

“I am weak…”

“No, no.  Don’t go there, sister-face.  Come on.  Have some self-respect.  Put on your onesie.”

A few hours and energy drinks later, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be for our first official night as beer tub girls.  We head over to Finnegan’s and help the rest of the staff set up for the Saturday crowd.

Everything starts off pretty standard.  In order to be a successful beer tub girl, one must stand behind a huge keg and pour beer with maximum cleavage exposed at all times.  This is apparently critical to the sale and consumption of alcohol.  Lia and I are positioned directly across from each other, which is nice—it means I get to keep an eye on her without having to work too hard.  I am able to perform the enormous task given to me and still adequately worry about the thing we’re chasing.  I even start to get into the job a little.  The energy is good in tonight’s crowd and it feels nice to be part of someone’s normal day.  I’m cracking lame jokes and smiling at lamer come-ons by patrons frequenting my tub, no insinuation intended.

After a couple of hours warming to our new jobs, we’re feeling pretty good.  I can tell Lia’s doing well, enjoying a little attention from the safety of her pedestal.  It’s sort of intoxicating, being one of these people who have no idea what could go bump in the night.  It’s loud, people are happy and ridiculous, and my sister is safe.  I let myself relax a little.

Then, one of our favorite songs comes on.

I catch Lia grooving a little bit.  When she eventually meets my eye, I start dancing too, a little more purposefully, if mockingly.

She issues me a nonverbal challenge and amps it up.  Her keg gets a little more popular as people notice her dance moves and begin cheering her on.

Appropriate escalation is a crucial part of all fights.  Dance offs are no exception.  She finishes her piece and waves me back in.  I stand, one foot on the stool, one foot on the keg and really start putting on a show, popping and locking, getting low.  I almost forget for a second that people are watching us—really, this is just a private war between my sister and me.  But then I look into the sea of faces staring at me with a mix of awe and judgment and start laughing.  I tag Lia back in.

While I’ve learned most of my dance moves from television and parties, she was actually a dancer as a kid.  She can’t remember going to competition or the hours she spent perfecting routines, and that causes me a twinge of regret.  But she still has the muscle memory, and I’ve made sure to re-expose her to all of the dance forms she knew.  So, she gets up on the keg and starts tap dancing like a modern, female, Fred Astaire—so I guess like Ginger Rogers.  The crowd goes wild.  I admit defeat, raising my hands in submission.  She shoots me a victorious grin, arms above her head.  Her cheering public bursts again into raucous applause.  I’m about to step down and get back to being scenery but she makes the universal expression to ask me what I’m doing.  Only then do I realize what she’s intending.

“No...no, that’s okay!” I try to communicate with her.  She stomps a foot on the keg.  The bridge of the song starts up and people are looking at us expectantly.  She looks so happy and reckless, like the wash of faces I see staring back.  My good sense wavers.  Damn you, Lia.  Then I laugh again and stand fully on the keg, warming up the crowd a little.

“Well then come on!” I motion to her.

Feeling a little ridiculous, I begin our syncopated routine, performed to date only in motel rooms and cornfields.  After a rhythmic sequence of shakes, rolls, and claps we both step back onto our kegs.  Getting our footing is a little weird—motel beds give, but they are not rounded.  She begins pirouetting on hers, while I go into a bridge followed by kicks and headstands.  As the song ends, she is standing with one foot on the keg, one foot straight up beside her head, and I pull up into a grueling one-armed handstand on my good side.  We stick it, the bar roaring with applause and cheers.  We get both feet back onto our barrels, and bow, laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of our public exhibition.

Which is when I first notice Gregor, live and in person, standing in the throng of people with a stupid grin on his mangled face.

It takes a while for Gregor to be able to get up close to me, what with the sudden run on people who want beer and to tell me in varying degrees of appropriateness that they enjoyed the show.  I make the most of this time, wallowing in my shame.  I try to get to a point of personal acceptance.  I just performed a synchronized dance to a pop song in a crowded bar, in front of a badass of legendary fame.  What did I do to piss the Fates off so badly?  Why can’t we ever just have fun?  How is it that every time my sister and I are just being us, someone from work shows up?  Clem and his untimely roadside meeting, Gregor in our bar...if there wasn’t already an agreement among the others banishers that Lia and I are hacks, there will be now.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I didn’t realize how important dancing was for monster fighting,” he shouts in my ear when he can get close enough.  I grimace painfully, unable to muster a better welcome for him.

“Oh...yeah.  Lia and I are experimenting with it.”

He actually guffaws.  Add “guffawing” to the list of things you don’t really know how to define ‘til you see it.  Over the crowd, I see Steve waving.  He gives Lia and me a thumbs up and puts his hand on his wrist, signaling break time.

“C’mon, Gregor.  Wanna chat outside?”

“You betcha.”

I smile weakly and weave through the patrons to the front door.  Outside, we trail away from the crowd of smokers and various drunk people until we have some modicum of privacy without looking too suspicious.

“So,” I begin.  “What brings you down to Roanoke?”

“Have a job I’m trackin’ through the area.  Got your email.  Thought I’d stop by.”  He cracks a lopsided grin.  “Feelin’ pretty good about that decision, too.”

“Well, always glad to make a fool of myself for other people’s entertainment,” I say sarcastically.

“This part of the gig?”

“Well...partly.  Our target’s been known to hunt in these waters.”

“But you coulda just hung around the bar if that was your plan.”

“I guess.  The other part is we needed some cash.”

“Easier ways to earn a buck,” he observes.

“Not that presented themselves to us faster’n this one.”

He quirks an eyebrow.  “You’re not enjoying the five finger discount?”

I clear my throat a little.  “No, Gregor, no.  Lia and I are sort of doing this all above board.  I know.  This is much more glamorous.  Make sure you credit us when you make the switch.”

“Can you see me fittin’ my gut in that little get-up?”  He laughs again.  “Naw, ‘fraid prostitution ain’t my callin’.”

“Whoa, no one’s prostituting anything.”

“It’s mighty convenient, bein’ able to practice both arts at once,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard what I said, or the warning I had tried to convey with it.

“Listen, dude, tips are for serving food and putting up with the public for hours on end.  That’s the full list of services I offer.”

“Of course.  Sure your daddy’s right proud of you girls.”

I cluck my tongue impatiently.  Part of me wants to get in his face for talking shit like that, but Gregor’s a scary mofo.  In person, you can really see how’s he’s cultivated such a reputation.  His face is more scar than skin, and he’s freakin’ enormous.  Seriously.  If he laid off the beer, he could probably give The Rock a run for his money.  “Getting in his face” would in fact require that I get a step stool.

“Gregor, I’m workin’, man.  Why are you here?  Got intel?”

“Might know a thing or two,” he hedges, sizing me up.  Like I said, I don’t have a poker face.  I can lie all right, but trying to get my expression to convey emotions I’m not feeling is a totally different skill set, and I’m missing it.  I can tell you the pen is blue when it’s black, and probably get you to believe it.  Ask me to look sad when I’m happy though, and it’s game over.  If ever I was fool enough to try to play cards with a professional, they’d probably know my hand, social security number, guilty-secret celebrity crush and my bank password before I’d finished counting the chips to deal in.  That being the case, he can likely tell that my initial reaction was to clock him as easily as I can see that he hasn’t seen a dentist maybe ever.

“If you’re lookin’ for a pay out, this machine’s closed.  Tell me or not.”  I try to swallow the angry words that threaten to spill out.  Humility is a virtue, after all, and I could certainly use a few more virtues as a general rule.  “But I’d take it kindly if you had anything that could help us find the kids.”

“I know it’s seven people missin’.  I know that whatever it is, it ain’t your garden variety spirit.  And I know if you keep backin’ it into a corner, it’s gonna get messy.”

I look at the large man warily.  “What are you saying?  Do you know what it is?  How do you know about the boys?”

He snorts derisively.  “I can follow a trail colder’n a witch’s teat—even through social media.  I ain’t that old.  I couldn’t rightly say what it is, exactly.  But I do know I been doin’ this a long time, and it smells like a bigger storm than you predict.  I’m sayin’ this now outta concern, but maybe you girls should leave this one to someone who can lift a little heavier.”

That
 really gets to me.  Sorry folks, we’re closed.  No more fucks to give.

“Hey, how ‘bout you let us decide what exactly our fightin’ class is, huh?  This isn’t our first match, Gregor.  We’re not fuckin’ amateurs.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ you were.  You did good work with those 
ghuls
, I hear.  I’m not tryin’ to take that from you.  Just sayin’ this isn’t a pack of 
ghuls
, is all.”

“Do you know what it is, or not?” I ask, gritting my teeth in a last ditch attempt to check my temper.

He clenches his jaw and purses his lips.  “No.”  He finally grinds out.

“Well then, I appreciate the warning.  We’ll be extra careful when we find these sons of bitches and send ‘em howling back to whatever weirding will claim ‘em.  Thanks for comin’ out.”

He looks ominously at me, and even as I walk away I prepare to have to deflect a swing, either physically or verbally.  Most people don’t talk to Gregor like that.  I definitely should not talk to Gregor like that.  But more importantly, he shouldn’t talk to 
me
 like that.

“Well then, take care now, Summer.  An’ watch out for that pretty little sister of yours.”

He hops back into the cab of his truck and splits before I can think what to say to that.  Was he trying to be civil?  Or is he threatening us?  It’s hard to tell with stoic types like him.  Either way, when I grow up, I’m gonna be big enough to beat it out of him.

Mad, I walk back in, looking for Lia.  I would like to rant for a second, and she should hear what he said in case she can glean anything else from it.  I look at her keg.  Someone else is on it.  I scan the bar area: no Lia.  My earring is vaguely warm.  I check the kitchen, the alleyway behind it, and the bathrooms.  The increasingly familiar feeling that maybe this is really it, I’ve finally lost her rises uncomfortably as I approach hysteria.

“You seen Lia?” I ask Maggie and a few of the other girls.  Nada.  I am in full on panic mode, with five minutes left of my break.

“Hey, Steve?  Where’s Lia?” I ask in desperation.

“She went on break a few minutes ago.  Think she headed towards the front door.”

My eyes scan the darkened recesses closest to the door.  There.  I see her.  Relief washes over me for a second, until the earring starts rapidly heating up.  My breath catches in my chest when I see who else is with her.  I begin power-walking to her as if drawn by a magnet.

His hair is blonde today, and long, tied back in a messy braid.  But the body is unforgettable.  The fucking monster is chatting up my sister.

  I grab a towel from a passing busboy and take off a few rings that comprise most of the materials that monsters detest.  I put them back on over the towel, so that I have a makeshift glove held on crudely by my rings.  And then I sock the thing in the face as it leans in to my little sister.  I follow through the hit, bum rushing it up against the wall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I growl at it.  Its hands go up and Lia slumps forward, like she’s broken free of a trance as soon as the monster’s fingers leave her hand.

“Whoa, hey, lady, we’re just talking,” the thing says, flinching away from my monster shock glove.

“What are you?  Why are you here?”  Ophelia is slowly recovering from the effect of his toxin, for which I send a silent prayer of thanks.  I came in time.  Thinking about the alternative makes me angrier, and I grab its arm tightly with my protected hand.  A quick look at the rings tells me that it is the oaken one that seems to be the most painful to him, meaning he is probably in the Greek pantheon.  This is confirmed as the arm I hold begins to blacken, and his eyes turn fluorescent blue.  With a small screech, he pulls away, hissing at me.

“Is everything okay?” asks the bouncer Lia had flirted with previously.  The black arm and blue eyes fade instantly, leaving what appears to be a man, my dazed sister and my towel-shrouded self in a small, intimate space.

“We’ll be fine,” I manage to say, not wanting some other poor civvy to become the monster’s thrall.

“I’ll be close,” the bouncer says significantly, giving the creature a menacing look.

The monster grabs for Lia when we’re alone again, obviously hoping for a human shield.  I slam my high heeled foot down on the part of the shoe I believe contains whatever sort of foot it’s hiding and am rewarded with another hiss.  It turns the table over on us, spilling drinks and breaking glass.  I move to intercept Lia before she smacks her head on the wall, making a sound to vent my frustration as the creature takes the opportunity to escape.

“Fuck!” I mutter to myself as it bounds out the front door.  I turn my attention to my shivering baby sister.

“Lia.  Hey, Lia.  Talk to me.  You okay?”

Steve chooses that moment to come over.  “Summer, you’re late.  Break’s over.”

I glare at him.  “Something’s happened to Lia!”

He looks at her in confusion.  She’s sweating, slowly shaking her head to clear it.

“Is she on something?  Is she drunk?  You know it’s against policy…”

“No!  Please.  Just get us some water and a chair.”

This is done, and Steve leaves us for a moment.

“Lia, hey chica.  You with us?”  I press the oaken ring into the hand I’d seen the thing touch.  Her skin turns pink for a second, but her trembling slows down and her pupils contract a little.  It’s a start.

“Summer?”  She finally becomes coherent.  I hug her, trying not to cry from the relief that washes over me.  “That was the weirdest feeling…”

“How are you girls doing?  Can we go back to work?” Steve asks awkwardly.

I look at Ophelia and she nods weakly.  Perhaps as an apology for having to be an asshole about sticking to the work schedule, he assigns us to the same tub.  Lia stands nearby and passes out Jell-O shots while I continue dancing.  I watch her carefully.  Aside from being a little drained, she appears to be okay, for which I offer another prayer of gratitude.  We only have a couple hours of our shift left, but talking is hard with the crowd growing as the night wanes.  Finally, it’s closing time and I practically carry my exhausted sister to our car.

“How you holding up, girlie?” I ask.

“It was so weird...it was like being on ‘E’ or something.  I could feel everything.  It was nice.  Also scary, though.”

So, we were right.  It’s a monster with a contact high.  I skip over the question of how my little sister knows what the drug ecstasy feels like.  Some things don’t need to be shared.

“And what the hell were you doing, talking to a guy when we know something is on the prowl?”

She groans.  “I knew you’d yell at me.”

“I’m not yelling.  I’m asking what was going on with you.”

“Right.  Not mad, just disappointed.”

“Lia…”

“Can we do this later?  I have a headache.”  She sulks and refuses to talk to me the rest of the way to the motel.

We get inside, still not speaking to each other.  Defeated, I change and sit on the bed, following Lia’s movements as I wait for her to thaw.

“I’m sorry I said that,” I finally apologize.

“No, you were probably right.  I was feelin’ overly confident, and he wasn’t dark at all.  By the time I got suspicious, I thought I could nab him myself.  I didn’t expect the drug effect to be that bad.  All the other victims had been drinking, thought that had something to do with it.”  She laughs bitterly.  “Looks like I owe you again.”

“Nah, it could have happened to either of us.  I know what it is now, and once it’s caught your attention, not much you can do about it, sans a full hazmat suit.”

“You know what it is?”

“Think so…and the good news is, I don’t think it’s a pack.”

“Okay.  Walk me through your ‘eureka’ moment and tell me what the bad news is.”

“Not so much of a ‘eureka’....  More like ‘if it walks like a duck’.…”

My sister waits impatiently.  She’s mad at herself for getting tagged, and pissed at me for being protective.  I get it.  But I’m still working out what all of the things in front of me mean, and trying not to get mad at her, too.  I mean, seriously.  We’re professionals.  I’m not against finding good lookin’ guys for a little quality time, but time and place.  Neither of which are at work, or while we’re tracking a face-changing varietal of psychotic sex monster.