6 Under The Final Moon (2 page)

“What do you know about Lance D. Armentrout?”

Heat pricked all over my body. Though I had just finished that case at a local high school, going undercover as a substitute teacher, I’d “taught” English, not social studies.

And either way, I had never done well on pop quizzes.

“Uh, he’s the prime minister of—”

Alex cocked a brow. “I’m not testing you, I’m asking you. Never mind. Armentrout was a homeless vet who took up residence at the bottom of the Tenderloin.”

San Francisco’s Tenderloin district is just north of Market Street, sitting somewhere between seedy and squalid. Most tourists avoid it and some youthful hipsters or city planners were always trying to gentrify it, but nothing ever took. It was generally a spot where the homeless gathered, some drugs changed hands, or a hooker shivered on a street corner, but not necessarily a hot spot for major crime.

I felt that unfortunate spark of bad walking up my spine. “Was?”

Alex opened his ever-present manila file folder and handed me a photograph. “It was two weeks ago Sunday. The ME’s report just came in.”

I glanced down at the photo and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was a half-charred body sitting on the sidewalk, what remained of his torso propped up against a pink stucco wall advertising
Panaderia Chavez
. Bile burned at the back of my throat. I slid the photo back to Alex.

“What happened? I mean, he obviously was burned to death but . . .”

Alex shook his head. “Witnesses said it was spontaneous combustion.”

“Spontaneous combustion? That’s not a real thing—is it? And wouldn’t that mean—” I made the kindest gesture I could think of for a person exploding.

“Yes, it exists—sort of, and no, it doesn’t always involve exploding. But it wasn’t the fire that killed him.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. Witnesses said he was sweating, then he started to shake. They said his skin was hot to the touch and, according to this person,” Alex read from his file, “‘his skin was smoking. Smoke was coming from his arms and his clothes started to burn. We tried to get his shirt off, but it stuck to him.’”

I pressed my hands against my mouth, willing the sick to stay down.

Alex continued reading. “‘It was like he was boiling, first, and then he was on fire. I never seen anything like it.’”

“That’s awful. So, wait, if the combustion didn’t cause his death, what did?”

Alex pulled out the medical examiner’s report and slid it toward me. I glanced over it, clamping my jaws shut. “Oh my God—his blood actually boiled?”

“The ME had never seen anything like it either, but apparently, it does happen.”

I immediately felt heat shoot through my body. “What causes it?”

Alex shrugged. “Don’t know. Neither did the ME. He is going to do some research and get back to me.”

I could feel the sweat beading up at my hairline and moistening my upper lip. I could feel the flush in my cheeks and I used my hand to fan myself before going to the water cooler and drinking a full glass.

“You okay?”

I batted Alex away, waiting for the flames to start shooting from my eyes or wherever spontaneous combustion starts, but nothing did. Finally, I said, “That’s awful, but if spontaneous combustion can happen, then what does this have to do with me or with the UDA?” I shifted my weight, thinking. “I am almost totally positive that there are no demons who spontaneously combust as a means of death. The guy is dead, right? Still?”

Alex nodded casually as though we were having a perfectly normal conversation. Which, unfortunately, we were.

“Yeah. Guy’s still dead.”

I shrugged. “So, why the sharesy?”

I know it sounded callous, but Alex and I worked together on a strictly supernatural basis. I was called in if there was evidence of magic, witchcraft, Satan, or some idiot’s need to rule the world with a couple of black IKEA candles and some virgin’s blood. But if a case was standard, that was all Alex and the San Francisco Police Department’s jurisdiction.

“Well, Armentrout was ultimately identified by his dental records.” Alex then passed me that sheet, stamped with a military ID and government info. There was the standard image of disembodied teeth—top set and bottom—teeth randomly marked by ballpoint-ink X’s for a missing molar and a handful of cavities. But the ballpoint pen had been used for something else, too—Ford’s dentist had drawn two narrow images, one on each incisor. Rounded at the gum line, then each tapering to a fine point.

“He had fangs.”

Alex nodded.

“Vampire.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

I stood. “I’ll bring this down to Sampson. I can’t recall a Lance Armentrout in any of our records, but Sampson’s got that bear-trap memory. Maybe he’ll know.”

Alex stood, but his face remained unchanged. “That’s not all, Lawson.”

Fireworks shot through my body as thoughts pinged through my brain.
Let’s get back together! Let’s make wild monkey love on this desk!
Yes, my prepubescent twelve-year-old-boy mind could go there sixty seconds after seeing a photo of a charred dead guy.

I wasn’t so much sexually morbid as I was sexually frustrated.

“When the paramedics initially got there, Armentrout was still alive, still talking.”

I stepped back, interested. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Find her.’”

“Find who? An estranged wife, a daughter?”

As an orphan—my mother passed away when I was three and my father, we were pretty sure, was Satan—I had a particular soft spot for bringing families back together. Granted, I had been forced to stake my own half sister with a trident, but she was a seriously evil fallen angel and besides, she’d totally started it.

I considered being the one to reunite the memory of old Lance Armentrout to a long-lost daughter, or deliver some sort of years-old letter of love and apology to his estranged wife. It would be nice to be the bearer of good news for a change.

Alex looked away and I pressed harder. “Well, who was he looking for?”

Alex shook his head, blue, icy eyes intent on me as he handed me a scrap of paper sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. I looked down at the paper; its edges were curled, licked by fire, but the words were clearly legible. A cold stripe of needling fear made its way down the back of my neck as the words swam before my eyes, then burned themselves into my brain:
Sophie Lawson, Underworld Detection Agency, San Francisco, California.

Find her.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was a desert. “That’s my business card.”

Alex nodded. “I realize that. You’re certain you don’t know Lance Armentrout? Maybe from the UDA, or you guys ran into each other at some point?”

I sat gently on the edge of Alex’s visitor’s chair. “No. I told you I don’t know him.”

Alex’s leather chair groaned as he leaned way back in it and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So you have absolutely no idea why this man would have your business card in his hand or why we would tell the paramedics to find you? Why he would mention you as his
last
words?”

“Are you—are you interrogating me?” I felt anger flick at the base of my spine. “Am I a suspect or something?”

“Should you be?”

My mouth dropped open and now the flicker of anger was a full-on inferno. I stood, balancing against the desk as I leaned toward Alex. “Look, I know things aren’t always great between us, but are you seriously suspecting me of torching a vampire? Have you forgotten? My best friend is a vampire, her obnoxious nephew is a vampire. And my manager! If my plan were to start killing vampires, don’t you think I’d start with Vlad? At least then maybe I could get my couch back.”

Alex stood, patting the air in that universal calm-down sign that only made my anger boil harder. “I was just being thorough, Lawson. I had to ask.”

He didn’t actually apologize and my anger didn’t dissolve.

“Well, you can officially take me off your suspect list. Unless you don’t believe me. Should I take a polygraph or something?” I flung an arm out, veins up. “Do you want to take a DNA sample? Go ahead.”

Alex rolled his eyes, and I continued needling him with my red-hot glare.

“Lawson, it was a couple of questions.”

“And I gave you a couple of answers.”

I saw the muscle jump in Alex’s jaw. “Why did he have your business card?”

“I work for the Underworld Detection Agency, Alex. Vampires are our main clients. Maybe he was on his way to see me.”

“Yeah, but you front the Fallen Angel Division. Why would he want to see you? What was so important that his last words were ‘find her’?”

A tiny tremor of anxiety danced up my spine. A lot of people have wanted to “find me” in the past. Generally, to kill me, bleed me dry, or stuff me into some sort of swirling vortex of Hell. I was a lightning rod for the stupid and mysterious, but this was one instance that clearly had a logical explanation. At least that’s what I was telling myself as I tried to muster up my anger again, hoping it would douse out that niggling anxiety.

“Should I take this down to Sampson now, or can it wait until Monday?”

“Lawson . . .”

I looked at Alex and cocked a brow. “It’s not a big deal, Alex.”

“I think this could be something serious. I think this is something we need to pay attention to.”

“I’m not worried. I’m done freaking out about everything.”

Alex covered his mouth with his hand while he studied me. I could see him trying not to laugh, and I considered giving him a reality smack upside the head. I couldn’t believe less than ten minutes ago I had been seriously considering getting naked (again) with him.

Finally, he went on.

“That’s commendable. But Lawson, I think this really might be something you should start to freak out about. A man was burned alive and he had your business card in his hand. He begged the paramedics to find you.”

Anger roiled through me—anger, tinged with the smallest bit of hurt.

“What’s it matter to you how I react? Are you asking for my help on this case?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing then. I can take care of myself, Alex. I’m a big girl.” I snatched the folder from him and turned on my heel, using every ounce of willpower that I had not to dart, running and crying, from the room.

I was new to this taking-care-of-myself, being-a-big-girl kind of thing.

I was barely over the threshold when I felt Alex’s hand close on my elbow, his grasp gentle but firm.

“Lawson.” His voice was soft and when I turned, so were his eyes.

“What?”

“Just because we’re not, you know, together—it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you. It doesn’t mean that I don’t still . . .”

He let his words trail off and every silent second that passed was an eternity, my eyes on his, neither of us willing to give in. I heard his voice in my mind, saw that image that I had studied from every angle every moment of the last few months:

“I choose you, Alex. I want to be with you.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped, and his lips were set in a hard, thin line. “Do us both a favor, Lawson, and don’t.”

A wave of nausea rolled through me and I shrugged his hand off my arm, steeling myself.

Alex Grace wasn’t going to break my heart again.

“I’ll be sure to consider the fact that you ‘don’t still’ while I deliver this to Sampson.”

I was out in the hallway then, making a beeline through uniformed officers who stared at me with slight concern as the tears rolled down my cheeks. By the time I pressed through the double doors and out into the faint San Francisco sunlight, I was breathing deeply, commending myself on not turning into a puddle of pitiful goo—bawling outright in front of a patrol officer leading a drunk to the tank notwithstanding.

My heart was thumping and my sadness was twisting around to sheer anger.
First he considers me a suspect, then he decides that I’m in some kind of danger?

I was fuming by the time I hit Market and Fourth streets so I had to buy myself a cool-your-jets ice cream. I was loading it with sprinkles and cookie crumbles when a fire engine went sailing by outside, its siren so loud that the ice cream shop’s windows shook. The woman behind the counter stopped wiping and looked at me. “That’s the third one today.”

“The third fire engine?”

She nodded. “The third fire. The other two engines went cruising that-away,” she pointed her grayish rag in the opposite direction the most recent engine had gone. “Looked like they were going a hundred miles an hour or more.” She pursed her lips and dropped the rag back on the counter. “Sure hope they got there in time.”

I stepped a little closer. “Three fires?” I repeated. “Are you sure?”

“It was on the news and everything. The new fire marshal with the accent? He thinks they was all arson.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “People seem to be just plum going crazy.”

I fished my cell phone out of my purse and speed dialed Will Sherman. It went directly to voice mail, directly to his accented voice telling me, “You’ve reached Fire Marshal Sherman. If this is urgent, hang up and dial . . .”

I drove home chasing cheery songs on the radio—“Walking on Sunshine” on KOSF, “Accidentally in Love” on KFOG, but the slew of fire engines and the flambéed Lance Armentrout itched at the base of my skull.

Fire happens,
I told myself.
There were always fires in the cities. And people occasionally self-combusted . .
. right?

My mind was a mass of bouncy tunes and flaming hellfires by the time I pulled around the corner to my apartment building. I lived in a squat, three-story place that bore all the beautiful architectural nuances of old San Francisco: hand-laid black and white tiles outlining a solid slab of marble in the front vestibule, intricate ceiling moldings, hand-tinned backsplashes. In keeping with times of 1905, the place also boasted a deathtrap-slash-elevator, poor heating, and windows that could snap and behead you at any moment.

But it had parking.

I sunk my key into the lock, hearing the jingle of ChaCha’s collar as she threw herself at the door, yipping and growling. With the door closed, she was a fearsome predator, the weight of her well-muscled dog body thumping against the wood as she clawed and snarled. When I flung open the door she was still yipping and snarling—four and a half pounds of terrifying, flouncy beige fur and teeth the size of Tic Tacs. She popped up on her popsicle-stick back legs when she saw me, patting at the air with her front paws, her little pink tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. I dropped my shoulder bag and scooped her up.

“Hey, girl! You’re a good little attack dog, aren’t you? Yes, you are! Mama’s going to spend some quality time with you, yes, she is!”

I clicked on the television and rifled through the fridge for something chocolate covered or at the very least, not rotten. I settled on a sort-of-yellow banana and was popping open a Fresca when a stern-faced newscaster broke onto the screen.

I instinctually went to the remote, but froze, arm extended, when the little box to the left of the anchor’s face showed an animated picture of a fire truck, emblazoned with the word A
RSON
. I turned up the volume instead.

“Firefighters were called out three times today to fight flames in downtown San Francisco. Authorities were alerted to the first one at about ten o’clock this morning with an anonymous nine-one-one call.”

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

The screen went blue, yellow words populating it as the crackling recording went on.

Heavy breathing
. “Fire.”

“I’m sorry, what was your emergency?”

“Fire.”

“There’s a fire? Sir, did you say fire? Where? What’s your location?”
The dispatcher’s voice was direct and quick as the responder breathed heavily on the other end of the phone.
“Sir, are you in a structure that is currently on fire?”

“They’ll burn. Everyone will burn.”

“Is there a safe way to exit? I have your location as one-eleven Harrison Street. Can you tell me if you have access to a door or a window? Can you feel the door or window?”

There was another muffled word, but it was drowned out by the wailing sound of approaching fire engines.

“Firefighters are on their way to help you right now. Sir? Sir?”

There was the fumbling of a receiver, and then the line went dead. I sucked in a breath, a cold shudder whipping through me. The camera flipped back to the newscaster at her desk, her eyebrows knitted together sympathetically.

“The burning building was the old home of the Leonard Textile Mill. Though the nine-one-one call was shown to have originated inside that building, firefighters found no bodies inside the blaze, but they did find paraphernalia that led them to believe this fire was not accidental.

Firefighters are still working to contain the fire on Fulton and Golden Gate Avenue, which has grown to five-alarm. The earliest fire, called in at seven-twenty-five this morning from the Sunset neighborhood, was contained, but authorities have confirmed that none of the five occupants survived.”

The television flicked to a picture of a single-family home pulled down to the studs, the wood wavy and black. The detritus of the home was scattered knee deep as a fireman waded through the remains with a clipboard. As the camera continued to pan, I could see little bits of someone’s life—a bright red boot now licked by soot and partially melted, framed photos, the glass warped and yellowed, the once-smiling subjects grotesque and stained black.

“We will update you with more information as it comes in. For KNTV news, this is Patty Chan.”

I muted the television, a heavy feeling of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. First Lance Armentrout, and now two buildings and a residence in quick succession . . . That familiar anxiety flared up again and I tried to quash it down.

Fires happened. People died. It was unfortunate, but not supernatural. I kept repeating the mantra, but I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. The old me—the me of about three weeks ago—would have jumped to screaming conclusions that there was a fire-breathing dragon or a witch gone hellfire crazy on the loose. I would have thrown on my yoga pants and sucked down a Fresca, then gone screaming across the hall to rouse Will—my Guardian; we’ll get back to that—or back down to the police station to get Alex while packing a crossbow and dragon bait into my bra.

But the new me was taking the fires and Armentrout for what they were—whatever it was that they were. Coincidences? San Francisco
is
speckled through with pre-twenty-first-century electricity and an inordinate amount of solid wood buildings. The general shift of the super magnetic field that hovered around the city? That’s a thing, right? Global warming? I wasn’t exactly sure, but I wasn’t about to go ridiculously nerve-wracked on a dime again, either.

Though San Francisco is, at its core, a supernatural town, inhabited by all manner of demons as they mix with their human counterparts, it is also layered by the pathetically normal: grocery stores, religious zealots, dim sum. Not everything is brimstone and graveyard dirt. Of course, your garden-variety breathing San Franciscans have no idea that they’re sharing a Muni seat with a decaying zombie corpse or that the local coffee shop serves the undead after dark. I’ve seen people look a troll right in the face and acknowledge nothing but the fact that he’s only three feet tall—and let me tell you, that’s not the first thing that hits you when you see a troll. It’s the stench. The mossy, blue-cheese-left-out-in-Hell kind of smell.