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  How to Hire A Vampire Consultant

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  How to Hire A Vampire Consultant | by Hollis Shiloh

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  Story copyright April 2019 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental.

  Image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any people depicted in the content are models. Cover design by James at GoOnWrite.com.

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  About the story:

  STEVE ISN'T USED TO being the responsible party. He's not even a real agent at the Paranormal Research Agency—he's here on parole. But right now, a lot of the PRA's people are missing, and Steve and the librarian might be the only ones who can save them. While she researches like her life depends on it, Steve's running around mopping up monstrous messes. He needs all the help he can get—even from a sassy vampire.

  Barnaby the vampire is kind of hot (for a twink), and not nearly as badass as he likes to think. Even if he did save Steve's life. Between the three of them, they might just have what it takes to save the day.

  16,300 words - low heat

  Themes: gay romance, paranormal, humor

  How to Hire A Vampire Consultant

  by Hollis Shiloh

  I faced the creature alone.

  I couldn't remember its name, although you'd think a thing like that would stick with a person, considering the rabid look to it: purple teeth, lots of gooey drool, malice in those tiny yellow eyes. The body shape was vaguely like a hyena: four-legged, hunched shoulders, small ears. It had weird spots, mostly skin and a little bit of mangy fur here and there. All in all, a memorable creature.

  The truth is, I'd never bothered to learn its name. It was just one of the paranormal creatures they occasionally had to deal with, in the Paranormal Research Agency. Hadn't seen one in person before. Hadn't been my job.

  I wasn't even a full member of the PRA—until recently, when I was almost the only one left. I guess you could say I'd inherited the job. There had always been someone else to be responsible. I'd been working with the PRA on probation. It was better than jail time for my crimes.

  I manipulate time.

  Not well enough to do really cool things like time travel, but let's just say, well enough to break some laws. The PRA eventually caught me, and I'd been serving my time, bored and not bothering to learn more than I absolutely had to, not exerting myself much at all, until the Event.

  We didn't know what had happened, except that it ended up with a whole shit load of PRA agents being sucked into some kind of time pocket or something. Because of my innate time manipulating ability, I'd been spared.

  And now? Now I was in charge of the PRA.

  Well, sort of.

  There was one other agent, but she didn't get out much.

  We'd struck a deal. Until the rest of the agents came back, I'd take care of pounding the pavement, she'd continue taking care of the data and research.

  She was the librarian. I was the slightly-reformed criminal.

  Now, we ran the joint.

  I suppose I'd have been happier about that position of power if it had been more profitable for me. Instead, I was on the hop keeping various monsters and phenomena from killing unsuspecting civilians, while Beatrice anxiously combed through the library, trying to find out how to bring back the other agents.

  Normally, I'd have cut my losses and run. Hey, a get out of jail free card! But somehow, I didn't have the stomach for it. I was, in all my slacker glory, still the best agent the city currently had.

  Beatrice is probably a genius, definitely the best at her job. She also doesn't get out of the PRA library much. I'm not sure she wasn't born there, to be honest.

  Together, we've more or less kept the city from falling apart to paranormal forces. But it hasn't been easy, and I'm about ready for the other agents to get home and take over. It will be a relief not to be the responsible guy anymore.

  Now, facing the purple-fanged thing, I sighed, thumbed the button on my two-way radio, and said, "Beatrice?"

  "Yes, Steve?" She sounded preoccupied, but when wasn't she these days? Beatrice had the weight of lives on her hands. She was the brains of the situation, trying to figure it all out. I was just holding down the fort till then, a stopgap measure till she figured it all out and brought them home. But I think we were both starting to lose hope of that actually happening.

  "What's the hyena thing with purple fangs called again?"

  I could almost hear her blink in surprise. "Um, you mean the gollot?"

  "Yeah, that. How do I kill it again?"

  "Kill it? We don't kill it, Steven! They're endangered. You trap them in displacement balls till they can be transported safely to protected areas!"

  I rolled my eyes at the lecture. "Capture. I meant that. Never mind. I've got it now." I reached for my belt and pulled out one of the displacement balls. I'd made a joke the first time I saw one about Pokémon trainers. The look I got in return from my partner-slash-babysitter, Travis Daubrey, could've turned me to stone.

  "We never joke about that," he'd said crisply. "That was a major security breach!" Apparently, someone had seen an agent capturing a paranormal creature with a containment ball once, and it had worked its way into popular culture. It was a black eye for the PRA—and something We Don't Talk About, apparently.

  The PRA had a lot of things they Didn't Talk About, at least around me. Now, I had the sketchy knowledge to prove it. And the responsibility for even the things I didn't understand, which was most of them.

  "Steve—" began Beatrice in a lecturing sort of voice.

  "Never mind, gotta go." I cut her off with a flick of a button, and her words ended in an undignified squawk of static. The little light began to glow red, but I didn't turn it on again.

  I faced the gollot and flung the ball.

  Apparently, despite being ugly as sin, drooling and eating garbage guiltily in an alleyway, it was still a clever beast.

  It dodged the capture ball. And then it charged.

  Apparently, I'd made it feel even more threatened than standing at the end of the alleyway and staring at it, and it felt the need to attack me.

  For such an ungainly critter, it sure moved fast. Two seconds after I realized I'd thrown my last ball, I was on my back, a huge, hyena-like gollot snarling into my face.

  In times of stress, the mind sometimes goes to strange places. Even though I knew I could die any second—this thing had big teeth—what I was thinking about was the drool. It stank, and I'd bet it was going to stain my clothes.

  And the only way that would matter was if I survived long enough to continue needing clothes. In that moment, I didn't think of anything sensible, didn't even have time to reach for my ability and shift time just enough to get away. I was pinned so hard all the breath was out of me, and I couldn't even draw a fresh one. But it was the indignity of the matter that bothered me most—the stunning unfairness of dying with something gigantic drooling on me. I'd always thought I'd have a far cooler death. Classy, tragic, heroic—anything but a drool-death!

  Before the gollot actually got to the killing, and before I could think of anything more sensible than the indignity of drool, there was a loud shot, and the creature dropped dead on top of me. Of course that made it even harder to breathe.

  Great, now there was blood. Trying to fight my way free of the beast proved im
possible with the breath knocked out of me. I couldn't breathe, and I wasn't going to be able to very well until this thing was off me. I didn't even have the breath to swear.

  The creature heaved, heaved, and was moved off me. Beatrice was going to be pissed; the monster was quite dead. Above me showed a familiar face.

  Johnson. That bastard Johnson had saved my life. He was a skinny guy, visually about my age, and covered up as completely as possible in a trench coat with the collar turned up, and an old-fashioned hat with the brim snapped down, sunglasses in between, making it hard to read his expression. Even so, he managed to look worried.

  He wore all black, of course. He was a vampire; I assume it's traditional.

  He'd hauled the creature off me one-handed, as easily as if it weighed nothing. He had an oversized gun propped on his shoulder as if it was a matchstick.

  "Steve," he said, and reached down for me with one hand to help me up.

  Normally, my talent would have kicked in to save me even if I was being incompetent—like walking onto a busy street without noticing where I was going. I would automatically pause time to avoid getting hit by a bus, for instance. That hadn't happened here. No, I'd had to be saved by a vampire, of all things. The human equivalent of a mosquito.

  If I'd had my breath back, I'd have cussed him out and gotten up on my own. As it was, I could stay on my back, gasping in an alleyway, or take his hand.

  I took it, scowling. If he expected a thank you—

  I sat in the alley, blood and drool and stink on me, gasping in great lungfuls of air and feeling like I was dying. It was not my proudest moment, brought low by a creature that was supposed to be a simple chore to capture and rehome.

  What can I say, I'm not the best PRA agent in the world. Being saved by a vampire-at-large really stuck in my craw, though.

  "Supposed to...capture it..." I gasped at last. What is a craw, anyway?

  "It didn't seem in the mood to be captured," observed Johnson.

  The radio shrieked in feedback that sounded as if it was expressing in code what Beatrice would want to say once she found out the gollot was dead. A stickler for the rules, my only remaining coworker and kind-of boss.

  Johnson studied me, looking slightly worried. He made no attempt to lunge at my neck or bare his fangs, something he'd done the couple of times Travis Daubrey and I had faced him before. Johnson generally liked taunting us, and it sure worked well on Travis, winding him up for hours or even days afterwards.

  "That fucker wants to drink my blood," he used to say, looking horrified. "I'd rather die!" Who knows, maybe he had died.

  Kinda sucked to be rescued by the same vampire now. And yes, pun intended.

  "Where's your babysitter?" he said. "You shouldn't be out alone."

  "Fuck you, too," I managed, rubbing my chest and trying to stop gasping.

  "Just take slow breaths. Geez, the living are a pain." He rubbed a hand on my back in large, soothing circles.

  "You don't—have to—"

  "Oh, shut up. What's going on at the PRA? You guys are getting sloppy. First an untamed giant carp thing in the river—had to deal with it myself—and now you're out on your own almost getting eaten by that hyena."

  "Gollot."

  "Oh, like you know the names any better than I do." He gave me a look of disdain and stopped rubbing my back. "Where is your delicious-smelling keeper? You guys really need to get on the stick."

  "I'll get on your stick in a minute," I grumbled.

  "Nice to know," he said, adding a sarcastic little twist of a smile. "I wondered about you."

  "Wonder no more." My back was going to be hurting tomorrow; it had already begun to ominously twinge from being knocked down like that by the giant hyena—damn it, the gollot.

  Wait, what was I saying to him? Was I coming out to a vampire?

  His grin was wicked as he raked his gaze over me. "Not as sturdy as Daubrey, but you look like you could spare a pint. What do you say? You know I saved your life, right?"

  Of course he just wanted my blood. I rolled my eyes. "I was handling it." I retrieved my lost capture ball with as much dignity as I could muster.

  "When?"

  "Just as you were getting there. I was ready to spring into action. Heroically. Without murdering that poor..." I turned to gesture to the creature, then made a face. It looked even worse than it had alive. I turned back to Johnson and took the offensive for a change. "How about you? What are you doing with that gun? I should probably put you in this instead." I gestured to him with the ball. "Technically, you are a monster."

  Johnson's nostrils flared a little. "Well, so are you! With that time-twisty thing." He waggled one hand, his thin wrist showing briefly as his sleeve slid down. There was a singeing sound as sunlight reached his skin, and he said, "Crap!" and quickly shook his sleeve back down, patting it against his flesh, biting his lip. He looked like he was about to do an uncomfortable little dance in his skinny-legged suit trousers.

  I wanted to laugh at him, but hell, the guy had saved me. I might not have gotten to that heroic thing after all.

  Johnson wore gloves, and with the hat down and the brim up just so, the sun didn't burn directly on any more of his skin. He looked grumpy and pained as he brought his attention back to me, still rubbing his wrist through the fabric.

  "You couldn't even have the decency to get yourself almost-killed after dark," he said reproachfully. "The things I do for you."

  I studied him thoughtfully, forgetting to say something sarcastic back. Maybe he could help us. Maybe he was of some use.

  What would Beatrice say if I brought him to the PRA? She'd probably barricade herself behind some file cabinets. But really, what did I have to lose? He was either a great actor or he didn't know that Beatrice and I were the only agents left. And if he didn't know, then he wasn't behind it—and he might have some clue that wasn't in Beatrice's books.

  After all, he was sure to be tied into the supernatural monster community better than either of us were. He couldn't know less than I did—and he might know more practical things than Beatrice, like if there were any gigantic black holes in town waiting to suck unwary agents in, for instance.

  On the other hand, letting him know the predicament might be putting a big KICK ME sign on. He'd know there was nobody to get in his way. Maybe he'd go sucking his way down Main Street, chortling gleefully.

  But he'd handled a carp thing, and saved me, neither of which he'd had to do. Then again, I only had his word for the carp thing. And I had been handling the gollot—kind of.

  "What?" he said irritably. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

  Sometimes Johnson seemed no older than me. Definitely not as mature. Of course, I didn't know how old he really was. But I was guessing hundreds of years. Vampire, right? He had to be some kind of kinky, twisted, old-fashioned bastard. Why else would Travis be scared of him?

  "Show me the carp thing," I said. "I've got to keep track of this shit."

  He scoffed. "What, you?"

  "Rude! Yes, me. I've moved up in the world."

  "So Travis is dead? I never got to suck his blood." He sounded really disappointed.

  I wanted to punch him. I could've done it, too. No matter how fast he turned out to be, I had the ability to twist time. I could've smacked him and dodged away before he even saw me raise a hand. Instead, I gave him a hard look. "Hilarious."

  He stopped walking. "What happened?" For a second, he looked really scared, and even paler than before. "You can't mean he really is— I'd have heard, surely!"

  He looked so distressed at the thought of my partner being dead that I let go of the idea of him being behind it. He was a shitty actor generally, with all his bared fangs and hissed threats to Travis. But this devastated look on his face was too quick and hurt to be faked.

  Well, I've been wrong before. But that's never stopped me from trusting my gut. I made up my mind. "He's missing. And some others. We don't know why, where, or how."

 
"You forgot who and when," he muttered distractedly.

  "I'm going to punch you."

  He ignored my grumpy threat. "That's bad. But I still can't believe they'd leave you out on your own. You've only been here, what, three months? You don't know anything yet."

  "Three months and thirteen days," I said. "But who's counting? I know more than you, anyway. I know the name of that—that carp thing."

  He turned to me pointedly and raised an eyebrow, tapping a well-shod foot. He looked like a goth theater major who'd forgotten his eyeliner. Not that I could tell with those sunglasses he wore; maybe he hadn't forgotten the eyeliner at all.

  "Okay, fuck you. Maybe I don't. Anyway, do you know of anything that could have disappeared several agents?"

  He raised one gloved hand, lowering the other as if weighing things out. "Hm, let's see. Help you when you keep telling me to fuck myself, or go on about my merry business?"

  "Come on!" I protested. "You're obviously curious or you wouldn't have been stalking me."

  "Buddy, if I was stalking you, I'd have caught you already!" He gave an offended sniff, but dropped his hands and gave up the pretense of indecision. "It would be a shame for Travis to die with all that lovely blood untasted. I'll tag along."

  "Tag along?"

  "Consult," he said, giving me a big-eyed innocent look that was very unlikely on what I could see of his face. "A special consultant. A professional."

  "Hmph." He'd been too easy to convince. Then again, if he'd actually had any reason not to help, I wouldn't have been able to talk him into it, with the day I was having so far.

  I flung the capture ball at the dead animal. Couldn't leave it lying around, even if Beatrice was going to be pissed off at me. Well. I could always blame Johnson. The ball captured his oversized monster hunting gun as well, so that took care of the mess, except for some unpleasant-looking fluids marking the alleyway. And the stains on my coat, of course.

  I took it off and balled it up. There. I wasn't completely clean, but at least I didn't look like the next best thing to a murder victim.