When Josse reached the gate, the vampires were nowhere to be seen. He assumed they had moved the party indoors – a wise move given Josse’s aversion to unwanted attention and their own aversion to the bright light of day.
They’d be in the barrel store, on the street side of the gate. A discreet door to the right led into the staff-only area of the tavern, the impasse’s only building open to the public. Everyone was welcome at ‘Jos le Rêveur’, and if they ordered the more expensive items on the menu, so much the better. Full-moon units, wrought-iron gates and utilities for a thriving underground community don’t come cheap. The mere cost of fire insurance for premises this size could have silenced a lutin.
Josse took a deep breath and opened the door.
Three members of the impasse’s security detail were standing just a little too close to what appeared to be a young woman, under all those layers of wool.
Thin legs in thick maroon tights poked out from the hem of a bright red mini-skirt, which itself poked out from the hem of an asymmetrical mauve jumper. A pair of wide blue eyes peered out from between a tangle of scarves and a betasseled beanie.
Through a swish pair of glasses that didn’t match her creative thrift-store chic. Interesting.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“We’ve caught a spy,” the vampire in charge of the detail growled. Under the smudged eyeliner, her pupils had begun to emit an amber glow. “She’s been watching us for days.”
“No I haven’t,” the scarves objected. “Who even are you?”
Josse considered the visitor’s A3 sketch pad, the stained fingertips emerging from her fingerless gloves, her defiance in the face of two leather-clad thugs and their far scarier chief. Azélie’s immaculate up-do and cinched polka-dot dress belied the intense aggression radiating from her lithe frame.
“Maybe she’s just been drawing street views. She wouldn’t be the first person to take an interest in our façade.”
“For two days running? Anyway, she wasn’t drawing the estaminet; she was checking out the impasse.”
The vampires were having far too much fun. In circumspect code suitable for the ears of outsiders, Josse suggested that they could head off to work if they so pleased. They didn’t so please and they were at the end of their shift, but they were familiar with hostel rule #1: Josse is the boss.
***
Ten minutes on, Josse had the stranger seated at a comfortable table near the tavern’s open fire.
“I apologise for my neighbours,” he said. “They’re a bit on edge. We’ve had three burglaries in the impasse, in just five months.” A lie, obviously, but it was the best explanation he could come up with at short notice.
“That’s OK,” the visitor replied. “Just a misunderstanding.”
The scarves and the beanie had been piled onto an empty chair. Their removal had revealed a pale, heart-shaped face under a short mop of bright blue hair. The one-sided taper fade had recently been refreshed.
“Are you done sketching our street?”
She laughed. Unless it was a gasp. “You’ll never see me again.”
“You’re welcome here any time,” he said. “Without the spectacles, though. May I see them?”
She froze, then handed him her eyewear.
“I don’t recognise the make,” Josse said. He owned a pair of smart glasses himself; they had revolutionised his inspections of the community’s subterranean spaces. “Where did you get these, and where are you sending the images?”
“Nowhere. They’re fake. I was just meant to pretend.”
Whatever Josse had expected, this wasn’t it.
“Who sent you? Why?”
“Just some man. He approached me last week, while I actually was sketching the estaminet.” She opened her pad to reveal half a dozen drawings of the tavern in all its Christmassy glory. “He said he owned a building in the impasse that had been burgled and wanted to see if the residents were keeping an eye out.”
“Weren’t you worried they’d call the police?”
“For what? Sketching a quaint building while wearing glasses?”
Fair enough. “There must be something you can tell me about the man.”
The wad of bank notes the culprit had waved at her had clearly affected her eyesight as much as her common sense. Early fifties, maybe; balding and slightly overweight. A French speaker; from Belgium, not France. That was all she knew, honestly. And no, she didn’t know where to reach him, or if she’d see him again. On the whole, she rather thought not.
“OK, we’re done. But do not ever…” Whatever Josse had planned in the way of dire threats was cut off by Adelphine’s sudden appearance with laden tray.
“Stop scaring the poor girl,” she admonished him, as she delivered steaming mugs of cocoa and two raisin buns on a plate. “I’m sure she meant no harm. Don’t you have barrels to change?”
He left her to fuss over the stranger, who seemed to relax under the motherly gaze Adelphine had somehow conjured up. Whatever (harmless! organic! cruelty-free!) lip-loosener Adelphine had added to the hot drink would be working its magic as well. The world’s gruffest witch playing good cop while he acted the brute… She was really going to hate being reminded, and he was really going to enjoy keeping the memory alive.
The little charade did deliver a fresh nugget of information. The artist worked in the area regularly, and the man hadn’t worried her as she had seen him several times before.
In the tavern, in fact. Perched on a bar stool, downing espressos, shouting at people over the phone.