The Vampire and the Case of the Secretive Siren

Fluffy and I burst into the gnomo's office, panting. We came as fast as we could. What's the emergency? There's been a break-in. Let's move. Gunnar barked. As we jogged out to the gnomo's vehicle, he threw Fluffy's canine vest to me. I caught it and hastily dressed my dog in his bulletproof jacket. We leapt in the SUV and the car roared forward. Where's the break-in? I asked, as we careened around the corner. Do you remember the Grimes brothers? How could I forget them? They were the town's unofficial moonshiners. Portlock was a damp town, one that didn't allow the sale of alcohol, but you could pay to have it shipped in. That concession was controlled through the gnomo's—the supernatural police's—office. People supplemented legitimate alcohol with the Grimes brothers' significantly less legal moonshine. Since the brothers followed most of the rules and didn't sell to people who'd been banned from buying alcohol, they were allowed to conduct business just outside the town limits, but still within the protection of Portlock's magical barrier. Gunnar was one of their customers, and if I hadn't recently sworn off alcohol—again—I'd have considered it, too. Because the acpic shine they'd given to me had been phenomenal. Top-drawer stuff. Plus, my dad would have been horrified to think his daughter was drinking moonshine, which was definitely a reason to buy it. Yes, I remember. I confirmed. I've met Larry Grimes. A break-in at their house. The brothers appeared to live in a run-down, corrugated tin shed, but they were illusion witches, and their real home was beautiful. Hiding their house was not only convenient, it also kept demanding riffraff from finding them outside working hours. No, their shop. Gunnar was throwing his vehicle around at terrifying speed. I clung to the seat and told myself that I was an undead vampire. The chances were that even in a car accident, I'd be fine. We left the town limits and started up the mountain, and the road changed from paved to gravel. I was being shaken more than a James Bond martini cocktail. Gunnar was concentrating on driving, so I fell silent. The last time we'd responded to a break-in, Mrs. Wright, the oldest member of the community, had claimed that the old, evil, haunting Portlock had returned. We'd found a fresh cairn, with a creepy doll on top of it, and a few days later the freakish toy had been replaced with a murdered vampire. Kivuk's back had been snapped, and he'd been laid over the cairn with a stake in his heart. No one knew what had happened, but the townsfolk were muttering uneasily about the beast beyond the barrier. I swallowed hard, as I wondered what this break-in would bring us. I wiped my suddenly clammy hands on my trousers. Gunnar noticed my unease, and connected the dots. Not that kind of break-in, he reassured me. A real one. Someone stealing moonshine from their store. I'm hoping the perpetrators are still hanging around. The alarm is silent, so they might not realize they've been discovered. We can hope, I said faintly. I was actually hoping that the perpetrators were long gone, not because the confrontation scared me, but because I really enjoyed unravelling the whodunit. I loved getting my Sherlock Holmes on. If the thieves were there when we rocked up, it would be a waste of a good mystery. Unfortunately, in the couple of months since I'd solved a murder case, there had been depressingly few mysteries to dig into. Fender-benders, assaults, drunken disorderly, but nothing fun to sink my fangs into. Gunnar pulled onto a road I hadn't been on before. It was in better condition, and my bones gave a happy sigh as they stopped rattling. In the distance, there was an old-fashioned log cabin with a sod roof, and a large sign that said Trading Post. One of the huge front windows was smashed, and a light was flaring through the darkness. Bingo.