Anton Strout - Deader Still

She turned and her face was a blank slate. I couldn’t get a read off her about this whole situation, and if I couldn’t warn her about the dangerous woman I was dealing with, I at least wanted a chance to apologize for Mina being here. The demons of my past were mine to bear, and I couldn’t hold Jane responsible for having a negative reaction to them.

“I just want to say I’m sorry,” I said, trying to take her hands in mine. She reluctantly let go of the bag of books and gave me her hands. I lowered my voice. “You know, about earlier, at the bookshop . . .”

I was trying to avoid specifics, just in case Mina could hear us.

“Okay,” Jane said, and then just stood there. I squeezed her hand, but she didn’t really squeeze back.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. She let go of one of my hands and rubbed her eyes. She looked over my shoulder to make sure we were alone, but lowered her voice as well. “Just worn down from doing that . . . rat thing . . . over the phone earlier. Wesker wants me to stop inventorying the Stacks and read more about . . . technomancy.”

“But you’re not mad?” I asked suspiciously.

Jane smiled and shook her head, the darkness on her face vanishing in an instant.

“Just go and make sure your friend is okay,” she said with sincerity. “I know what it’s like to be in this city and not have anyone to turn to. It’s okay.”

Jane and I still had our issues to iron out after the fight earlier, but this was probably the best answer I was going to get from her under the circumstances. I kissed her on the forehead and watched her until she closed the accordion doors of the elevator and it started down.

I walked back down the hall and into my apartment, mulling over our exchange as I went.

When I entered, Mina was in the kitchen going through my cabinets. She had already stripped down to a white wifebeater that left little to the imagination. Even after all these years, Mina was in amazing shape, without an ounce of fat on her upper body.

I sat down on the other side of the galley counter as Mina continued poking around.

“So, she’s what passes as interesting to you these days, eh, Simon?”

“Watch it,” I said.

Mina grinned at me. “I thought you like them a bit more adventurous and less . . . bookish?”

I ignored her dig at Jane. I could have told her about Jane’s past temping for the forces of evil, or how she had tried to kill me, or even how we had fought side by side at the Met. I could have told Mina all that, but I didn’t. To bring it up would be to bring up the Department in its entirety and that was a part of my life I didn’t want Mina to have anything to do with.

“I don’t really know this Jane of yours, Simon,” Mina said, throwing a skillet down on the stove and drizzling olive oil into it, “but don’t you think her reaction to having a gorgeous woman like me here was a little . . . odd?”

“How so?” I asked, looking up at her as something in my chest tightened up.

“Well, first of all, you were looking a little guilty when you were not so suavely trying to cover up why I’m really here. Maybe Jane knew you’re hiding something . . . maybe the past you’ve had with me, or maybe she thinks we’re hooking up. But maybe she doesn’t really care. She didn’t seem angry enough. Maybe because she has something of her own to hide.”

Mina’s words set something off in me. What if she had a point? What if Jane was really the guilty party here? That would explain all the QT with Wesker, and I definitely didn’t put it past Wesker to try it on. My heart raced as I really started to give it serious consideration, until I realized I was taking relationship advice from a seriously screwed-up mind like Mina’s.

“Jesus,” I said. “Don’t put stuff like that in my head. I’ve got barely enough hamsters in their wheels up there to handle my regular level of paranoia.”

“Something to eat?” Mina asked. Gone was the threatening bitch from before, replaced by this younger, hipper, but equally mentally unbalanced Rachael Ray.

I ignored her question and headed off to the back of my apartment toward my bedroom.

“Clean up after yourself,” I said. “There are blankets and a pillow in the bottom of the closet in the bathroom. Enjoy the guest room and try not to kill me in my sleep.”

As I left her, I thought about my performance appraisal again. Didn’t die . Felt like I wanted to, though. Part of me would have loved nothing better. But I didn’t. And, lucky me, tomorrow was another day.

Once Mina left the next morning, I headed up to the Javits Center. After fighting my way across the convention floor through a line of either dark elves or Smurfs—I wasn’t sure what look they were going for—I made my way back to our D.E.A. booth. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but the Inspectre was already busy arranging the piles of brochures and aptitude tests.

“Anyone try to kill you yet today, my boy?” the Inspectre asked with cheer in his voice.

“Not unless you count crosstown traffic,” I said, “but I don’t think I can blame that on cultists.”

We were interrupted by a short, balding man in a hideous tweed suit approaching our booth. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish of his arm and a deep bow. I figured him to be dressed as a character from Doctor Who .

“Pamphlet?” I offered, holding up a copy of Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for Ghoul.

The man shook his head. “Perhaps another time. We, like you, are fellow vendors.”

I wondered who this “we” he referred to was, as he was standing there alone. I looked down at his color-coded badge and saw it was the same jaundiced yellow as ours. I put the pamphlet down.

Short & Balding had an accent that hinted at Middle American mixed with something exotic. Whatever it was, it was enough to confuse me.

“I trust you are having a good show so far?” he asked, the model of politeness.

The Inspectre nodded, but didn’t say anything. I kept my mouth shut, taking his lead.

“Excellent, excellent,” he said, sounding a little like a pitchman. I suspected he was here to set up some kind of vendor exchange, which was popular among so many of the non-paranormal vendors here.

“I’m Marten Heron,” he continued with another, more formal bow. Was this guy for real? He looked like he’d be more at home chatting it up back at the Lovecraft Café than here. “Of the Brothers Heron, Booth 1601-A. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

There was a twinkle of expectancy in his eye.

“You’re one of the Heron Brothers?” I said. “Julius is your brother? We rented the Oubliette from you yesterday. You know, the Oubliette that tried to kill me?”

The twinkle burned out in his eyes, but was back in a flash. “Yes, unfortunately,” he said. He wrung his hands together. “Julius told me about that. Rest assured, we’re looking into what happened.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “You didn’t happen to notice anything particularly unusual around here today, did you?”

“Unusual how?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “Nothing’s tried to kill me today, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

Marten paused, his hands clenched together like he might burst into a choral number any second.

“Oh, nothing in particular, really,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure the show is going well for you, after the Oubliette and all.”

I went to speak, but I felt the Inspectre’s foot come to rest on mine and stopped. Instead, the Inspectre extended his hand and spoke up.

“Argyle Quimbley,” he said. “A pleasure. I’ve only met your brother.”