Page 5 of Dark Stars
Bobby cast out feelers, creeping across theproperty in leisurely fashion. When that turned up nothing, he keptgoing, into the fields and woods beyond, until he finally foundwhat he was looking for. "Dead deer that ran afoul of a redcap.I'll have to find it later. Can't have too many of those skulkingabout."
"I just cleaned out a nest of those fuckersthree months ago," Harold said with a sigh. "Too much work, too fewof us to do it."
Bobby closed his eyes, let the stars andshadows and primordial dark whisper to him. "That might change,soon. It's all down to the choices we make. At least right nowthere's three of us. Always a good number, three."
"If only one of them wasn't Fuckhead,"Harold muttered.
"Methinks you doth protest too much."
"Shut up."
Bobby grinned and gave the cats a last roundof pets. "I'm gonna go pack and stuff. I'll call you before I leavein the morning, in case any new information comes along beforethen. Tonight I'll ponder all the information I just read, and putout some feelers for cults. Surprised any cultists haven't beendrawn this way."
"That's probably Fuckhead's work. He's got aknack for wide range wards," Harold replied, a look on his facethat said it killed him to say something nice about Jones. "Hereally doesn't want the sort of trouble your kind draws."
"I suppose that's fair," Bobby said with alaugh. "All right, I'm headed out. See you when I see you,Harold."
Instead of driving home, though, he stoppedin town to grab some snacks for the road and at the diner for alate dinner. He didn't really need mortal food, but it was fun toeat.
He'd just gotten his dinner, which was thatday's special of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and steamed broccoli,when a familiar figure sat down across from him in the booth. "Takea coke, thanks, Martha," Jones drawled as Martha came bustlingup.
He was in civilian clothes, jeans and awaffle Henley that matched his eyes, a deep and sultry maroon thatmost mortals saw as brown. His hair was black as the night aroundthem, his features sharp and lean, softened only by the smatteringof pale freckles across his nose and cheeks. He looked somewherebetween forty and fifty but, by Bobby's best estimate, sincevampires in general tended to be cagey about such things, was atleast seven hundred. He had a Georgia drawl that wouldn't quit, butwhen he gotreallypissed off, a far older accent emerged,something that harkened to the Carpathian Mountains and thefourteenth century.
After Martha had come and gone with thecoke, Bobby said, "To what do I owe this pleasure, Toothy?"
"Stop calling me that," Jones said with asigh of the eternally suffering. "That cocky dipshit changed yourcollar. Why?"
"Do you know neither of you ever uses theother's name if you can possibly help it? Fuckhead and Dipshit,that's what you call each other."
Jones's brows rose at that. "Fuckhead, huh?We'll just see about that. Now answer the question."
"He's swamped with cases. I'm helping himout with something that's several hours away, what he calls theInnsmouth Triangle. Know it?"
"Oh, I know it all right, much as I'd lovenot to," Jones replied. "Speaking of fuckheads, there's a smallwerewolf clan out that way. Not many, pack of maybe fifty. Quiet,mostly, but they can be hostile. Ain't gonna like you onelick."
"I'll be careful," Bobby replied. For thewerewolves' sake, not his own. Steroid wolves with attitudeproblems were hardly a challenge. "Call me crazy, but I don't thinkthat's really why you came to see me. You're practically tinglingwith delicious turmoil."
"Why can't I ever have normal friends?"Jones grumbled. "Fine, all right, yes. I think there might be ahunter in town. I smelled him briefly, but now I can't find thebastard anywhere. I was hoping you'd sensed something."
"Nothing that stood out, but you know me,"Bobby replied with a shrug. "It's all just noise, and if there is ahunter here, he hasn't done anything threatening yet. Let me pokearound." He wolfed down several bites of his meal, then rested hiselbows on the table and curled his hands together, closing his eyesas he focused on all the various threads and murmurs and shadowsthat composed the 'beneath the surface' of the town. He and Joneswere far from the only non-human beings that lived here, but theystill comprised only about ten percent of the population, and mostlived in rural areas, like Harold.
Bobby knew all their markers, knew the tasteand shape of them. Once he'd confirmed all the residents were welland nothing was awry, he went seeking the markers that werestrange, discarding them one by one as tourists, other transients,until he came to one that tasted of fresh spilled blood and blessedsilver, a hint of smoke and ash. "Found him. Down by the oldwarehouses."
Jones jerked back in offense. "Thewarehouses? What does he think I am? Some nigh-rabid fledgling whodoesn't know better than to skulk in abandoned buildings? I wasannoyed before, but now he done offended me."
Laughing, Bobby returned his full attentionto his meal and Jones. "He isn't very powerful, whoever he is.Certainly not powerful enough to be a threat to you. Not sure whyhe'd try for what's essentially a suicide mission." He pushed hisempty plate away and smiled as Martha returned. "Can I get a sundaefor dessert?"
"You got it, honey."
"Just another coke for me, thanks." Whenshe'd gone, he said, "So this hunter ain't nothing I need to beworrying on?"
"Nah, but I can go check him out in personif you want, see what's going on. Or tag along with you if youprefer to do it yourself, Sheriff."
Jones sighed. "Sure, why not. May as wellknock out one more problem before I head home for the night. MaybeI'll get a decent meal out of it." Being a purebred vampire, Jonescouldn't subsist on animal blood the way 'mongrel' vampires could.He had to have human, though Bobby's bizarre blood would suffice inan emergency. The last time he'd needed it, though, Jones had beenlittle better than drunk for two days and hungover for three.Nobody had enjoyed that.
Bobby cheered lightly when his sundaearrived, and went ahead and handed over the cash to Martha so theycould leave when he was done.
Twenty minutes later they were in Jones'1969 Mustang Mach 1, which Jones had bought off the lot the day ithad come out and had owned ever since. Bobby suspected he hadclassic cars even more remarkable, but flashing them around townwould draw the kind of attention Jones hated, so Bobby had neverseen them. Normally he had no idea what make and model cars were,but everybody knew Jones' mustang in its original candy applered.
