Bones and Bagger (Waldlust Series Book 1) Page 21

  “How about a bite?” I said.

  If I’d wanted to recall the stupid text I sent, it went double for offering a bite to a cannibal.

  Chapter 29

  The pygmy didn’t return Karl’s kisses. Ghost dog got the message and sat down with tail wagging and pale tongue panting. Perhaps there’s no word for rejection in doggie language. Helmet did the walk/float thing and situated himself between the cannibal and me. I’d never seen such a look of pure intimidation on Helmet and I suspected it may have been what caused the French to raise the white flag back in 1940.

  The cannibal didn’t seem as impressed as I was. He considered Helmet for a moment and I swear I saw the hint of a smile cross his face. He’d planned on making me the main course. Now he had desert. Perhaps ghosts tasted like ice cream. Little Dynamite crossed his arms and brought a hand to his chin. Overly theatric for my taste but he did have both the stage and audience attention.

  He did the whisker-rubbing thing until even Karl got the obvious message. He yawned, did the tail-chase thing, and settled in for a nap. When the cannibal final spoke, he did so in the same British accent he’d used the night before.

  “I say. Stand down there, old chap.”

  Helmet did not relax an iota. I noticed his right hand sitting on top of the pistol holster attached to his belt. I wondered if the Lugar could fire a substantive bullet. The cannibal spoke.

  “Gaius Teutoberg,” he said, “how do you prefer to die?”

  Great. Another in a long series of questions for which I had no good answer. What would I say—I’m partial to slow strangulation and a simultaneous disembowelment? And don’t forget to eat all of my heart.

  Ridiculous.

  “How do I what?” I said.

  Little Dynamite took a step toward me. Helmet stood his ground between us.

  “Come on man,” the little guy said, “I spoke clearly enough.”

  “Never thought of it,” I said.

  “A fair answer,” Little Dynamite said. “I accept.”

  He accepted? Accepted what? A big question mark must have formed over my head because Little Dynamite exhaled loudly.

  “The beer, man,” he said. “Step lively. A man could die of thirst in this place.”

  “Right,” I said, and stood to fetch the beers. “You two get to know each other.”

  Helmet looked over to me and I mouthed, “It’s OK.” But he didn’t relax the hard stance as I left the room. They were both standing there when I returned with two cold bottles. Karl still slept by their feet. I handed the little guy his beer. The pint bottle looked gallon-sized in his cute little murderous hand.

  “Thank you, kindly,” he said, and took a long draw.

  That brief inattentiveness presented the best moment for me to attack. I doubted a better opportunity would arise. But it didn’t feel right. You didn’t raise a beer with somebody you were about to eat. You’d need a fancy cocktail for that. And Little Dynamite expected me to make a move when he appeared most vulnerable. That would mean he’d cocked himself in anticipation of something stupid.

  We didn’t clink bottles but the little guy did raise his in a combination of thanks and a half-toast. I raised mine too and felt stupid. Why was I toasting him? Because he’d save my sweet meats for last?

  “Bernard,” he said.

  Both Helmet and I looked around. I should have gone ahead and jumped Little Dynamite when the chance presented itself. Now I’d need to face a second horror named Bernard. I was as dead as Helmet.

  “My name, buffoons,” he said. The tiny smile returned to his equally tiny, round, murderous face and I understood he was having fun at my expense. Two could play that game.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Buffoons,” I said.

  I thought the smile would disappear but it only grew wider. And yes, his teeth were pointed.

  “Most charming,” he said. “Do you mind terribly if I sit down, old boy?”

  “Well, we were kind of busy,” I said. “So why don’t we drain this one and let us get back to work.”

  Bernard walked around Helmet to the computer. I didn’t want him to see the Charlemagne sites and the photos Helmet had brought up. But then I also didn’t want him in the flat. Wish in one hand, poop in the other. Which one fills up first? Bernard sat down at the computer.

  I felt stupid standing there staring at Helmet so I walked over to behind the little guy. Besides, I had to admit I was interested.

  “Not so close old boy,” said Bernard. “There’s a good chap.”

  The cheerful Brit had left his voice and I heard all business in the casual warning. At least he considered me somewhat of a threat. It made me feel better about the situation. I mean, Bernard launched me out the window the night before with no sweat at all. Things like that can bruise a guy’s ego. Despite that, he’d just thrown me a bone by acknowledging his need for caution with me. My turn to smile.

  Helmet did stand down. He quit with the Gestapo stare and made his way over to the computer to stand next to me.

  “Good old Charlemagne,” Bernard said, and I saw his eyes scan quickly down the article on top and then zero in on the enlarged photo of the golden casket.

  “Ever meet him?” I said.

  “Heavens no, man,” he said. “I was frolicking about in the jungle when this guy ruled Europe.”

  “Right,” I said.

  I thought my typical one or two word sentences would come in handy this time. As cute and cuddly as cannibal pygmies tend to look, it’s best to remember the heartless man eater lurking below the facade. I’d try not to provide a reason for this awkward peace to morph into violence.

  “Why so interested?” he said.

  What to say. The Seven certainly knew about Soyla, the Blood Feud, and maybe the dry bones. I needed to deliver them to Soyla so Sparcius would live and to No Face to retrieve my friends from the demonic art project.

  “No special reason,” I said.

  Bernard swiveled in his seat to take a long look at me. Real disappointment in that round face of his. He sounded tired when he said,

  “I’ve asked how you prefer to die.”

  That statement made my stomach gurgle.

  “You have three choices,” he said.

  “They are?”

  Bernard switched back to the pleasant voice.

  “If you interrupt me again,” he said, “I will eat one of your eyes while you watch.”

  “Sounds a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it?” I responded.

  Did I really say that? Out loud? Bernard pretended not to notice I’d just interrupted him. Maybe he spent a lot of time working out my three choices and he wanted the opportunity to impress Helmet and me with his preparation. And then he’d eat me.

  “The second,” he said, “You cease your tiresome mistruths and you respect my time by telling me what you think I should know.”

  “Or?”

  “Or we move to option three.”

  I didn’t think I’d like that option a great deal more than the first. The Seven enforced the secrecy standard vampires obeyed. Thing is, the rules aren’t written anywhere. That benefited The Seven as much as it frustrated us more normal vampires. Based on their reputation for ruthlessness in policing secrecy, Bernard needed to know nothing. That left us with option number three.

  If he expected me to jump at option two it wasn’t going to happen. I’d not be spilling my guts. Well, metaphorically, anyway. Best to hear option three before committing myself.

  “And?” I said. “Door number three?”

  Bernard smiled. I don’t know if he intended it to look as hungry and malevolent as that expression came across. If he did, he’s an Oscar-worthy actor. If not, I’d do well to remember the raw intensity of a powerful being teetering on the edge of sanity.

  “Door number three leads to your spice rack,” he said. “I suspect I’ll need to improvise.”

  Point taken. The three options boiled down to only one choice. Think about it. I could int
errupt Bernard and watch with one eye as he snacked on the other. That could happen every time I opened my mouth and as often as I regenerated the missing eye. The implied threat of option three and the spice rack was my execution followed by dinner for one at Gare’s. Kind of classless to cook a guy in his own kitchen.

  Option two—my telling Bernard everything I thought he should know—was the only option, and it did nothing to prevent the clever little ankle-biter from doing the other two as he saw fit. Threaten, heck. He could eat eyeballs like popcorn while I entertained with tales of demons, angels, souls lost in cursed paintings, and evil masterminds that coveted mysterious treasure. There’d be a Hungarian beauty and the stooge. Somebody always plays the stooge. I should change my name to Somebody.

  A no-win situation. Bernard would listen to what I had to say, assess the damage to vampire secrecy, and take appropriate action to clean it up. He knew something about Sarah Arias already. In fact, he’d shown her deference. It was the bit about semi-public rumbles with the demon gang and bringing the whole bagger crew in on my condition that would seal my fate. And theirs.

  “Let’s talk,” I said.

  “Smashing,” Bernard said. He looked like a radiant pickpocket turned choirboy. This guy had more looks than Lady Gaga. He took a sip of his beer and turned back to the computer.

  “Now let’s start again,” he said. “Why the interest in Charlemagne?”

  “Helmet’s new hobby,” I said.

  “Helmet?”

  I pointed at the ghost. I could tell our first foray into option two didn’t start the way Bernard wanted it to begin. He sat quiet for a moment while I’m sure he weighed whether I was yanking his chain. Or maybe he was only wondering how many of my eyeballs it would take to ruin his appetite for the main course later.

  “What about the white woman?”

  “Who?” I said.

  I’d honestly drawn a blank. There were a lot of white women running around over the past day. Not to mention Germany is a nation of white women. I picked one from the list.

  “Soyla?”

  Bernard rolled his eyes. Perhaps he wished he’d drawn the three-week trip chopping through the Amazon jungle versus a couple of days with the idiot in Germany.

  “Not her, he said. “Don’t you think we know all about her? Think, man,” he said.

  Bernard literally swallowed his anger. I saw his Adam’s apple move and everything. If he’d expected an adult conversation he was coming to grips with the notion he’d come to the wrong place.

  “I don’t mean Caucasian,” he said. “We’re beyond racial considerations.”

  Great. An equal opportunity cannibal. The latest administration could have created a new department around that kind of affirmative action. Technically, Caucasian has nothing to do with skin tone, but I kept my mouth shut. For once.

  “White woman, man,” Bernard repeated. “The watcher.”

  That lit the light bulb. “You mean Sarah Arias,” I said.

  And speaking of my supposed guardian angel, where the heck was she? No Face and his crowd were bad alright. But The Seven? Little Bernie here? By comparison, he and crowd could destroy the world—one person at a time. Sarah Arias confronted Bernard the night before and now he called her a watcher. A bit more of her watching would have come in handy about the time Bernard landed on my balcony. Probably out buying cigarettes. My luck.

  “Yes,” said Bernard. “Sarah Arias.”

  That kicked off the short version of the long story. I considered keeping Sparky out of it, but I decided old Sparcius should take credit for his work. He’d started it all with that stupid knife joke. The one that deflated my lung. I thought he’d stay a few days and leave. Gone for decades. Toilet not flushed and the cat left pregnant. Typical Sparky visit. But it didn’t turn out that way.

  So I ratted out Sparky. He could fend for himself…If he got away from Soyla. I outlined Soyla’s high-speed pass and the declaration of a Blood Feud. Next came No Face. That surprised Bernard, which made me sure he’d been watching me, probably from the hotel next door.

  I suspected Bernard left his room for only short stints and even then only at odd hours. Germans watch everything. No doubt they’d notice a little cannibal buying an outdoor bratwurst in the walking area. That kind of news would spread. Even in an Old World type of town whose people were more German and standoffish than tubas and beer belches.

  Chances were that Bernard conducted an electronic surveillance. I left the third story windows open to keep my flat cool and smelling fresh. Perhaps Germans will discover air conditioning within the next thousand years. It would have been simple for Bernard to hop up on the balcony—he’d proven it already twice—and snoop around. He could copy my hard disk or install a program that would give him remote access to my computer. He could monitor everything. Speaking of everything, he probably installed an IP camera somewhere in my flat. At some point Bernard had seen enough to warrant a more personal investigation.

  I didn’t see a way to keep the bagger crew out of the rundown of current events. Rescuing them from the painting would be my primary goal and I had to make it clear how much I cared for the gang—and how much I trusted them. Bernard wouldn’t believe I didn’t bring them in on my condition. I’d end up finger-food and then sushi if I tried that route. And my friends would end up dead. Or damned.

  The Seven would kill as many as it took to clean the mess. But then, it’s not some kind of superhero council working to serve mankind we’re talking about. They care about survival. And survival means getting rid of the blabbers—vampires or not. They might even liquidate an additional level below my friends. Take out everyone my bagger gang texted in the last week. That’s how The Seven thinks. It’s how they operate.

  I wasn’t sure Bernard believed any of what happened in the Aachen Cathedral. He listened courteously though, which meant both of my eyes remained in their accustomed spot throughout my talk. Also on the plus side, Bernard bought everything I said about Sarah Arias.

  The face-to-face encounter with my nicotine-addicted heavenly hottie made him predisposed to accept that much. Maybe it meant my angel friend represented a kind of insurance policy for me. The wildcard Bernard and buddies would need to consider before committing to my final disposition. A fancy way of saying my murder, dismemberment, and sautéing in a tablespoon of olive oil over medium heat.

  Story completed, I drained half the beer in one gulp. I didn’t leave a will—well, not in Germany—so no need to hold back the beer consumption in favor of thirsty German heirs. Whatever beer I left behind would end up property of the German state. Or in Frau What’s-It downstairs. It is the way things are done.

  I expected one of two reactions out of Bernard. Either he’d think me crazy and terminate me immediately, or he’d have a big laugh at my baroque joke and terminate me afterward.

  I didn’t expect what came.

  Chapter 30

  “Hard day, mate,” Bernard said.

  “What?”

  “Just saying, sounds like quite a bad day,” he said.

  Bernard sat back in the desk chair and rubbed his temples. He looked tired. Not just tired from lack of sleep, I doubted any of The Seven needed sleep—but tired in a way thousands of years can erode a soul meant to spend a fraction of that time on earth. I began to feel sorry for the cute little pygmy dude.

  Bernard opened his eyes and said, “The Seven’s authorized me to clean up any mess I encounter.”

  I stopped feeling sorry for the murderous little pygmy dude.

  He read the look on my face and said, “It may not end up how you think.” He paused for a second and I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. “But then,” he said, “I’m not making any promises. Tell me once more about the dry bones.”

  I went through it again. How I wheedled help out of Sarah Arias and Ezekiel 37. Bernard did a quick read through that chapter of the Bible.

  “The valley of dry bones,” he said, but not to me or to Helmet.
More like he was tasting the words in his brain.

  “And how did Soyla react?” he said.

  I thought about that. Dry bones. I mentioned dry bones and she acted like we were speaking the same secret language. That’s what I told Bernard.

  “Interesting,” he said. And then, “Come here and have a look.”

  I did. Same sites up as before. I’d expected him to hit the link with all the answers. Instead, he pointed at the photo of Charlemagne’s gold and silver casket. The one Fredrick II commissioned for the centuries-dead emperor.

  “Thousand years dead?” he said.

  It sounded like a question but came across more like an answer. Yes, Chuck died more like twelve hundred years prior but who’s going to hold a couple of hundred years against the most powerful entity in the room.

  “So?” I said.

  Bernard smiled and spoke.

  “Dry bones,” and then matched the level of my bottle with his own long gulp.

  I half expected him to put the beer back down, belch, fart, and then tumble drunk out of the chair. You’d think a body that small couldn’t process alcohol. No such luck. The little sot.

  My mental tumblers locked into place. How could I be so blind? I wanted to blame it on concern for my friends compounded by the tussles with No Face. Who could think under that kind of pressure? Well, Sarah Arias had so much as told me. Helmet had it all figured out. Didn’t he put dozens of Charlemagne sites up for me to read? Even the casket. I glanced over at him.

  He nodded and mouthed, “Idiot.” Thanks, Helmet. Motivation like that tastes sweeter than honey. But I had to admit it did look obvious. I wanted to kick myself for the hours I’d wasted running in circles like Karl does when he’s looking for the right spot on the floor to drop a load.

  “So you think,” I said, “that everyone wants me to bring them old Chucky’s bones?”

  Bernard had returned to scanning the historical sites. Maybe he was considering the merits of chowing down on someone as edible as me versus the potential he’d pick up some of my dullness.