he made haste cleaning up the evidence. His van was parked down the street.
He hefted the body bag over a shoulder, picked up the extinguisher and his toolbox filled with all the accoutrements a guy like him should ever need on a job like this, and wandered down the street. His rubber boots made squidgy noises on the tarmac. After dousing the flames, he’d rolled down the white polyethylene hazmat suit to his hips. With shirtsleeves rolled up, his tweed vest still neatly buttoned, yet tie slightly loosened, he could breathe now.
“Normal,” he repeated.
He’d scheduled a Skype interview early tomorrow afternoon. The job he had applied for was assistant to Human Relations and Resources at an up-and-coming accounting firm in la Defense district. About as mundane and normal as a man could hope for. He’d never actually worked a regular “human” job.
It was about time he gave it a go.
The olive green van, which had seen so many better days, sat thirty feet down from a streetlight that flickered and put out an annoying buzz. Humming a Sinatra tune, Tor opened the back of the van and tossed in the supplies. He’d dump the body bag at a landfill on the way home. He’d done his research; that landfill was plowed monthly and shipped directly to China for incineration.
“That’s my life,” he sang, altering the lyrics to suit him.
Sinatra was a swanky idol to him. Singing his songs put him in a different place from the weird one he usually occupied. Call it a sanity check. The Sultan of Swoon relaxed him in ways he could appreciate.
He peeled off the sweaty hazmat suit, hung it on a hanger and placed that on a hook near the van ceiling. At his belt hung a heavy quartz crystal fixed into a steel mount that clipped with a D ring onto a loop. He never went anywhere without the bespelled talisman. Another necessity for sanity. The rubber boots were placed in a tray on the van floor. He pulled out his bespoke Italian leather shoes from a cloth bag and slipped those on.
“Ahhh...” Almost better than a shower. But he couldn’t wait to wash off the werewolf blood. Odds were he had it in more places than the smear across his cheek.
Closing the back doors, he punched a code on the digital lock to secure it. While he sorted through his trouser pocket for the van key, he whistled the chorus to the song that demanded he accept life as it was...that’s life.
Maybe... No. Life didn’t have to be this way for him. He was all-in for a change of scenery.
Before he slid the key in the lock, he saw the driver’s door was unlocked. Had he forgotten? That wasn’t like him. He was always on top of the situation. Which only further contributed to his need to run from this life as if a flaming werewolf were chasing his ass.
Tor slid into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Another crazy midnight job. His final one. He would stand firm on that decision. And after getting a whiff of the dead werewolf’s rangy scent—someone please show him the way to his new office cubicle.
Adjusting the radio to a forties’ swing station, he palmed the stick shift.
When the person in the passenger seat spoke, he startled. “Whoa!”
“Hey! Oops. Sorry.” The woman let out a bubbly nervous giggle. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. I’ve been waiting. And watching. You’ve quite the talent, you know that?”
“Who in bloody—” He squinted in the darkness of the cab, but could only see glints in her eyes and—above her eyes? Hmm... Must be some kind of sparkly makeup. “How did you...?”
“The door wasn’t locked. You really should lock your doors in this neighborhood. Anyone could steal your van. Not that it’s very steal-worthy. Kinda old, and there’s more rust than actual paint. But I’m guessing you have important stuff in the back. Like a dead werewolf!” she announced with more cheer than anyone ever should.
His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Tor could make out that she had long brown hair and big eyes. She smiled. A lot. He didn’t get a sense about her—was she paranormal or human? But then, he didn’t have any special means of determining whether a person was paranormal or not. Sometimes he didn’t know until it was too late. But he did pick up an overtly incautious happiness about her.
Without letting down his guard, he reached across the console to offer his hand. “Torsten Rindle.”
“I know!” She shook his hand eagerly. “I’ve been looking for you. And now I’ve found you.”
If she knew who he was, then she probably knew what he did for a living. Which still didn’t solve the issue of what she was. Humans hired him all the time to protect them from paranormals. But to find him, they had to be in the know, and also know someone who knew someone who knew him. Who, in turn, had his phone number.
He pulled back his hand and leaned an elbow on the steering wheel, keeping his body open, prepared to move to either defend or restrain. “Who are you, and why are you in my van?”
“It’s a rather beat-up old van, isn’t it?”
“So you’ve said.”
“Doesn’t really jibe with you in your fancy vest and trousers and designer watch.”
The watch in question showed it was well past midnight. This had been a hell of a long day.
“I don’t need to draw attention by driving a sports car,” Tor offered. “And the van is as utility as it gets. A requirement in my line of work. Now. Your name? And why are you sitting in my van?”
“Melissande Jones.” She fluttered her lashes as she pressed her fingers to her chest, where frilly red flowers made up the neckline of her blouse. “My friends call me Lissa, as does my family. I’m not sure I like the nickname, but I hate to argue with people. I’m a people pleaser. Sad, but true. And I’m here because I need your help. Your protection, actually.”
Tor played her name over in his brain. The last name was familiar. And in Paris, it wasn’t so common as, say, in the United States or London. He made it a point to know who all the paranormal families in the city were, and had good knowledge of most across the world. Blame it on his penchant for getting lost in research. And for needing to know everything.
Recall brought to mind a local family of witches. The two elders were twin brothers. And he knew the one brother had twin sons, so that left the other...
“Thoroughly Jones’s daughter? A dark witch?”
“Yes, and mostly.” She turned on the seat so her body faced him. Her bright red lipstick caught the pale glow from the distant streetlight. Her lips were shaped like a bow. And combined with those big doe eyes and lush feathery lashes? “Can you help me?”
“I, uh...” Shaking himself out of his sudden admiration for her sensual assets, Tor assumed his usual emotionless facade, the one he wore for the public. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about me, but I’m no longer in the business of providing personal protection.”
“You’re a cleaner.” She gestured toward the fire truck that was pulling up down the street where the werewolf had been burned. Someone must have witnessed the fire after all. “You also do spin for The Order of the Stake.”
Two things that most might know about him. If they
