I mentioned in my last post that I had another customer to attend to. See, before the customer, someone else came in. A man in a black suit walked in, then to my exasperation, flashed a badge at me. He said in an overly-professional, pompous tone that he was Agent Thomas Moore from some three-letter agency (I don’t remember which, and I don’t care to). According to him, we were in possession of certain items of interest to the American nation, and he wished to buy them from me.
Now, let me fill you in on something regarding the Emporium: it may have a warehouse containing many strange artifacts, but it isn’t “Warehouse 13.” It isn’t government-owned in any capacity. Not only that, but because of its “in-between” state, it acts as a sort of neutral ground for government, corporate, and military activity, regardless of which world they came from. Essentially we aren’t obligated or even allowed to exchange with any of the three above bodies. I explained this to the agent as politely as possible, even showing him written documentation the boss–who I’ll call “Mr. A” from here on out–had given me for just these sorts of incidents. Taking the paper from my hand, he looked it over repeatedly, I guess to try and find some way of proving that it was a forgery. He must have figured out that the paperwork was legitimate, because soon enough, he thrust it back to me with a frustrated sneer. The agent made sure to tell me that he would find a way to recover those artifacts, told me I was a traitor to the American nation, called me Edward Snowden II, blah-de-blah. Nothing I haven’t heard from suits before.
A few hours later, my actual customer, a pale man, dressed like royalty or nobility, stood in front of the door. He smiled with impeccably white, sharp teeth as he knocked on the glass. After a moment, he made a motion of clearing his throat and I immediately remembered my etiquette. Rushing to open the door for my vampiric customer, I apologized for my rudeness, but he just held up a clawed hand and told me it was no problem, happens all the time. Relieved that I wasn’t about to become his next meal, I got back behind the counter and waited to hear if he wanted to buy or sell something. He had come to make a purchase, asking for a certain family heirloom that had apparently been stolen and sold to the Emporium: a sword that could drain the blood of whoever had been cut by it. Asking him to wait a moment, I typed in his name, the details of the product, and stepped back into the warehouse. Shortly thereafter, I gave him the price: 30,000 Blood Crystals (which are exactly what they sound like). Nodding, he opened an old-fashioned bag, rifled around through it, then produced the proper amount and handed it to me. Smiling affably–well, as affably as you can be when you have long, blood-drinking fangs in your mouth–he shook my hand and thanked me. Ignoring the icy-cold feel of his hand, I thanked him as well for his patronage. He took the weapon, then after patting Cerberus on his middle head, stepped outside, then vanished into a cloud of smoke. Most vampires are very polite when they visit; the ones that aren’t are usually going through something like blood withdrawal, or else they’re just arrogant scumbags. But hey, who am I to judge, right?
Some hours and several customers later, Mr. A called. He asked how things had been going. I gave him my report, and he groaned at the mention of Agent Moore. “Sorry you had to deal with that, lad,” he said in his elderly Irish accent. “These fellas dunno how to take a hint.” “Heh, tell me about it,” I scoffed. Then I remembered the incident in the warehouse. “Hey, uh, Mr. A?”
“Hm?”
“There was something in the warehouse last night. Not an apparition. Something got in, didn’t go through the doors…”
There was silence on the other end, then in an uncharacteristically shaky tone, Mr. A said, “G-go on.”
I described the creature, and he began muttering nervously to himself. “H-hey, Mr. A?” I asked. He stopped, then cleared his throat. He proceeded to explain that this creature was called “the Vagrant.” According to him, it had been hounding him for years, giving threatening phone calls, entering the shop through the warehouse despite there being no way of doing so, and killing several previous owners of the shop. He sighed and said that he understood if I wanted to quit, knowing that last bit of information. I was surprised, to be sure, but I told him that I didn’t have much to go back to if I did quit. He seemed relieved but was apologetic all the same for not explaining. He told me that a lot of things were unknown about the Vagrant. Even he didn’t know what it was, and after he had first encountered it, he went to “Them” (the beings who granted him this place to make this shop) and demanded an explanation. They were apparently just as confused and unnerved as he was.
Now, just let that sink in: eldritch beings that “own” a Limbo-esque dimension are unaware of a creature able to enter and exit pocket dimensions, and they’re straight-up disturbed by it. As I spoke to Mr. A, I looked at my watch, seeing that the big hand was on twelve, and the little hand was on two.
Remember when I said in my last post that I “wasn’t a mind-reader, that’s my watch’s job”? Well, said watch is capable of telling not only if someone I’m speaking to is being honest, but how much so, and if the secret they’re keeping is potentially harmful. According to the watch, yes, he was keeping some secrets, but no, they weren’t overly harmful. It went back to both hands on midnight when he said he cared about his employees, that we weren’t just food for the Vagrant or anything of the sort.
Eventually, he told me to keep an eye out, be careful, let him know if the Vagrant came back or did anything out of the ordinary, and whatever happens, don’t let it through the front door. Then he hung up.
I’m not saying Mr. A isn’t a secretive man, but he’s proven to be trustworthy over the past few years working for him. And in all that time, he’s never shown so much concern in his voice. I can’t really be bothered to be suspicious right now, though. I have bigger concerns.
About a minute after he hung up, Cerberus growled as the phone rang again. Before I could give my usual greeting, a familiar chuckle came over the speaker, then a raspy voice said, “The old man still thinks he can keep me out. Tsk tsk tsk. Last night was as close as I’ve gotten. Never know; I might be able to get closer next time.” Shaking, I slammed the phone on the receiver. It kept ringing, but I refused to answer. A nearby slot began printing out pieces of paper with the transcribed messages of the Vagrant. I’m not about to repeat the things it said, except one.
It’s nice here under your bed.