As evening and the dinner hour began to settle over the city, foot traffic on Boylston showed no sign of alleviating. The street was littered with restaurants, both of the chain variety and smaller, more local fare and I felt like we were fighting against the ocean current just to navigate the packed walkways.
Berklee College of Music appeared near the corner of the street up ahead, nearby the massive Prudential Center, a skyscraper which also doubled as an interior shopping mall. We slowed for a moment as we passed, eyeing the various business and offices encased in glass and steel frameworks, looking like a different planet compared to my own neighborhood. I gestured ahead, toward the burger place that had appeared in my mind as I’d gone through the location spell. As we moved closer, though, my doubts grew stronger about whether or not the spell had even worked. Indigo had shown a handful of people Miranda’s photograph and so far, the results had been negligible. But we moved toward the entrance to the restaurant, forcing our way inside, and peeled away from the crowd of waiting patrons to speak to a host or a manager.
The volume of the crowd was elevated throughout the somewhat cramped restaurant, nearly every table and chair filled with businessmen and women, college students and other assortments of various restaurant patrons. I felt immediately claustrophobic, like I had nowhere to run when the roof inevitably collapsed. Indigo gestured toward the hostess, who was speaking to a particularly overweight couple, gently explaining how there was a thirty minute wait for a free table. Sighing with exasperation, one of the two hostesses held up a finger to the couple, then made her way over. The second followed close behind, interested in whatever we were trying to communicate.
“I just have a question,” Indigo almost shouted to be heard above the din. “Have you seen her?” She held up the photograph and pointed to Miranda’s smiling face. The first hostess bent forward, her blonde hair spilling across both cheeks as she tried to get a better look at the photo. Over her left shoulder the dark haired hostess tugged the hair out of her face and I saw a look of recognition in her eyes.
“Miranda!” Indigo shouted and seemed to sense the recognition on the part of the hostess as well.
“I should get Gary!” the blonde woman shouted back, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.
“Are you sure?” the dark-haired hostess reached for her blonde co-worker.
“We just need to know if you’ve seen her,” I insisted.
“I need to get Gary!” The blonde hostess peeled herself away from us and threaded through the crowd, leading with one slender shoulder as her dark-haired partner seemed to be trying to talk to her. Indigo and I exchanged a look. It seemed to take forever, until eventually, I saw the trademark spill of blonde hair pushing back through the crowd, followed closely behind by a very large bald man with a thick, but neatly manicured beard. Where the hostess gently weaved through the crowd, turning sideways and blading between the small gaps, the man behind her simply plowed forward, other employees and patrons scrambling out of the way to avoid being barreled over. I could almost sense the poorly concealed hostility even before the man named Gary was close enough to speak with.
“Can I help you?” he shouted among the crowd and Indigo showed him the picture, tapping it lightly with her finger. He eyed her with poorly concealed suspicion, then turned that same gaze to me. “You know her?”
“Do you?” The gentle pressure applied by Indigo was picture perfect.
“Maybe we should chat somewhere else?” Gary jerked his head toward a downward stairwell that I hadn’t seen before. “Somewhere quieter?”
I had an unsettled twist in my stomach that tried to tell me there was something a little off about this guy. As usual, I ignored it. Behind the large man named Gary, I could see the dark-haired hostess lingering. She tried not to look like she was eavesdropping but failed miserably.
“Lead the way, chief.”
He led the way and we followed, moving closely enough that we could ride his wake of separated bodies, the path leading toward the downward staircase. Gradually, the underlying noise lessened as we navigated the stairs down, heading toward a lower level to the restaurant, not a sitting area, but apparently storage rooms and backup refrigeration. At the base of the stairs, there was a relatively large underground chamber, its walls lined with shelves, a trio of doors leading to other areas beneath the main floor of the restaurant. A pile of wooden crates sat alongside one of the shelves, the lid open and I could see what appeared to be bags of various baking goods, flour, sugar, other items like that.
“How do you know Miranda?” Gary was getting right down to business and however he knew Indigo’s acquaintance— it didn’t sound the least bit friendly.
“She’s just a friend,” Indigo replied, a little defensively.
“Is that right? Well I hired your friend as a dishwasher a few weeks back. Thought I was doing her a favor.”
I tensed, sensing what might be coming.
“Said she needed a front on her paycheck— wanted a security deposit for an apartment.”
Indigo shifted anxiously as Gary took a step closer.
“Only, guess what? She took the advance I gave her and disappeared. Never showed up for her next shift! Bitch took the money and ran.”
“I’m— sorry to hear that.” Indigo took an uncertain step backwards, anticipating Gary’s growing anger. “She— we— we’ve both been in a tough spot—”
“We’ve all been in tough spots, chica. Tough spots don’t give people the right to steal.”
“I’m sure that’s not what happened. I’m sure—”
“Oh you’re sure, are you?” He got up in her face, drawing himself up to what seemed like an even fuller height than usual.
“Okay, friend, that’s about enough.” I stepped forward, extending my arm in an attempt to separate the two. Gary moved fast— far faster than I’d been ready for and he lurched, hammering me in the chest with both palms. The sudden blow took me off my feet and sent me sprawling, my legs kicking as I hit the concrete floor with a teeth-jarring slam. Fireworks burst behind my eyes and my face flushed with a mixture of rage and shame that I’d been so effectively ambushed.
“Stop!” Indigo hissed, stepping forward. “Whatever she did—”
Gary wheeled on her, his hand shooting out, a closed fist twisted in the loose fabric of her flannel shirt. “What she did was—”
Then, equally fast, equally unexpected, it was Indigo’s turn to snap into action. Her right hand shot up, fingers clamping around the thick wrist of the large restaurant manager. Even from several feet away I heard the dry twig snap of his bones as her fist closed, crushing his wrist. His mouth twisted open, a scream choked his throat as Indigo tightened her grip and twisted, his arm snapping again at the femur, his arm bending in a dramatic, unnatural angle.
“Indigo—” I tried to scramble to my feet, but she was already using her other hand, grasping the man by his grease-stained shirt and lifting him. She twisted around and hammered him spine-first into the stack of wooden crates, the containers splintering in a sudden explosion of wooden fragments. Bags of flour exploded from the point of impact, a sudden pale cloud clotting the air and she stood above the twisted form of Gary, glowering down at him.
That was when I saw her face more clearly, her normally smooth features sculpted thick and hard by gathered muscle and clenched, contorted flesh. Her eyes were awash in an amber glow, without pupils and glistening in the low light of the storage cellar. Lips parted, revealing a row of jagged, unnatural fangs, which slowly slid apart. Her angry, reflective gaze focused on the exposed throat of the unconscious form, crushed into the collapsed pile of shattered wooden crates. Her right hand still tightened, further crushing the bones of his wrist, tugging his snapped arm as she lowered her fangs, crouching, hungrily drawing toward his throat.
“Indigo!” My voice was a harsh gasp, a mixture of insistence and fear. I managed to stumble to my feet and half stumbled forward, approaching carefully and without threat. She drew lower, her teeth prying even further apart, hovering mere inches above the bobbing Adams apple of the unconscious restaurant manager who was twisted and prone, the broken crates a halo of smashed wood.
“Indigo. Don’t do it. Just— don’t.”
She hesitated, only inches away from the skin of the man’s neck, which was more clean shaven than his beard, but still carpeted with a light graze of facial stub. A tiny spatter of drool struck his skin, then slicked down the curve of his neck and onto the floor.
“Indigo!” My muscles tensed into a permanent, rigid clench, frozen in place, a few feet from where she crouched, simultaneously desperate to stop her, but not wanting to risk my life to do so. Slowly, her head craned toward me, neck tendons coiling, a thick tongue protruding from between angular fangs. She peered not just at me, but through me, her piercing, yellowed eyes thirsty for not just the man at her feet, but for whatever blood she could find nearby.
“Gary?” a curious voice echoed from above. “We just got a reservation for twelve and I don’t know what the hell to do with it!”
I remained where I was, frozen in place near the bottom of the stairs and Indigo blinked at the sound of the voice, the taut flesh bunched at her forehead loosening, like a fist slowly unfurling. As I watched, her teeth dulled, centimeter by centimeter, then withdrew, slicing thinly back into her gums, leaving the blunt edges of her more familiar teeth behind. Gasping, Indigo expelled a sudden gust of air, dropping to one knee, barely holding herself upright, her eyes squinted into almost imperceptible slits. When she blinked them open, the amber sclera’s had returned to white, her faded pupils filling again with darkness, like someone was slowly releasing ink into the circles within.
Feet thudded on the stairs and I bolted to Indigo, clutching her arm and helping her stand upright, while also trying to steady her on weakened knees. She looked dazed, unsure about the world in which she found herself, perplexed about her surroundings.
“Gary, dammit what am I supposed to do about the party of—” the dark-haired hostess froze at the bottom of the stairs, pressing her hand to her mouth, her eyes yanking wide. She stared in shocked silence at the prone form of her boss, his arm twisted around behind him at an incorrect angle.
“I can explain,” I said quickly, trying to put the pieces together of such an explanation in my head.
“Did he— touch you?” the hostess strode forward, making a beeline for Indigo, then reached out and took her hand in hers, squeezing gently. “Did he try something?”
Indigo swallowed, unable to speak.
“He’s done that before.” Her narrowed eyes darted back toward the stairs, then over to Gary, who was still noiseless and unmoving. “That girl whose picture you showed my friend. He— he tried it with her, too.” She seemed anxious and nervous. “I didn’t want her to get Gary, I tried to get her to stop, but—"
I felt a flush in my cheeks and was worried for a moment that Indigo might feel the same, and if she did— what she might do. But to her credit, she seemed to remain in control, self-composed, no sign at all of a vampire outburst.
“I’m so sorry,” the hostess murmured, and I thought she might start crying. “I shouldn’t have let her call him. I should have— I saw you were with him and I thought—”
“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure her. “We know how to handle ourselves.”
“I guess you do.” She eyed his bent and contorted arm, her face turned pale and she released Indigo’s hand so she could place one on her chest.
“So— what— what happened?” Indigo took a step closer, leaning in, keeping her voice quiet. “With the girl in the photo? The one he tried to— touch?”
“She slapped him. A good, hard one, right in the jaw in front of God and country. It was beautiful, let me tell you— a real sight.” She laughed, then her grin faltered and she scowled down upon Gary. “But she knew she’d be out of work. And even worse, she was worried Gary might come after her. She’s been running from people she said. Is that right? Has she really?”
Indigo nodded. “Same people I was running from at one point. But that’s why I want to find her. To tell her that she doesn’t need to run. Not anymore.”
The hostess hesitated for a moment, caught between what she wanted to say and what she should say, still clearly uncertain about who we were.
“Miranda is a friend, okay? A close friend. The only reason I want to find her is so I can help her.”
The hostess nodded. “I gave her the address for a woman’s shelter,” she said quietly, in a low whisper. “A place for struggling women young and old to get a fresh start. I have no idea if she’s gone there or not, but— that’s where I sent her.”
“Where is this place?”
The hostess cast another look up the stairs, then fished into her apron and removed a small pad and pencil, jotting down an address. “Just off Tremont Street, near Frederick Douglass Square. She seemed interested when I talked to her, but— I can’t speak for sure on that.”
A soft groan came from Gary’s slightly parted lips and he moved, wincing at the pain in his arm.
“Come on,” the hostess said. Stepping closer, she gently touched Indigo’s arm. “Let’s go. Before he wakes up.” The three of them ushered up the stairs and a moment later, both Indigo and I were out on the sidewalk alongside a bustling Boylston.