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This story takes place not long after the resolution to S2 (whatever that turns out to be, and whenever we get to see it). This may be archived at the main slash archive. Anyone else can ask by emailing the address at the end of the story. No warnings. Spoilers for S2 and Night Shift and I don't remember what else. If you're that jumpy about it, steer clear. I don't own the characters (not Jim, Blair, or Simon, anyway), but that's okay, because this is not for profit. Since I believe that you might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, I've included a whole pile of outside quotations, and I don't own those either. Anyone entertaining thoughts of a lawsuit, say it with me: "You can't get blood from a stone."
Conspirare
*****
"Archie."
"Yes, sir."
"Do I ever intrude in your private affairs?"
"Yes, sir. Frequently. But you think you don't, so go right ahead."
-Rex Stout, Champagne For One
*****
It was funny how that damned dissertation came back to him at odd moments.
[While it seems likely that the sentinel's profound interest in his guide's activities can be attributed to the possessiveness noted above...]
Jim leaned closer to Blair's desk and squinted, then reached over something that looked like a piece of rock to him and placed his fingertips on the small stack of letters facing Blair's chair. They were just lying there in the open. Easy to read a few lines, just by accident. Easier when they weren't upside down. Jim spun the letters around.
[It's difficult to know,]
his memory continued,
[whether the sentinel rationalizes his invasive behavior, or simply believes without reservation that his actions are justified by his position.]
Jim was willing to bet that he knew when Sandburg had come up with that. It would have been shortly after Jim had asked a young woman to explain exactly what she was doing in Professor Sandburg's office when he wasn't there. Well, for god's sake, he hadn't known she was a student. She didn't look nineteen. He hadn't intended to make her cry. Blair had probably thought back on all that "invasive behavior" bullshit with savage satisfaction after Jim had read his thesis without permission. Obviously, he thought he had Jim all figured out.
"Go to hell, Sandburg," Jim said, without much malice. He kept having these fights with Blair when Blair wasn't even around, and it was starting to wear him out. If he monitored Blair with "profound interest", that would be Blair's own goddamned fault. Jim didn't want to spend his spare time rescuing Blair from sociopaths when the two of them could be at a movie or a ball game instead, and to that end he had made a point of slapping Blair's hand when the kid reached for fire. Take for example, these letters....
Prof. Blair Sandburg Department of Anthropology Rainier University Sept. 9/98
As it happens, I'm as familiar with your work as you are with mine. The field isn't so large that we wouldn't bump into each other I have a copy of your master's thesis. While I have my doubts as to its scientific merit, I like your audacity, as well as the fact that you got away with it. I don't mean any offense, btw. Obviously you and I have postulatory differences, which is why I haven't written you before now. I suspected we would argue to no useful purpose. Given our differences, you have your nerve asking me if I've met any subjects who fit your hypothesis. Lucky for you I like nerve. I do have something I wouldn't mind hearing your views on. But, before I do, I want to know-- have you ever run across any test subjects who fit my hypothesis? In other words... quid pro quo.
Prof. Tom "Lecter" Maranchuk Dept. of Psychology (Parapsychological division) University of Alberta
Prof. Blair Sandburg Dept. of Anthropology Rainier University
Sept. 21/98
Thanks for the case studies. That was very open- minded of you. Actually, although you left out the names, I'm pretty sure I recognize some of these people from my own interviews. It would be interesting to see how many test subjects we have in common. I don't think I have anything for you, but I could be mistaken. I'll get to that in a minute. I would like to know, if you don't mind saying, whether you've found the full "sentinel" you were looking for. This isn't just casual curiousity-- your work has implications for mine. I hear you're pretty secretive, so I guess I won't hold my breath for an answer. Anyway... you're probably familiar with the folklore which attributes heightened senses to a variety of supernatural creatures-- among them, vampires and werewolves. You may not be aware that most major cities now host gatherings for people who are fascinated by these genres...some of whom actually claim to be vampires or werewolves. A few months ago, knowing that I followed your work, a friend gave me an article which listed you as a "contributor." The article was on physical stimuli for folklore- related delusions. I'm sure you're intimately familiar with it. I'm sure you meant for people to assume that your "contribution" came from your knowledge of folklore. I choose to assume that you practically wrote that article, then worked out an arrangement for publishing with someone who was (technically speaking) qualified to write it...but that's neither here nor there. The point is, you gave me an idea. It seemed perfectly possible that someone who was clairvoyant or clairaudient (for example) might hear legends about creatures with heightened senses, and take them to heart. We both know that subjects with heightened senses can become unbalanced and exhibit a number of subsequent neuroses. I decided to follow this up by delving into Edmonton's "vampire" community, and I think I have a lead on someone who may have heightened senses. I assume you know a "sentinel" when you see one. I was wondering if you might like to come up here and investigate the matter with me. I'm looking at the first week in October. I think I can convince my department to fly you up here (you do have a unique expertise, after all...and I know a few people who want to meet you) Will that work for you? Or will you be too busy with your sentinel(s)?
Tom "Van Helsing" Maranchuk Department of Psychology (Parapsychological division) University of Alberta
Jim carefully slid the letters back into place.
"Jesus, Sandburg...I should shoot you with my own gun. At least I know *I* would make it a clean kill." Jim didn't bother to turn when the office door opened, and Blair didn't bother to greet him. He threw books he'd been cradling like children onto his desk, dropped into his chair and gave Jim a tired but friendly smile.
"You," he said, "are the first *nice* surprise I've had all day." Jim decided not to shoot him after all.
"What the hell is this thing?" he asked, gesturing at the rock. Blair was rifling though the books, tossing the occasional volume into his backpack.
"Ancient Mesopotamian artifact." Jim picked it up. It still looked like a rock.
"What was it?" Blair transferred the rest of the books to the shelf behind his desk, below a sign which read, Finagle's Third Law of Scientific Research: Always verify your witchcraft.
"Actually," he said casually, forcing the last book into place, "it was a bottle opener." Jim turned the rock over, looking...the shut his eyes and listened. Just a little, just the tiniest bit fast.
"Liar," he said. Blair sat down, grinning.
"Had you going." Jim shrugged.
"How am I supposed to know?" Blair didn't answer, and Jim had a feeling that was a kindness.
"So, what're you doing here?" Jim's mouth twitched. Only Blair could pull off that particular combination of warmth and suspicion.
"I can't just stop by without a reason? I thought I'd take you to dinner." Blair stared at him.
"As in, you're buying?"
"Yes."
"Let me give that some thought. You mind if I think aloud?"
"Yeah. But that never stops you." Blair focused on something just over Jim's shoulder.
"He not only dropped by unannounced, he offered to buy dinner. Therefore, he wants *something*, and he'll probably bring it up over dinner, when you'll feel obligated to say yes. The thing he fails to realize is, whatever it is he wants, you'd probably do it anyway. And because you're going to do whatever it is anyway, there's no harm in accepting a free dinner first." He moved his eyes to meet Jim's.
"Sounds good. Let's go." Jim shook his head.
"Is that what you think of me, Sandburg? Here I am, doing something nice with no ulterior motive..." Halfway through that speech, Blair started to smile. Jim relaxed.
"You're easy to needle today." Blair said it gently, and Jim heard the question.
"It's been a stupid day," he answered. "Come on." He picked up Blair's jacket and almost managed to hand it over without the earth shifting beneath him. The jacket had been a write-off, really, soaked in chlorinated water for so long...but when Blair tried to throw it out, Jim had silently retrieved it from the trash and taken it to be cleaned.
"Perfectly good jacket," he'd said upon returning it to Blair. Later that night, he'd heard Blair crying in his room. It wasn't bad crying. Jim had left it alone. Now the kid put that jacket on as though nothing had ever happened. Jim put a hand on the worn material as they walked to the truck.
*****
"Look! I came in here for an argument."
"Oh! I'm sorry, this is abuse."
"Oh I see, that explains it."
-Monty Python, Argument Clinic
*****
"Tha-"Blair swallowed penne and tried again. "That was *not* smart. What was he thinking?" Jim shrugged.
"He was thinking that he needed a car." Late that morning, a rookie had found that the car he needed for his shift hadn't been returned yet. Not wanting to be late, he'd taken the only car he could find-- the public relations department's talking police car.
"Did anything *happen*?" Jim poured himself another glass of wine, refilled Blair's glass at the same time.
"You'll see it on the news. I don't know if I want to spoil it for you."
"Go ahead. I may have to get to work as soon as we get home anyhow." [On what], Jim thought, then filed it away for later.
"Well...picture an armed robbery in progress, this cop car with a big smiling face on it parked out front, and Anderson inside using the loudspeaker to say..."He switched to a passable imitation of Goofy, "Come out with your hands up." Blair let his fork fall onto his plate.
"I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Children follow that thing around."
"I know. It looks pretty bad."
"And the media has this?"
"Yeah." Jim took a swallow of wine. "Typical. Where are they when we do something right?" Blair grinned.
"You should not have dumped that reporter so harshly. I'm starting to think she's made it a personal crusade-"
"I was not harsh," Jim said, "just...definite. And talking it out on Cascade PD in general, that's petty."
"True," Blair conceded. That settled, he went back to his food. Jim watched him. Blair had his hair pulled back in one of those leather ties which Jim could never believe held all that hair. His full attention was on the penne primavera, and Jim had a feeling he was trying to pick out the cauliflower without being obvious about it. He looked slightly bookish, dangerously cute, and extremely young. No question about it-- this kid was not equipped to be hunting down psychos who thought they were vampires. Jim had a responsibility to say something.
"I couldn't help noticing," he began. Blair looked up immediately. Jim didn't care for the look on Blair's face, but he plowed on. "I couldn't help noticing those letters on your desk." The heart rate was fast...temperature up...small lines around the set mouth. Uh oh.
"Couldn't help..." Blair shook his head as if shaking off a fly. "Okay. Okay. I've encouraged you to accept your genetic inheritance. It's just my bad luck that you're hardwired to be nosy. So. You went through my correspondence *and*..." Jim didn't handle it well when Blair was this angry with him.
"What the hell is going through your head? Are you *trying* to get killed? I get the impression you write to that psycho *first*." Weirdly, Blair seemed to have calmed down. He even smiled.
"He's annoying, but he's not a psycho."
"He's a 'parapsychologist', right? Spends him time chasing ghosts, and showing people cards with stars and circles on them?"
"Zener card," Blair said, seemingly for lack of anything better coming to mind. "Yeah, essentially that's the deal, but that doesn't mean he's crazy."
"He is if he wants to mess with people who think they need to drink human blood."
"I see your point," Blair said, eyes wide. "Test subjects can be dangerous. Sometimes they slam you up against walls, and get you kidnapped, and..."
[And some try to kill you. Time to change the subject.]
"Why are you even doing this? *Are* you doing this?"
"I was going to, yes."
"Why? You don't need to run around looking for sentinels. You've got one."
"I know, but having a larger sample..."He stopped. "Look. Jim." He looked both tolerant and amused. Jim hated that look.
"What."
"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but this really isn't any of your business." Jim couldn't possibly have heard that right.
"I can't believe I have to remind you of this, but we're partners."
"At the station, yeah. I mean, our arrangement right from the beginning was that you act as a test subject for me, and I would help with the senses. As it turned out, that meant becoming your partner. There's a lot more going on with us now than there was then, but the fact remains that whatever other research I need to conduct doesn't concern you. I can't believe *I* to remind *you*of this, but you are not an anthropologist. I am doing my actual job, for which I am trained and competent." Jim was sure they made an interesting picture, sitting at that table. Portrait of two people who are not going to discuss what happened the last time Blair did other research. Still life with avoidance.
"You know I like an ordered life," Jim said, sailing as near the wind as he could brook. "Things are arranged pretty well right now. I don't welcome any disruptions."
"I don't think this is going to be a problem..."
"You don't think *anything* is going to be a problem," Jim snapped. "You don't think."
"This is not a police matter. I don't have to defer to your better judgment. I know what I'm doing. Does that bother you?"
"It wouldn't if I believed it!"People were starting to stare. Jim lowered his voice. "Not as a cop. As a friend. As your Blessed Protector. This sounds dangerous to me. I don't like it. And I'll tell you something else-- you are not dragging me into this. I am not going to Canada to watch over you, because you are not going to Canada." Oh, Jesus, that was no way to handle this. He wouldn't be surprised to find that Blair was telekinetically packing his bags from where he sat.
"I'm an adult, Jim. I don't need permission. I *am* going to Edmonton and I'm going to do my job. I'm not dragging you into anything. I wasn't even going to tell--"
"No, of course not. You knew I wouldn't like it." Blair leaned back in his chair. He looked tired, suddenly.
"Yeah. I guess I did. But that doesn't mean you're right."He actually smiled, which Jim considered pretty gracious. Then again, Blair could afford to be gracious. No matter what Jim said, Blair was going to have his way. "Jim, I have been all over the world. I lived on my own for years before we met. I know how you are, and I'm sorry to be stressing you, but I will honestly be *fine*. I'll be gone for, like, three days, and then I'll come home. I promise."
[You can't promise that.]
Jim shut his eyes.
"Tell me as soon as you know when you're going. I have to book those days off, and get tickets..."
"Did I say you were invited?" Jim opened his eyes and saw Blair smiling at him. Teasing. He took a deep breath.
"Sandburg, if you left those letters out on purpose, I had better not find out. Ever." Blair raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't." Jim didn't have the heart to check.
"Come on, Chief. I'll take you home."
*****
There are plenty of annoying tests you have to take after college, and you might as well start cheating on them. No talking; pencils down; this may go on your permanent record. Please begin.
- William Poundstone, Big Secrets
*****
Jim usually maintained that he avoided the University because academics annoyed him, which wasn't true. Well, it *was* partially true, but it wasn't the reason he dodged Blair's colleagues so fastidiously. He wasn't about to admit the real reason to anyone. Tom "Aren't I Clever" Maranchuk turned out to be bearable, just. He was a little less pretentious in person. He had Blair's quality of perpetual energy, and the same tendency to become lost in an idea, as if he'd fallen in love with a thought. Blair had told Tom that he was bringing along a former test subject who had enhanced hearing, to help in tracking down the "vampire."It was just close enough to the truth that they hoped it would prevent Tom from pegging Jim as the full sentinel Blair had been looking for. When they met face to face, Tom barely waited for the introductions to be made before putting one square hand on Jim's arm and earnestly inquiring as to the cause of Jim's heightened sense.
"Runs in his family," Blair had said before Jim could answer. "Genetic abnormality."
"Which chromosome?"Tom shot back. Blair fixed him with a weary gaze.
"Yeah, any geneticist will tell you that it's *impossible* to see inheritance at work without a microscope. Gregor Mendel, everything he did was pure *chance*."
"Well, in that case, maybe psychic ability runs in families," Tom said. "I have case studies -- do you mind if I run some tests on him?"
"Why don't you ask *him*? He's standing right here." Although Jim was in no humour to answer anything Tom asked him, he could've kissed Blair for reminding the guy that Jim was a person. Before Tom could speak, he said, "I didn't come here to do tests. I came here to do Blair a favour. He thinks my hearing could help you find this guy, great. I owe Blair a few favours. You, I just met. I don't owe you anything." A cloud passed over Tom Maranchuk's round face for the briefest moment. Then,
"One run of Zener cards, and I'll owe *you* a favour. Fifteen minutes of your time. Not even. And painless." Jim turned to Blair for a steer. Blair shrugged.
"Fifteen minutes and painless. Unless you, like, guess *all* of them and he decides to make a career out of you."
[So don't read the reflection of the cards on his eyes. Don't try to see the impression of ink on the back of the card. Don't get cute.]
Jim felt the corner of his mouth curve upwards.
[Message received, Chief.]
Halfway through the cards, Jim hadn't guessed a single one right. It was easy to see the cards in the empty pop bottle over Tom's shoulder. Jim was pretty proud of himself ... until a whisper reached him from across the room.
"Law of averages, big guy." Without glancing up from the cards, Tom pointed at the door.
"Leave the room, Sandburg." Blair stayed. Tom set the cards down.
"I don't know what you did, but he just tensed. I'm starting this run again, with you elsewhere." Blair sighed dramatically.
"As if I would interfere in legitimate research. I'm wounded, man ..." He grinned at Jim and left the room. Jim hurried through the test without cheating, his concentration on Blair's heartbeat. Steady, relaxed, only a few rooms away. Good. Tom set the cards down and looked Jim in the eye.
"You knew them the first time. A complete wash-out is not likely to be due to chance. I don't think you were paying attention this time through. Jesus, Mr. Ellison, my field is difficult enough without genuinely talented people hiding their abilities. And I know Sandburg knows. This is unfair."
"Again, Professor," Jim answered, "I didn't come here for you. And I don't care what you think could or could not be due to chance. I can not read your mind, and I'm not clair-whatsis--"
"--voyant."
"I'm not clairvoyant either. I am a completely normal guy with freakish hearing and a strange friend."
"But why is your hearing ... oh, never mind. Bigger fish to fry." He stood. "Your strange friend is probably in the lounge." And he was, holding the attention of a roomful of people who looked unnervingly smart. Blair didn't seem unnerved.
"What the hell were you doing sneaking into a mental hospital, anyway?" The question came from a pretty redhead who was sitting quite close to Blair. Jim wondered who had sat down first.
"I was helping someone with a project," Blair said easily. "I can't really say anything about it." Damn straight he couldn't, since the "project" was one of Jim's cases, and Blair didn't go undercover, because he was not a cop.
"Anyway," Blair went on, "I told them I heard voices." The people around him nodded.
"That's the best and fastest way to get committed," someone said, and everyone laughed. Jim stayed to the back of the room, feeling awkward and two sizes too large.
"But then they wanted to run some tests ..." Jim kept his face still, with effort. He didn't know about any tests. Once again, Sandburg had neglected to tell him the whole story.
"I mean, the D.A.P. was simple; I just made it disjointed. And I went for paranoid on the MMPI. But then they pulled out the Rorschach ..." Rorschach. That was the inkblot test. Jim had taken it at one point, when he came back from Peru. He'd thought it was stupid, but it obviously meant something to these people.
"So," the redhead urged, "what did you do?"
"Well, I cried when they showed me the second plate ... I tried to hit someone over the fifth ... and when they showed me the seventh plate, I said it looked like a lamp." Silence. To that point, they'd been laughing, but that last line seemed to steal their words.
"How ..." Tom said. "I mean, are you ..." Blair laughed.
"No. I've seen a cheat sheet." Jim wanted to stay out of this, but it was driving him nuts.
"How do you cheat on an inkblot test?" Someone moved to shut the lounge door, and they were all looking at Blair as if they thought they might have to kill him. Jim was, unreasonably, nervous ... but Blair seemed fine. He waved a hand at a blond man with wire-rimmed glasses.
"You explain it. I'm not a psych major."
"God, no. You have no sense of ..." Frustrated, the blond turned to Jim. "The Rorschach has ten blots. Always the same ten, and always in the same order. Have you ever taken it?" Jim hesitated, then nodded.
"Okay, then I can tell you ... but don't *ever* tell *anyone* this."
"You want me to sign something in blood?" Jim asked. No one laughed.
"I'm serious. This is a secret. I don't even want to know how he got his hands on a cheat sheet."
"No," Blair said, just loud enough for Jim to hear. "He doesn't." "There *are* right and wrong answers. There are things nearly everyone sees. There's deliberate sexual imagery, at least one per blot, and you're watched for how you respond." Jim thought back to the test. It was a blur now, had pretty much been a blur at the time. He just couldn't remember, and he was glad for it.
"Plate number seven ... and this is *really* specialized knowledge ... it's supposed to look like two women facing each other. The key is in how you describe them."
"And Blair said he saw a lamp. Big deal." The redhead laughed.
"Oh, it's a big enough deal. You can see the lamp, plainly, if it's pointed out to you. But almost all of the people who see it spontaneously are schizophrenics. It's practically diagnostic."She turned to Blair. "You didn't need to put on a big show about the other cards. That one sealed it." Blair nodded. His eyes were very bright.
"I know. But I enjoyed it." There was no mistaking the admiration in the way she looked at Blair.
"My god, you are a shit-disturber." Jim had never had much faith in psychology, but he had to admit that was a pretty astute assessment from someone who hadn't known Blair very long.
"So," she said, leaning forward, "what did you say about plate number three?" Blair shrugged.
"I said they looked like chickens," he told her, and brought the house down. Jim was uncomfortable in the too-warm room, surrounded by smart people laughing at a joke he didn't understand. He felt oddly miserable, looking at Blair with these aliens. Blair understood them. He kept up with them, even in a field that wasn't his own. He caught their attention, knocked them on their asses, and made them laugh. Jim knew he wasn't stupid, and he didn't think Blair thought he was, but he was out of his depth here ... and he didn't enjoy the thought that, in his private conversations with Blair, the kid might be stooping to accommodate him. Suddenly homesick, he tried to catch the scent of the loft ... which these days consisted largely of Blair's herbal teas and chamomile shampoo. He found those scents, easy, and took a deep breath. Much better. Such a strange mix, Blair's witch doctor potions and Jim's cop trappings ... he could smell gun powder and oil as the gathering began to drift from the room.
[Wait just a goddamned minute ...]
He hadn't brought a gun. He and Blair had agreed that it would be too much trouble at the airport, and Canada could be strict about guns. So why could he smell a gun so clearly? Jim's first impulse was to get between Blair and these strangers, as quickly as possible, and push Blair down behind the furniture in case shooting started. He stepped on that impulse and considered. Being without a gun himself, he wouldn't be able to do much in a firefight. This small room didn't offer much cover, and there was no back door. Just because someone was carrying a gun didn't mean they planned on using it anytime soon, so there was probably no sense in startling them. The thing to do was keep still and concentrate on tracking the smell, but Jim put that off until he'd made his way to Blair's side. Just in case. Blair looked at him, head tilted in inquiry.
"Something wrong?" he asked, more mouthing the words than speaking them. Jim almost smiled.
"With our track record?" Blair laughed, startling Tom, who turned to look at them. Jim tried to catch the scent of the gun, and decided Tom was in the clear.
"You're as weird as your reputation suggests, professor. What is going on with you?" Jim answered for him, keeping in mind that hearing was the only heightened sense he was supposed to have.
"I though I hear the hammer pull back on a gun." Blair shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jim had seen that gesture about a million times, and it never preceded anything good.
"Here?" he said, practically whining. "Nooooo...." Jim laughed, couldn't help it.
"It's not anything *I* did, Chief." Tom leaned back against a vending machine.
"Are you people in trouble?" They answered together.
"Usually," Jim said.
"Habitually," Blair said. Tom slid a loonie into the vending machine, without turning, and slammed his fist against one of the tabs. When a can of Coke dropped, he slid down and grabbed it, eyes fixed on Blair and Jim.
"That's just great," he said, glaring. Jim rolled his eyes.
"You hunt down psychos who think they're vampires, and you're worried about us bringing you trouble?" He turned to Blair, placing a hand on his chest for emphasis.
"You. Stay. Here." Blair looked amused.
"No problem." Everyone else had left the room. Jim stood in the hallway, eyes shut, concentrating...but it was gone.
"It's no good," he called. Blair stepped into the hall, Tom on his heels.
"Could be nothing, Jim. Could've been a security guard."
"I know how you people are down in the OK Corral," Tom said, "but in this country, security guards don't tend to carry guns. There must be a real cop around here somewhere."
"Yeah," Jim said, not meaning it.
"So,"
*****
"To be clear, vampires are not real."
-Mark Rein-Hagen et al, Vampire: The Masquerade
*****
"I'm in the Larp," the contact told them. He had scruffy black hair, direct brown eyes, and an air of good-natured forbearance when speaking to Tom. Against expectation, Jim liked him.
"The what?"Blair asked.
"Larp. Live-action role playing. Let go of the mazes and monsters bullshit--I can see that on *your* face." Jim couldn't deny that, but he did like the kid, and he wasn't here as a cop.
"Okay, what *is* this Larp?" He sighed and grabbed a bag of Oreos from beside the couch.
"Kind of an improv acting deal, with some basic rules." He threw an Oreo into his mouth, downed it and tossed the bag to Tom. "Our genre is horror. I play a vampire in the game, but, see, I don't think I *am* one. Crazy fucking people are not *allowed* in this game. I just want to be clear on that, lest you start rousting my friends." Blair grinned. It was easy to see he liked the kid too.
"Understood. I take it the vampire isn't one of your friends?"
"Did I say vampire? I did not. I told Tom that I had seen someone who claimed to be a vampire, and who *seemed* to hear stuff pretty clearly from across the room. I only met him the one time, but he made an impression." Blair sat down next to the kid, his attention complete and encouraging.
"Mind telling that story again?"
"Not much to tell. We thought it would be entertaining to game at this sort of underground goth club, 'cause we had a line on where it was gonna be."
"Think it's still there?"Blair asked.
"Nope. As usual, they had to bug out after about a week. But I can always find it. Anyway, there was a group of crazy fucking people there claiming to be actual vampires. I'm not closed-minded. I believe in extreme possibilities. But I don't see why a real vampire would have a Cheetos wrapper sticking out of their coat pocket. And they would not let up. I mean, there's a time to drop the charade, you know? There is a time to fucking *wink*. Really annoying people."He stopped, drained half a can of Jolt, and went on. "So there we are in one corner of the room, discussing these other people, when one of them strolls over, and puts his hand on my arm. And he was *cold*. I used to put bags of ice in my coat pockets when I went to Larps so that I'd have cold hands, but they never felt like *that*. He looked me in the eye, which was unsettling, and he repeated most of what we'd said about him, which I would not have thought he could possibly have heard. And then he said..."he leaned in close to Blair, meeting his eyes for emphasis. "In future, would you please try to keep it down?" Tom swatted Blair's shoulder. "You see? Definitely something there." Blair nodded, his eyes still on the kid.
"Worth following up. Have you been back to the club since?" The contact laughed.
"Do I look like a crazy fucking person to you? I'm telling you, most of these people were just assholes, but that one guy was...something else. I'll get you an address, but after that, you sorry bastards are on your own."
*****
"I can accept the theory of relativity as little as I can accept the existence of atoms and other such dogmas."
-Ernst Mach, (1838-1916), professor of physics at the University ofVienna (as quoted in Stephen Pile's Incomplete Book of Failures)
*****
"Seeing as this is an underground club," Blair said in his most rational tone, "maybe you should listen from outside." If Blair was going to pretend to be rational, two could play at that game. Jim swiped a spring roll from Blair's plate.
"Why is that, Chief?" Tom looked at Blair.
"Why does he call you Chief?" Forced to choose between two questions he didn't much care for, Blair looked from one to the other and apparently opted for answering the larger man.
"You'd clear the place."
"Oh come on. I do not--" Blair held up a hand.
"Tom? What do you think Jim does for a living?" Tom shrugged.
"Private detective? Fed? Some kind of cop." Blair speared the spring roll with a chopstick and pulled it off Jim's fork.
"The defense rests."
"I don't know if it's safe for me to wait outside," Jim said,"I hear vampires can move pretty fast."
"He's not serious." Blair leaned back in his chair, watching Jim.
"Hard call. I can't always tell."
"What if I *was* serious? You," he said, pointing his fork at Tom,"are a parapsychologist. That means you study weird shit, right?"
"Yeah. I'm hoping they put that on my diploma when I get my Ph.D." Jim ignored the sarcasm. He was used to that particular brand of snarkiness.
"Yet you are trying to tell me that you don't believe in vampires." Tom laughed. It made him look eight years old.
"Only because they aren't real. I study human potential. Extra-sensory perception. Prescience. There are some flakes in my field, granted--"
Blair, who was in the middle of swallowing water, coughed violently. Jim patted his back.
"S'all right," Blair said quickly. "Wrong pipe. Tom, you were saying?"
"I was saying that I am a serious scientist. I don't go off hunting things that go bump in the night." Jim gave up on him, turned to Blair.
"What about you? You study folklore. I know you believe some of it."
"Well, yeah, sure...but vampires? The thing about most folklore is, you can't take it at face value. It does mean something, just not what it sounds like. For example, vampire stories tend to crop up in any society experiencing sexual repression. They were in vogue in Victorian England, and they had a resurgence not long ago, coincident with AIDS. Vampire stories aren't about actual blood-sucking monsters, they're about the vilification of, and consequent fascination with, desire."
"Are you telling me this is some depraved sexual free-for-all you'll be attending tonight?"Jim was trying not to smile. Blair grinned at him.
"Yeah, I figure it'll be a Bosch painting come to life."
"And you think you don't need me there?"
"Listening from outside would be fine," Tom said. Blair ignored him, laid a hand on Jim's arm.
"As long as you dress the way I tell you and try not to look too authoritarian, it should be okay."
"Sandburg..." Jim warned.
"Yeah?"
"You don't want me to catch you enjoying this too much."
*****
Dress in black and top it off with a long, sweeping, black cloak if you think you can get away with it.
-Owens and Rae, Bluff Your Way in the Occult
*****
In the end, Blair didn't change Jim's look all that much.
"It's too much to hope that we don't stand out," he explained. "I just don't want you to scream `cop'. What did you do when you worked vice?"
"Moustache. Bandanna." Blair seemed to be concentrating intently on something. Jim suspected that something was a desperate attempt not to laugh.
"That ... uh ... that's not the look we want tonight. Just wear black, a long coat ... you'd look goofy in make-up, so we won't go down that road."
"All men look goofy in makeup, Sandburg." Blair shrugged.
"Maybe. But it's probably my best shot at fitting in." They were at Tom's place, a three-storey character house which looked pretty good for thehome of four men in their twenties. Tom was scrounging for appropriate clothes, voicing relief that one of his roommates was close to Jim's size.
"You are just a little too comfortable with this, Chief."
"I dated a girl who liked the whole goth thing. Eventually she dumped me for making her happy." Tom walked in with an armload of clothes. Blair picked up something that looked like a black pencil crayon.
"Okay, Jim, why don't you go somewhere and change?"
"Maybe I want to see how practiced you really are with makeup."
"Maybe I'll spend the next half hour lecturing you on the importance of skin painting in tribal societies." Jim knew when he was beat.
"I'll be in the other room."
Well, `goofy' wasn't the word for how Blair looked. He looked wildly strange, angular and maybe even dangerous. Jim found himself reaching for Blair's scent again, for something familiar. The next thing he knew, Blair's hand was on his arm.
"Not here, not now. I do *not* want to explain a zone-out to Professor X."
"You guys ready to go?" Tom, on the other hand, did look goofy in makeup. Jim kept his eyes on the parapsychologist most of the way to the club, because looking at Blair made him shiver and he didn't know why.