Some Monsters Never Die Page 5

  Stan turned off the highway and wove through increasingly narrow, maze-like streets until they reached the Hyatt hotel. Stanley told the boy who tried to take his keys that he would prefer to park the car himself after they checked in, and they entered the massive lobby with its book-lined wall and roaring fireplace. Richard followed Stanley to the long, black front desk.

  "Can I help you?" asked a lovely young woman with skin like smooth brown silk. Did fancy hotels ever hire ugly people? Seemed the ugly clerks worked at the kinds of places he had been subjected to the few times in his life he’d bothered to travel.

  "We need a room for the evening," Stanley said. He removed a Minnesota driver's license and an American Express Black Card from his wallet and placed them on the counter.

  The young woman examined them for a second and then glanced up through her lashes. "It would be my pleasure to help you," she said, her voice a smidge more breathless than it had been a moment before.

  "I appreciate that."

  Richard rolled his eyes.

  She went to work, tapping her keyboard and asking all the standard questions, and then held up the ID, the credit card, and two room keys in a little white envelope. "Here you go, Mr. Turlington. I put you in an accessible room. There are bars in the bathroom that may be helpful for your father. Is there anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?"

  "You're very kind, but I think we're all set."

  Hot blood flooded Richard’s face. "Young lady! I'll thank you to—"

  "Oh, that's very nice, Dad. But I've already thanked her. Come on, now. I'll help you up to the room."

  Richard yanked his arm out of Stanley's grip and turned toward the elevator on legs that trembled with rage. "How dare you?" he said, once the shining golden doors had closed, effectively separating them from the lobby. "And who in tarnation is Turlington?"

  Stanley chuckled. "Just a little joke, Dick. Life's too short to be so serious all the time. And Turlington is an unfortunate chap who met up with a Zoroastrian demonic spirit two years ago."

  "So, you just helped yourself to his ID and credit card?"

  Stanley raised an eyebrow. "I borrowed his name. Not his bank account.”

  "And the car, the guns, the money? That's all stolen, I assume?" He couldn’t claim to have lived a perfect life, but he’d never been a thief and he wasn’t about to start now. He felt like a fool for not having realized sooner that Stan Kapcheck was a thief as well as a detestable coxcomb.

  "I didn't steal any of it, Dick. For a man who doesn't move very fast, you certainly are quick to jump to conclusions."

  A bell chimed and the door slid open. Stanley held one hand in front of the sliding door and motioned Richard to go ahead of him.

  "I won't be a part of illegal shenanigans, Stan Kapcheck. If that's even your name."

  Stanley tipped his head in acquiescence. "I'd never dream of luring you into shenanigans, Richard." He held out one of the room keys. "I believe you'll find our suite at the end of the hall. I'm going to park the car and then I'll join you."

  When Stanley returned from his chore, Richard was stretched full length on the single most comfortable bed he'd ever laid on. He’d tried to resist, but the thick white coverings were too great a temptation. The last time he’d pulled anything close to an all-nighter, an actor from California was running the nation. The struggle to even stay awake long enough to ask the question that he'd been considering since he’d closed the leather journal was a mighty battle. "Why are we here? In Minneapolis? It’s not on the way to Tombstone, at all. Is there some kind of magic here we’re gonna need to fight the skinwalker?”

  Stanley shed his jacket and shoes, striped down to his pristine white boxers and t-shirt and slipped beneath the covers of the unoccupied bed. "We are hunting a good night's sleep, Dick. I'm exhausted, and of all the hotels in the US, not one has more comfortable beds than this one."

  Not sixty seconds later, he was snoring softly. Richard wanted very much to stay awake and be angry with Stan, but it really was a fantastic bed and sleep was too sweet a mistress to resist any longer.

  Chapter Ten

  Finn

  Finn rolled onto his back and stretched, a starfish in the center of a king-size beach, covered in Egyptian cotton. The sunlight, filtered through the heavy golden curtains, lent the room a soft, mystical air. The clock next to the bed told him it was almost ten in the morning. He'd been asleep for twelve hours. Had he ever in his life slept for twelve hours? If so, he couldn’t remember it. How bizarre then, that, after all that rest, his body still felt spent, his mind clouded and slow.

  He threw back the covers and headed for the bathroom. In the shower, he breathed deeply of the steam, letting it soothe his abused lungs while he thought about the past few days.

  Friday, he'd ended up spending the entire day with Sara. Sara, who was just as much a mystery to him now as she had been when he'd first seen her perched on the hood of his car like a mischievous little bird.

  They'd played tourist again, this time in Bisbee, eaten too much greasy food, and spent the evening playing pool at Morgan's and avoiding questions from Bruce. The bartenders in Tombstone were more gossipy than a bunch of old women at church. Except Joe. Joe could be trusted.

  There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Sara would have joined him in bed if he'd given the slightest invitation, but he'd been exceedingly careful not to. Pressed for a reason, he'd never be able to give one. Every time he looked at her, he was caught in an adolescent fever of desire.

  She’s a scary little witch. An adorable, tiny terror. Like a gremlin who’s been fed after midnight.

  There. He admitted it. She scared him.

  He had never thought being an author could bring him the kind of fame that would inspire a stalker, but what else do you call a girl who shows up uninvited and knows all about you but who won't tell you where she came from or anything about her past? He’d seen Misery. He knew there was a good chance she was a total psycho.

  Still, she was undeniably beautiful.

  And he did have fun with her. He used to be a fun guy. He was the kind of man who lived every day to the fullest, who seized the moment, and consequences be damned. Somewhere along the way, that all changed. The last time he had fun was probably shortly after the last time he slept for twelve hours straight.

  Friday night he told her he really did need to work on Saturday, so he wouldn't be able to see her again.

  She’d shown up at dawn with a bag of donuts and two enormous cups of coffee. “You won’t know I’m here, Finn. I’ll keep you fed, and stay in the shadows, and never ever say a single word.”

  “I told you I have to work. I’m supposed to drive up to a big conference in Phoenix today. I’m the keynote speaker.”

  “Tell them you don’t feel well,” she said.

  Feeling utterly spineless, he opened the door and let her pass. The idea of calling in sick to the conference appealed to him. His agent would be mortified, but she wasn’t going to drop her most profitable client. He wanted to stay home. He’d finally gotten some momentum on his new book. Stopping now would be a nightmare.

  To his delight and surprise, she really did disappear into the shadows, and he really did work. Or, at least, it seemed he must have. He distinctly remembered looking at the clock around four in the afternoon and being ferociously hungry. He'd written nearly ten thousand words.

  Like she’d sensed his need, Sara appeared with a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs and a glass of Coke. He devoured the food in minutes.

  "Has it been a good day, Finn?"

  The twin specters of dread and desire woke up, twisting his insides into an uncomfortable knot.

  “It must have been a very boring day for you, Sara. Why are you hanging around here, anyway?”

  She giggled. "It was a good day, right?"

  He stood and stretched his fingers toward the ceiling. His spine crackled and popped. "Yes, actually. It was a great day. Very productive. I wrote more than I have
in a long time."

  "I'm glad I inspired you."

  Had she inspired him? He thought of the character he'd centered his story on—a young woman rising to power by manipulating the men around her. "It was good progress," he said.

  "Want to go out?"

  "I’m exhausted. My eyes feel like I washed them with bleach." As he said the words, he realized he was telling the truth. He was so tired he could hardly think straight.

  "Aw, Finn. Are you blowing me off? Do you want me to go away and leave you alone?"

  "No!" The word flew out of his mouth, practically of its own volition. He rubbed a hand over the day's growth of beard. "No. I'm sorry. I'm just tired, okay?"

  "That's what happens when you work too hard."

  "Yeah, right. Look…" What did he want to say? Did he want her to go away? What if she left and took her inspiration with her? What if, after she was gone, the words dried up again? No. He definitely didn't want her to go away. "I'm just a little worn out, okay? Why don't we plan on lunch tomorrow? Top of the Hill? At noon?"

  She hesitated for a long moment and a feeling of panic rose in him. What if he'd blown it with her? Finally, she answered, "Sure, Finn. Lunch sounds great.”

  "Deal," he agreed. As soon as he said it, he shivered. Don’t be stupid. He needed a beer.

  Sure enough, a drink or four later he was calm as could be laying on the sofa with his head on her leg. Not long after that, he drifted off to sleep and dreamed about all the things he hadn't dared to do in real life. Somehow, he’d made it to the bed, but he couldn’t quite remember that part. Nor was he sure whether or not he was alone.

  Sunday morning, showered and shaven, he found himself hoping she’d spent the night in his house. The dreams had been all good, and the after-effects lingered in his mind.

  He found her waiting for him at the kitchen table. She beamed in greeting. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Still up for lunch?”

  He slid his hands into his pockets and offered up a charming smile in return. "I’m famished. Also, I’m glad you’re here.”

  "Why, Finn? Do you enjoy being with me?" Her blue eyes were wide and sincere.

  "I'm a hermit and I like it that way. I must be twenty years older than you, and there's something… You're not the usual Tombstone bar girl. But, yes, Sara. I do enjoy being with you. More than I probably should."

  "I'll take that as a compliment."

  Finn let her wrap her arms around his neck and draw him close for a kiss before leading him out to the car.

  Walking into the restaurant, he smothered an enormous yawn. How was it possible to feel tired after so much sleep?

  "Coffee?" the waitress asked.

  "Yes, please," he answered.

  Across the table, Sara grinned at him, looking as young and fresh as a spring flower.

  Chapter Eleven

  Richard

  After more than twelve hours of sleep interrupted only by the occasional bathroom break, Richard woke to sunlight peeking in around the edges of the heavy hotel drapes. He stood in the powerful spray of the shower, letting the hot water work magic on the kinks in his muscles, and dressed in a fresh change of Walmart clothes.

  Stanley arranged for a cab to take them to a place called “Al’s Breakfast.”

  “Don’t understand why we gotta go traipsing all over town. They got coffee and muffins right here in the hotel,” Richard said.

  “Coffee and muffins are for businessmen dashing off to their next meeting. After a certain age, it becomes important for a man to properly nourish himself.”

  The elevator dinged open and they entered the lobby. A powerful scent of roses filled the air and Richard paused to inhale deeply. Each of his senses seemed more acute than they had been in a long time, as though the adrenaline of the strigoi attack had blown the cobwebs out of his pipes.

  “We should hurry,” Stan said, glancing around the lobby.

  “If you're in a hurry, we can get coffee and muffins right back there.”

  “No, no. I just…” he trailed off, seeming distracted. “I don’t want them to run out of food, you know. They’re quite popular.”

  “You make about as much sense as boobs on a man.”

  Stanley roared with laughter. “Come on, my friend. You’ll love Al’s. I promise.”

  He was right. Richard nearly moaned in pleasure over the thick Belgian waffle smothered in cream cheese and strawberries. He hadn’t had a breakfast like this since the accident that led to him being hospitalized for hip surgery and then sent to Everest. The food was even more delicious than he remembered. How could he have ever taken cheese for granted? Cheese was a gift from God.

  Stanley smiled at him over his fancy omelet. “Al’s never disappoints.”

  Richard couldn’t quite bring himself to admit out loud that Stan had been right. Coffee and muffins didn’t hold a candle to this. This kind of food did more than nourish the body. It gave a man a reason to stay alive until his next meal. He settled with, “I still think we need to get a move on.”

  Stanley was scanning the restaurant.

  “You lookin’ for somethin’?”

  Stanley met his gaze. “No, of course not. Just admiring the industry of this diverse group.”

  Richard frowned. He had the feeling there was more going on than he knew, and being made to feel foolish always put him in a surly mood. Still, it was hard to stay angry when sweet starbursts of joy exploded out of ripe strawberries and into his mouth. He sipped the dark coffee, letting the flavor of the slightly bitter brew mix with the sweetness of his food.

  The noise level in the restaurant shifted, drawing Richard’s attention to the door. A stunning young woman stood just inside. It seemed every eye in the place fixed on her, and it was no mystery why. She must be nearly six feet tall, with a glossy blonde braid that hung over one shoulder and almost to her waist. Her black pants could have been painted onto her long, shapely legs. A sliver of tanned skin separated her belt and the bottom of the t-shirt that stretched across her ample bosom.

  “Daggum! That girl’s a tall drink o’ water on a hot summer day,” Richard mumbled, not really meaning to say the words out loud. An inexplicable tingle ran down his spine. It was the sensation his mother would have described by saying a ghost walked over her grave.

  Stanley slapped a few bills on the table hard enough to make him jump. “Time to go.”

  “What? But I still have—”

  “Dick, there’s no time to waste. I need to reach Spearfish, South Dakota, by nightfall if we’re going to keep to the schedule.”

  Richard found himself sputtering and protesting in confusion at the quick change of pace as Stanley pressed him toward a back door between the lavatories.

  “This makes the walk to the car shorter,” he said before Richard could ask why they were going that way. “No time to waste.”

  They made their way through a narrow alley, around the corner and into a parking garage where Stanley told Richard to wait by the entrance while he went for the car.

  Once in the car, Richard focused his gaze on the other man. “You want to tell me what the devil’s going on?”

  The tires squealed on the smooth concrete when Stanley hit the gas. “The Devil is exactly what’s going on, my friend. Some beasts weren’t meant to be hunted, even by hunters.”

  “You senile?”

  “If I was, I don’t suppose I’d be aware of it.” He took a hard left onto a narrow street and banked right toward the expressway’s entrance ramp.

  Richard grabbed the dash and hung on for dear life. Thoughts of the fiery car crash that was sure to happen at any moment chased away his questions for a few minutes, but as the city skyline fell away, he asked again, “What’s going on? What happened back there?”

  Stanley sighed. “I suppose you know enough now that you might as well know it all.” He glanced over at Richard, his expression hidden by the dark glasses that once again covered his eyes. “Any hunter will tell you that there is always somet
hing bigger and meaner out there, hunting the hunters. Everything has a natural predator.”

  Richard scowled. “You tellin’ me somethin’s after you?”

  “There is something out there that is bigger and more evil than anything I’m capable of taking down on my own. It’s not after me, specifically.” He checked his blind spot, signaled, and moved into the left lane to pass a motorhome. “I don’t think.” He pulled back over to the right. “Well, maybe.”

  “Hmph. Well, that’s comforting.”

  “Did I give you the impression I live a life of comfort and safety? Have I deceived you in some way?”

  “Darn right, you deceived me. Leaving out important facts is as much as lying.”

  “I can’t tell you all the facts, Dick. Not in two days. It took me the better part of a century to learn what I know.”

  “And what did you know this morning, when you insisted we go out for breakfast?”

  A muscle jumped in Stanley’s cheek. “I didn’t know anything.”

  “Don’t talk in technicalities. There ain’t no loopholes in honesty. Truth is truth. What did you suspect?”

  His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his lips pressed into a thin line. Richard didn’t really expect he was going to get an answer, but after a moment, Stan said, “Every living creature carries a certain energy. Something that makes you feel good, calm, relaxed, angry, fearful, or sad in their presence. Your wife—could you feel her in the house, even when you couldn’t see or hear her?”

  Richard thought of those long-ago days when he would come home from the plastics factory and step through the back door. Every day, he was wrapped in the miracle of coming home. After she died, it was never home again. It was just a roof over their heads. “Yeah. I know what you mean,” he said.

  “There are creatures so powerful that their energy can change the energy of an entire city. This morning, when I woke up, I felt it. I knew she was in the hotel. I could smell her.”