She was the most beautiful, captivating woman alive, which was not really true. Undead, I believe, was the correct word for Bree O’Reilly. With a soul just as dark as her beauty was pale, highlighted by those blood-red lips. Lips that could drive a man to madness. Or worse.
My partner and friend, Acres Bowman, had fallen for her first, and paid the ultimate price. She drained him dry and not in the good sense. A bloodless corpse found in our private investigations office, Shovel and Bowman, on the fifth floor of the old Hamdash building out near the bay.
Cops blamed Acres’ estranged wife first, then looked over at me, but they lacked evidence in both cases. We both had motive; we were sleeping together. And Acres was my best friend. But he had a little affair of his own going on it turned out.
Suddenly this gruesome little story took a sharp right turn. Little creepy guys and a big fat one started asking questions, odd questions, about some kind of a bird statue. Something Acres must have been involved in and maybe ended up getting killed for. Then Bree entered the picture.
And what a picture she was. Oh, she could only meet me at night and seemed to vanish into the darkness like a shadow, but she was something special. No wonder Acres fell so hard for her. Who wouldn’t and that included me, “Slam†Shovel, the private eye who was so hard-boiled and coldly detached that most people thought ice water ran through my veins.
But not Bree. She knew nice red blood pumped through my veins. Blood she liked. Just like the kind Acres had.
But I’m getting ahead of my story. One of the creepy guys, Wednesby, ended up dead like Acres. Exactly like Acres. I slapped the other hood, Noel Luxor, around a little and learned the whole scheme. And Bree’s treachery.
The fat guy, Belliman, was the brains of the outfit; he had sent his three agents out to retrieve a certain priceless antiquity any way they could. Bree used Acres but without success; then she double-crossed Belliman, killed Wednesby when he got too close and Luxor was probably next. All so she could get the black bird for herself.
A package arrived for Acres at the office. I opened it and unwrapped a black bird statute. The Marrakesh Raven. Now I held all the cards.
So I prepared something for Bree, poured myself a drink and waited in my desk chair. It was night; Bree would be here soon. She could probably sense the bird was here.
I didn’t have long to wait. She stepped out of the shadows like a ghost and just as pale. “Slam,†she murmured, “I know you have the statute. Let me see it. Touch it.â€
I ignored her request. “Why is it of interest to you? I’ve heard that it’s worth a lot of dough, but what does money mean to you?”
Then it was Bree’s turn to avoid the question. “Not me, darling, us. It can make our lives perfect. And very long.â€
I threw her a curveball. “What about Acres? Wednesby? Maybe Luxor now. Who’s going to take the fall for those murders?â€
She slipped back into the shadows at the edge of my office. “I don’t know, Slam. You’re smart, you can figure out something, pin it on someone. Now where’s the statue?â€
Things started to fall into place then. “You don’t want the raven for its monetary value,†I guessed, “there’s something else about it.â€
Bree stepped out of the darkness and glided eerily to my desk. “Yes, Slam, you’re right. It’s a magical artifact that has the power to remove the curse from … creatures like me.â€
“Meaning?â€
“Being able to go out in the sun, enter people’s homes unbidden, cross moving water, not flinch at crucifixes or burn from holy water, sleep in a bed. But still leaving my immortality and youth, along with my supernatural abilities, intact.†She stood in front of my desk now. “I can change you, Slam, and we will live forever. Together.â€
She was good at the game. And so achingly beautiful. Everything any man could ever want, with just one flaw. Well, maybe two. Being evil and being dead. Still, I was momentarily tempted.
In that brief moment, Bree’s bared her fangs and lunged across the desk at my unshaven throat. I was cradling my .45 under the desk and blasted her right in the face. With a shell filled with holy water, salt and blessed silver gravel.
She screamed in agony and clutched at her now-ravaged face. “Why, Slam, why?â€
“I’m not taking the fall for Acres’ or Wednesby’s murders. You’re going down, sister, for both of them, and I imagine hundreds more in your past. And let me guess, you intended to drain me just enough to make me fall under your will, have me write a full confession, then what, make me to jump out the window or something dramatic like that?â€
Bree shrieked in pain and anger as she raked her suddenly long fingernail-claws at me. I squeezed off a shot that struck her in the chest, and she fell, decomposing rapidly from flesh to skeleton to dust. On my nice carpet. How was I going to explain this to my cleaning lady and the cops, who should be arriving any minute now?
That Marrakesh Raven = The Ring of Amarra. (Angel reference.)
Hehe, who does one go to, anyway, to have bullets forged like that?
I always love how you mix speculative fiction with noir-like settings. :)