Dixon pulled the door to a soft close behind him and I felt my spine immediately stiffen. When he turned to look at me there was something in his eyes—in his stance—that was awkward, uncomfortable. In all the time I had known him, I had never seen Dixon misstep or misspeak; he was a pinnacle of confidence and surety, and this air of uncertainty made me nervous.
“Is everything okay?”
Dixon sat, and produced a folded newspaper from his breast pocket. “Do you know about this?” he asked, handing the paper over.
I gave it a cursory scan, my eyes sticking the second they saw the word “murder.” The story was detailing the incident as Sutro Point and the familiar sick feeling in my stomach bubbled.
I nodded. “I know about it.” I pushed the paper aside. “I was there.”
Dixon’s eyebrows went up. “You and Alex?”
I nodded again and Dixon pulled the paper toward him, unfolded it one more time, and slid it back. He stood over me now, and pressed a finger against the page. “Do you know anything about this?”
It was a tiny article buried amongst the blowout sales and freeway closures—a single emboldened headline: MARINA WOMAN SEES CREATURE.
I chuckled as I scanned the small story.
Eleanor Holt of Marina Green called police to report the sighting of a “creature” running through her backyard on Tuesday night. “It ran on two legs like a man, and then on four, like a dog.” Holt said the creature was “about the size of a bear” and covered in fur; it “snarled and growled” like a dog and frightened Holt’s own animals; she said it was after her rabbit hutch. Police searched the premises and found nothing. Holt maintains that she heard howling and crying throughout the night, that her animals remained on edge, and the creature “was probably Bigfoot.”
I looked up at Dixon. “Is there an article about Bat Boy in here, too?”
Apparently Dixon and I didn’t share the same sense of humor. He blinked at me and I refolded the paper and cleared my throat, folding my hands in front of me.
“No, I hadn’t seen that article, nor did I know that Bigfoot lived in the Marina. Must be making good money; I know I can’t afford a place down there.” I grinned.
“So, you’ve not heard of any sightings from any clients or any of your”—Dixon’s eyes went up the ceiling—“other friends?”
“No, Dixon, I haven’t. And you know as well as I do that Bigfoot is a myth.”
Dixon quirked an eyebrow and I sighed. “An actual myth.”
Finally, Dixon’s shoulders slumped a quarter inch and he eyed me. “I ask because there was another killing.”
I stiffened. “There was?”
“It was before the Sutro Point homicide and it was one of our own.”
I swallowed hard, my mental Rolodex scanning through UDA employees, staff members I hadn’t seen lately. “Oh my God, who was it?”
“Octavia.”
“Octavia Aronson? But she’s a—” I held a hand out, gesturing toward Dixon, finding myself strangely unable to say, But she’s a vampire.
“Yes, she was a vampire.”
“But you’re immortal.”
Dixon laughed, a mirthless, short bark. “No one is truly immortal, Ms. Lawson.”
“Right, but . . .”
“Whoever attacked Octavia Aronson was able to kill her.”
I leaned back in my chair, sighing. While the Underworld Detection Agency is the only agency tasked with keeping tabs on underworld inhabitants, the occasional over-world “protection” agency has been known to spring up. Usually a host of Buffy-slash-Blade type vampire killer wannabes or the intermittent Van Helsing throwbacks. They were rarely successful and generally fell out of their chosen paths when a new superhero took favor or Comic-Con ended, but now and again there was enough hubris to cause my clients harm.
“I don’t see what Bigfoot has to do with a vampire slayer.”
Dixon laced his fingers together and pursed his pale lips. “I think whatever Ms. Holt saw was what attacked Octavia. And we both know it wasn’t Bigfoot.”
“She wasn’t staked?”
“She was beheaded.”
Ice water shot through my veins. “Beheaded?”
“Torn apart, actually.”
Though Dixon’s voice was steady and held his usual air of nonchalance, he seemed paler than usual and was still having a hard time getting comfortable.
He was actually upset.
“Why are you telling me this? And why—” I gestured to the newspaper.
He cleared his throat into his fisted hand. “I know that you and Mr. Grace—”
“Alex,” I corrected.
“I know that you and Alex tend to look into certain police cases that—” Dixon cleared his throat again and looked away. “That may pertain to supernatural assailants. And, frankly, I’d like to ask your assistance.”
I felt my eyes bug unnaturally. “You want to ask me for help?”
Finally, Dixon met my gaze. “I’m not certain, but I think we might be dealing with a rogue demon.”
I nodded, unsurprisingly used to the hypothesis.
“I think the demon we’re looking at is a werewolf.”
I sat in silence after Dixon left, my hand hovering over my cell phone. I began to dial Sampson and then hung up before the call connected.
Do I ask him if he’s beheaded any vampires lately?
I almost lost my lunch when the phone rang on its own.