Anton Strout - Deader Still

“We appreciate it,” I said. “The whole Department does.”

“Should anything actually happen here, though,” Davidson continued, “the mayor would appreciate your discretion in handling the matter. He would prefer there not be as public a display as that last one back at the Met, especially given the media coverage here.”

“We’ll do our best,” Jane said, surprising me with the return of that boundless optimism and cheer that had been lacking these past few days.

“Exactly,” I said, “but I don’t know how subtle we’ll be. It’s hard to deal with extraordinary affairs by ordinary means. But like the lady said, we’ll try our best.”

Davidson gave a nervous smile. “I guess that’s as good as we can hope for,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. “I suppose I’d better have emergency services at the ready just in case . . .”

With that, he wandered off into the crowd, his cell phone already at his ear.

I looked over at Jane, only to find her looking back at me, smiling. Dressed as we were, it was hard not to relish in the strange fantasy of it all. I could feel the electricity in the air, and for once it wasn’t my power . . . or Jane casting spells through a junction box. It almost made me wish we were a normal couple out for a night on the town, rather than out to stomp the forces of evil.

The fashion plate bouncers manning the entrance to the giant tent stopped us when we arrived. After having our tickets examined to the nth degree, we were finally allowed inside. The interior of the tent was lit with a wash of cool colors that complemented the clean, crisp look of the whole Fashion Week affair. A white runner stretched down the center of the main aisle, presumably the catwalk for the show. It was flanked by hundreds of black wooden folding chairs that were quickly filling with the cream of the New York fashionista crop.

As we made our way across the transformed park, more of the staff checked our tickets and led us to our seats. We sat in two of the four unoccupied seats at the end of our row, and I looked over at Jane, who was still beaming. She squeezed my arm, and for a split second it felt like an actual date.

After a moment, I turned and looked out over the arriving crowd.

“Let me know if you see anything,” I said.

The two of us looked around the tent, which was filling up. I recognized a few of the faces in the crowd from television or film, but I was more interested in the camera crews that were busy setting up their equipment. I pointed them out to Jane.

“So it looks like tonight’s going to be televised,” she said. “Good thing I spent some time on my makeup.”

“You look beautiful,” I said without hesitation, “no question about that, but with those cameras here, it pretty much means that if anything paranormal goes down, we’re screwed. That’s not just local news. It’s national television. And Cyrus Mandalay wants to go large scale with evil.”

Jane’s eyes danced as the lights went down and the music rose. The fashion show started, and all we could do was keep vigilant while ignoring the pageantry before us. My head pounded from all the lights and from peering into the darkened crowd for signs of anything paranormal. My phone, my third one in as many days, vibrated to life in my pocket. I discreetly pulled it out and checked the display.

The Inspectre.

I tapped Jane on the shoulder before flipping it open. I held the phone up between the two of us and we leaned our heads in.

“Anything out there yet, sir?” I whispered into it.

“Negative,” he said. “There’s been nothing reported on our end. How are things in there, boy? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Other than anorexics walking up and down the runway in flamboyant outfits? No, sir.”

“Damn and blast,” the Inspectre swore. “If Cyrus was going to do something, I would have expected him to make his move by now. There’s simply no activity out here, so keep your eyes sharp . . . and keep an eye on the girl, too, my boy.”

The fatherly concern in his voice nearly broke my heart.

“Will do, Inspectre.”

As I flipped my phone shut, a couple approached and I assumed it was for the two unoccupied seats next to us. I rose to let them in.

“I’m sorry . . .” I started, but stopped when I saw who it was. “Godfrey?”

It was Godfrey and he nodded curtly, shushing me.

Gone were his pristine suit and tie. He was dressed in a tuxedo far more fashionable than mine, and he looked nervous. When I saw the woman on his arm, I could see why. She was dark-haired and gorgeous. I definitely knew her from somewhere, but I couldn’t place her.

“Hello, Simon,” he said. “Hello, Jane.”

The two of us were speechless and all we could do was nod hello.

Godfrey seated the woman with him and then sat down next to me, the nervous look still on his face.

“Godfrey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He looked a little breathless, but gave me a thumbs-up. “Just . . . nerves . . .” he said between breaths.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I had already gotten myself into a little bit of heat with Connor over the poor guy, and now he was here in potential harm’s way.

Godfrey pulled off his glasses and cleaned them. This seemed to calm him a little. He slid them back on his nose. “It’s funny. The other day in the café, there was a Village Voice open on one of the coffee tables when I sat down. This one personal ad caught my eye and I responded to it, and well, turns out that Mandi here was looking for an escort to this event at Fashion Week. She was in last year’s show but her modeling shoot in Thailand conflicted with the week leading up to it so she couldn’t participate this year.”

“So you answered a personal ad in the Voice and you ended up with a supermodel on your arm?” I said. No wonder she looked familiar. I had probably seen her on a cover somewhere.

Godfrey nodded, smiling. “What are the odds on that?”

Pretty good, actually, I thought, considering what I knew about his power. He truly was the luckiest man in the world.

“Excuse us,” I said to his date, and grabbed Godfrey and Jane, dragging them off behind our seating area.

“Godfrey, you’ve got to get you and your date out of here now,” I said. “The Inspectre will kill me if he finds you in here. They don’t want you anywhere near this type of field work. Something weird’s going down.”

“What? Tell me.”

“We don’t know,” Jane chimed in.

“Maybe I can help,” he offered. He looked like a big sad-eyed puppy who just wanted to do good.

Realizing that arguing with Godfrey wasn’t going to work, I caved. Maybe if I threw him a bone it would get him out of here faster. “Fine. Um, can you think of anything supernatural about Bryant Park?”

Godfrey’s eyes rolled back into his head as he searched through his vast array of mental records. Twenty seconds later, the pupils rolled back into place. Godfrey shook his head.

“Nothing supernatural,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Dammit,” I said.

“I do remember something creepy, though,” Godfrey said.

“I’m sorry?” Jane said.

“There’s this one fact about Bryant Park . . . like I just said, it’s actually a bit more creepy than anything. Nothing supernatural has been documented about Bryant Park.”

“But . . . ?” I said, urging him on. Somewhere off behind me the tone of the room shifted and a low murmur began to spread through the crowd. “But what?”

“Well, before the Crystal Palace fire that happened here around 1858, the park had actually been used as a potter’s field from 1823 to 1840.”