When Christine got up, I told her about Lester Howard, and then about the whole Helter Skelter thing. Since these bastards were going around killing supes as well as humans, I figured she ought to know.
When I finished, she took a last swallow from the cup of warm plasma she'd been drinking, pushed the cup to the side and said, "Race war? Seriously? These people have got to be insane."
"I wouldn't doubt it," I said.
"I mean, they're crazy enough for wanting it, but if they think they can actually make it happen…" She shook her head.
"Yeah, I know. But the fact that it's a pipe dream doesn't mean they won't kill people trying to achieve it, just like Charlie Manson and his followers did, back in the day. Or Hitler, before him."
"Hitler wanted Helter Skelter too? I never knew that."
"No, what I mean is he had a crazy racial dream – a completely Aryan world. Ridiculous idea, but Adolf and his buddies wiped out millions trying to achieve it."
"Yeah, OK, I get you."
"Which is why I'd like you to be extra careful when you're out, wherever you go. These lunatics have killed at least six supes so far, two of them vampires. And they're not going to quit until somebody stops them."
"I assume that's where you come in," she said.
"Goddamn right I do – but it's gonna take a while, which is why I want you to be alert and cautious at all times."
"Yes, Daddy." Usually, there's a teasing lilt to her voice when she says that. But not this time.
"I've got a locksmith coming over tomorrow," I told her. "He's going to put better locks on the doors and install a deadbolt on the door to the basement. It'll ease my mind a little about leaving you here alone all day."
"Fine with me," she said. "I want to rest, in peace, during the day, not rest in peace forever."
"Do you really?"
She frowned at me. "Huh?"
"I mean, would you rather be undead than true dead? Karl and I had a conversation about that the other night."
"Doesn't sound like an easy talk to have."
"It wasn't. Karl reminded me that he's a vampire because of me, just like you are. I asked if he'd prefer that I let him die, back there at the pump house."
"And what did he say?"
"He said he didn't know, since he's never been dead."
"'Course he has," she said. "So have I – twelve hours every day, or however long the sun's up. It's boring, frankly. When Chandler called it 'the big sleep', he wasn't kidding."
"What about the afterlife? For the truly dead, I mean. Heaven, and all that."
"Far as I'm concerned, that's still an open question. Nobody's offered an answer that makes sense to me, so I'm not willing to take my chances just yet, if I don't have to." She pushed her chair back. "I need to jump into the shower and get dressed."
She took a few steps toward the doorway, then stopped and turned back to me. "I know this would sound really weird out of context, but – thanks for making me a vampire, Daddy." She gave me a big grin, fangs and all. "And remember to get two sets of keys for those new locks."
"Already ordered," I said. Then she was gone.
Christine usually leaves for work about an hour before I do. After we said goodbye, I toasted an oversize English muffin and ate it with peanut butter, shaved, took a shower, and cleaned Quincey's cage. I swear, that hamster seems to shit more than he eats.
As I pulled the front door shut behind me and felt the lock click into place, I was thinking about Karl and his onetime lust object, the detective in Chicago who might be able to give us a lead on Mr Milo's killer. Fortunately, I wasn't giving it all of my attention, or I'd be dead now.
Standing in the driveway, I pushed the button on my keychain that opens the garage door. Then my brain got around to processing a sound I'd heard a second or two earlier – something that sounded like a quickly stifled screech, and it had come from inside the garage. And there was an odor, as if somebody had left the lid off a garbage can – but trash pickup had been yesterday.
I backed up fast, drawing the Beretta as I moved.
Once the door had risen five or six feet, the goblins came pouring out, screeching like a platoon of scalded cats. Light from a nearby street lamp glittered on the blades of the long knives they held.
The only thing that'll kill goblins for certain is cold iron, and that fact put me in a good news/bad news situation.
Good news: I had cold-iron tipped slugs in the Beretta.
Bad news: I only had four of them. The clip holds eight rounds, but I usually carry half cold iron and half silver, alternating them when I load the clip. I never know what I'm going to have to deal with, and cold iron's no good against vamps or weres. I carry a round under the hammer, but that's silver, too – I have more confrontations with the undead and shifters than with goblins and other fey, so my ammo load reflects that.
Worse news: I had more goblins than bullets. As I backed down the driveway, the fucking gobs kept coming out of the garage, like clowns from a circus car. I counted six of them. They were all making that screeching noise they do in battle, which sounds like claws on a blackboard. It would have really annoyed me if I wasn't busy being scared shitless.
Thank God, or whoever's in charge, that Christine usually parks in the driveway. I don't know how well a vampire would have done against six goblins, but I'm glad Christine didn't have to find out. Whatever happened to me, she was out of danger – I hoped.
Despite my hasty retreat, the goblins were getting close now. I double-tapped the nearest, putting two rounds into his furry green chest. One was silver, which had no effect, but the cold iron slug did the job just fine. The goblin clutched at himself, screeching even louder for a second before he fell on the asphalt and was immediately trampled by his buddies, who just kept coming.