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  Copyright © 2015 Vered Ehsani

  SOCIETY FOR PARANORMALS

  Case 0.5: That Night in Lagos

  By Vered Ehsani

  from Africa… With a Bite

  That Night in Lagos

  One does not require much supernatural experience to appreciate why one should endeavor not to anger a giant Praying Mantis, unless of course duty requires it. Even then, prodigious care should be taken so as not to lose one’s head in the process, for of what use is a headless body to anyone?

  In hindsight, I reflected I would’ve been best advised to avoid the precarious situation altogether by refusing to follow the dictates of my curiosity. Or better yet and by all rights and logic, I could have told my employer, the Director of the Society for Paranormals & Curious Animals, that I couldn’t possibly abandon my domestic post to gallivant around the world without so much as a chaperone. After all, what would the neighbors think of that?

  But as per usual, rights and logic had little sway in the matter and that wily old werewolf had his way. Thus I found myself in the unenviable position of hiding in a ship off the coast of Lagos, wondering how I would survive long enough to submit my report, while my outraged aunt fended off nosy neighbors back in London. And it had all started with the little people.

  It resembled a routine investigation into the smuggling of Brownies, but I knew the moment Prof Runal called me into his office that I was in for a spot of trouble.

  “Beatrice, my dear, do sit down, my dear, do sit down,” he huffed as he pushed himself upright and gestured to a plush chair facing his oversized desk.

  Everything about Prof Runal, the Director of the Society, was oversized: his voice, his build, his beard that covered his large jowls, and his nose. “All the better to smell you with, my dear,” he would joke which, coming from a werewolf, wasn’t really a joke.

  Before I’d taken my seat, he set one of the pendulums on his desk swinging. As the five bronze balls clicked against each other, noise from outside the office faded into a background murmur. I knew our conversation would be impossible to listen in on. At the time, I really couldn’t imagine whom he was so concerned about. Whenever those balls started ticking, I knew I would be presented with an unusually arduous case involving dead or disappearing bodies. That morning, I was not disappointed.

  “What do you think about this Brownie case, Beatrice, what now?” he asked in his booming baritone.

  I cleared my throat and avoided inhaling too deeply through my nose. As dear as the man was to me, and as much as he had done for me, he had a most noxious bodily odor. In a word: he stunk. That had nothing to do with his habits of hygiene but rather it was the unavoidable wet dog stench associated with his being a werewolf.

  “Well, sir, I heard we’ve tracked the smugglers to a foreign owned shipping company. It’s based out of Lagos, of all places,” I updated him.

  “Good,” he nodded, his mane of hair flopping about his heavy set face. “Very good. And so that’s where you’ll be off to then. It’s part of Her Majesty’s Empire, so it shouldn’t be too taxing, not at all.”

  “Sir?”

  “To Lagos, my dear, you’re going to Lagos,” he said, except from him it was at a near yelling volume.

  “You’re sending me to Lagos,” I said, resigning myself to my fate but hoping he’d realize the silliness of such a decision and change his mind.

  Werewolves seldom do change their mind. In addition to being smelly, they are wholly and utterly stubborn.

  “My aunt has just announced my somewhat delayed coming-out party,” I reminded him, on the off chance he might be persuaded to send someone else.

  “Yes, and I have provided my congratulations,” he boomed. “This case shouldn’t take too long, and you’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  I very much doubted a round trip to Lagos would be completed in anything remotely resembling a jiffy, but I was curious. Any information we had on African paranormals was almost exclusively about West Africa. Even still, my knowledge was theoretical, as I hadn’t as yet had the opportunity to engage directly with the supernatural elements of that region. “Well, I suppose the party could be delayed a bit,” I acceded.

  “Excellent,” the professor said while thumping a hand against his desk, causing all the contents to rattle like a bag of dry bones. “Then off you go, and do keep me informed as to your progress, my dear.”

  As Prof Runal preferred immediate action, I found myself on a ship that very night. A doctor’s note (written by a Society vampire of that profession) was dispatched to my guardians, the Steward family, with an explanation that I had contracted a highly contagious virus and was under strict quarantine in a distant sanatorium until further notice, meaning until I should improve or die. The note ended with reassurances that my chances of survival were fairly reasonable.

  I shall not bore you with the details of my time on the ship, for it was tiresome and even reflecting on it makes me weary. Only when I spotted my destination did a sense of animation stir my blood. I stared at the small town huddled on one of the delta islands at the edge of a jungle. The buildings, mostly made of wood and mud, were dwarfed by the trees that loomed over them.

  “What a grand thing it is to travel,” I marveled, the tedium of the trip evaporating at the prospect of a little adventure. My spirits were so buoyed that I vowed, “This Brownie case will be wrapped up in no time, I’ll have the advantage of an expedition to Africa, and I shall return to London before anyone really misses me.”

  Only after the passage of time can I laugh at my naïve presumptions.

  Upon disembarking, I was met by a certain Inspector Jones of the British police force based in Lagos. I could immediately discern in the Inspector’s features that he had been expecting a man. This wasn’t at all surprising to me, as I was the only female investigator of any kind that I knew of.

  All that the man had been told was that I was searching for slave traders (which wasn’t far from the truth). He hadn’t been informed that I was a woman, and a young one at that, an oversight that Prof Runal never failed to make as he paid little consideration to such minor details.

  Inspector Jones was therefore much dismayed to discover this inconvenient truth upon meeting me at the port. His African counterpart merely shrugged his shoulders, accustomed as he was to the oddities of the white foreigners.

  I sighed with a weariness no Englishwoman in the prime of her youth should experience, and gripped my walking stick with firm resolve. Inspector Jones glanced at the stick, his dismal view of me lowered further as he presumed me an invalid.

  It was an understandable and unfortunate assumption that most people fell victim to upon seeing my walking stick. I was neither elderly nor infirm. The walking stick was a most useful tool, made of oxide green metal. One most certainly didn’t want a close encounter with either end, nor with the various tools cleverly disguised within it. It had been recently gifted to me by Prof Runal to celebrate my completion of one year of employment with the Society. Indeed, anyone who survived their first year had great cause for celebration.

  “Investigator Anderson?” Inspector Jones politely inquired, glancing behind me, perhaps in the hope that the real and very manly Investigator Anderson would appear.

  “Indeed,” I replied and gripped the bronze-plated steel fist that topped the fully loaded walking stick.

  For a moment, I contemplated putting that fist to good use. A solid thump upside the head could do wonders, or at the least awaken a man to the startling fact that not all Victorian women were fainting wallflowers.
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  Given that Inspector Jones would be of no use to me concussed, I restrained myself and added, “You may call me Miss Bee.”

  Thoroughly disappointed by my response, Inspector Jones frowned and stared at me fully for the first time. He startled when his gaze met mine, but was too much the gentleman to comment on the intense, nearly golden shade of my eyes. Still, he stared a tad longer than social convention should allow.

  “And you are Inspector Jones, I presume?” I pressed the conversation onward.

  He nodded, a brief and sharp gesture that matched with his brief and sharp mustache and manners. He spun about on a highly polished boot and snapped his fingers at the young African man dressed in a shabby uniform and shorts.

  His eyes downcast, the nameless African picked up my valise as Inspector Jones grunted in a thoroughly unwelcoming tone, “Welcome to Lagos.”

  “Delighted,” I murmured and glanced at the assistant, but Inspector Jones declined to provide an introduction.

  With that minimum exchange of niceties accomplished, we set off on foot from the pier and entered a chaos of packing crates, hawkers, warehouses and rickety stalls. Chunks of unidentifiable meat hung from tarnished hooks, adorned by clouds of flies. My overly sensitive olfactory senses were overwhelmed by odors of cooking and rot, of unbathed sailors and a carnivore.

  That gave me reason to pause.

  “Please, Miss Bee, do hurry along,” Inspector Jones muttered, exasperation marring his attempt at a professional veneer.

  “Just a moment. Aren’t these fabrics darling?” I said, pausing in front of a kiosk.

  Fingering a cotton scarf boasting a loud and colorful pattern, I glanced about as if seeking another just as gaudy and poorly woven. Sweaty porters tugging overloaded platforms on wheels pushed through throngs of Africans and foreign sailors. No one stood out as a potential non-human carnivore. Yet the stench lingered.

  “Miss Bee,” Inspector Jones spluttered, “if I’d known you’d come to Lagos for the shopping…”

  “It’s a tad too long a journey to embark on for that,” I interrupted and squinted my eyes.

  As soon as my eyes narrowed, energy fields glowed around all the living creatures: the cloud of flies around a large, bloody cow leg glittered like diamonds; the fabric seller glowed rosy as he pushed a piece of silk at me. I swiveled about, studying the crowd. Apart from the scraggly stray dogs, a herd of goats, a few chickens and the flies, all the energy fields were human.

  All except one.

  That particular energy field surrounded a humanoid beast that was glaring over the crowd at me. I immediately recognized the being from my studies of West African folklore, and groaned.

  I was being followed by an Obayifo.

  The general consensus regarding the Obayifo is less than flattering. While pleasant in form and face, these vampire sorcerers aren’t particularly kind-hearted even when they aren’t sucking blood from a human. In addition to fangs, they possess a mild form of mind control which, fortunately for me, only works on the uninitiated.

  This particular specimen snarled when he caught my knowing glance; his elongated canines were clearly visible to me only because I was resistant to his attempts to manipulate my mind. He stayed in the shadows, his blue-black skin glowing with supernatural energy, his lean muscles flexing with each movement of his manly form. He scowled as I continued my studies.

  A word of advice to all would-be paranormal investigators: as a general rule, paranormals don’t particularly appreciate being studied, followed, observed or in any other way having their existence highlighted. Most of them prefer obscurity. Our ignorance is their best defense. Ignore this advice at your peril; I have the scars to prove why.

  “Oh, bother,” I muttered and tossed the fabrics onto a pile. I ignored the urgent pleas of the vendor as he implored me to buy a scarf or three before the mound of cloth disappeared, or the price increased, or a hurricane wiped out the market and I’d regret not purchasing from him. I returned to the Inspector’s side.

  “Inspector, I don’t suppose you know the details of my mission?” I inquired as I hurried him along the unpaved, slightly muddy thoroughfare.

  “My superior officer didn’t deign to provide the particulars,” Inspector Jones replied, clearly miffed at the superior’s lack of confidence in his discretion.

  “Possibly because he himself wasn’t aware,” I said.

  Of course, the Director of the Society wouldn’t have revealed the truth to the officer, for by doing so he would’ve broken the second mandate — To maintain the secrecy of the Paranormal Realm in general, and the Society and its activities specifically — and unnecessarily alarmed a normal and oblivious human.

  “But this does complicate the matter,” I observed with a sigh and a backward glance.

  The Obayifo had abandoned all efforts at concealing his purpose. Instead, he plowed through the milling crowds, ignoring any who dared protest. Most people were wise enough not to, even if they didn’t understand why. While few humans can view energy, they can still feel at some level the presence of danger. And this creature was certainly that, and more; he radiated vicious intent and blood-lust.

  “It would appear my arrival has not gone unnoticed,” I said, steering Inspector Jones around a steaming pile of animal excrement. Our African companion followed close by, his face disinterested, my valise clutched in his arms as if it held something more valuable than a few changes of clothes.

  Unimpressed by my observation, Inspector Jones chided me. “Surely, Miss Bee, you are exaggerating the importance of your presence here.”

  I peered between ribbons of fetid meat hanging from a pole. The Obayifo had eliminated much of the distance between us, and his pace was increasing. I could see into his eyes: there was no white, just black with a red pupil.

  “Is there a carriage we could utilize, by any chance?” I asked as I veered about a woman stooped over with the weight of a stack of firewood that was bigger than she was.

  Inspector Jones’ eyes narrowed with contempt, in all likelihood assuming I was wilting from the heat, humidity and effort of walking. “Madam, on what surface would a carriage travel here?” He gestured to the rough and muddy path cluttered with debris, wares, people and animals. “We may at best find a rudimentary form of transport awaiting us at the intersection with the main road. I took the liberty of…”

  “Yes, well done, sir,” I interrupted, wiping at the beads of sweat slipping into my eyes. “And now you may take the liberty of ambling along at a faster pace, perhaps even running.”

  So saying, I set the example by increasing my strides, my boots sloshing through puddles of dubious origin.

  “Miss Bee,” Inspector Jones huffed, but he kept up with my pace, as did his stoic-faced assistant.

  I didn’t dare verify if my pursuer was gaining, and shortly thereafter we cleared the informal market and its shadows. Direct sunlight blinded and burned us as we entered what could barely pass as a road, complete with roughly hewn cobblestones, carts and uncovered wagons devoid of the usual trappings and glitter of London carriages. One such contraption was waiting nearby, drawn by a weary little horse with a heavily curved back.

  As Inspector Jones assisted me up, I stared toward the market’s exit. The vampire sorcerer lurked in the shadows, eyes glittering, not daring to step into direct sunlight. His mouth murmured a curse that couldn’t touch me or my mind. Nor was he glaring at me anymore; rather his hypnotic gaze had shifted to another.

  The pitiful excuse of a carriage lurched forward, its wooden wheels wobbling as if preparing to fly off at any moment. The slight breeze produced by our passage did nothing to alleviate the damp, sultry and oppressive heat that caused my clothes to stick to me and my skin to prickle and crawl.

  That discomfort was tolerable when compared to the knowledge that the silent African assistant was in some way associated with, or being influenced by, the Obayifo.

  I studied the assistant; he was perched on the bench up front w
ith the driver and the two were conversing softly in a language that was alien to my ears. I in turn conversed with the Inspector just as softly.

  “Sir,” I whispered, “how long has the assistant been in your employ?”

  Inspector Jones tugged at the high collar of his starched uniform. “A few months, I believe. All in all, a steady enough chap for a native.”

  “And the driver?”

  “About the same. Why do you ask?”

  I re-positioned my walking stick, preparing to transform it into a weapon. “A few months as in close to three?”

  “Indeed,” my companion replied stiffly. “What of it?”

  I reflected on the coincidence. Prof Runal had launched the Brownie smuggling investigation just over three months prior to my visit and almost immediately had identified Lagos as one of several possible hubs. There were few phenomena that could set me on edge as much as a coincidence could. That and a badly made pot of tea. At least a coincidence is forgivable but neither should be ignored.

  “A steady chap he may be,” I replied, “but I suspect we won’t be driven to the constabulary.”

  “Rubbish,” Inspector Jones scoffed. “This, madam, is precisely why women are heartily encouraged to content themselves with such professions as are consistent with their delicate constitutions and sensitive nerves. They certainly shouldn’t be gallivanting about in an arena that requires clear and unbiased thought, a steady hand and a stout heart.”

  I snorted at his ludicrous statement. “My constitution is decidedly not delicate, and my only sensitive nerves are the ones associated with my olfactory senses. I heartily encourage you, sir, to loosen your weapons and prepare yourself.”

  “And I encourage you to restrain your imagination,” the uninventive man retorted through gritted teeth.

  Before we could continue encouraging each other thus, the assistant swiveled on the bench. His eyes wouldn’t fully meet ours as he said in a subdued tone, “Mr. Inspector Jones sir, we must make a detour. Because of roadwork.”