3.5. Black Magic Woman by John G. Hartness Read Free Book Online

Black Magic Woman
    A Black Knight Chronicles Short Story
    By John G. Hartness
     
     
    “You know I hate this crap.” I muttered as we walked through the sliding glass doors of the convention center. 
    “You know I don’t care.” My partner, Greg Knightwood replied. 
    “And why do we have to buy the special preview tickets? They’re like twice as expensive as the day passes.” 
    “Did you forget the key thing about a day pass? They’re only good during the daytime . These sneak preview passes get us in at night. And since we burst into flame at the first touch of sunlight, I thought coming to the convention at night would be the better choice.” My portly partner had a point. As bloodsucking creatures of the night, we weren’t even nodding acquaintances with sunlight anymore, so evening hours were the only hours we could come to a comic book convention. Unfortunately for me, this one offered evening hours.  
    “Quit your whining, you lost the bet, you pay the price.” Greg said with a grin as he swept his cape theatrically through the air. My rotund business partner preceded my into the exhibit hall with a flourish of black velour, latex and poor taste. Signs proclaiming “Welcome to Heroes Con 2011!” festooned from the rafters, and thousands of other costumed uber-nerds swarmed the aisles of the largest comic book convention in the Carolinas. I carried Greg’s backpack, which, while nearly empty at the moment, promised to be bulging at the zippers and testing the very limits of my supernatural strength by the time he finished raiding the discounted trade paperbacks and quarter bins at the various comic vendors scattered throughout the thousands of square feet of exhibit space. I sighed and followed him around, turning my head to catch my first sighting of the obligatory Slave Princess Leia cosplayer roaming the show. 
    “You’re right, pal. This might not be so bad after all.” 
    “Put your eyes back in your head, she’s too young for you.” 
    “I’ve been dead since the 90s, of course she’s too young for me. But just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m dead , you know?” 
    “I don’t even want to think about the lack of logic running through that sentence.” At least, that’s what I thought he said, but I couldn’t really tell. Because at that moment my partner had hit his knees right in the concrete aisle and started to dig through the floor boxes at Walkin’ Willie’s Comics, burying his head in the long box labeled “50% Off Golden Age.” I watched his sizable rump wiggle in happiness like a spandex-clad overweight puppy for a minute then shook my head and went over to the nearest t-shirt vendor. 
    I was poking through the dazzling array of stupid Star Trek pun t-shirts on display and looking for a Doctor Who “Fighting Time Lords” shirt when I smelled something. Not the usual mix of B.O. and bad burritos that I’ve grown accustomed to after years of being dragged to geek fests by Greg, but something wrong . I looked around, but couldn’t figure out what was setting my vampy-sense tingling. Before I had a chance to investigate, a shrill scream from the next aisle over drew my attention. 
    I rounded the corner to see a scrawny fanboy sprawled across the floor, Mountain Dew soaking his Chuck Taylor hi-tops and back issues spilling from his backpack. Standing above him, a geek’s wet dream in black spandex, stood Detective Sabrina Law. Attractive in street clothes, Sabrina was rocking the greatest undercover outfit I’d ever seen. I stopped short at the end of the aisle and just gawked at her, brown curls tied back in a sleek ponytail, double hip holsters each sporting a pistol, with knee-high buckled boots, a tank top that threatened to lose its structural integrity at any moment, and a pair of shorts that would have gotten her expelled in my high school days. 
    She glared down at the drooling dork in front of her and growled, “Watch the hands, termite.” 
    I