“And don’t even get me started on the succubae!” he declared, laughing as though we were all having a friendly Carrie Bradshaw–style chat over brunch and our Manolos.
I edged the tiny spiral-bound notebook I kept in my purse out and balanced it on my lap. The notebook was a nod to Alex and the police officers who always carried a little leather-bound one to jot down clues and pertinent information. Mine had fluffy clouds and glittery pink kittens, but it was still able to carry the badass clues that a seasoned crime fighter like me could include.
Sophie Lawson, Undercover PI, All-Around Badass.
I opened to a blank page and listed all the myths that Harley debunked in his sermon—vampires, werewolves, succubae—then drifted off as he went off on a tangent about losing his luggage outside Transylvania. I tried to poke Nina with my pen when Harley said something about graveyard dirt in the overhead compartment (hello, cliché?), but she was still rapt, back arched, chest pressed forward, lips glossed and pursed, like she was hearing the Word of God or the sound of the Red Cross collection bus pulling up.
Java Script erupted into a chorus of applause and I was snapped back to Harley, grinning wildly; his mousy agent, Roland, doing the same, yellowed hankie hanging out of his breast pocket.
“He’s brilliant, don’t you think?” Nina said, clapping spastically. “Just so brilliant!”
I leaned over and lowered my voice. “Nina, you realize that we’ve sat here for”—I checked my watch—“over an hour while your new boyfriend reported on how you—you, Nina—could not possibly exist. How can you call a guy like that brilliant? I mean, he’s close-minded, and small-thinking, and—and—”
“So beautiful.”
Nina’s dark eyes were fixed on Harley as he leaned over, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, signing book after book. He nodded and grinned at the crowd. If I weren’t relatively certain that he was a grade-A magicless breather, I would have thought there was some sort of glamour going on.
“I have to get out of here,” I muttered.
I filtered through the people and pushed open the double glass doors out front, breathing in deep lungfuls of Muni scented air. I could see Nina through the window, buzzing around Harley; the book that turned her existence into a joke was clutched to her chest. Suddenly I wanted to cry.
“You okay, love?” Will asked, letting the door snap shut behind him.
“Don’t you think this is ridiculous?”
“What? That people would line up to meet an author? A little bit, but, you know, to each his own fancy, right?”
“Not that people want to meet a writer, but that they want to meet this writer. This guy’s a quack. His debunking is as serious as—as—”
“Most people’s proof that there is a fourth element?”
I crossed my arms and slumped against the building. “I guess.”
“You’ve got to admit, the guy found a niche. He’s got to be making millions. Not a single person has walked out of the store without a copy of that thing. And I heard they’re talking about giving him his own show.”
I blinked. “They’re giving Harley Cavanaugh a reality show?”
Will shrugged. “Why not?” He nodded toward the twelve-foot-high poster of Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist. “He’s debunked all the city myths. You have to admit, that’s kind of interesting.”
“He debunked the haunting of the abandoned army hospital in the Presidio. Big whoop. I could have done that. Ditto the whole thing about the Lincoln High rape and murder.”
“You have to admit the reports of people hearing toilet paper rolls unrolling by themselves is enough to give anyone the willies.”
I stomped my foot. “No one haunts a bathroom! And people are considering this guy a guru because he does some higher math and determines that vampires can’t exist? If vampires can’t exist, then who’s paying half my rent, huh? Tell me that Johnny DeBunkerpants!”
“Sophie, calm down. You’re attracting attention. And that’s not easy to do in this city.”
“And werewolves? Werewolves can’t exist because they would need a retro virus to fully rewrite their DNA? Oh, really? Then I spent the last five years chaining up, what, a hirsute who just happened to look fabulous in Armani and had a penchant for raw meat? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.”
Vlad pressed out the door next, head bent, with Harley’s book open and balanced on his palms. I felt my eyes widen and a fist of fire scorching my insides.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me. You, Vlad? You don’t exist. According to this, you don’t exist!”
Vlad used his index finger to hold his place and flopped through a fourth of the book, holding it out for me to inspect. “And according to this, neither do you two.”
I stared at the text, my mouth falling open.
Angels—Fallen and in Grace—
And the Vessel of Souls