Nocturnal Part 37

After he got to Sedona.

He touched the cell phone Eddy had tucked into his pocket and wished it worked within the portals, but Eddy'd explained to him how they needed towers to carry the signal, and there certainly weren't any deep inside the volcano.

Alton took a step toward the portal, but he caught himself, pausing in midstep as a dark mist slipped through the multicolored gateway. Silently it flowed along the wall toward the portal leading to the flank of Mount Shasta.

Demon!

His sword vibrated with power. Alton swung. The crystal blade connected with the black mist and it screeched and burst into flame. Crackling and sizzling, it disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving only the stench behind.

Alton stared at the spot where the demon had emerged. A shiver raced along his spine. This one had come directly from Sedona. His heart gave an unfamiliar lurch. Ginny was in Sedona-and so were the demons.

Demons powerful enough to take on living creatures as their personal avatars. Creatures strong enough to kill.

Holding his sword aloft, Alton stepped through the portal.

"Who'd you have to call?"

Markus's question snapped Ginny out of her convoluted thoughts. "Eddy. I called my friend Eddy Marks."

"I hope it was important." Markus backed out of the parking place he'd taken at the supermarket. Without Tom. The vet had insisted on keeping the cat for observation, which suited Ginny perfectly. d.a.m.ned cat had really chewed up her hand. She peeked under the b.l.o.o.d.y towel and wished she hadn't looked.

"You were gone so long I had to take Tom into the vet by myself."

Ginny scowled at him. Her hand still hurt like the blazes and not once had Markus thanked her for risking life and limb while catching his stupid cat. "Well, Tom is your cat, cousin of mine, and I would really like to get back to the house so I can clean up the mess your sweetheart sweetheart of a cat made of my hand." of a cat made of my hand."

Markus stared straight ahead. "Aren't you gonna ask me what the vet said?"

Ginny shook her head. "I figured you'd tell me if he had any idea what happened."

Markus curled up one lip and made a snorting noise. "He says they're all possessed. I knew he was into crystals and vortexes and all that New Age stuff, but I thought it was just for show. He's dead serious."

"Possessed? By what? The ghost of Christmas past?" Ginny stared out the side window as Markus drove the few blocks home. Possessed. Possessed. It sounded totally unbelievable, but how else do you explain a cat with four rows of teeth, glowing red eyes, and a scream like a banshee on meth? A scream that sounded horribly familiar. It sounded totally unbelievable, but how else do you explain a cat with four rows of teeth, glowing red eyes, and a scream like a banshee on meth? A scream that sounded horribly familiar.

Since her memories of that crazy night in Evergreen had begun to resurface, Ginny'd had the sound of the bear's ear-shattering scream in her head. A scream that was nothing more than a louder version of the strange howl coming from Markus's fat old cat.

Had the bear been possessed? Had some sort of evil ent.i.ty turned a concrete statue into a slavering, screaming killer? Something made it come to life. She hadn't imagined the d.a.m.ned thing, though she'd thought it was just a weird nightmare.

But all those animals at the vet's-the birds and bunnies, cats and dogs-every last one of them had acted unnervingly similar. Screeching, trying to bite, flashing those rows of sharp teeth, and staring out of glowing eyes.

Possession didn't sound all that crazy when you took it in context with what they'd seen today.

With what had attacked her just a few days ago.

Markus drove the car into the driveway and pulled into the garage. He shut off the engine and turned in his seat to glare at her. "You're making fun of it now, Ginny Jones, but how else do you explain all those animals? They weren't normal. Birds don't have teeth. Rabbits don't hiss and snarl and screech like that little bunny we saw today. Something's making them act crazy. If they're not possessed, what's going on?"

Without waiting for an answer, Markus got out of the car and slammed the door. Ginny sat in the front seat for a few minutes, thinking of Tom and the other animals they'd seen at the veterinarian's clinic, thinking of the concrete grizzly that had attacked her.

Thinking of Eddy's friend, Alton. Why did she know he was the reason she couldn't remember anything? Now that she was away from him, the memories were coming back. She recalled him saving her from the bear, walking with her, even laughing with her.

Most of all, she remembered his kiss.

What she couldn't remember was why he'd kissed her-or why she'd kissed him. One thing she knew for certain-he was the only reason she'd come to Sedona.

None of this made sense, and Eddy hadn't been much help, either. She'd merely said to hold tight, that she was sending someone, but she wouldn't give Ginny any details about who or why or what the h.e.l.l was going on.

Muttering under her breath, Ginny rewrapped the b.l.o.o.d.y towel around her hand and followed Markus into the house.

Covering vast distances via the vortex was more disorienting than moving between dimensions, but the 1,030 miles between Mount Shasta in northern California and Bell Rock in Sedona, Arizona, took less than a minute down a dark tunnel lit only by h.e.l.lFire's crystal light.

The sun was beginning to set when Alton sheathed his sword, pa.s.sed through the portal, and stepped out on the rocky ground near the top of Bell Rock, one of many vortexes in and around Sedona. He stood for a moment, lost in the glory of a desert sunset and the brilliant red of the rugged, wind-shaped bluffs. The gentle breeze seemed to sing to him-a deep hum that resonated within his- "Where the h.e.l.l did he come from?"

Alton spun to his left and blinked. Row after row of men and women, most of them wearing loose robes or colorful skirts, sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Meditating?

Well, c.r.a.p and nine h.e.l.ls. He'd materialized out of solid rock, right in the middle of a yoga cla.s.s. He'd materialized out of solid rock, right in the middle of a yoga cla.s.s.

Straightening to his full height, Alton pressed his hands together beneath his chin and bowed his head. His waist-length blond hair, unbound, flowed over his shoulders like silk and he knew his full seven feet of height, aided a bit by his boots, made him look pretty impressive.

With any luck, his appearance alone might help him get out of here without too much trouble, considering the audience.

"I come from within." He kept his voice unnaturally deep and bowed his head once again. Then, biting back a powerful urge to laugh, he looked straight ahead and walked past the rows of stunned yoga pract.i.tioners.

Popping out of the portal in the midst of an evening meditation cla.s.s hadn't been an issue the last time he was here. Of course, it had been awhile-give or take six hundred years.

Obviously, he really needed to get out more.

Alton found a well-traveled trail that took him down off the mountain and into a parking area. The light was beginning to fade and only a few cars and one old, beat-up looking bus remained. He figured the bus must be here for the group he'd surprised up on top.

Maybe he could catch a ride into town with them...or not. Grinning at the thought of Lemurian royalty hitching a ride on an old bus painted with rainbows and flowers, Alton set his backpack down and pulled the cell phone Eddy had given him out of his pocket.

He carefully followed the steps Eddy'd shown him, found Ginny's number, and pushed the b.u.t.ton to connect the call. He almost shouted when Ginny answered on the second ring, but he managed to control himself.

"Is this Virginia Jones?" he asked.

There was a long silence. Long enough that Alton wondered if he'd done something wrong.

"Who's this?"

Nope. That was Ginny. "This is Alton. Eddy Marks's friend."

"How'd you get my number?"

Definitely Ginny.

"From Eddy. Ginny, I'm in Sedona. Would you be able to come get me?"

"Sedona? How the h.e.l.l did you get to Sedona so fast? I just talked to Eddy a couple of hours ago, and there's no way you could have come-"

"I'm here, Ginny, and I'll explain everything once I see you. I'm in the parking lot at Bell Rock. Do you know where that is?"

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. And you'd better have some answers for me because I've definitely got questions for you."

Before he could answer, the line went dead. Alton stared at the phone for a moment before calling one more number. Eddy's voice mail came on. He left a message and wondered where she'd gone, why she hadn't answered the phone. Then he tucked it in his pocket and leaned against a rock. Folding his arms across his chest, he waited impatiently for Ginny while the night grew dark around him.

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Clare Willis's ONCE BITTEN,.

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And look for Clare's BITING THE BRIDE,.

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I met my vampire lover on a Wednesday.

I almost missed my destiny that day by oversleeping, but if I had missed it, wouldn't that that have been my destiny instead? Usually I take the bus to work, but since I was late I drove my Mini to the lot next to our building in downtown San Francisco, resigning myself to the hemorrhagic rate of three dollars every twenty minutes. At lunchtime I'd move to a cheaper lot. After parking in a half-s.p.a.ce that could only have accommodated my elfin vehicle, I stopped to watch a sailboat glide under the Bay Bridge. Sun sparkled on the water, the boat, the bridge, and the bikini-clad woman lying on the sailboat's deck-a picture worth framing. It was the second Wednesday in October, the time when savvy tourists come to San Francis...o...b..cause they know it's when we have our best weather. Since playing hooky on a sailboat was not an option, I consoled myself with the promise of lunch at an outdoor cafe. Little did I know it would be the last time I'd be enjoying sunlight for quite a while. have been my destiny instead? Usually I take the bus to work, but since I was late I drove my Mini to the lot next to our building in downtown San Francisco, resigning myself to the hemorrhagic rate of three dollars every twenty minutes. At lunchtime I'd move to a cheaper lot. After parking in a half-s.p.a.ce that could only have accommodated my elfin vehicle, I stopped to watch a sailboat glide under the Bay Bridge. Sun sparkled on the water, the boat, the bridge, and the bikini-clad woman lying on the sailboat's deck-a picture worth framing. It was the second Wednesday in October, the time when savvy tourists come to San Francis...o...b..cause they know it's when we have our best weather. Since playing hooky on a sailboat was not an option, I consoled myself with the promise of lunch at an outdoor cafe. Little did I know it would be the last time I'd be enjoying sunlight for quite a while.

I revolved through the door of 555 Battery and waved to Clive, the silent security guard. The elevator was packed like the Tokyo subway, so I opted to walk the three flights to my office. Letters etched into a wavy gla.s.s wall in the lobby proclaimed the owner of my labor as Hall, Fitch, and Berg, Advertising. We were also known informally as HFB (and sometimes as Heel, Fetch, and Beg due to our reputation for doing anything to acquire an account). If a jingle pops into your head spontaneously while you're cruising the supermarket aisle for soda pop or laundry detergent, it's probably ours.

The administrative a.s.sistant, Theresa, was standing outside her cubicle nibbling a fingernail. She ran to meet me, her three-inch heels clicking on the polished concrete floor.

"Oh good, Angie, you're here. The clients will be here in fifteen minutes, Lucy's still not here, and Kimberley and Les are in d.i.c.k's office waiting for you you."

"Lucy's still not here?"

My boss, Lucy Weston, had missed the last two days of work without notifying anyone. This was out of character for her, but not unheard of at HFB. Last year, one overworked account supervisor had gone out for coffee and sent her resignation from Puerto Vallarta two weeks later. So no one had taken much time to worry about Lucy, as we were all busy trying to make her absence invisible to the clients. I had been in the office until eleven o'clock the night before, working on the Unicorn Pulp and Paper account, which was why I had overslept.

Theresa shook her head. "No, n.o.body's heard from her."

"So is somebody going to call the police today?"

"Mary from HR is going to do it, but she's trying to find any friends or family to call first, to see if Lucy told anyone where she was going."

I was harboring a secret hope that I'd get to do something around a client besides play stagehand for Lucy, so I had to admit to being somewhat grateful for her absence.

"Which room are we using?" I walked toward my office with Theresa following in my wake.

"n.o.body told me anything," she answered. "Lucy usually arranges the rooms with me."

"What rooms are available?"

"Hammett is being used. Kerouac and Ferlinghetti are open."

"Kerouac will do. Pull down the projection screen and set up some snacks in there, okay?"

"What do you think they want to drink?"

I couldn't resist the obvious answer. "How about some fresh blood?"

Theresa laughed dutifully and veered off toward the Kerouac Room.

I made this quip because our new clients were vampires. Macabre Factor consisted of a twentysomething Goth couple who were into the vampire club scene in San Francisco. They started out creating makeup that they used on themselves; chalk-white base tinged with blue, fine-tipped red liner to outline the veins in the neck, and fake fingernails in shades of green, gray, and blue. But when they showed up with real fangs and topaz eyes friends and admirers began clamoring to buy their products. Thus a business was born, with cosmetics manufactured in Sweden, contact lenses from China, and a dentist in Los Angeles with an exclusive contract to manufacture custom fangs that attached to your canines like dental crowns.

I rushed down the hall to my office. All of the account executives have real offices, as opposed to cubicles, which makes us feel very grown up, but every door has a narrow gla.s.s window next to it so our bosses can check up on us as they walk by.

For two years Macabre Factor concentrated on selling only to their own kind through their website. But they had recently decided to expand their client base, and with many of the highest rated shows on TV this season featuring an undead creature of one sort or another, the market research showed that they had picked the perfect time. I wasn't sure where the capital was coming from, since Macabre Factor was a small company, but it was going to be a big launch.

This morning we were going to pitch our preliminary ideas for their campaign. Had Lucy been here this morning my job would have been to show up early and set up my computer as a backup in case Lucy's went on the fritz, follow along as she gave the pitch and supply any details she might have forgotten, and make sure everyone's coffee cup was full. But I had done a lot of the background work on this account, so with Lucy absent I was hoping d.i.c.k might let me manage the meeting. It occurred to me that if anything bad had happened to Lucy I was to feel awfully guilty. In fact I already did.

I threw my coat over the Aeron chair and shoved aside the pile of ill.u.s.trations that I had been going over last night. The logo for Unicorn Pulp and Paper was a unicorn surfing on a ream of copy paper and we'd been choosing a personality for the new iteration. There was a cla.s.sical unicorn, a chubby unicorn, a mean-looking unicorn with a drill-like horn, and an angelic unicorn whose horn resembled an upturned ice cream cone. In my dreams last night the mean unicorn had skewered the angelic unicorn like a shish kebab.

When I turned on my computer the screen was cluttered with files, just like my desk, and the floor behind my chair, so I wasn't surprised when I couldn't immediately locate Macabre Factor. But after I did a search for it and turned up empty-handed, that was when I really began to panic. I'd spent five years working as an actor before starvation drove me to the ad business and one of my biggest fears then was forgetting my lines, imagining myself staring into the foot-lights like a stroke victim. This was the ad agency equivalent.

I opened my e-mail and began searching through the two hundred and eighty three messages in my inbox. We'd e-mailed the Macabre Factor ill.u.s.trations back and forth dozens of times between Accounts and Creative but my e-mail showed no evidence of it. At this point I started having another creeping feeling. This one was suspicion. I allowed myself to use a curse word that I was raised never to utter, but I was alone and in this case it was justified.

I might have accidentally deleted a file, I could admit to that. But I did not go through two hundred and eighty three e-mails and trash every one pertaining to Macabre Factor. No, it was clear I had been sabotaged.

d.i.c.k Partridge's office was three doors down from mine. I knocked and went in without waiting for an answer, since I was already late. As VP of Consumer Product Advertising d.i.c.k had earned a large corner office with windows facing the turning cogs of progress in buildings across the street. It wasn't a view of San Francis...o...b..y, but it was much nicer than my blank wall. He also had s.p.a.ce for a round table and four chairs, which was where I found d.i.c.k, Les, and Kimberley.

"Good morning, Angie," d.i.c.k said, looking at his watch conspicuously. "I trust you have a good reason for your dilatory behavior, so let's leave it at that, shall we?"

We'd have to, since I had no idea what he was talking about.

d.i.c.k Partridge talked like he had cotton b.a.l.l.s in his nose and a stick up his you-know-what, using the longest words he could find to express the simplest ideas. Today he'd made the unfortunate choice of wearing a pink Oxford shirt. He looked like a pimple ready to burst.

Next to him, writing industriously, was Kimberley Bennett, my fellow a.s.sistant account executive. She was also my roommate, although we never came to work together because Kimberley kept earlier hours than I think is healthy. Kimberley looked like Hollywood's idea of an advertising executive: blonde hair (fake, but not so you'd know) to her shoulders, big blue eyes, and an hourgla.s.s figure. To complete the image she wore skirts so short and heels so high she looked like she was on stilts. The black A-line skirt I was wearing ended sensibly at mid-calf, grazing the tops of my black leather boots. No sense competing when the game is fixed.

Les Banks, the graphic artist, looked up from his BlackBerry to give me a nod and a smile. Because Les was a "creative," he was allowed a laxity of attire that would never be tolerated in the account executives, who are known as the "suits." Today he was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt adorned with a grinning skull. His buzz-cut brown hair revealed a perfectly oval head, both ears sported gold hoop earrings, and he had a tiny rectangle of facial hair under the lower lip, which, when I first saw it, I thought was the result of neglectful shaving but later realized was a fashion statement. I secretly thought Les was quite good looking. In boring meetings I would sometimes fantasize about what his half-inch long hair would feel like rubbing over my stomach. I managed a smile for Les, despite my misery.