Chapter 13 (Adam Novus Chronicles - Book 1)

Here I was, owning a house for the first time in my life, and with a moral and financial debt to Marcus and Esmeralda. I don't know how, but I will find a way to set the records straight. Not that I was considering refusing the gift, that would be insulting to both of them, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. Gramps always taught me that there should be a sort of balance one should strive for, so accepting something like this without giving something reciprocal in value, felt wrong to me. It does not have to make a lot of sense, but it is the way I am.

Esmeralda even professionally decorated my entire floor, with a few pieces of furniture that were very pleasing to the eye. I was never much into nice things; my previous lifestyle would not allow having anything that I couldn't leave behind at a moment’s notice. In one nook was a chair with a footrest, generously padded and covered with soft black leather. It was incredibly comfortable, like sitting on a cloud. I accidentally saw the same chair on the Internet and found that it is called ‘Eames Lounge Chair’ with the price tag no chair should ever have. I would never allow myself to spend that much on a piece of furniture. Hell, I spent less on my used car.

I was all set for living accommodations, but starting a new business, yeah… some things are easier said than done, and this was one of them. For the first two weeks, I just waited for someone to call, anyone… even if it was a wrong number or a telemarketer… for God’s sake.

The peculiar niche of my potential clientele required that I rely on word of mouth, as advertising a new business that mainly catered to the supernatural world was a bit difficult. But, after a while, I was becoming desperate, seriously thinking about putting an ad in the papers, or a commercial on a cable TV. One supernatural bounty hunter/killer for hire — free consulting. With AC/DC’s iconic song ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ as a background soundtrack. Marcus said his clan was spreading the word about my services, but no one was biting… damn.

I was sitting in my fancy (but still amazingly comfortable) chair, thinking that this idea was a bust and that I may never have any clients, when there was a chiming sound that announced someone was pressing the doorbell. That happened as I was finishing a massive house of cards—with two decks. Unsurprisingly, the thing fell apart.

The security monitors showed a young woman, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, nervously looking left and right. Yeah, I didn't have a secretary yet; how in the world would I put an ad for that position considering what kind of work I was looking for? Any normal human woman would have run away screaming. Esmeralda half-heartedly proposed to send one of her clan members, but since I gave them all the heebie-jeebies, that was not an option. I felt that she was actually relieved when I refused.

I buzzed the front door and they automatically opened wide, a little gizmo I got online, and the security firm approved— so cool. She was somewhat startled by that but entered the lobby after a few seconds.

“Hello,” she said, looking around the empty space. Even from this far, I could sense the apprehension in her.

My office was down the hall from the empty reception desk so I walked out to meet her.

“Hi, how may I help you?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

She had that deer in the headlights look; I needed to be extra careful not to scare her, my record of social interaction with strangers was not that great lately.

“I… I was told you help people in trouble… from a friend… you are Adam Novus?” She muttered, holding one of my business cards in her hands. It was one of a few hundred I had made and gave Marcus to spread around.

“Yes, why don't we step into my office,” I tried to sound reassuring, but to my ears, it sounded like something a spider would say to the fly… damn.

I turned around and could hear by her footsteps that she was following me. My sense told me that she wasn't human. There was a perceivable animalistic feel about her, in her emotions. Not that I would treat her any differently for that, she was a potential client, and by God, I will have her business. Seriously, if she was a full-on zombie with half her body rotting away, I would have still tried to take her on as a client.

“Can I offer you anything, water, coffee?” That is how you do it, be polite.

“Ah... no, thank you,” she was looking around the office, probably noticing modern décor, which was in contrast to the outside look of the building.

“My name is Nina… Nina Bast, and I need your help, but… I don't have any money.” She said hurriedly and bowed her head in shame at the end.

If she had any idea how desperate I was for work, she could have asked me to help her move her furniture, and I would be all over it; I’ll do it for free.

“Don't concern yourself with that, tell me what is your problem.”

Slowly, painfully so, I got the full story. It was about a boy, naturally. But this scumbag seduced her, made her believe he really liked her, and then when she let him in her home—dosed her with something. It was her good fortune that he didn't rape her, but he robbed her blind. Took all her jewelry, and all her savings. (Unwisely held in an old cigar box, under her bed.)

To add insult to the injury, she was being evicted from her place; late on the rent and no way to pay. He was a Were like her, except he was a wolf and she was a cat. Wolves had a much higher social standing.

Well, I never look a gift horse in the mouth, this was perfect to start my new career and solve the receptionist problem.

“OK, I’ll help you. By the way, do you need a job? I need a receptionist slash secretary to run this place; it comes with a free apartment.” I added that in the end with an upbeat tone.

There was a small apartment in the back of the ground level, and a big storage room behind it. Esmeralda added it to the plans in case I ever had any guests.

She looked at me warily, most likely deciding if I was serious or just another creep trying to take advantage of her.

“What is the salary?” she said after looking at me for a while, in a voice that was much more calculating than a minute before. A mercenary attitude — I liked that.

“Haven't got a clue, your first assignment, if you take the job, will be to figure that out.”

How on earth would I know how much a receptionist or secretary earned? I was still hung on prices that were current a decade ago; to me, everything looked expensive.

She gave off a suspicious vibe. “Just a job and an apartment, nothing else?”

People had become so cynical since my time, not that I was one to talk, but still.

“Nothing else, no strings attached.”

I understood why she was so suspicious. Her emotions about the opposite sex were still raw, and here I was, offering her to practically move in with me. The fact that she did not bolt out of the door or jump on the offer was a point in her favor.

She thought about it for a minute, looking at me as a horse trader would at his potential purchase. It’s a good thing she didn't ask to look at my teeth.

“OK, I'll take it.”

We shook on it, and that was it — I had someone to take the nonexistent calls, yeah me.

Was it crazy of me to offer such a job to someone I just met? Not really — I cheated. Think about how many people lie on their CVs or during the interview. You can hardly find anyone who is absolutely truthful. By using my sixth sense, I knew she was sincere in everything she said to me, and I liked that she wouldn’t simply accept what happened to her and move on with her life with the tail between her legs. Besides, she was already a member of the supernatural world — by birth. Therefore, my potential clientele would not be a shock to her, as would be for any normal human. And let’s face it, I was pretty desperate.

It was a bit of a surprise to her when I showed her that small apartment. It was not that small (if one compares it to cat boxes that were called apartments in this city), and had a modern kitchen and a big bathroom. Nice carpets and queen size bed in the bedroom. A big flat-screen TV mounted on the wall across it, didn't hurt either; the living room was spacious and tastefully done. Of course, my entire floor upstairs was in a league of its own, but this was not too shabby.

“You sure this is my apartment? This is way better than my old one.” She looked around as if she could not believe this was for real.

“Yes, but it comes with few stipulations.”

She immediately squinted her eyes in suspicion. “And those are?”

“My place upstairs is off-limits, no boys or friends during working hours, and no loud music, especially this new electronic stuff.” There, that wasn't so unreasonable, right? It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment, even if that last part made me sound like an old geezer.

She nodded. “That goes without saying, anything else?”

“Nope, that's about it,” I replied and gave her a set of keys that opened everything in the building.

Now to the job at hand — finding the deceiving werewolf roofie-robber.

His name was Milos, and she even had a selfie with him. What kind of idiot has a picture of himself taken with his intended victim? My phone has all these nifty functions, and some of them I’ve managed to figure out. One of them was the ability to send a picture message (we only had text before). I sent the photo to Markus with a question if he knew something about him. He did, so he gave me the basic info and the place where the perp usually hung out.

Vampires are generally well informed about what is going on in their territory; not so surprising as they have their version of an intelligence service. I guess intel-gathering is all-important when you are practically immortal and want to keep it that way. The unknown and unexpected situations are usually the ones that will do you in. Just look at what happened to me.

The werewolf I was hunting... I mean trying to find, was a son of some hotshot in their pack’s hierarchy. Marcus asked me if I would be so kind and not kill him, it would cause too much trouble. Sure, I had no intention to end him, but there is a wide gulf between not killing someone and not beating the shit out of them… I loved that gulf. (Oh Milos, if you knew how many issues I have, and nowhere to vent.)

I left Nina to mind the office and settle in, then entered my new car. To be honest, it could be described as new if one employed a wild stretch of the imagination; an old Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor that had seen better days; painted black, with only a few dents. A pack of air fresheners tried to mask a distinctive smell of the interior. Years of transporting criminals and drunks with poor sphincter control left its mark, which even a professional interior detailing couldn't completely erase, but I liked it. Marcus thought I was crazy when I lifted my hand at the action and said he wouldn't be seen dead driving it—I thought that the car had character. Be that as it may, its engine was purring like a kitten; not so surprising since the mechanics in the shop that Marcus recommended charged me twice the price I paid for the car to bring it up to specs.

Even with that additional cost, it was dirt-cheap compared to a new car, and had enough space in the trunk to fit two bodies… I checked. Now that freaking clan’s butler is giving me an evil eye — every time he sees me. (The wuss could’ve just said no.)

OK, the perp (I’m in a police car after all) was located in this out-of-the-way bar, where apparently all the cool werewolf kids hang out. It was not in a good part of the city; if his daddy was so important, why was he slumming it here?

I entered the seedy bar and was immediately grossed out; this was a dump. And that is coming from a man that had seen his fair share of seedy bars… quite recently for that matter.

Even at my worst I still had some standards and this place was way below them. It was probably nice fifty years ago, but right now it would not pass a health inspection. The entire place had a smell of a stray wet dog, and for my improved olfactory sense — quite nauseating. Not many people inside, but I immediately spotted the jerk—Milos. He was in a booth with a few friends, dressed like a bum. Those jeans were way too big on him, I couldn't figure out how they stayed on without a belt. He was sitting at the edge of the seat, laid back with his legs spread wide. Was he trying to look cool? To me, it looked as if he had a serious problem with hemorrhoids. This is going to be fun.

I approached their table and took an empty seat beside him.

They looked surprised, but not overly alarmed. Which led me to believe that their sense of self-preservation was seriously in need of tuning. I get it that werewolves were close to the top of the food chain, but the law of the jungle is that there is always someone more dangerous than you. Your instincts have a job to inform you when it is near. Hell, they should have smelled that there was something different about me, but I guess whatever opiates they were using suppressed their senses to a considerable degree. My mark was about six feet tall with hair so long that it would’ve made my boot camp drill instructor foam at the mouth.

“What’s crackin ‘dawg?” He said to me, nodding in my direction with half-lidded eyes.

Say what? Did he call me a dog? I am going to kill him.

“Milos, you remember a girl named Nina, a werecat?” There was no reason not to ask directly. To my surprise, he answered.

“Yeah, she dead pissed me off, son,” he said with a lewd smile on his face while his homies were giving each other high fives.

What was wrong with him? Didn't this punk go to school?

My patience was at its end; as a matter of fact, that was a minute ago. I grabbed the ponytail on the back of his head, and slammed his head on the table, holding it there.

“Punk, if you don't start speaking in proper language, I am going to keep slamming your head against this table, and will do worse if you ever again call me a dog or a son—do you understand?” I threateningly whispered close to his ear. That is how you use the English language so that people can comprehend what you are saying.

“Yes,” he moaned into the stained tablecloth.

I let him go, but the little twit immediately tried to hit me with a punch in the face. I was faster and grabbed his fist a few inches from my chin. His eyes started changing into a golden yellow color and a growl was starting to come from his throat. I just squeezed his hand more, feeling the bones grind against one another.

I got into his face and said with as much menace I could muster… which was a lot.

“If you start to change in public, little wolf, I will be obliged to put you down—by law. Now, be a good puppy and stand down.”

He stopped growling, his face changing into a grimace of pain. All the hostility I sensed from him faded, replaced by fear. Marcus’s lessons about some laws of the supernatural world sure came in handy. Nobody wanted for normal humans to realize that they were not the apex species on the planet; it had something to do with their numbers and their gut reflex to destroy anything that scared them.

“Let us continue speaking like civilized people,” I said and saw that his eyes were glistening. Is he going to cry? This was no cold-blooded villain, but a dumb spoiled brat… there goes all my fun.

The story was as stupid as could be. He made a bet with his friends that he could take a pretty werecat to her home, give her a roofie, do the deed, and take everything valuable she had. Just for the bragging rights because the cats were so easy but pretended to be better than wolves. He didn't have the nerve to sexually assault her; a good thing for his life expectancy. If he did—I would have wrung his neck.

Anyway, her stuff was at his house. His two friends were scared little puppies and ran like hell when I gave them permission. I did warn them that if I ever heard that they were involved in something similar; I would come looking for them.

Milos gave me his address and we were soon driving in that direction; OK, I was the only one inside, he had the pleasure to test my trunk theory. I’m sure there was more than enough space for him to be comfortable. I ascribed that to my benevolent nature and a love for the fellow man… right. Besides, I bought new seat coverings and had no intention to allow him to bleed all over them; his nose was a little bit on a crooked side. That will teach him to never test the strength of flat unyielding surfaces with his snout.

Where did young punk live? Manhattan, of course. One of those pricey buildings with a doorman and a square foot price to make most people cringe. He was trying to be cool, going to the places where those that were less lucky lived, to prove his superiority. I hate posers.

The doorman was surprised when the son of a very rich resident appeared bloodied and followed by an unfamiliar man, but showed that he was professional by being very polite. His emotions gave away absolute gladness at the state of the young man; I took that as another confirmation that Milos was a spoiled brat. After he announced us with his phone, he buzzed the building’s elevator.

It had to be the penthouse, the last stop. I started to feel different emotions from Milos; anticipation, and a wave of slow-building anger. (This situation was looking up.)

The moment the elevator door opened, I could see a very big man waiting for us; not simply big… huge. He was radiating barely controlled anger like an overheating furnace.

“Look what he did to my nose father, he hurt me for no reason,” Milos cried and moved to stand behind his father. (The little shit was trying to weasel out, nice.)

“How dare you put a hand on my son, do you know who I am?” he sneered at me and gave me one of those ‘if looks could kill’ gazes, squinting at me.

“No, and I do not care. Your son was getting stolen property from his room for me; as soon as I get it, I can be out of here, no need to get upset.”

As I said, it costs nothing to be polite. OK, the tone I used was a bit condescending, and if anyone used it on me, I would make him eat his teeth.

His anger was rising almost beyond control, he wanted to rip my head off… just what I was waiting for. You see, I learned something that night in the room with all those vampires, and I wanted to test it. In the same way I can sense emotions—if I concentrate—I can project them to an extent. All I needed was to let a bit of the rage inside off the leash, to open myself to that primal side, and let the animalistic part of me closer to the surface; I practiced doing it while being bored out of my mind. So I gathered all the menace that was in me, all the anger and desire to kill, and then focused it on him.

It was a battle of wills; a thing werewolves do for the position in their hierarchy. His animus was quite a strong one, but nothing compared to mine. I wanted to kill him, tear him limb from limb, and then grab his head and squash it between my hands. In my mouth, I could almost feel the delightful crunch of his bones and delicate taste of his raw flesh… what the hell?

I had no idea where those thoughts came from; I was pretty sure they were not normal. But I could sure use them. The rage was there, yet I was in full control, battling for dominance with the big werewolf that was about to turn into his beastly form.

And then he caved in, like that house of cards in my office, submitted. His eyes closed and his hands shook; no need to kick him while he was down. Milos, who got just the traces of what his father endured was laying on the floor in the puddle of his urine, whimpering.

“Milos, why don't you tell your father what you've done,” I roughly commanded, still coming down from that high I experienced.

And he did, terrified even to look in my direction, he told everything, not trying to hide any damning fact.

“Bring the box,” his father ordered through the clenched teeth… ashamed of his dumbass offspring.

Milos was running fast, then again, his heritage was that of a wolf. He came back quickly, holding it in his hands like an offering to me. I looked inside but there was not much there, some gold chains, earrings, nothing that could be considered valuable. Hell, the small Oriental rug Milos had stained with his urine, was worth much more.

“It's all that’s left,” he said, not even trying to lie.

“And the money you took?” I asked.

He tremblingly whimpered, “I spent it.”

“How much?” his father asked, shaking his head and looking at his son with disgust and not a small amount of disappointment.

I took a fast look around the apartment, at least the part I could see, “Twenty thousand.” I said confidently. Staying with Marcus and Esmeralda gave me a new perspective on the value of money to some people.

“But that's not— “

Milos began speaking, but I interrupted him. “I counted in my fee.”

His father turned and said over his shoulder, “I'll be right back.”

He returned a minute later with four thick wads of bills and gave them to me without saying a word. I took them and put them in the box.

The elevator was still waiting for me, so I turned and took a step. But then I turned back, pulled out one of my business cards, and offered it to the man.

“I am quite expensive,” I said and saw his eye twitch, “but I always bring results.”

There was no reason not to fish for a new client, especially a rich one.

The cards were professionally done, black with white font. My name, number, and address in front; in the back was a short description of what I did. Nothing incriminating, a bit vague, but those who were in the know would understand perfectly all the things normal humans would overlook.

He took it with a small nod. The thing was, he had a hard time speaking to me right now; even looking directly would likely cause him distress. I dominated his will, which in the werewolves’ hierarchy signified that he had to submit to the little old me. Since I wasn't of his species, he would be ultimately humiliated if that was known, so he pretended that nothing happened, saving his face. I had no problem with keeping such a facade, it didn't mean that much to me.

Elevator doors were closing and he was looking reproachfully at his sniveling son. I don't think that young Milos would have any fun times ahead of him. It was his fault, and maybe it will do him some good.

The doorman was equally polite as I left, professional to a T. He said, “Goodbye sir,” then gave me a little smile and a conspiratorial nod.

The way back home was nothing exceptional, just the usual madhouse where several taxi drivers were deliberately trying to kill me. I said it before and I say it again, the New York City cabbies are the most malicious, suicidal group in the world. Al Qaeda has nothing on them.

A few kids in the one driving alongside mine were making faces in my direction; their driver was avoiding any shortcut that could lower his fare. That reminded me of a saying that Gramps told me any time we saw kids doing a similar thing while we drove in his old pickup truck. “Remember Adam, children in the back seats of cars cause accidents, but accidents in the back seats of cars cause children.”

I think he was trying to impart one of those pearls of wisdom that are particularly important for horny teenage boys.

I parked the interceptor in front of my building and entered the doors, only to see Nina sitting at the receptionist's desk. Dressed in a pantsuit and looking very professional; much better than that jeans and hoodie combination she was in earlier. I’ll say this, she cleans up well, a great improvement.

“Mr. Novus, I brought over my stuff and moved in,” she said a little hesitantly; straightening the suit which could use a clothes iron. (Note to self: buy clothes iron.)

“Good,” I said and gave her the box I took from Milos. “Here, I believe this is yours.”

She opened it with an overwhelming feeling of happiness.

“Mr. Novus… this…”

She told me earlier that she had more than three thousand dollars saved up, and there was more than that in the box. I left one wad of bills inside; the number on a bank paper strip said five thousand on it.

“This is more than I had,” she continued, confused.

“Consider the rest as a sign-up bonus,” I said and left for my apartment; she stood there holding that cash and wondering what had just happened.

“Oh, and Nina,” I told her as I was climbing the stairs, “Please call me Adam unless there is a client present. Mr. Novus makes me feel old.”

She silently nodded, still looking at the money in her hand, mesmerized.

There is a method to my madness, the reason I gave her monetary incentive. I don’t think she still realized what kind of business this was, but she would in time.

There is going to be all sorts of crazy stuff going on; I need her indebted to me, so she wouldn't run away like this was a madhouse. Money is a great way to repress the survival instinct people have.

You see — pure genius.