Chapter 8 #2
McMartin lifted the bottle to his lips once more, making a face as he tipped it back. Not even a full second passed before he lowered it again. “I really don’t care for strawberry,” McMartin said, his voice strained, as if he were fighting down nausea.
“Strawberry isn’t the issue. Your stomach can only hold so much liquid,” Arthur explained.
“I guess.” McMartin handed the half-drunk bottle to Theodore, who looked curiously at the price tag.
“I trust this expense won’t fall to my client,” Theodore said.
McMartin let out a high whine that likely had more to do with his gastrointestinal situation than the price of milk.
“It’s like seven bucks, my man.” Theodore flung an arm around the sheriff’s shoulders. “Your department has the cash.”
McMartin closed his eyes as Theodore patted his back rather more harshly than was necessary. “You win this round,” the sheriff said through a shudder.
Arthur’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in hours. If McMartin came around to the belief that someone other than a vampire had killed the mayor, perhaps he’d call off the FPI. He might not ever like Salvatore and Arthur, but at least they’d be able to stay in Trident Falls.
“Of course, it could’ve been more than one vampire.
” McMartin belched the last word, jumping a little like a dog surprised at the force of its own flatulence.
He swallowed with difficulty, then pointed a finger at Sal and Arthur in turn.
“There are two of you, after all, and I got through nearly half of that by myself.” He pointed to the carefully stacked pyramid of full and empty milk containers Salvatore had begun making on the floor—obviously bored now that the attention was off him for a change.
“More like a third of it,” Salvatore corrected, taking the still partially full pint from Theodore’s hand to top his pyramid.
Of the many occupations Salvatore had tried over the years, architect was never one of them—and for good reason. The moment he placed the final bottle on the tower, it wobbled, toppled, and crashed to the ground, spilling strawberry milk everywhere.
Arthur had been right about the splash zone.
McMartin’s cowboy boots—which had clearly never seen a cow in their lives—now sported a sickly pink splatter.
The sheriff flinched back, but he oughtn’t have worried about the strawberry milk so much as the razor-sharp claws of the black cat who’d woken from her nap inside Arthur’s backpack and leaped out to partake in the spoils.
Once she’d detached from McMartin’s pant leg, Rumble began lapping at the pool of pink milk, loud purrs disrupting the liquid’s surface with ripples.
“You forgot to feed her, didn’t you?” Salvatore pointed a finger—or really a whole two hands, as they were still cuffed—at Arthur. “Poor thing. What would she do without her daddy?”
“Please never call yourself that again,” Arthur muttered, righting the spilled bottle while Theodore hailed a shop attendant.
“You know you like it.”
“No one likes it.”
Salvatore waggled his eyebrows. “I like it.”
“Please,” McMartin groaned. “If I let you go, will you stop making me listen to this?”
“Gladly.” Salvatore stood up and offered his wrists to the sheriff.
McMartin produced the key and clicked the cuffs open.
“Freedom!” Salvatore cried, pumping his fist in the air.
“Can I…have those back?” McMartin gestured to the cuffs still clasped in Salvatore’s hand.
Glancing between McMartin and Arthur, Salvatore leaned in and stage-whispered to the sheriff, “I thought maybe I’d keep them. A little souvenir of sorts…Besides, Arthur and I can probably get better use out of them—”
The sheriff tugged the cuffs from Salvatore’s grasp and turned on his heel, loping toward the door only to make a sharp turn in the direction of the restroom.
“What is the point of having a safeword if I never even get to use it?” Salvatore pouted and leaned into Arthur’s chest. “It’s so fun to say, too. Bourgeoisie. Bourgeoisie. Bourgeoisie.” He gave it a different inflection every time.
Thedore returned, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “That worked a bit too well. Good job.” Arthur searched for mocking in his words but could find none. “See you around, though hopefully not in the dairy aisle again.” With that, the werewolf was off.
Arthur returned Rumble to the backpack, then gripped Salvatore around the shoulders and began to steer him toward the front of the store, breath held.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the sheriff might turn around, mind changed.
Some new evidence might come to light that would point toward vampires, or the town might turn against them regardless.
After all, people like the mayor and the sheriff had never needed a reason to hate Arthur and Salvatore besides their simple existence.
“It’s going to be all right,” Salvatore said, tweaking Arthur’s nose. “Now, how shall we celebrate my newfound freedom?”
“Anything you want.” Arthur squeezed Salvatore’s hand, glad they had a few blocks before they’d recover the bicycle. He wasn’t ready to let go just yet.
“Oh goodie. Maybe we can crack into the Fresh Bites box, and I know the sheriff wouldn’t let me keep the cuffs as a souvenir, but we do have some at home and…”
Arthur just nodded as Salvatore carried on planning out the evening’s festivities.
The day had quite gotten away from him, what with all the dramatics, and he’d forgotten to eat lunch.
The late afternoon sun cast an orange glow across the downtown area.
Soon it would be Salvatore’s favorite time of day—twilight, of course.
Night was the domain of vampires, but Arthur couldn’t help but feel an eerie presence had crept in under the sun’s disregard.
They’d found a reprieve, yes, but they were hardly out of the woods yet.