Lauren Roy - Night Owls

“What do you mean, as bad as they are?”

Helen pursed her lips, as though searching for a delicate way to put it. “He kept Henry at a distance these last few years. For his ward to show up at our door in the middle of the night, I’d imagine the situation has to be particularly dire.” She stepped back so Elly could get past her, then shut the door and turned the lock. Her hand fell gently on Elly’s shoulder. “Otherwise . . . Tell me, Elly. Is Father Value . . . ?”

“Dead,” she said, and the weight of the last two nights crashed down on her at last. She tried taking a deep breath, but it turned into a sob. Another followed, then another. All she could see were Father Value’s eyes, cold and staring—the only part of his face she could even recognize under the blood and bruises.

Then Mrs. Clearwater—Helen—was there, pulling her into an embrace and murmuring nonsense words as she stroked Elly’s hair.

That set off another spate of tears. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her like that, not even Father Value. No, that wasn’t true. She could remember, but it only dredged up a deeper hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a while. She wrangled hold of the sadness and fear coursing through her and gave Helen a watery smile.

“Don’t be. Let’s get you some tea, and you can give me the short version before Henry gets home.”

Elly lifted her pack from where she’d dropped it and followed Helen further into the house. The pack felt heavier than it had before. I thought burdens were supposed to get lighter when you shared them.

Only, she wasn’t feeling any relief. Elly looked out a window into the night. Somewhere out there, the Creeps were coming. A day, maybe two, and they’d find her here. They wouldn’t be kind to anyone aiding her.

Burdens might get lighter, but guilt? Guilt bears down harder.

First thing in the morning, I’ll go.

THE KID HAD been stalking the aisles for the better part of ten minutes, drifting from the self-help books to the horror shelves and back again. He’d browsed through psychology and human sexuality; he’d run his fingers over the spines of every book in the science section twice. When he finally gave up and headed to the front to ask for help, he walked with that cringing don’t-judge-me posture Chaz usually saw on grown men looking for books written by “Anonymous.”

Chaz paused in Travel, pretending to set the U.S. guides in alphabetical order by state. Really, it was just the best place to stand and listen in on the conversation at the register without appearing like you were eavesdropping.

Which, of course, he was.

Val had taken over an expanse of the counter, intent on using the late evening lull to match packing lists to invoices and get some bills paid. The way she was bent over them, you couldn’t tell how damned tall she was; she actually had an inch or two on Chaz, putting her close to six feet. She tucked an errant lock of dark red hair behind her ear, unaware of the hilarity rapidly approaching.

The kid didn’t even wait for Val to look up from her paperwork before he blurted out his question: “Where do you keep your books on vampires?”

Chaz couldn’t help the snicker.

Val shot a frown in his direction, but he could see her fighting to keep a straight face, too. “Fiction, or nonfiction?”

“Non, please. Do you . . . Do you have any that say how you can tell if someone is one?”

Chaz faked a coughing fit to hide his laughter.

“Up that aisle,” said Val, “past the astrology books on the left. We have a ton on vampires.”

“Thanks.” The kid took off at a run in the direction Val pointed, nearly crashing into Chaz on his way by. “Sorry,” he muttered before heading deeper into the store.

Chaz got a decent look at him: pressed khakis, collared shirt, hair definitely not styled at the local Supercuts. He headed up to the register. Val stood with her arms folded, waiting for it. “Roommate?” he asked softly. He set his armload of books down on the counter and pretended to look them up.

“Girlfriend,” said Val.

“Five bucks?”

“Yep.”

Chaz swept a lock of pale blond hair out of his eyes and turned around to peer at the kid, who was now running his fingers along the spines of books in the proper section, lips moving as he read each title. “What makes you say girlfriend?”

“Eyeliner. You wear it to impress a girl, not your new roommate.”

“No way. I didn’t see any.” The kid hadn’t looked the eyeliner type; not with those clothes, at least.

“Trust me, it’s there.”

Chaz shrugged and returned to punching numbers on the keyboard, occasionally making the computer go ping , like he’d done something useful. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the kid to make a selection. Val said when you added in the ponytail, Chaz’ picture ought to be in the dictionary next to “slacker.” On his third run through the stack, the kid returned, clutching a book close to his chest. Sure enough, an unsteady line of kohl ringed the kid’s eyes. Chaz swore under his breath.

Val grinned triumphantly before she turned to ring up the sale.

“This one, please,” said the kid. He glanced at his watch—a fancy chunk of silver from Tag Heuer that also didn’t jive with the eyeliner—and smiled. “I’m glad you guys were still open.”

Chaz pushed himself up to sit on the counter and pointed at the hours painted beneath the owl on their picture window. “It’s early yet. We’re here until three.”

Night Owls Books sat just off the campus of Edgewood College, making it the perfect place for an almost-all-night bookstore. Since it was only eleven o’clock, a few clusters of students sat on the couches up front, laptops out, textbooks open. More would arrive after the library closed half an hour from now.

Chaz took a look around to be sure the three of them were the only people in earshot. The studying kids didn’t look likely to get up anytime soon, and Justin, tonight’s other late-night employee, had exiled himself to the children’s section sometime around nine-thirty, determined to undo the damage from the whirlwind that was Activity Night. He had yet to resurface. Leaning around Val, Chaz snagged the kid’s book and peered at the title. “So, you think the girl you like might be a vampire, huh?”

The kid turned crimson. “Um,” he said.

“Tell you what. I’ll save you ten bucks. She wear a lot of black?”

“. . . yes.”

“Burns incense and smokes clove cigarettes?”

“Um, yes. To the cloves.” The kid rolled his eyes toward Val pleadingly, but she knew better than to try to stop Chaz mid-defanging.

“Listens to Bauhaus and the Cure, and other bands who probably broke up before you two were born?”

“. . . yeah.”

Chaz hopped off his perch and ambled closer, so he could lean in and drop his voice. “Son, does your dream girl write really, really bad poetry? Especially stuff with angels and blood and graves?”

The kid blinked, torn between acknowledging this last and his loyalty toward the girl. He went for a noncommittal shrug.

“Yep. Not a vampire,” said Chaz with a firm nod. “She starts drinking blood, you tell her that shit’ll make her sick. The human stomach can’t digest more than a few drops.”

“Uh. Oh.” The kid managed to look both defeated and relieved at the same time. It was like Chaz had stuck a pin in him and let him deflate. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of silly, isn’t it?” He backed away from the register, not making eye contact. “Thanks anyway,” he said toward Val, and sped out the door. Dating the Paranormal remained on the counter like an accusation.