Kevin Hearne - Hammered

Leif turned his ice-blue eyes on me and allowed a small smile to tug at the edges of his mouth. “Territory, naturally.”

“Ah, yes, Hal mentioned to me earlier that you control the entire state. Congratulations.”

Leif didn’t answer, and Gunnar took the opportunity to jump in. “Yes, well, word of his injuries has spread, and some vampires have come to investigate.”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “Why don’t you serve ’em up a cease-and-desist letter? You guys are good at that.”

“That is not how I respond to vampires in my territory,” Leif said without humor.

“How do you respond, then?”

“I destroy them.”

Oberon spoke up.

It’s difficult not to laugh when Oberon provides commentary like that, but I enjoy the challenge. It keeps me sharp. If I laughed or seemed the least bit amused, Leif would probably not take it well. And if he realized my dog was making fun of him, he’d be sure to take offense. So I carefully kept my expression neutral and said to Leif, “I see. And you’d like my help? As in, tonight?”

“Yes.”

That was precisely what I’d been afraid of. I sighed and said, “Leif, I need my sleep tonight, because I have a full day tomorrow and a long night after that getting us to Russia. I can’t afford to tax myself tonight if you want to make it to Asgard. Your territorial concerns will have to remain your concerns. I’m sorry.”

“There are sixty-three vampires from Memphis at the Arizona Cardinals game right now,” Leif said, tapping the table with his index finger. “I could use someone to watch my back.”

“How do you know they are there?”

Leif ignored this and answered with another question. “Can I count on you, Atticus?”

“Only to get some sleep. How do you know about the vampires?”

My persistence didn’t pay off. He ignored me again and turned to Gunnar to ask him to come. Whenever I asked Leif a question about vampire hoodoo that he wanted to keep secret, he always pretended not to hear. Several months ago I had used this to my advantage. I’d taken him to his first baseball game ever, on a mild June night with the roof open at Chase Field as the Diamondbacks hosted the Padres. I’d known Leif would be curious about the game and the behavior of people in such a crowd, but his questions never ended: If the team mascot was supposed to be a rattlesnake, why was there a bobcat named Baxter running around acting like an idiot? Did this mascot bait-and-switch indicate humanity’s primeval fear of fanged creatures? Why do ballplayers seem to have oral fixations on gum, tobacco, or sunflower seeds? And why do some ballplayers feel the need to fondle their groin between every pitch? Is that why they’re called ballplayers instead of athletes or competitors or contestants? It finally came to be too much, and I asked him a question I’d always wondered about.

“Hey, Leif, I’ve been meaning to ask. There’s this famous kids’ book called Everyone Poops . Does that include vampires, since you guys are on a strict liquid diet? I’d imagine the accumulation of hemoglobin could really get you backed up after a while. Is there a special laxative you use or what?” Leif regarded me glacially for a couple of heartbeats, then rose silently from his seat and shuffled past people to the aisle leading to the main concourse. “Hey, get me a beer while you’re up,” I called. “And a hot dog with mustard and onions.” I didn’t see him again for three innings, but he came back with a dog and a beer for me.

Gunnar begged off back-watching duty. He had plenty to accomplish himself if he was to have all in order by tomorrow night. “I must arrange things satisfactorily with the Pack,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”

Leif gave up on the werewolf but turned once more to me. “Atticus, you must help. Sleep is an insufficient excuse to stay home when there are so many vampires out there.”

best excuse to stay home when there are vampires out there!>

“Don’t get me wrong, Leif,” I said, “I loves me some vampire huntin’. Nothing like watching a hissing head go flying in one direction while the body falls in another, you know? But trust me when I say that taking the three of us to Tír na nÓg is going to be taxing. You don’t want me to be exhausted when I do that.”

“You never get tired,” Leif pointed out. “You draw strength from the earth.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Gotcha!’ when you catch people in verbal inconsistencies.”

“I am aware, but it sounds vulgar.”

“Perhaps it does. This isn’t a ‘gotcha’ moment, anyway. I’m speaking of mental exhaustion, not physical. Planewalking isn’t a physical strain. It’s a mental one. If I’m not fresh, then—”

“Say no more,” Leif interrupted. “I understand. I will simply have to kill them all myself.”

Not John Williams?

Gunnar excused himself from the conversation and rose to leave, citing his pack business. We stood and shook hands and bid him good evening. He exited in a flash of silver and I sat back down with Leif.

“So what’s going to happen when you show up there, Leif? Do all the southern vampires know what you look like and have little posters of you taped to the inside of their coffins? Are they going to squee and ask for your autograph?”

“I beg your pardon? What was that? Will they screech and ask me …?”

“No, I said squee. ”

“I am not familiar with this verb.”

“It’s a relatively new exclamation. It’s a high-pitched noise of excitement one makes when confronted with a celebrity one worships.”

Leif took a moment to digest this and then he arched a blond eyebrow at me. “Tell me, Atticus, have you ever, ah, squeed? Did I conjugate that correctly?”

“Yes, you did. And, yes, as a matter of fact I have squeed.”

“Do tell.”

“I went to the San Diego Comic-Con a few years back and met one of my favorite authors, and he made me squee involuntarily. I also did a tiny dance and I might have peed a little bit when he shook my hand.”

“You did not,” Leif stated flatly.

Oberon added.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t pee, but I spake truth about the tiny dance or I’m the son of a goat. Authors aren’t huge celebrities to most people, but I’m a guy who appreciates a good story well told. Beyond that, though, I think this man might actually possess supernatural powers. He makes people lose their minds, and I’m sure some of them do lose bladder control as well.”

“I see. And who is this author?”

“Neil Fucking Gaiman.”

“His second name is Fucking?”

“No, Leif, that’s the honorary second name all celebrities are given by their fans. It’s not an insult, it’s a huge compliment, and he’s earned it. You’d like him. He dresses all in black like you. Read a couple of his books, and then when you meet him, you’ll squee too.”

Leif found the suggestion distasteful. “I would never behave with so little dignity. Nor would I wish to be confronted in such a manner by anyone else. Vampires inspire screams, not squees. Involuntary urination is common, I grant, but it properly flows from a sense of terror, not an ecstatic sense of hero worship.”

“It properly flows? Are we having a pee pun party?”

A slight tightening around the eyes was my only visual clue that Leif was amused. Otherwise his face remained impassive and his voice deadpanned, “If I do not aim carefully at my targets tonight, I might cause a big splash at the stadium.”