Greg, A Different Kind of Hungry

Aw, hell.

That was Cabroni's mother's house. Flubbed that one, didn't you, old boy? I'd have to clean that mess up. Later.

My fangs ripped into my cheesesteak.

Despite the January chills, the intersection of East Passyunk Ave and 9th Street was always bustling, at all hours. The neon lights of the rival shops, Geno's and Pat's, glared at one another from across the street. Both restaurants were tourist traps with lines wrapping around their sidewalks bigger than their respective kitchens. Outdoor seating only. The whole neighborhood smelled of greasy meat and onions and Cheez Whiz. A Philly delicacy one cannot even unlive without. Tourists constantly filled up the sidewalk picnic tables to debate which shop sold the best sandwich while traffic honked at them for taking too long to cross the street. Frankly, both establishments were mediocre tourist traps. But they were twenty-four-hour tourist traps, and only a couple blocks from home, and the creatures who worked the kitchens had a reputation for giving discounts to their own kind.

"Should you be eating that?" Isla said, slurping a caramelized onion between her lips.

No, no I really shouldn't. This cheesesteak did nothing to sate the particular hunger I was feeling and I was going to regret every bite of it later. But to hell with it.

"Should you have stolen booze from a crime scene?"

"It wasn't a crime scene. I don't think any human or Society authorities know about Lily yet."

"We made it a crime scene when we broke in, darling."

Darling. Why did I like the sound of her word on my tongue?

Isla pointed a fry at me, flicking ketchup onto my jacket. "You had a sip too."

"So you could make me your accomplice?"

"You made one of me."

I picked a particularly gooey cheese fry from her order. "Fair enough."

Isla bit off a chunk of sandwich and spoke with her mouth full. "It wasn't even good wine."

"No, it wasn't."

I laughed. Before I could think better of it. And then she laughed too. No snicker or smugness. A genuine laugh, throaty, hoarse. Her nose and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she desperately tried to keep that bite of cheesesteak in her mouth. She failed. Horribly. A glob of fake cheese and shredded beef clung to the corner of her lip. I grabbed a napkin and reached over the table.

Isla froze.

Oh hell. My hand hovered mere inches from her cheek. She eyed it suspiciously, her pulse spiking and body tense. Where are your manners, you dolt?

"You've a—"

She reached up barehanded and wiped the food away, plucking the napkin from my hand after. When she was done, Isla crumbled the napkin into a ball and tossed it into an empty fry cup.

I slid my ketchup closer to her side of the table. So she wouldn't have to reach across. "We need to talk about the mess in Lily's bathroom."

Isla nodded, but the tension in her shoulders did not ease.

Again, I examined the image she'd texted me—yes, of course giving her my personal number so she didn't have to route every call through Phoebe was probably a mistake—and zoomed in on that tub. A pile of bloody towels stacked atop each other. This did not bode well for my case... or my neck.

"Evidently the cause of the smell," I mumbled, "and possibly the blood trail leading down the stairs. Lily's neighbor said she heard screaming and had another man over."

"The neighbor had a man over?"

"What, no, Lily had another man over and then Lily's neighbor heard her screaming."

"Another man? So your client is a man."

Fangs.

"Nice try."

Isla stuffed a handful of fries into her grinning mouth, punching out her cheeks like a chipmunk. It was cute—gross. It was very gross.

Her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

"A glass was thrown, er, looked like it had been thrown in her apartment. You thinking she got into a fight with one of those boyfriends the neighbor mentioned that turned violent? She ran out the place and," Isla took another bite of sandwich, "into the night?"

"You think a woman bleeding that much has time to organize her laundry with her assaulter still in the apartment before she runs out? Makes about as much sense as a fish in tap shoes." Isla's forehead wrinkled. "Unless it was her attacker who tried to clean it up and what, gave up halfway through? Why? She wasn't already hurt when she came to see you, was she?"

Isla pushed dropped bits of onions and mushroom back into her steak. "I mean, I didn't notice any gaping wounds on her."

"Well that much blood would certainly be difficult to miss."

She made a scoffing noise.

Sweet hell, this still wasn't helping me find the poor girl. I sank my teeth into my cheesesteak and tore off a generous chunk. "Dame better not be dead after all."

"She's not dead," Isla answered quickly.

I raised a brow.

"Wouldn't you have been able to enter her apartment if she was dead?" she continued. "Nobody needs to invite you in if nobody, you know, lives there, right?"

I sucked in a breath through my teeth. "Excellent question there, ain't it? Barrier could be that she still lives there, yeah. Or it could just mean her name's still on the lease."

Isla frowned. "That counts? Lame."

"Modern semantics tend to be lame."

After another silent moment of me chewing and Isla playing with her food, she trudged on: "What are we thinking happened to her?"

We. Funny word, we.

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.

"Maybe she had this guy over and her vamp daddy got jealous? That was a lot of blood."

Dmitri was a volatile and violent looney, but, if it were him, why hire me? Plus, the old bat wanted his girl whole for this wedding schtick. Lost his already bonkers mind over that finger. Which, frankly, boy, wise up. No chance it meant anything good. Good for Lily, at least. What the devil have I gotten myself into this time?

"You don't know anything about my client," I said, "but he wouldn't hurt her, I'm sure."

"Isn't that what all you vamps say?"

"Why don't you tell me more about this finger, like you promised. If it's not Lily's than whose is it?"

Her shoulders sagged. "I don't know. It's just the bone. Probably an old one. She brought it with her as a focusing object for a séance."

I gritted my teeth.

"Right. The séance. Tell me now, who was she trying to dial on the ghost phone?"

"I don't know."

A crick was forming in my neck. I rubbed it. "I agreed to take your case because I thought you had information that could help me solve this, and all you've got to say is I don't know?"

Isla dislodged a sticky cheese fry from her cup, "I may have overplayed my hand to get you to agree."

I pulled the ketchup just out of her reach. She paused, fry still hovering over the middle of the table. Without her gloves, I could see her wrist poking out from her coat sleeve. Her blue veins weaved intricate patterns just beneath her skin. So did the scars.

She abandoned the ketchup and threw the fry down her own throat. "Listen," she paused to chew before continuing, "you think if I'd known legit anything else about this girl I'd be resorting to spending my last bucks on a PI? I need that jawn."

"Oh? I thought business must be booming for another parlor tricks psychic on South," I reached for another cheese fry, but Isla grabbed the cup and held it to her chest. "I paid for those."

She sighed dramatically and slapped the cup back onto our table. I let myself get lost in the hot, delicious, absolutely disgusting gelatinous mess of half melted cheese before I throttled this utterly human woman for leading me on.

Meanwhile, Isla cleared a spot on the table with her elbow, and dumped the contents of her little bag onto it. Her phone, wallet, some lip gloss, and cigarette pack all tumbled out, along with some tissues or napkin, folded up scraps of paper, and a set of tasseled nipple coverings.

I dropped a napkin over those.

"What's all that?"

"Stuff from Lily's place."

My attention snapped back. "You stole from her place?"

"Obviously. I want to find that b—" she bit her lip, "poor girl."

Uh huh.

The pile of loot on the table was hollering at me. Got to admit, I was both appalled and impressed by how much this little phony was able to nick. It almost softened the blow of her earlier bluff. Almost.

Well then let's see what secrets these treasures held.

"Alrighty, why is this," I grabbed the folded-up paper, smearing it with grease stains. "important?"

"Found it under some mess."

"Half it's in Spanish."

"Give it."

"You speak Spanish?"

Isla snatched it away.

"Italian's close enough. In a pinch." She swallowed a honk of cheesesteak and cleared her throat. "It's a letter. Ugh. She writes in cursive. My Love, she says. Blah blah, some gushing over a guy. I think maybe she's trying to teach him? There's also some thanks for the gifts. How she misses him when they're apart, but says that his pain of missing her must be so much greater because even when they're together she's not her true self, yet."

"I know that last part was in English."

"Oh, ha, she asks for money at the end. I think. Says she doesn't mean to beg but times is tough, more or less. I have no idea what this next line means, but then she closes out saying she longingly awaits the moment the two of them can finally be together. Whatever that means. Gag."

"Again, that bit was in English. Despite my oh so thick accent I can read English."

"A thousand years of love, Ro—" Isla squinted. "Rosie. Who's Rosie?"

Rosemond.

"No fanging way," I squawked. "You old dog."

"Excuse me?"

I couldn't help but grin. Was Dmitri not as looney as I had thought? "Tell me, psychic, you believe in reincarnation?"

Isla laughed so hard she choked on her Cherry Coke.

"Heck no," she said, dabbing her mouth dry. "Not a thing. You die, you die. You either ghost or move on, but you don't come back. There's no natural coming back from that."

"Who's to say that reincarnation isn't part of moving on? Tenant of plenty religions, isn't it? I mean, who on this side of the veil truly knows what happens after? What if it is possible for lovers to reunite across centuries through some divine force?"

"It's not."

"Pssh, how would you know?" You're only human, I stopped myself from saying.

"I know." Isla glared at me. But then, after a cheese fry, her gaze softened.

"Lily believed in it. Clearly." I took back the letter as Isla gave me an incredulously look. "Come on now, you already noted she wasn't a regular. So why does the young barista suddenly pop off to the psychic next door?"

Isla's shoulders slumped. "Shit," she whispered. "Poor girl."

Sounded like Isla actually meant it that time.

I thought of being married to Dmitri in both this life and the next. "Yeah."

"Your client been around long enough for a thousand years of love?"

Aw hell. No use in in denying it now.

"You are quick." I licked grease off my thumb. And thought I caught Isla swallowing at the sight. I licked another finger and watched her squirm in her seat. Her jaw tightened. A gust of wind blew her platinum hair behind her, exposing her trembling throat. I bit my own finger. Not on purpose. On instinct. I yanked it out my mouth hoping she hadn't noticed.

From the pile, Isla took a napkin and handed it to me.

Her skin was dry and cold. A far cry from the warmth I felt from her earlier. But the night was getting on and the winter air had gone bitey. She should be at home with that cat of hers. Not out here with me. Sweet hell, this was casual¸ wasn't it? How'd she managed to weasel past my rules without my even noticing? The fox. This wasn't good. I needed to notice things. To stay sharp. That was my whole job, after all. Isla was just another client and I was being highly unprofessional with her. Things with her could turn real complicated if I let my guard down (she might still be a suspect, warned an ever shrinking voice in my head).

Yes. She might be. But at the moment she was a complication gesturing that I had something smeared on my cheek.

I lifted the napkin to my face and but stopped. I had things to notice. "Wait, is this one from Lily's, and—batshit."

"Excuse me?"

I rolled my aching neck. The napkin from Lily's was the tiny cocktail type. Fancy. A lipstick stain was splashed over some scribbles on one side. Looked like it said Melrose Pl. Printed at the center of the other was the golden art deco logo for The Barbershop. "My client owns this joint."