Roselyn and Eliot tried to be helpful at first, rooting around the tidiness of the apartment, then replacing the items Noah threw from the shelves. Finally, they just watched him tear books from the shelves and sniff under the furniture with all the purpose of a bloodhound.
Eliot had explained about Shane's bird and Noah had insisted they drive to it at top speed. "Top speed" meant something quite different for Eliot and Roselyn than it did for Noah, who regarded the speed limit as nothing more than a prissy suggestion. His 87 Dodge thundered toward the address and their car sped after with the due haste of two people who fear their lovers are in danger of turning into compost but who are being shown the true meaning of haste in a maniac with no fear of death.
The bird was nowhere to be found when they arrived, undoubtedly warned off by Noah's car belching and creaking from half a mile away. Without the bird to interrogate, Noah seemed to treat the rest of the apartment as Hugin's proxy. While Roselyn was desperate to get a hold of Shane in order to find Dryden, she almost felt pity for anything that got between Noah and his goal if this was how he treated obstacles.
Eliot paced around the apartment, feeling otherwise useless and needing to work off nervous energy. He didn't have faith that Noah would turn anything up that would yield a clue as to Shane's whereabouts. But, he silently admitted, Noah did seem to have the authority to handle whatever might come up, a fact underscored by the soreness of Eliot's neck. He couldn't stand just waiting while his girlfriend was in peril, no matter how much Roselyn tensely assured him that Shane would be fine.
When he came out of Shane's room, holding Shane's diary for comfort, he saw that Roselyn and Noah were having a conversation. Though he felt entitled to move freely in this apartment, having spent more than a few hundred hours within its walls, something in Roselyn's sad expression warned him away. He held back and listened to Noah explain something, not bothering to stop his search.
"That night, when I left, it wasn't because of you, Roselyn. After I got out of your car, I just walked the train tracks for a while, trying to get my head together. You were my best friend, but I didn't love you in the right way to be doing what we'd been doing. It wasn't right. We both knew it, even if our bodies didn't. I ended up at the playground. I saw these people, a guy and a girl, in the field. They didn't see me, so I watched them. Voyeurism does wonders for my state of mind, I don't need to tell you. Only, they weren't kissing or fighting. He was killing her, slashing open her throat, drinking the blood. I threw a rock at him, because I couldn't let him and I wasn't thinking straight. I couldn't just stand there and watch that. He came after me, a devil of a creature. He didn't find me - I hide better that you might thing - but it was too late to save the girl. I tried, her blood was on these hands here, but it wasn't good enough. She was never listed in the obituaries; I watched for weeks. Eventually, I found her picture in a post office in Essex, listing her as a runaway. It was a lie… I started to see that there were a lot of lies, things you just ignore. My head just couldn't let there be things like vampires in this world. But then I got resolved, you know? Because if there was evil, abominations like them, then there was good and I was going to be a part of that."
She looked at him with glittering eyes. "So what did you do?"
She couldn't see his face, but Eliot could. Though he didn't cease to look tired, there was something more that this retelling gave to him. Not sadness, exactly, more like regret and nostalgia. "I hitchhiked around a lot, picking up what knowledge and skills I could. A lot of people, more than I knew, were aware of vampire and vile beings, but they didn't do anything about it. Cowards, to be able to see the truth and to ignore it. I worked out - I think you can tell that - and now this is what I do. I got to be careful though, they don't always look like how I see them. They wear different faces and I've had to escape a few police officers who did not take too kindly to my beheading what looked to be an old woman to them."
Eliot forgot that he was trying to observe unnoticed. "You're sure they weren't actually old ladies, right?"
His eyes narrowing, Noah spat, "You know many old ladies that turn to bones and dust when you take their heads off?"
"Not many, no."
"Didn't think." Noah's head lowered to his task again, then his head shot up and he glared at Eliot. "What is that in your hands?"
Eliot looked down, almost frightened and it took him a moment to recognize the book. "It… It's Shane's diary. Why?"
"That's our guide."
Jo turned on Dryden. "This is all just a little too convenient, your being here and then these bastards stealing The Betsy."
Dryden backed up, unable to quite state why he found Jo so utterly horrifying, but not willing to contradict it either. Ever having almost a foot in height over the desiccated bloodsucker, Dryden knew better to assume this gave him the slightest advantage. He was only a few nights old when it came to being undead. Jo, though he had said nothing specific, was clearly quite a bit older and more experienced. "Listen, I had no idea… how do you even know that it was the same ones?"
"There aren't exactly a lot of us in the area, boy. Don't play with me, you can't win this game. Why don't you tell me exactly where your masters are and we can see how then to deal with your treachery." Jo's hand grasped Dryden's arm beyond the illusion that he was simply an old man.
To Dryden's surprise, Wick stepped between them. "Boss, there is no way this dead thing had the slightest to do with this theft."
"Oh, and why's that?" Jo demanded.
"I've spent the better part of this afternoon with him. I swear to you, he is an idiot."
Despite himself, Dryden found himself nodding feverishly.
Jo's hand tightened then relented. "Yeah, maybe you're right. Still, it was them, I know it. Now you get that truck of your working and why don't we have a little look where you came from?"
Dryden could not find and spare keys, nor did he believe he would have any craft at hotwiring his truck. Instead, with a heavy sigh, Wick offered up his Spyder for their use.
"Careful, dead thing. It is an antique. Do not sully it unduly."
"Why do you call me dead thing all the time? Aren't you…?"
"I am not a vampire. I am the son of a god. Do not forget your place."
"But your boss-"
"He is a special case. He helps keep balance. He keeps things like you in line so that there is never too much of a strain on credulity or the mortality rates. There used to be another, at the college, but he has gone missing. Now buckle up."
Red Hook is a serialized novel being written by Xen, also known as Thomm Quackenbush. It didn't happen to you, your best friend, or his cousin. Why? Because it didn't happen. All persons, living, dead, undead, or unliving are purely coincidental. Any real persons are used fictiously. What you are about to read is not a news broadcast. No portion of this book may be distributed without the expressed written consent of Xen. Feel free to rope your friends into reading it, though. Do it or I start shooting PuppyOrphans.
He is published by Cave Drawing Ink and syndicated throughout the internet.
