Page 27 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“Thanks,” I murmur, feeling embarrassed. “Sorry about the whole meltdown.”

“That? Pfft,” Chan scoffs. “That barely counts as a pout. You should try working with a bunch of drag queens. The meltdowns at The Rainbow Room are epic.”

“She’s not wrong,” Dusty agrees. “Instead of employee of the month, we had a meltdown of the month. The winner got a crown and everything.”

“Okay.” Chan claps her hands in delight. “We’ve got our very own Scooby gang.”

Sam grins. “Maybe more likeBuffy the Vampire Slayer.”

“Oh my god, it totally is.” She laughs loudly. “Okay, I think it’s time we divide and conquer.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“I know.” Chan gives me a wink. “I say the two dishy detectives find out what happened to poor Bruce. Tris, you and Dusty can go to the bookshop and talk to Bruce, see if he can help figure out what’s up with the magic doorway. And Prickles and I–”

“Harrison,” he corrects with an eye roll.

“–Will help pack up whatever you need and start looking for a new flat for you,” she continues as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“And you thought I was bossy.” Dusty chuckles. “Trust me, when Mama Chan gets going, it’s easier to just do as she says. She’s usually right anyway.”

I give Dusty a small smile.

“Right,” Chan says as she grabs her bag. “I’m going to go and get changed. Sam, if you and Prickles want to sort out the food, we can then all sit down and hammer out the details of our first Buffy adventure.”

“You really don’t need to get changed on our behalf.” Sam chuckles as his gaze once again skims over Chan’s outfit appreciatively, totally missing the glare Harrison sends him.

“Sorry, gorgeous, but this is too difficult to sit down in.” Chan laughs as she wiggles her bum, making the feathers ripple.

“There, all sorted.” Danny grasps my chin gently and tilts my face toward him so he can plant a warm kiss on my lips.

I release part of the tension balling in my stomach and as he wraps his arm around me, I watch our friends efficiently organise my life and wonder how it all got so weird.

7

After sneezing loudly and following it up with a hacking cough that strains my throat and makes my ribs ache, I pull the hood of my coat further over my face. Although the rain isn’t heavy, it’s not letting up, and droplets gather on the lenses of my glasses, making it even harder to see as I trudge down the street, my shoulders hunched against the wind while I try to avoid the worst of the puddles on the uneven pavement.

This storm has been banging on for the best part of four days now. It’s been all over the news with so-called experts being trawled out to discuss the effects of climate change. Dusty seems convinced this weird storm is not natural, which I assume means it may be supernatural in origin. It certainly feels bloody biblical. I’m going to have to start wearing flippers and a snorkel in the flat if it doesn’t let up soon.

I’m still not sure about Chan and Harrison finding a new flat for us. They’re complete polar opposites when it comes to style and function. Harrison prefers minimalist and stark while Chan is all about everything that glitters and explosions of rainbows. At this point, I have no clue what we’ll end up with, but I have the uncomfortable feeling it’s either going to resemble an Ikea showroom or Madam Pompadour’s boudoir.

This was something I’d looked forward to doing with Danny; after all, it’s going to be the first home that will be ours. Unfortunately, we’ve run out of time. Not only will it be difficult for Danny to hobble about on his bad leg viewing flats in various locations, but now that Death has decided to drop this bombshell on us to deal with, we’ve kinda got our hands full.

I glance up at the stormy sky. I definitely think Danny and Sam got the sweeter deal this morning, holed up in our leaky flat like Sherlock and Watson, drinking tea, while I’m wading my way through the waterlogged streets of Whitechapel on my way to the bookshop to see Bruce.

A tickle in my throat sends me into another bout of coughing that ends with me wheezing.

“I really don’t think you should be out in this.”

Dusty appears next to me, startling me so much I veer off the path and end up stepping ankle-deep into a puddle.

“Urgh.” I lift my foot and feel the water seeping into my sock. With a tragicwhy me? dancing on the edge of my tongue, I glance over at Dusty and do a double take.

She’s usually so vibrant and colourful that this is the first time I’ve seen her looking so… monochrome. It’s like she’s being broadcast on an old sixties tv show.

Her hair, normally long and backcombed to the heavens, is now short and slick and styled into a sharply asymmetric, silvery blonde bob. Huge circular white plastic earrings hang from beneath her hair as it sits along her jaw.

A pale peach graces her lips, instead of the lethal red she usually favours, and is the only splash of color that I can see. Her eyes are heavily lined with little cats’ eye flicks at the corners, and her lashes are so long and thick I’m surprised she doesn’t trip over them. A chequered black-and-white sleeveless mini dress barely covers her bum cheeks and on her feet are white go-go boots with huge platform soles that make her tower over me even more than usual.