With that, he turned around and banged out of the back fire door, which thunked solidly shut behind him.
I put on my red vest, adjusted it a couple of times, and gave up. Couture, it wasn't. I perched on the wooden backless stool behind the counter and looked around for entertainment. Free sodas, he'd said. I retrieved a cold one from the cooler and drank it with a clear conscience as I flipped through the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly.
As I was wondering what the hell Viggo Mortensen thought he was doing wearing that godawful bolero tuxedo thing, the brass bell jingled at the door, and I looked up with my heart hammering, expecting to see a masked robber. Because that was kind of my luck.
Nope. Just a guy. He sauntered around the store, bought a candy bar, came and paid for gas and food.
Nothing special happened, except that he had a nice smile and told me I was easier on the eyes than ol' Ed.
I went back to the magazine afterward.
The rest of the hour went pretty much the same: customers, no emergencies. When Ed returned, he looked just a little surprised to find that I'd inventoried the cash and totted up all of the sales by item in his absence.
Thus ended my first two hours of indentured servitude. It was better, on the whole, than being a Djinn.
###
Twelve hours is a long time, in a convenience store. Especially one like Mart's, which wasn't exactly the crossroads of excitement … the Entertainment Weekly's charms paled fast. I moved on to Martha Stewart's Living, only because it was within reach. It wasn't too likely, even now that I had free time, that I'd feel moved to make origami swans or match table linens with my curtains.
Before long, I was stir crazy enough to come out from behind the register and start inventory against Ed's meticulous list. So that's where I was, counting Snickers bars, when the brass bell rang over the door, and things took a radical turn for the nasty.
Night had fallen hard and cold outside — the dry air didn't hold in the day's simmering heat. It was creeping up toward 10 p.m., and I was looking forward to closing up shop and hitting that narrow little cot in the back room at midnight. Ed hadn't taken off like I'd thought he might; maybe he was worried I'd shoplift some Cheerios if he didn't keep an eye on me. Anyway, I didn't resent it. I wouldn't have trusted me, either.
I wrote down the number of Snickers in the box and looked up, a smile on my lips, to see who was coming in the door, but I couldn't really see. He was hidden by the rack of chips (Lay's, mostly). But what I could see was Ed's face, and I felt something clench up inside of me when I saw that blank, iron-hard expression.
I stayed very still. He was focused on the door, but I saw his left hand, the one hidden from whoever was standing there, gently motion me back. I swallowed hard and silently took three steps back, to the end of the row, then crouched down and crawled around the rack. I was now between the picnic supplies and the glass-fronted refrigerated beverage case. There was cold beer next to me. I felt a moment's wistful longing, but I needed to figure out what was happening up front. Ed wasn't my best buddy, but he'd been fair to me … more than fair. And he'd trusted me.
"Hey, Israel," Ed said. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Why would you?" said a new voice. Soft, whispery, chilling. Like somebody who'd gargled with acid, or gotten clotheslined in a not-so-friendly game of football. "How's business, Ed? Good?"
Ed's voice stayed exactly the same temperature. "Tolerable."
"Doesn't sound all that positive, bro. Free enterprise is supposed to set you free, not make you a slave to the almighty cash register. Or so I hear." The hoarse whisper sounded amused. Not in a good way. I edged cautiously forward, hands and knees, watching out for reflections in the glass. As a precaution, I allowed myself a barely even noticeable violation of the rules, as a non-practicing Warden: I fogged up the glass, just a little, just enough to hide my image. The part that reflected the counter and the door was still perfectly visible.
But there wasn't anybody standing there. So far as I could tell, anyway … I could see the door, the rack of potato chips, and Ed standing frozen behind the counter.
Of the mysterious Israel, not a sign.
"You buying something?" Ed asked, and deliberately broke his stare to reach for a cloth and wipe down the battered Formica counter. I could sense the effort it took, to be that casual about it. I edged forward again, trying to catch a glimpse around the rack without risking my neck, but again, nothing. Not a sign, not a clue.
"Yeah," Israel said. "Got any candy bars? I've got a sweet tooth these days. Hungry all the time."
Ed paused in his wiping down of the counter, but kept his head down. I could have sworn I saw him flinch, but then he deliberately continued. "Sure. Down that aisle." He nodded at the place I'd been working. I heard the heavy thud of boots, but dammit, there was nothing in the mirror.
Now, I'm a modern girl. I've read Dracula. I've seen Buffy. I'm not totally without a clue. But who in their right mind could possibly expect to run into a vampire at Mart's Texaco in Pine Bluff, Arizona?
I pulled my head back like a scared turtle when I heard the scrape of footsteps on the other side of the food rack. Thin cover. I wasn't sure how much danger I was in, but I knew one thing: Ed wasn't the kind of guy to protect me unless he really believed it was serious. I held my breath and kept the glass fogged all along the bottom of the refrigerated case, just as insurance. That way, if he glanced that way, he wouldn't be treated to the undignified sight of a Weather Warden cowering on the not-too-clean linoleum floor.
Israel fumbled around in the Snickers bars I had so recently counted, and I heard his footsteps ambling back up toward the register. Weren't vampires supposed to be stealthy and quick? Not this guy. He was taking his time, and his footsteps sounded like he'd borrowed the Frankenstein monster's boots.
"Dollar six," Ed said. I risked another look. Love him or hate him, Ed was made of stern stuff; he was staring right at the man who was bellied up against the counter, and holding out his hand. The sale was insignificant, but I had the feeling that Ed was trying to make a point. Maybe if he let Israel take a candy bar, the next thing would be his life.
Israel himself was smaller than I'd have expected, considering the galumphing boots — maybe five foot five, and either bald or in the habit of shaving his head. He had an elaborate rose tattooed on the shiny mirrorlike finish of his pale — I mean pale as sour cream — skin right at the back of his head, and he was clad, head to foot, in black leather. Including gloves. Sharp-looking sunglasses, from what I could see of the side of his face.
I'd never seen anybody that pale, including the melanin-deficient. His skin had a cold gray tone to it, as if it was made of clay. No veins showing underneath. Even the palest albino I'd ever met had a flush of veins showing, and a living tone to that alabaster skin; this was downright wrong.
Israel was staring at Ed. Ed was staring back, hand still extended. After a good, sweaty half a minute, Israel barked a hoarse laugh, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled dollar bills that he dropped in Ed's palm. "Keep the change," Israel said, and smiled. I only saw the edge of it, but that was weird and sinister enough to make me duck my head back again, heart pounding. Could he hear that? God, I hoped not. "And tell your girl I don't eat anybody I haven't been properly introduced to."
I didn't see Ed's face, but I knew my hands were shaking, and I wasn't easy to scare. I pressed them hard into the floor and stood up slowly. No point in hiding, obviously.
I regretted it as soon as my head passed the level of the food rack, because Israel had turned to look right at me. Even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, I felt the pressure of his stare. His face was smooth and regular as marble. I couldn't say he was handsome, or not; there wasn't any human frame of reference that applied to a face that looked that … dead.