Lauren Roy - Night Owls

“Huh. Girlfriend. You were right.” Chaz dug into his pockets. “Five bucks, we said?”

“Fifteen.”

“What?”

“Your little speech just lost us a sale. Oh, and add that book to your shelving pile, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and forked over the cash. “But I was right, wasn’t I? The lady friend’s not a bloodsucker.”

He fled down the aisle when she brandished the stapler.

Chaz had been through this a few times in the five years he’d been working for Val: a student coming in, convinced their roommate or love interest was some kind of otherworldly creature—vampire, werewolf, demon. Most of them were just normal kids who’d fallen for a very good angsty act. Only once in all that time had one of the kids been right.

That was why, after the kids left with their purchases (or in this case, empty-handed), Chaz would turn to Val and ask the question: were they right? He asked because he knew her secret: she could smell the supernatural on these kids the same way you might smell the traces of a girl’s perfume on her boyfriend’s jacket.

Valerie McTeague was a vampire, and Chaz was her Renfield.

It wasn’t a bad gig, all things considered. Chaz’ daylight duties mostly consisted of the mundane: keep the bookstore up and running, deal with bank deposits and customer service departments whose hours ended before nightfall, sign for the shipments that showed up while Val was home hiding from the sun. Only rarely did the paranormal requirements of his job kick in—less now than in his early days. Val hadn’t dragged him to a meeting with the colonies out of Boston for almost three years. She hadn’t been to one herself in nearly that long.

They didn’t really talk about it.

When the eleven-thirty munchies hit, Val lifted the petty cash box from its spot beneath the register and gave it a good rattle. It was Chaz’ official duty as a Night Owls minion to go to the cafe next door, charm the elderly twins behind the counter, and bring back coffee and pastries for the late crew.

“You know,” he said, making his way up front from the back of the store, “you could always just buy a dog whistle. It might be less humiliating.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t hear it.” She grinned and passed him the same ten dollar bill he’d handed over earlier. “New flavor tonight. I’m tired of cinnamon.”

“Gotcha.” He pocketed the bill and shuffled out the door, whistling as he went.

He didn’t notice the figure in the beige trench coat lurking outside.

VAL WATCHED CHAZ swing around to the left, heading in the direction of the cafe. The other man’s posture suggested he was watching Chaz go, too.

She went back to her invoices; she could feel the figure staring through the window. If she looked up, she knew she’d catch his eye beneath one of the owl’s painted wings. Chaz had only been gone two minutes. He’d be back within fifteen, he always was. Come on, you old bastard. You planning on waiting all night?

After a moment, the bell jingled merrily. Val glanced up, looking bored. The man had only taken two steps inside. He removed the crumpled fedora from his head and craned his neck, summoning a defiant glare, but none of the other customers had noticed his entrance. Satisfied, he bustled up to the counter. His sharp blue eyes stared up at Val from a wrinkled face.

One hand reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim white box. It thumped heavily on the counter as he set it down.

“Helen made fudge,” he said, and smiled at her. “I thought I’d bring some for you.”

“That’s . . . that’s so sweet of you two, Professor. You’ll have to thank her for us.”

“Us,” sniffed the old man. He stole a glance toward the door, as though he’d find Chaz glaring in at him. When he turned back to Val, his gaze was hopeful. “Is the room open?”

She smiled and reached beneath the register, where a silver key hung from its chain. Most of the time, customers who wanted to look in the rare books room had to leave their licenses up at the front while Val or Chaz escorted them to the door and unlocked it for them. The professor, however, received special treatment. He’d been coming to the store for five years now, and had brought as many precious titles to Val as he had bought from her. She was thinking of having a key made for him, so he could come and go as he pleased.

Now, though, she dangled the key above his outstretched palm and let it drop, the chain pooling atop the key. He closed his fingers over it, his expression beatific. “It’s all right if I browse?” His voice was a reverent whisper.

“Yeah,” she said. “Go on back. There’s a pile of unsorted stuff on the stool. Maybe you’ll find a gem.” He bustled up the aisle with determination, a treasure hunter nearing the X on the map.

“WHAT I DON’T get,” Chaz said ten minutes later, dropping his voice as Val sniffed at her cup, “is why he’s so totally convinced I’m a werewolf, yet he doesn’t come around here with crosses and garlic for you.”

Val snorted. “I guess you’re just more sinister looking.”

“No, but think about it. Have I ever, I dunno, not come into work when the moon’s been full? Bitten a customer? Peed on the rug? No. But you, shit, he at least has to have noticed that you’re nocturnal.” A couple came up to the register, and Chaz turned around to ring up their sale, shaking his head.

When they were gone, Val set her cup down and peered up at Chaz. “He has noticed. He thinks I have a skin condition. Don’t you remember Helen sending along all those homemade salves last Christmas?”

As Chaz opened his mouth to argue, the rare books room door squealed, announcing Professor Clearwater’s exit. He turned the key and gave a satisfied nod as the tumblers slid home with a click, then headed to the front of the store with an armload of books.

He and Chaz spent a long moment exchanging chilly stares as he set his pile down. “Will you set these aside for me? I’ve some books at home from Helen’s mother’s estate that you might be interested in trading.” He spoke to Val, but his gaze never left Chaz.

“Of course. I’d be happy to take a look.”

“Thank you.” Professor Clearwater held out the key for Chaz to take, a sudden gleam in his eyes.

Chaz returned the look with a feral grin and closed his hand around it, making a show of transferring the key slowly from one hand to the other before returning it to its hook.

The professor looked almost disappointed. He shook his head and tipped his hat. “I’ll be on my way,” he said, and tottered to the door.

When his silhouette disappeared around the corner of the building, Chaz let out a growl. “Did you see that? He was watching to see if I could hold silver. Crazy old fuck.” He drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into the wastebasket with extra force, then eyed Val’s. “You done sniffing?”

She slid it across to him as he opened the fudge.

IT WAS EARLY enough in the semester that the store was dead by closing time. Outside, the street was quiet except for the occasional scatter of leaves drifting across the pavement. The other storefronts were dark, proprietors and customers long since gone home for the night. Night Owls was on Edgewood’s main drag. Were it not for the influx of students every September, the sleepy college town might otherwise be called a hamlet.

Val walked Chaz to his car, an ancient, ’84 Mustang that looked like it would just barely be able to make it out of the parking lot. But, in the way of well-built older vehicles, it ran like a dream on regular oil changes and tune-ups. Chaz swore it would outlast pretty much everything on the planet in the event of a nuclear war—with the exceptions of maybe the cockroaches, Twinkies, and Val.