The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

40

Greg, Almost Forgot About Those Stakeout Puns

Magistrate had swarmed the manor like fleas on a werewolf's hide by the time I lumbered up to the front of the house again. Quick little buggers. No, I couldn't risk getting hexed on sight for sneaking in through the backyard, what're you, looney?

Propped against the property wall were official and well-polished Magistrate brooms. But more pressing was the apparent Philadelphia Gas Works van parked up on the sidewalk, lights flashing. Uniformed clad techs were cordoning off the sidewalk. Not that they needed to. Any human lingering at this hour would instinctively veer away. Nobody wants to stumble into a potential gas explosion.

A knot tightened like a collar around my throat at the sight of that van. It was impossible to tell actual city PGW vehicles from Philadelphia Guardian Witchery vehicles from the outside. Same metal boxes, signage, colors, flashers. But instead of gas meters or tools, you'll find more herbs and potions for Society first aid. Amulets and charms. Athames in place of scissors. Not a trace of silver. Lots of blood bags.

I didn't need a tour of the inside to know the van wasn't here for a gas leak.

I slithered toward Dmitri's front gate, slouched, hands buried deep in my pockets, carefully trying not to draw any attention from the distracted witches or wizards working from the van. They appeared as human technicians, but up close, with a vamp's sharp vision, the shimmer of the illusion spell was obvious (knees and transfiguration may be shot at this point but at least these peepers still worked alright). Odd to send only witches out to this scene. There are vampire officers who'd be more appropriate—

A rough manacle of itchy fabric lassoed me by the shoulders.

"Halt your skinny, ghost-white ass right there, you weaselly fuck."

Fangs. Octavius.

I spun. "Hey buddy."

He stomped toward me, dreadlocks swinging, but scowl planted firm, as he shook his head. "Think you can just roll up into my crime scenes whenever you want?"

"Oh," I threw a thumb over my shoulder, gesturing to the house. "This is your..." my mouth dried. I swallowed. "Crime scene?"

Octavius balked. "Feeling okay? You're acting weird. Is that a limp?"

No, you crotchety, half in the bag children's magician. I wriggled under the spell of his enchanted scarf trapping me. The glowing wool held but didn't tighten, and I knew he could easily make it squeeze me tighter than a boa constrictor if I fought it. But I needed to get inside. My muscles twitched. They were sore. Tense. I left Isla inside. I left her like some kind of lousy chump. Idiot. I had to get in there. See her. Get her out.

"Oh. Am I?"

"Been standing here for thirty whole seconds and you haven't mentioned my shitty degree," he tugged on the scarf, "stop backing up like that. Feeling fidgety?"

Translation: Why're you clearly sneaking into a crime scene, vampire? Sweet hell I wasn't in the mood to play this little game tonight, dancing around what we both really meant to say. I pinched my nose. "Listen, bud, I'm on a case. I need—"

"Aside!" barked a witch.

We jumped out the way as a levitating stretcher was ushered up the garden path. Octavius to the east of the gate, and me, how silly of ole me, I jumped to the west. The wizard grumbled as he was forced to call back his magic threads to make room for the stretcher as the witch rumbled through. I rolled my shoulders, smirking and feeling undeservedly smug.