We're in the training area the next morning going through another routine of drills involving various punches and blocks that we've now added to the combos. "I'm practising very hard at this Doc, I'll be running across the Nightingale floor in no time!" Cat boasted with unearned confidence.
My smile vanishes as my expression becomes serious. Not angry, just showing that now I'm not joking and am being strictly the teacher. I study her for a moment before I speak, "So far you've failed to even control yourself from Charlie's jibes. How can I believe you can control the nightingale floor?" I ask. "You heard him voice reservations about you joining us and you immediately reacted emotionally."
The laughter died on her lips. The giggles vanished. She just stared at me, eyes wide with shock and surprise as her expression changed to one of understanding and shame. Then slowly, she bowed her head. "…Yeah," she whispered. "… and I played right into it." Her fingers curled into fists. "I thought I was winning, but…," she lifted her head. "You weren't testing the floor…" she says, her voice low. "You were testing me… and I failed." Then she reaches for the Gigglesaw and presses it against her palm.
"Next time…" she whispers, eyes locking onto mine. Charlie says anything… and I don't move." She pressed the blade harder. A thin line of blood beading across her skin.
I shake my head and take her hand. "That's not necessary," I say, my expression understanding and sympathetic. "A part of learning is making mistakes, it's normal and to be expected. The problem only arises when we make mistakes we shouldn't or make mistakes and never learn from them...or make way too many," I say, the grin returning. "Didn't you think it was odd that he asked to speak to me privately, but we only moved a short distance away? You were supposed to overhear. That in itself should have given you a clue something was amiss. But your emotions caused you to miss the clue...it can and will happen again, so be mindful of your mental state."
"Did Charlie express his reservations about a mysterious new person joining us? Yes. Is that odd or bad? No. He has a right to know who's joining us and why, he's been with me since the beginning. But as he told you himself, he trusts my judgement. What I find potentially troubling is even after he apologised to you, you still refused to accept it," I add. "Why? He trusts my judgement, but you don't? ...This isn't an interrogation, it's a lesson," I insist. "Something you should ask yourself. We learn best from our mistakes by reflecting back upon and thinking about them, uncovering why we did it so we can ensure we don't again."
Cat stood barefoot on the concrete, blood still beading on her palm, emerald eyes glassy and locked onto mine.
Then, softly, she exhaled, long and shuddering. "I know he apologized…" she whispered, voice frayed at the edges. "I just....didn't want to believe him," she said, her jaw tightening. She looked down at her hand, still in mine, the blood smearing slightly between my fingers. "You… you chose me…." She said, voice breaking. "Not because I'm good… not because I'm normal… but because I'm yours…" Her eyes darted up to meet mine again, fierce and wet.
"And he dared to question that?" she hissed. She stared at me eyes wide and brimming with tears. Then, slowly, a smile crawled across her lips.
"Mmm…"she purred. "So… Charlie was your little toy." She tilts her head, grinning. "And I played right into his hands… like a dumb puppy But..." she pouts, batting her lashes. "Since you say I gotta play nice...." She pauses, grinning. "I'll play nice...but, I reserve the right to haunt his dreams." She giggles, linking her arm with mine like a sweet girlfriend on a date. "We're bonding, right? That's what friends do!"
"Yes! Exactly!" I agree, letting her skip along beside me, arm in arm. "Come, let's go see what the grumpy old bastard is up to," I say, leading the way into the workshop. I nod at Charlie as he looks up from a bench where's he's working on a weapon of some sort. "Show Cat what you're working on," I say.
He looks at us both. "What am I, a damn tour guide?"
"Yes, now stop complaining and do as you're told," I retort.
He scoffs and shrugs, "Fine!" .....The jokes disappear as he becomes serious and picks it up. The weapon is a gauntlet that looks fatter than it should be, he slips it on over his left arm. "This here is what we call The Wolverine," he tells her, "Because of this," he says hitting some unseen switch with his other hand as three serrated, razor sharp claws extend from above the gloves' fingers. He smiles at her as he presses it again and the claws retract. "We're having some issues with it because I can't get the damn thing to work without the need for manually pressing a deployment button....It's a work in progress."
I scratch at my head absentmindedly. "I told Cat about our little charade and she understands you were doing my bidding," I explain. "I think as part of a peace offering you could tell her about yourself. The interesting part," I insist.
Charlie looks at me, back at Cat and then back to me. "Somehow I get the feeling she's not thrilled about my part in things," he says. He turns his attention to Cat and smiles that southern gentleman smile. "I don't have to worry about waking up without my liver do I?"
Cat doesn't take her eyes off the claws as they slide in and out. The sound of sliding metal sends a shiver down her spine, and for a moment, she forgets Charlie's voice, forgets the room, forgets everything but the thought of the blades ripping through flesh.
Then she blinks, and grins. "Mmm…" she pouts, tilting her head. "Awwww, poor Charlie. Having trouble with your claws?" She giggles, stepping forwards until she's just a breath away from the gauntlet. "Maybe you just need a different trigger." Her fingers hover, not touching, but tempting. "Like…a muscle flex or…" her grin widens. "The sound of a man screaming!" Then sweetly adds "I could code that for you… if you really trust me!"
Charlie frowns.
"But…" she says, clapping her hands together. "You said something about a story?" She turns back to Charlie, head tilted like a puppy.
"So you wanna know if I'm gonna steal your liver and make it into a handbag?" She dips into a curtsy, mocking, elegant. "Not today!"
Suddenly serious she steps closer, emerald eyes locked onto his. Then the grin snaps back, wild. "But… if you ever call me 'kid' again… I will replace it with a glow-in-the-dark rubber ducky that sings lullabies when you sleep." She giggles, bouncing on her toes. "Now! Story time! Spill it, Charlie! What's your sordid little past, hmm?"
Charlie looks at me, then back at Cat. "Fair enough. It would never be my intention to offend a lady," he says. "As for the story..." He rolls up one sleeve and turns to show Cat a tattoo of an Eagle sitting on an anchor, holding a musket. "US Navy Seals, that's special forces," he says, explaining the tattoo. "Served in the Marines in the first Gulf war and later on spent a decade in the Seals before I retired. Just in time for the war on terror, served again in Iraq, and Afghanistan, Yemen, Nigeria, Syria, North Korea and about a dozen other places," he says. "120 confirmed kills over 80 combat missions."
"Don't forget the Purple Heart," I tell him with a smirk.
He rolls his eyes. "If I must," he looks back at Cat and smirks. "I lost my right knee to an IED in Afghanistan. They give you a silly medal for getting wounded. Now I got a metal one to replace it, hence the bit of a limp. Doesn't work as good as a real one."
Cat didn't speak as Charlie rolled up his sleeve and revealed the tattoo; the Eagle, Anchor and Musket, symbols of a life carved in gunpowder and steel. "…120." she whispered. "You cut the world open 120 times…" Her gaze dropped to his leg. "And the world cut you back…" She didn't flinch. Just stared. Then she smiled. "I thought you were just the grumpy old janitor," she said softly. "Turns out… you're already forged in fire."
She patted the gauntlet on his arm. "And when I fix your claws… I'll make 'em sing your war songs when they cut." Then, soft, just for him. " Every scar deserves a voice."
Charlie snorted at the janitor comment in amusement. "He'd have everyone believing I'm the fuckin' janitor," he said, jerking his head in my direction. "I'm sure you'd love to hear some war stories some time," he beamed, overjoyed that Cat had decided she liked him after all. "Just a quick one, but we got pinned down in the hills once in Qatar, a whole host of enemy streaming out of the hills. Must've been about fifty of the bastards hitting us from two fronts at once," he said, leaning back with his arm on the bench behind him. "Thought we were goners under we heard a Whump, whump whump and a loud woosh. Like angels from the heavens a Blackhawk helicopter and a Warthog came from the sky," he smiles at Cat. "When you see 50 caliber machine guns hit someone you remember it, turns em into little bits of mince while the rockets from the Warthog reduced em to a bloody mist," he tells her.
She stares at Charlie eyes wide, unblinking, reflecting the imagined hellscape he's painting like it's holy light. A soft, wet moan escapes her and she shudders like her soul was slipping free.
"…Angels…" she whispers, voice thick with worship. "No… not angels…Apocalypse birds…She purrs. "Metal demons with machine-gun beaks… raining divine hellfire from the sky." Her head tilted. "Mmm… I bet the smell… ohhh, the smell must've been divine…" She closed her eyes, inhaling deep. "Blood mist… hot oil… burning hair… like the... perfume of Armageddon." She stared, eyes wide. "Did you laugh… when they turned to red snow?" she asks. "Or did you just… smile… and reload?"
She giggled and then leaned in, dead serious. "Tell me another…"
Charlie laughs and shrugs. "Sure, why not? ....got a lot of work to do, so I can't talk too much, but I'll tell you later about a snatch and grab we did in North Korea," he said. "Black ops mission. Everyone's least favourite kind because officially it ain't happening, and if you need help, no one's coming to save you. No reinforcements, no air support, government denial if you get captured. I'm sure you can imagine their confusion when their patrols encountered a group of mysterious men in black, armed to the teeth and kicking their asses," he said with a grin.
"Yes, well, anyway Charlie, I was hoping you'd be able to take Cat out shopping for clothes and stuff," I say, motioning to her. "If she's going to be doing undercover work we need a good wardrobe for her and a dressing room and such," I say, having already thought it through.
Charlie raised an eyebrow at me. "You want me to take her clothes shopping?" he asked. "You're out of your fuckin' mind. There's no way in hell I'm signing up for taking her shopping. She's your damn apprentice, you take her!" he insisted. "I'm a grumpy old man, she doesn't want me tagging along complaining. You're much younger, and her mentor!" … "Speaking of which, where are we going to put this dressing room and wardrobe?"
I turn and point to the laboratory. "Right on top of that, there's plenty of room. How long would it take to build a room up there with shelves, a make up desk, drawers etc?"
Charlie frowned. "Wanted me to take her shopping and build the damn dressing room, lazy bastard," he said with a snort. He studied the area for a minute, his moustache wiggled as he thought. "I'd say about a week if I got to work on it right away."
At Charlie's refusal to take her shopping Cat tilted her head and grinned,
"Awwww, Charlie..." she cooed, stepping forward, bouncing on her toes. "You think I want you to hold my purse while I try on pretty dresses?"
She stepped back,clapping her hands. "And make up? Ohhh, Doc!" She span towards me grinning. "Can I have lipstick that dissolves flesh? And mascara that shoots needles? And blush that releases hallucinogenic toxins when I kiss someone?" She giggled. She grinned, slow and wicked. "So, Charlie. You don't have to carry my bags…Just… help me build a wardrobe… for a monster!"
A few hours later I'm carrying a mass of shopping bags, weighed down like a baggage mule, while Cat skips along in front of me, chipper and full of joy as she enjoys the shopping trip. The prospect of a whole new wardrobe and wearing disguises for undercover work really appealed to her after I showed her the $10,000 I had for the venture. "How many pairs of stockings and fishnets does one person need?" I ask, glancing down into a bag bulging with them and socks. Thus far she had assembled a good selection of Lolita, rock, punk and gothic attire; although I've had to pester her into buying stuff for what she's actually shopping for, different disguises to go undercover with. All things considered it has gone very well so far and thankfully the trip is coming to an end. "$120 for a dog collar? We could've gone to Pet Palace and got the same thing for half the price," I say with a snort. "Now we need to get you an outfit for a fancy office job. Something appropriate and professional!" I remind her. "Where do you want to go for that?"
Cat didn't turn towards me or stop skipping. She just giggled, skipping closer to me. "Oh Doc, don't you see? A suit isn't just fabric… it's a mask… a lie… a costume for the boring people who think they're in charge! So, we don't go to a store. We go to the source!" She span, pointing down the street toward a sleek, glass-walled corporate tower. "That building! Third floor; Human Resources. Fifth; Finance. Seventh; the CEO's pet lawyers." Her grin widened. "We walk in, you distract security by looking mysterious and brooding," she giggles, tugging on my sleeve. "And I slip into the ladies' room, find a poor little worker bee in her prison suit. Then… we borrow her outfit… her badge… her sad, empty soul. And I walk out… not as Cat, but as Ms. Charlotte Hawthorne, Director of Ethical Compliance… here to audit your moral bankruptcy!"
She giggled, then paused, head tilted. "But, if you really want to buy one." She pouts, innocent. "We could go to Banana Republic… and I'll only stab two employees!"
I raise an eyebrow. "I admire the enthusiasm and innovative thinking, but if we need to get an ID for you we can simply manufacture one out of the nest," I explain. "So Banana Republic it is, and no stabbing anyone. You've traumatised enough retail staff for one day. You're going to have to content yourself with that," I inform her. "And no ifs, buts or maybes or 'Aaaww but Doc's," I add, leading the way to Banana Republic. "Now come on, these bags are getting really heavy."
If I had thought Cat was insane before, a whole other version of her revealed itself when she went shopping. Like those Bridezillas on TV, except she was shopping. The moment the automatic doors of Banana Republic hissed open, the air inside, crisp, sterile, full of compliance and quiet despair triggered something deep in Cat's soul. She froze, emerald eyes dilating. "…Ohhh!…yesss!…" she cooed voice thick, drenched in ecstasy. "The temple of boring people… worshipping neutral tones!"
She stepped forward slowly. Her fingers brushed a mannequin in a beige blazer as she whispered, "I'll burn you last." She skipped into women's wear, and then it happened.
The sales assistant, young, earnest, wearing a name tag that says "Jen" approached with a smile. "Hello there! Can I help you find something?"
"Yes!" Cat hisses, her voice sharp, sudden, inhuman.
Jen flinched.
"I need a suit," Cat purrs, stepping forward, eyes locked on Jen like a predator. "One that says…I'm smiling while I ruin your life!" She ran her hand along a charcoal pinstripe, slowly caressing it; then snaps it off the rack like it offended her. "This one," she hisses, holding it up. "The fabric… it whispers lies… perfect!"
She turn to Jen, grinning. "Now… shoes."
Jen nods, backing away.
A man in a lilac sweater suddenly reaches for the same suit.
"Sorry, that's mine," Cat says softly.
"Uh… I saw it first? I was just coming to get it," he says.
Cat smiled. Then, in one fluid motion she dropped the suit and pulled out the Gigglesaw.
Jen screamed.
The man dropped the hanger and ran.
Cat gigglesd, snapping the saw closed and tucking it back into her fishnets. "Oopsie! Guess it's mine now."
I grabbed Cat's arm. "We're leaving. Now!"
"But Doc!" she whines, clutching the suit to her chest like a trophy. "I need shoes that say 'I will end you!"
"You're wearing combat boots!"
"Exactly!" she grins. "So I need a backup!"
Behind us Jen is on the phone with security.
I drag her out of the store and we rapidly flee without causing a scene. Shortly after Cat's still whining about new shoes, despite the fact she's got half a dozen new pairs already. "That was...horrific," I finish, not knowing how to word it. "What were you thinking? Why do you even have that with you?" I ask. "I think its time to call it a day. If you want more shoes you can go buy them yourself later. I'll give you the money," I say, pulling her along by the hand. "You're going to get us both arrested," I mutter, heading for the van. I throw all the bags of shopping in the back and slam the side door, climbing in behind the driver's seat as I start the van. Not so much as glancing at Cat, as I ignore her while processing things and getting hold of myself. "Get in!" I demand.
Cat didn't argue. She just slid into the passenger seat, silent, still, unblinking, her eyes fixed on me like a scolded puppy. The suit, wrinkled, stolen, clutched in her lap like a trophy. "…You told me to get disguises," She whispers in a small voice. "I just… wanted to look like them… the boring people… the ones who smile while they kill with paperwork. I thought… if I dressed like them… talked like them… smelled like them. Maybe… I could learn how to hurt like them too." Then she grins shyly. " "Sorry I scared the normie," she murmurs, tucking her knees to her chest. "But… the suit is really pretty…" She nuzzles it like a cat. "Wanna see me try it on later?"
I sigh. "Oh hoy! ....We don't pull weapons on people in public. Yes, that guy was being a dick, but in future in those situations if I'm not there play the damsel in distress and fake crying and call out for your daddy and I'll come deal with them, without causing grievous bodily harm." I tell her, with a look. "How did you make it this far without being incarcerated in juvie for a decade or anything? Jesus, no wonder your mother drinks," I say with a snort. Then smile as I start to giggle and beside myself I burst out laughing, the quip about her mother becoming a hilarious joke. .... "Now there's a few things we have to train you for to go with the new outfits. One that's creating a persona for each outfit and being able to act like that person so you can blend in and move about unseen," I explain. "Could your mum be a problem for us? Are you fine with working full time and being on call for emergencies? You'll be paid $3,000 a week without tax. Is that okay with you?" I put some music on to lighten the mood, playing Blood Stained Valentine, by Murderdolls.
She's too busy mouthing the lyrics, her green eyes half-lidded, lost in the rhythm of the music. She shivers, delighted and presses her palm to her chest, right over her heart, like she's checking for the wound. She turns to me, grinning, bloodthirsty and bright. "Mmm… Doc," she purrs, drumming her finger on the dashboard to the beat. "You really get me!" She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear. "To answer your questions, Mummy dearest? Pfft. She thinks I'm at band camp. Again. Forever! On call? Doc…," she giggles. "I live for emergencies…especially the kind that end in fireworks!"
She twirls a pink strand of hair around her finger, grinning. "And three thousand a week?" She snorts dramatically. "Please, I'd pay you to let me play with corpses and call it work." She abruptly grabs my arm, eyes wide. "But, before we talk training…" she cries, pointing at the stereo. "This song! It's perfect! It's us! It's..." She clutches her chest, mock fainting. "Ohhh… imagine… me in a wedding dress… dripping red… holding a bouquet of severed fingers… walking down the aisle to this!" She sighed dreamily, leaning in to whisper in my ear. "Can we kill someone to it? Tonight? Pretty please?"
Something stirs inside me when she leans close and whispers in my ear. I can smell her perfume and feel the heat of her breath tickling my ear, I turn to look at her and see her cleavage inches from my face, my eyes being drawn to it against my will. Shaking my head, I look back at the road. "I thought you would like it!" I say with a smile, taking one hand off the wheel and patting her leg. "Okay, good, that settles that then!" I say, the smile growing wider as she gushes over the song. "And no, we're not killing anyone tonight," I insist. "We've got quite a bit of work to do before you're at that level," I say as the van pulls back into the factory.
Cat didn't pout. Doesn't whine. She leaned back in her seat, grinning, stretching like a cat caught in a sunbeam, her eyes half-lidded, drunk on the music, the promise, the way my fingers lingered on her thigh. "Mmm… Doc," she purrs, twisting to face me, elbow on the console, chin in her palm. "You say 'not tonight'… but your eyes say… 'soon.' Her free hand drags up her leg, mimicking my touch, slow, teasing, stopping just short of the Gigglesaw strapped to her thigh. "And until then…" she whispered, leaning in, lips brushing my ear; "...I'll practice every night, dreaming of the day you let me kill for real." She suddenly pulls away, skipping out of the van before I can park, laughing as she dances toward the factory, suit clutched to her chest, still humming the song.
"Huh? What? Soon what?" I ask, confused as to what she's talking about. Was she making a sexual reference, referring to killing someone, or both? I don't get a chance to ponder it any further because she's leaping out of the van and hurrying up to the Raven's Nest.
I sat at the computer terminal in the Nest, searching through government databases of citizen information. My task was one that would be time consuming and slow going, but it should provide me with a tangible list of suspects by the time I was done. I was going to analyse the psychology of my target and through a process of elimination erase contributing factors that didn't fit his psychological profile. To begin with I eliminated women, children and anyone not between the ages of 30-50 and a Caucasian male. Detective Santiago had forwarded me all the relevant information pertaining to the victims so far so I had something to build my psychological profile with, along with the one the police had already conducted, that she supplied. In short, our perpetrator believed himself to be a vampire and he possessed the means and the ability to live the part. Like a true vampire he either lived a nocturnal lifestyle, or avoided the daylight, which meant he was someone of significant means, not hampered by the pressures and hindrances of modern life such as work, commitments and responsibilities. He had no criminal record or history of significant debts, being born into money and able to sustain his lifestyle. The most significant factor was the first thing Santiago had pointed out, all the murders had been committed within the Inner Western suburbs of the city, all within walking distance. Our murderer played the part obsessively, breaking any traditional notion of the vampire myth would shatter the illusion, hence he went to great lengths to maintain the charade. My initial round of suspect edits factored in the geographical area, his race, age, physical appearance and socioeconomic and employment status. If he did work he was a tradesman of some sort or business owner so it allowed him to choose his own hours. Our vampire was a delusional narcissist, arrogant and vain, well off and highly likely educated and cultured. But in connection with his unusual pathology it was clear he lived a reclusive lifestyle and probably had always been socially isolated to one degree or another. Hence he had no children, had never married and had attended private school, but not university. He was an autodidact who prides himself on his own genius, however misguided it may be. I typed all these things into the computer to narrow down the list and added everything I could that could help. A staunch traditionalist, he placed great emphasis on European culture, sans his delusion and would be either a first or second generation immigrant. Just enough to yearn for European cultural superiority, without being too ingrained in the local culture to not pay the European continent undo reverence, but he had not travelled anywhere in at least, the past decade. He owned his own home, an older one built before the turn of the 20th century, but one that he specifically wanted at ground level, so fulfil his vampiric preferences. I couldn't help it as a predatory grin spread across my face. An evening's work and I had taken the list from a million potential matches down to a mere thousand. The hunt had begun.
Cat sat in the Screaming Throne in front of the computer terminal when I approached. "We have a slight change in our plans," I tell her, handing her a folder full of documents. "This is a list of the names and identification credentials for a thousand individuals who are potential suspects in another ongoing murder investigation," I inform her. "I'm helping a friend on the police force with the case as both a professional favour, mutual aid and well, we have a mutual enemy," I say with a nod. "What I want you to do is cross reference them all with the three major credit card companies and check their lists of purchases for the past three months. We're looking for anything strange or unusual like old antiques, medieval weapons, old or occult books, any books that have anything to do with history, classic literature, philosophy, the arts, conspiracy theories, mythology, folklore, poetry, theology and religion. Purchases of artwork, be it paintings or sculptures, any old timey costumes or items of clothing one would deem gothic or fitting into a pre-20th century aesthetic," I explain, going through the list of appropriate, potential matches. "Obviously just one or two of these things like a few books isn't enough to raise a flag, but if he's buying a 16th century occult book, artworks and new victorian clothing he's a potential suspect," I tell her.
Cat swivels in the chair, her orange eyes scanning the folder with a mix of boredom and intrigue. She flips through the pages lazily before letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Mmm… so you want me to play data miner while you go do the fun stuff?" She pouts, kicking her feet up on the desk. Then her grin sharpens, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Fine, fine—but if I find our guy first, I get to pick how we greet him." Her nails tap against the enter key with a dangerous rhythm. "…And if this turns out to be another dead end, you owe me a new knife."
"I'm still running through my analysis of our suspect's psychological profile," I reply. "Honing it, trying to filter it down more," I stop and smile. "You're going to love this, but the guy we're looking for? He believes himself to be a vampire," I tell Cat. "He's killed half a dozen people and drank their blood like they were a milkshake."
Cat's fingers freeze mid-keystroke, her green eyes widening—then gleaming with unholy delight. "Mmm…no shit?" She swivels the chair to face me fully, lips curling into a razor-edged grin. "A real live vampire wannabe? Oh, Sam, you should've led with that." She kicks off the desk, rolling closer to me as she spins around in her chair, leaning closer to me as he voice drops lower. "Tell me he wears a cape. Please tell me he wears a cape!" Her fingers drum against the armrest, already itching for violence.
"…Can I stab him with a stake? Just for the aesthetic?"
I smirk at her. "Gee, Detective Santiago won't like that, she wants the suspect alive so he can go to trial and be put behind bars," I reply. "But, then accidents do sometimes happen, people just won't go down without a fight and end up dying in the process," I say, stroking my chin as if deep in thought.
Cat practically vibrates with excitement, pushing her chair back and jumping up to wrap her arms around my neck, pressing her body against mine. "Mmm…accidents," she purrs, nuzzling my jaw. "I just love how accidents happen, don't you? It's so fortunate when they just… happen to bad guys who drink people's blood." She pulls back just enough to grin up at me, green eyes sparkling. "I'll cross-reference the cards extra fast, okay? And if I find him before you finish your profile, I'll be a good girl and wait… but I am sharpening my wooden stake while I wait!" Her fingers slide down to my chest, playing with the hem of my shirt. "Promise me if he tries to bite me, you'll let me drive it through his heart. It'd be such a waste to not do it properly, right?"
I smile down at her. "Alright, I promise!"
About six hours later I return to the Nest to see how Cat is progressing with the checks. "How's it going?" I ask as I enter the room to see her typing away furiously.
Cat swivelled around in the chair, showing me the screen where three names were highlighted in bright red. Her pink hair was messy from running her hands through it, and there was a crumb of leftover cookie stuck to the corner of her mouth. A sharp, excited grin split her face. "Halfway there!" She pumps a fist in the air, leaning back to stretch her stiff shoulders. "Spent ages looking and I've got a dozen solid hits. All of em bought the exact sort of stuff you listed—occult books, vintage Victorian clothing, even one of 'em bought a old medieval dagger last month."
She taps the top name on the list with a long, black-painted nail, green eyes gleaming. "This one is the most interesting, though. Check this out—he's a regular at the local occult bookshop and he just dropped three grand on a custom made coffin last week. Three thousand dollars, can you believe that? Dude's fully committed to the bit."
I smiled back at her and nodded. "Great work so far! Let me know when you're done so we can take that list and proceed to check out those names."
She gives me a curt nod. "I'm calling it a day for now, it's getting late and I gotta be home to give mother dearest her medication. But I promise I'll be back at it first thing tomorrow," Cat says.
I nod back at her in acceptance. "Excellent. It won't be long now. A few more days and I'll have him in the palm of my hand, and then …...our vampire will find he's not the apex predator," I say with a snarl.