Peter sat in the passenger seat of his own car, forehead against the window, eyes glazed over. Traffic moved at a halting crawl. There was an accident ahead and northbound 405 had become a parking lot. They’d only moved half a mile over the last hour. Being cooped up in the car with no end in sight and no reasonable way out was making Peter anxious. Worse, he had to pee really bad.

Greg too seemed frustrated. The big man was constantly fidgeting in his seat, big meaty thumb slapping the steering wheel with a thump thump thump. Peter bounced up and down, his speed increasing perfectly in time with the urgency of his situation. Still, they were stuck in a car together and Peter had been given an assignment. No better time.

“So,” he started casually, “I was talking with Renea this morning.”

“The fire alarm thing?” Greg asked, looking a bit sheepish.

“Yeah. She’s going to send you an email with her conditions of you remaining in the guest house.”

“I…” Greg stopped, honking at another car and swearing loudly out the window at them before continuing. “She woke me up really early. I wasn’t fully awake. She asked some questions and I answered them but I was thinking about it afterward and might have come off…”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to apologize the next time I see her.”

“And flowers,” Peter suggested.

“And flowers,” Greg agreed. “But I’m not putting more smoke detectors up.”

Peter laughed softly. “You won’t have to.”

Renea will…

“Do me a favor,” Greg said, the subject now closed. “Stick your head out the window and see if anyone’s coming up the shoulder.”

“Do not just drive on the shoulder, Greg. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, and neither does anyone else. We are not special. We have to follow traffic laws just like the rest of these people.”

Greg rolled his eyes. He turned over his right shoulder, leaning over Peter and filling his nose with the scents of gunpowder and garlic. Then he slammed his big fat foot on the gas pedal. Peter’s car, a new but inexpensive sedan, was not Greg’s motorcycle. It accelerated as quickly as it could under the substantial weight of Greg’s foot, but it was far from an impressive display of speed.

Peter held onto the Jesus bar with white knuckles as Greg rumbled forward, off of the shoulder and through the tall dried grass between the highway and a residential area. There was a gap between the retaining walls and Greg was heading right for it. To Peter’s surprise, another vehicle followed. And then another. When Greg drove through the gap, turned, and dropped over the curb onto a residential street Peter looked back to see over a dozen people following their (bad) example.

“Okay,” Peter said as they moved out of the cul de sac toward a larger street. “That went better than I expected it to. Hey pull into that gas station. I’ve gotta pee.”

Peter returned to his car a few minutes later with a pair of brightly colored energy drinks and a bag of beef jerky. He handed one can of caffeine to Greg and opened the other with a crack. Greg eyed the can in his hand, and then put it in the cup holder without opening it.

“My GPS says the club is,” Peter started, trailing off as he looked from his phone to the street signs all around them. He pointed an unsure finger westward. “That way?”

“That way it is oh wise and knowing navigator,” Greg said with no small touch of sarcasm. It was a big touch of sarcasm.

Regardless, he followed Peter’s directions. A while later, he pulled Peter’s car into a handicap space and put it into park. At Peter’s insistence, he moved the vehicle into a different parking spot, bitching and moaning about Peter being such a square as he did.

Their destination was a nightclub that, for reasons Peter Mayhew could not begin to fathom, was very popular with the young people of Portland. It was probably the least aesthetic building in all of Portland’s Pearl District with its poo-brown exterior and slightly darker poo-brown canopy wrapping around it. The sign out front was hideous. A neon pink eyesore with a childish font reading ‘Club de Tac’.

Club de tac didn’t mean anything at all as far as Peter knew. He wasn’t a perfect multilingual dictionary but, having memorized the 300 most used words in 5 different languages, he was pretty close. He shared a look with Greg, and followed the big man inside.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

During the day, the place that was so often filled with the pulsing beat of music and chatter of patrons, was now empty and still. The main dance floor was empty, not a soul in sight to do the gritty or practice their twerking skills. The DJ booth was vacant, turntables and mixer biding their time until night fell once again. The bar was littered with bottles and glasses not yet cleaned up from the previous evening’s festivities. The atmosphere was one of emptiness and abandonment, as though the life and energy that filled the club every evening had simply vanished.

The combined smells of sweat and stale beer stung Peter’s nostrils. Everywhere he looked there was a mess. He was sure without a shadow of a doubt in his mind that nobody had ever cleaned this place properly. In every nook and cranny there was caked dirt. A large beetle marched across one wall. Peter’s fingers itched to pull out his spray bottle filled with bleach cleaner.

The single occupant was sitting on the front counter, a pair of Chuck Taylor’s dangling off the side. She had an interesting aesthetic, half-green half-blonde hair, tight ripped jeans, a dozen (visible) piercings, and white tank top. Not exactly what Peter had been expecting after talking to her on the phone. She had a professional phone demeanor and her voice gave Peter the impression of someone much older. The person sitting on the counter silently appraising Peter and Greg looked more girl than woman in Peter’s eyes. Regardless, they were here for a reason and Greg wasn’t the type to beat around the bush.

“You’re Sarah,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “I’m Greg, that’s Peter. You want to talk here, or is there somewhere more private we can go?”

Sarah, still looking them over with an unimpressed expression, remained silent for a moment. “You don’t really look like PIs. Nice jacket, guy.”

Peter was wearing his gaudy gold baroque patterned jacket of holding. He looked down disdainfully at it, as though the jacket had once again betrayed him with its appearance.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Greg said flatly.

“Whatever,” she said, hopping down from the counter. “What do you need to know?”

Peter pulled out his pocket-sized notebook and a pen. “As we discussed on the phone, our investigation is concerning the disappearance of a young woman that was last seen here at your club.” He paused, looking around the spacious dance floor. “Only one security camera? Can we have a look at the footage on the night of the 13th?”

Sarah looked at Peter as though he had, in all seriousness, asked her to provide the winning lottery numbers. One eyebrow raised, eyes narrowed. “The camera doesn’t work. I don’t think it ever worked. We don’t record the goings on in here for good reason. You’re not cops and that’s the only reason I agreed to meet with you at all. I do have work to do, so ask your questions. I’ll answer them if and how I want to, and then you can get the hell out of here.”

Peter was stunned. He understood that they had no ‘right’ to demand answers from this woman but, like she said herself, they weren’t cops. As far as Sarah knew, they were concerned citizens at worst and odd looking private investigators at best. Unless she was hiding something that might implicate herself, Peter saw no reason why she’d come at them with such hostility.

He needed to get his magical right hand on her somehow. He’d planned on doing it when he introduced himself but big dumb Greg steamrolled right through that. If they were going to work together efficiently, they needed to get easy advantages like that worked out ahead of time. Peter should always shake hands with anyone of interest during an investigation. He wrote himself a quick note to discuss it with Greg when they were done here.

“Listen,” Greg said, “we’re not here to get anyone in trouble. I couldn’t care less what happens between your four walls at night. I really, honestly, could not. All we want is to find out what happened to that kid.”

Sarah raked both hands through her hair. “I’m here working my ass off every night. Every night. I didn’t see, hear, or otherwise notice anything irregular. It was just a typical night at the club. I could describe that for you if you’d like,” she said, looking at Peter’s jacket with disgust.

Peter was more offended than he probably should have been about her insinuation that he had never seen a typical night at the club. She was right, but it still hurt. He could be hip, cool, or whatever word the young people were currently using. Totally. It was probably just the stupid jacket…

Peter’s notebook slipped ‘accidentally’ from his hand, landing perfectly on top of one of Sarah’s sneakers. She bent, picked it up, and handed it out for him to take. He did, missing slightly and putting his whole right palm on the back of her hand. It was a quick thing, sliding right off and grabbing the notebook. A successful inspection. Peter read over Sarah’s details with interest.

Name: Sarah Claussen

Race: Human (96%); Demon - Dreadlord (4%)

Age: 73

Power Level: 2

Fun Facts:

1. The only demonic boon Sarah inherited is a much longer lifespan than that of a typical human.

2. While some of her business practices lean toward ‘criminal’, Sarah Claussen does file her taxes every year.

3. Sarah once entered a church out on a dare issued by a religious friend that discovered her secret. Nothing happened.

Reading over the details of this woman, Peter didn’t know what to think. A human and demon hybrid. At first he’d thought the obvious, that she was the one responsible for Alyson’s disappearance. After a moment he realized that perhaps, like Roma, Claire, and Inna, she might just be a person that happens to have a somewhat sinister background. Though his ability provided some pretty interesting information about Sarah, it did not give enough to prove her innocence or guilt. The fact that she was not entirely human did give Peter an idea to get her to open up a bit more though.

“Thanks,” he said, putting the notebook in his pocket. “I don’t think Sarah’s going to be much help, Greg. Let’s let her get back to work. Sarah,” he said, reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket. He retrieved one of the custom business cards he’d ordered with priority overnight shipping and handed it to her. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might shine some light on this mystery, don’t hesitate to text or call me any time.”

Greg looked over at Peter, confused. Peter gave him a subtle look and Greg thankfully caught it. “We’d better get back to work. Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

Together, Peter and Greg turned and walked toward the exit. Peter nudged Greg with his elbow and then whispered, “Three. Two. One.”

“Wait,” Sarah said, her tone flat with disbelief. “Van Helsing?”

Peter smirked before quickly wiping the expression from his face and turning back to face Sarah. Greg rolled his eyes and did the same.

“I’m Greg Van Helsing,” Greg confirmed. “What of it?”

Sarah looked at him with a new intensity in her eyes. Squinting as though she were attempting to pierce her way into his mind. “You are. Aren’t you?”

Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. Peter figured he was already annoyed at the question Sarah had yet to ask. ‘Like Gabriel?’ To Peter’s surprise and Greg’s visible relief, she did not.

“Come with me,” Sarah said, turning and walking away without waiting to see if the two men followed.

Peter raised a questioning eyebrow at Greg, who shrugged. They followed Sarah across the dance floor and into an office in the far corner.