Walking Shadows. Narrelle M Harris
shopfront, with unfinished coffins displayed artfully in one window, next to a tiny ornate black coffin.
"You've got to be kidding me." I actually said that aloud, figuring that one good cliché deserves another.
It was as well that I knew that vampires didn't actually sleep, let alone in coffins, or I would have wondered what kind of cheesy, teeny creature of the night was loitering in the vicinity.
The door swung open easily, but the workshop was empty. The space was festooned with exhibits of nineteenth century funerary props on one side and planks of wood and carpentry tools on the other. A rear door led to a darkened space which stored a couple of replica funeral carriages from the gold rush era. One carriage was obviously for the posh people, being all glass sides and black velvet curtains. The other, a plain black wooden vehicle, was for everyday wear. Murmurs emanated from the shadows behind the posh one.
Announcing myself would have been sensible and polite, but I was struck, belatedly and acutely, with the awareness that my presence was an intrusion. What I wanted was to back out undetected and leave Gary to his secret vampire business, which was certainly none of mine.
I stopped moving and held my breath. A swift glance assured me I wouldn't trip over anything as I turned.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" That was Gary, with the faintest of doleful notes in his voice.
In a dither of concern and damned curiosity, I hesitated.
"I would hardly have written to Mundy if I didn't," replied a man's peculiarly-accented voice.
"Well, no."
"Since Mary died, I am tired of it."
"Do you really need me?"
"What else? Self-immolation?" The sneer in the voice was half-hearted.
The reply was a silence that was almost palpable. I could imagine Gary staring at his feet. Both the concern and, regrettably, the curiosity were mounting.
"There's always the other path," the other voice spoke again. An American accent, maybe? The venom was more direct, that time.
"All right," Gary conceded, reluctantly. "But where? And how?"
"Here, of course. As for how…" The voice broke off, and when I heard it next it had dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Someone's here."
Damn. For a moment I toyed with running for it, but that was stupid. I would have to 'fess up.
"Gary, hi! It's me."
Gary's head popped up from behind the posh carriage.
"What are you doing here?"
Truth or white lie?
Truth. "I got a phone call that upset me. I thought if I found you it would make me forget about it."
"You shouldn't have." He was unimpressed.
"You're right," I mumbled, ashamed of myself. The undercurrent of concern I'd felt at the conversation drove me to add, "Still. It sounds like you could use a hand."
Another face appeared in the shadows. Exotic, lean, dark-eyed, pale and grim, it was the face of, well, an undernourished and deeply unhappy undertaker.
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