Doubull Indemnity

11

Greg, Has Read Great Expectations

Well I'll be damned. And probably already was.

That worked? I followed the phantom string up twenty-four flights. Stole a master keycard off a housekeeping cart. Swallowed the ever-accelerating lump of a heartbeat in my throat until it led me right here.

To Isla.

Panting and flushed. Heart racing. Hair frazzled. Faux leopard fur hanging off her shoulders. Signature mascara smudged. Lips-tinged pink by the ghost of her now missing lipstick and was that a sprinkle stuck in the corner of her mouth?

"Room service? More like tomb service," she said.

Behind her was an apparent raging bull. The metallic tang of his blood clouded my nose, as it ironically gushed from his.

"You ripped it clean out, La, you freaking crazy?"

And behind even him, beyond the cloud of Isla's perfume and the bull's sweat and blood, and overpowering hotel air freshener, was the faint whiff of decay. Over the minotaur's shoulder was another room (oh, that suite was fancy enough to make you whistle, wasn't it?). A pallor figure, half draped in sheets, appeared to lay there. Slack and motionless.

"Fangs."

"Well, Billy, it's been real catching up, but do me a favor? Lose my number and go screw yourself, okay?" Isla grabbed my sleeve like a lifeline and pulled herself out into the hall, hooking her arms through the crook of my elbow. She drew close enough to whisper and quickly added: "what a pleasant surprise."

"Change of tune."

"It's been a night, alright? That reminds me," Isla wedged herself between me and the door jamb. Ashamed to admit how my belly did a pleasant flip over her heat radiating into my side. Spell broke when her bony elbow stabbed me under the ribs, of course. "The word is benefactor, not benefiter, the book is Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens, and Mrs. Havisham wasn't even Pip's benefactor it was the criminal guy, what's his name? Shit, I haven't read this book since high school. Which was apparently the last time you ever looked at a dictionary, damn it, what did I ever see in you?" her chin flicked downward to the minotaur's groin, "oh, right."

"Magwitch!" I blurted.

Isla and Billy swung their confused gazes at me.

"Pip's benefactor was Magwitch. The convict. From the beginning," I said. A small smiled softened Isla's flushed cheeks. I snapped my fingers and pointed into the room. "Book club chatter aside, everything alright in there, pal? Your lady friend ain't looking so swell."

Isla groaned.

"You lying slut—" snorted Billy. "Not a narc? This is the same bloodsucker from the restaurant. You having me followed?"

Isla's nails dug into my sleeve at the sound of the moniker. Yeah, I wasn't a fan either.

"Sorry, buddy, but Isla's got nothing to do with why I'm following you. Frankly, I'm here about your supposed romantic rendezvous with Ms. Claudine Dupri. Name ring a bell? Or, uh, wave a red flag? Maybe drape a sheet over your memory?"

What were you doing, old boy? You should, perhaps, this one time, listen to Isla for fang's sake. Heed the gentle tugs she was giving you before she pulled the threads right out your jacket sleeve. That woman was dead. You could already smell the beginnings of rot and the thick, sweetness of death cloying in the room. But this wasn't my fight. I should've skedaddled while I still had upright bones in my legs, ignored the corpse, and phoned this in to Octavius the second I got Isla and me down to the lobby. Course, I'd dug my grave too deep now.