That Night in Lagos (3 page)

Both Inspector Jones and his assistant were much amazed that I could deliver anything more potent than a curtsy but I didn’t dither about, for the Obayifo was loping toward us.

“Get on with it,”
I ordered Inspector Jones as I swung my stick at the assistant’s head. He however dodged my efforts, an inconvenient turn of affairs, and flashed a blade at me in response.

Not to be outdone, I pressed two fingernails on the metal fist; a sharp slice of metal slid out the end of my walking stick and I slashed at the advancing blade. The assistant dropped his knife and scrambled onto the horse’s back where he clung to the neck like a leech.

Having recovered sufficiently from his shock that I’d correctly surmised our driver’s intentions, Inspector Jones drew out his bludgeon with a curse. The three thugs behind us were now hemming us in, their weapons considerably more potent than the police-issue club.

While I’m the first to admit that a good fight is thoroughly invigorating, I could readily discern that it wouldn’t be quite as refreshing for Inspector Jones, as ill-prepared as he was. And the Obayifo would provide more than a spot of trouble, situated in the sunless shadows as we were. I leaned over the bench, scooped up the reins and slapped them solidly against the weary little nag’s back. The obstinate creature snorted, uncertain in the face of the confusion that surrounded it.

Appreciating my intent, Inspector Jones reached for the whip and snapped it heartily. The carriage jolted forward as the horse responded, and we began careening down the alley, the assistant bouncing against the horse’s neck and shrieking in protest. Another snap of the whip persuaded the horse not to slacken its pace and the Obayifo barely dodged being run over.

Recovering far too rapidly for polite society, the humanoid paranormal leapt up and gripped onto the side of the carriage. He snarled up at me, fangs exposed.

“What atrocious manners,”
I muttered. No matter how often I was confronted with the less polite members of the paranormal society, I simply couldn’t allow myself to become accustomed to their behavior, for to do so would be to condone it.

To emphasize my disgust, I jabbed the pointed end of my stick toward the Obayifo. Given the nature of the surface over which our transport was careening, it was marvelous that my blade managed to nick the sorcerer at all. A welt of thick blood oozed from the cut across his shoulder, but what I’d really been aiming for was his neck. There’s nothing like decapitation to put a stop to vampire nonsense.

The vampire in question hissed at me as he swung onto the wagon. “Go home or be at peace,”
he warned just as Inspector Jones swung his bludgeon.

While his weapon was rather limited, it proved to be somewhat useful, for the force of it against the back of the Obayifo’s head propelled the sorcerer forward. Another thump of the rubber stick directed our adversary toward the other edge of the wagon, at which point I planted a booted foot squarely onto his lower region and kicked him over. One of the rear wheels rolled over the Obayifo, causing the wagon to lurch upward. Only Inspector Jones’
quick reflexes prevented me from pitching over the side as well.

“Well done,”
I told him, although the fact that the Obayifo still had his head securely attached to his shoulders was a trifle disappointing.

“Indeed,”
the man muttered, gazing back at the Obayifo. The dent in the creature’s head from the wheel didn’t prevent him from standing up and raising a fist in warning. The three human companions who had been left behind during our mad dash only now jogged into view, but by then, we’d veered out of the alley onto a sunlit dirt road and a few breaths later our attackers were out of sight.

“Miss Bee,”
Inspector Jones huffed as he reined in the nag. “That man…
his teeth…
and his eyes… They…”

“Not now, Inspector,”
I interrupted. “Duck,”
and I flung my stick at his head.

With a sharp exhale that closely resembled a cuss, he sunk to his knees and the metal fist atop my walking stick smacked soundly against the neck of the assistant. The man slumped and slid off the horse, one of his legs entangled with the reins.

“What do you have to secure these men?”
I asked as I glanced about the wagon. There was nothing in it but dirt, dust and an unconscious driver.

Wordlessly, the Inspector pulled a set of manacles from underneath his jacket. After securing the driver, he scrambled off the wagon and dragged his assistant away from the nervous little horse. The poor beast had seen more excitement in the past few minutes than it had witnessed over its entire sorry life.

A crowd had gathered about us by that time, curious and yet not particularly alarmed by our dramatic appearance. I could only suppose that this was providing the sleepy town a sort of entertainment normally only found in the theatre. Still, I scanned the crowd for any energy that would signal hostility or aggression. There was none, only amusement and amazement.

Inspector Jones hauled his hapless assistant into the wagon and procured a bit of rope from a nearby fruit vendor, which he used to tie the assistant’s hands. He then retrieved my walking stick and handed it to me. With not a glance toward the gathered assembly, he snapped the reins. The overly taxed horse shuffled forward with the enthusiasm of a convict being led to the gallows.

I spared a glance at our two prisoners and saw that the assistant’s shirt sleeve had been torn in the scuffle, revealing a stick-like tattoo coloring his upper arm. I was about to lean over for a proper look when I was distracted by my companion.

“Well, Miss Bee,”
Inspector Jones said in his clipped accent, his thin mustache emphasizing the tightness of his lips. “I believe you owe me an explanation.”

I sighed and swiveled to face forward. How was I to handle his request? The Mandates of the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals were quite clear on this point: normal humans were to be left ignorant of the membership and activities of the Society, for everyone’s protection. Of course, there were always exceptions. Once in a while, some of those unfortunate souls had to have their memories wiped out, again for the good of everyone albeit the inconvenience of a few.

On the other hand, I mused as I polished the metal fist atop my stick, I was in new territory here and Inspector Jones’
assistance would prove necessary if I was to maneuver through the town and discover what fiend was behind the Brownie smuggling. And I wasn’t one to hastily eliminate a person’s recollections merely because he had the misfortune to be caught in the middle of a paranormal battle.

“That was an Obayifo,”
I announced, having made my decision.

Inspector Jones’
lips tightened further, almost vanishing they were so thin. He glanced at me with a look that would’ve killed me if he’d been a warlock.

“It’s a vampire sorcerer,”
I explained. “A very dangerous combination, I might add. Although it’s not a fan of direct sunlight, it’s not as sensitive as the European vampire. And it can influence the minds of its victims which, as you can well imagine, does prove to be somewhat tiresome.”

There was a moment of silence before the Inspector exclaimed, “Miss Bee, do you really expect me to believe such nonsense?”
He slapped the reins against the horse’s swayed back as if to emphasize his exasperation at my ridiculous notions. “And how am I, in all seriousness, supposed to include that in my case report, pray tell?”

I glanced up at the sky, as if hoping for divine intervention, preferably in the form of a bolt of lightning. It didn’t happen, more’s the pity. “Then what do you believe you saw?”
I countered, incredulous at the ability of the human mind to deny its own observations.

There was no response and I allowed the silence to settle against our skin along with the oppressive humidity and heat. I determined to enjoy my tour of Lagos, and so ignored the Inspector’s fuming countenance and gazed about instead at the colorful chaos.

Everywhere there were people buying, selling or transporting bananas, mangoes, pineapples, goats, chickens and baskets woven of a coarse rope. Food I couldn’t always recognize was sold alongside slabs of fly-covered mystery meats hanging just out of reach of mangy, tick-infested stray dogs. Both men and women were dressed in bright, colorful material with cheery patterns that transformed the drab streets and buildings into a continuous carnival scene.

And the odors…
My sensitive olfactory nerve was under assault from the odors of cooking meat, fresh fruit, rotting garbage, goat droppings and human sweat.

The road swerved down to the port and followed the shoreline. Wooden piers pushed themselves away from the shore like crooked, broken teeth in the gums of an old drunk who’s been in a few too many bar fights. Dead fish and drying seaweed mingled with the other scents.

By the time our destination loomed into view, I was quite done with the tour and ready for a pot of tea and a bit of shade, and fervently hoped the constabulary would have a decent amount of both. There was no mistaking the building for anything but an extension of British law and order. Even without the flag fluttering proudly overhead, the very structure of the place announced its foreign origins. Unlike most of the buildings I’d seen thus far, this one was two stories and made of stone hewn from a far-off quarry. Every line was straight, every surface orderly and clean, everything a reminder of the strength and determination of the British Empire to rule with a firm and decisive hand.

I snorted at the delusion.

Even though the Inspector had himself witnessed a glimpse of a world beyond the known human structures, he still refused to wrap his limited mind around the possibility that there were elements of reality that were outside any law that man might make. His lack of imagination perplexed me, even though I knew better than to expect much from my fellow humans.

As we entered the compound, a scuffling alerted us too late that one of our prisoners had awoken. We turned in time to view the assistant tumbling onto the road, his hands still bound behind him. That didn’t deter him from scrambling upright and running back the way we’d come.

“Blast it,”
Inspector Jones muttered as he abandoned me and gave chase. It shouldn’t have been a contest really, as the African was still recovering from a mild concussion, yet he had enough nerve and energy to run toward a nearby pier, determination overcoming his disadvantages.

“Get back, you bloody fool,”
Inspector Jones shouted, causing a group of workers unloading a boat to momentarily cease their chatter.

The fool, bloody or otherwise, continued to run down the pier and leaped onto a small barge. The workers began cheering him on with claps, hoots and words that were meaningless to me but clearly intended to encourage the escapee.

“You can’t bloody well swim,”
the Inspector yelled as his boots thumped against the wooden pier.

That didn’t cause our man to pause. He jumped from the barge onto a passing rowboat that rocked precariously to the delight of the cheering squad and the outrage of the boat’s passengers. And then, before any could stop him, he jumped into the water and sank out of sight.

By the time Inspector Jones had arrived onto the rowboat, thrown off his jacket and followed his fugitive into the waters of the lagoon, it was too late. He pulled out only a lifeless corpse.

“Imbecilic natives,”
the Inspector sputtered as we later settled into his office and to the much-needed tea.

As I had no means to measure the intelligence of the town’s inhabitants, I remained mute on the issue and focused on the delightful beverage that was revitalizing my fatigued mind and body.

“They live in a seaport village, work on the piers and the boats, fish in the lagoon, and traverse the ocean to trade up and down the coastline.”
Here, the Inspector paused in his pacing. Perhaps it was for dramatic effect, although I doubted the man had the required imagination and creativity for that. “And none of them can bloody well swim.”

I murmured some noncommittal sounds, wondering when the tirade would putter out so that we could get on with the task at hand. While there was little point in mourning the loss of the chief informant — the assistant — there was still another in our custody who could perhaps provide some insights into the case.