Sleep with the Fishies

Part 2: Not the Fun Cider

     I was plotting what to do to Hemming's party when someone tapped my shoulder. "Detective?" An intern or something was clutching a scrap of paper.

     "What?" I said.

     "I traced the call you were having. It seemed related to what just happened." The intern vaguely indicated the hole in the floor. "It came from the Ink Press, a bookstore and distillery just outside the city."

     "They're not paying you enough," I said, inspecting the address. I recognized the area. Orchard country. I'd gotten decent cider from around there once. It's a different feeling getting drunk off alcoholic apple juice. The intern offered his hand for a shake and I high fived it. "Ask for a raise," I advised, and left.

     I convinced my taxi driver, nice guy named Keng, to get burgers, although between that and the fare to the Ink Press, I blew half my paycheck. At least I'd get paid for this if it panned out. Tried to get some sleep on the way, but the image of Typhon grinning at me lurked under my eyelids. I wouldn't call us friends, but I'd care a bit if he suddenly died.

     Keng and I left the glittering city behind, delving into rolling hills. As we neared the spot, twisted trees laden with vaguely iridescent apples rose beside the road, silhouetted in the grey dawnlight. Looked like Gardner's rot had taken about half the crop.

     Keng rolled to a stop in front of a two-floor hunting-cabin-turned-probably-haunted-bookstore-and-cider-distillery that looked like it wanted to just die already. He twisted in the driver's seat, propping himself on the headrest. "Want me to wait?"

     I wasn't planning on staying, but who knew with Hemming and her monsters. I hopped out. "Sure, but if you hear anything weird, call the EID and an eldritchbulance, and get the fuck away from here."

     Keng blanched, obviously wishing he hadn't asked.

     I cackled and slammed the car door, sauntering into the Ink Press. Good news, it was unlocked. Bad news, door was hooked up to one of those alarms that go BEEEEEH, so my entrance wasn't exactly sneaky.

     The entrance ushered customers into the distillery part, which is smart 'cuz most people are probably just coming for the alcohol. I could see the packed bookshelves beyond a dim doorway apparently made for goblins. It smelled like hand sanitizer and apples, with that mouthfeel of dead mouse old hunting cabins always have. A leaky tap or something was dripping a light tap tap tap against metal.

     I cupped my mouth. "Yo! Anything here to kill me?" Something thumped against the floor overhead. I tapped my chin. "Very cool. So, this is a question for any humans now. Why's your customer service so shitty?"

     The quiet was so thick I could hear the taxi's gentle rumble outside.

     I shrugged and wandered around the room. The vats were in here, great covered metal things hooked up to tubes pumping their hearts with amber liquid. I scooped a handful to sip. And immediately spat it out. "Fuck! Not even the fun cider."

     There was a cash register that didn't jingle when I shook it, and an old-timey rotary telephone. It rang when I looked at it. I sighed and picked up. "Hey, Hemming. Don't you have anything better to do?"

     "Not in particular, considering you have the last piece to summoning Cthulhu. Tonight's party was supposed to celebrate the Second Coming, not explaining to interested parties why the Great Dreamer still isn't drinking champagne with us. Now are you done contaminating my distillery?"

     "Oh, this is yours?" I batted a bottle off the table, grinning as it smashed.

     Hemming gave a resigned sigh. "A close acquaintance of mine owns the Ink Press. I am surprised she has not greeted you yet."