Body Count_SVS Book Two

by D. R. Perry

  “I missed you, too.” The girl boops him on the nose. “Get in.” She opens a pouch strapped across her shoulder, kind of like a cross between a handbag and a shoulder holster.

  Sparky scrambles down her shoulder and into the bag. A moment later, he sticks his head out and winks at me. I shit you not.

  The kid walks right up to my desk and mouths the three words on the swanky little placard that came with Esther’s alchemical redecorating. Her eyes glance from Scott to me and back again because neither of us are behind that desk. She shrugs at Esther.

  “Which one of you is Mister Crispo?”

  “That’d be me.” I cross over to get behind my desk. “Hi there.”

  She pulls wads of ones and fives from pockets in her pants and the hoodie she’s wearing. A few twenties join the mix. Then she takes off her left shoe and slaps a handful of Benjamins down in front of me.

  “Crap.” The girl shakes her head. “I’m short.”

  Scott’s standing frozen, blinking at me as I uncrumple and count every bill. I put the money in piles, the stack of ones dwarfing all four of the others. Esther’s mouthing something like what the fuck at me. I don’t care. Kid or not, she’s a client. And unless she’s standing here crying or bleeding, which she’s not, I’m going to let her pay by whatever means she has at her disposal.

  “It’s only two dollars. You can owe me, okay?” I grin.

  “Are you sure, Mister Crispo? It’s just that Sparky’s, like, the most important thing in the world right now and I should pay what my Baba told me it cost.”

  “Absolutely.” I'm not sure what a Baba is, but she's too old to be talking about a baby bottle. Maybe it means Grandma, like Nana does in my family.

  “When do you want the money?”

  “Take your time. I can wait a year if you need.”

  “Wow, Mister Crispo. You really are a nice guy, just like my Baba said you’d be.” The kid turns and heads back through the room. This time, none of us tries to get in her way. Once she’s at the door, she looks over her shoulder. “Thanks!”

  “Oh, any time, Miss—” I grin. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m Leora Kupala.”

  “Well it’s good to meet you, Miss Kupala. Call us if you need help again. We give discounts for repeat customers.”

  “Kay, thanks, bye!” Leora dashes out the door and down the hall.

  Something’s off but I can’t put my finger on it. I split the bills into three nearly equal dollar amounts, then give the two full shares to Esther and Scott. I pocket the stack that’s short by two dollars. That’s when my face hits my palm.

  “Did the two of you also hear Leora tell us her friend hired us for her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  “Shitballs.”

  “Why?” Scott scratches his head.

  “Because she’s maybe thirteen. And out past curfew for any kid that age even though she says her grandma’s the one who hired us. And paying us in scrounged bills.” I put both hands on my desk, lean forward. “What’s that tell a good investigator, Scott?”

  “You’re a fucking sucker for helping critters and kids?” Esther’s eyes are rolling like dropped coins.

  “Is your name Scott?” I roll my eyes right back.

  She shuts her mouth and shakes her head. But Esther's grinning so we're good. It's all part of our continuous snarkfest.

  “Well, it could mean a couple of things.” Scott leans one hip on his desk.

  “Such as?”

  “Leora’s adult supervision can’t get here?”

  “Go on.” I turn my finger in a circle. “Tell me why.”

  “Disabled. Agoraphobic. Can't do stairs?”

  “Occam’s fucking razor, shit for brains.” Of course, Esther knows way more than alchemy. Which is a good thing and explains why she looks like a fish on a bicycle whenever I’m teaching Scott this stuff.

  “Oh yeah. The whole keep it simple thing.” Scott stands. “Something happened to the nice lady who called us and Leora’s on her own.”

  “Bingo!” I tap my nose with one finger. “Ten points to Wolfenpuff!”

  “So let’s go after her, then.”

  Scott grabs his keys and sprints for the door. He’s got a point but blood-drinking vampires like me who get toasted by sunlight can’t put little girls up in their apartments. Neither can Esther because her place is still trashed.

  But a pack of benevolent werewolves might be willing and able to protect Leora Kupala. I let Scott go since he knows more about that possibility than I do. Though I wrack my brain for a backup. Maybe my mundane and in-the-dark about supernaturals bestie, Maury could help? Nah. I’ve got nothing, not even by the time Scott returns a handful of minutes later.

  “Can’t find her.”

  “Huh.”

  “No trace of the kid’s scent either.” Scott’s eyebrows try to meet in the middle. “That makes no sense. It’s been over a month since I had any problem catching a scent.”

  “When was that?”

  “Funeral home.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I try to hide the reflexive wince I make over my forgetfulness. I was supposed to ask Scott what was up with the strange veiled figure standing in the back at a murdered police detective’s funeral. But I spaced.

  “It was weird but Gramps said not to worry about it.” Scott shrugs. “Anyway. I don’t know what to do now. Do you guys?”

  I grab my phone and dial back the number that called us earlier. But it goes straight to a voicemail that says the Inbox is full. I set the phone down and stare at it. But that’s no good. I have to do better.

  “Well, we tracked the salamander.” I pace a couple of times behind my desk. “And it definitely didn't act normal for its species. So my theory is, she’s not a regular kid.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Esther’s holding one of her rocks on a string over the stack of bills I handed her. There’s a smudge of red on one of the Benjamins that smells faintly of something sweet. “Alchemists don’t need our fucking noses to find people. Blood and the right tools do the fucking job.”

  Maybe a minute later she huffs and puffs, then chalks a small circle on the floor. After drawing lines and the weird symbols she uses inside it, she puts the money in the middle and tries again with the pendulum.

  “Can’t fucking track the little shit, even with blood on the bills.” Esther stows her pendulum and the cash, then heads out the door. “Need my fucking lab.”

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat, pointing at the chalk she left all over the middle of the floor.

  Esther stops in the doorway and snaps her fingers. The chalk blows away. She slams the door behind her and Scott sneezes. I know she’s in a hurry and wants to get downstairs to the Alchemy lab I’ll forever think of as the weirdo factory, but that’s no excuse for leaving chalk everywhere. At least the one time I made a mess in her lab I tried to put it back. And made her botch her spell in progress. But that's a story for another time.

  I sit at my desk and pull the top drawer open. Inside is a tray of writing implements, a stack of post-its and a legal pad which is exactly what I put in there before Esther magicked its appearance. I pull out one of the yellow pads and slap it on the desk’s surface. Then, I grab a pencil and let my thoughts go to town.

  “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Scott's reading over my shoulder.

  “Shush, kid. I’m thinking here.”

  “Okay.”

  Scott leaves me with my brain-to-paper-exercise. I’m jotting words from left to right and leaving space in case more ideas come from me or the others later. I flare my nostrils, trying to remember how I managed counting all that money without noticing bloodstains on any of the bills. I smack my forehead, nearly staking myself in the eye with the yellow number two pencil.

  “More shitballs, boss?”

  “No, just one big dumbass.” I remember that sweet scent from my days of human living so I tap my phone to wake it up. “Siri,
call Esther.”

  It rings once. “I’m elbow-deep in shit so this better be good. What the fuck do you want?”

  “Esther, that’s not blood on the bill you’re trying to track Leora with.”

  “So what the hell is it then?”

  “Raspberry something.”

  “Can you be any more fucking specific?”

  “No.”

  “So why the fuck did you call instead of coming down here, dickface?”

  “Hey, I know my Roman nose is big and all, Esther, but it definitely doesn’t look like a dick, okay?”

  “Shut the fuck up and get your goddamn asses the hell down here before I drag you both through the hall by your ballsacks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Scott wastes no time heading for the door.

  It takes me a few seconds longer because I take my pad and pencil and bring the keys to lock up.

  I head down the echoing stairwell, trying to resist the urge to take two steps at a time. Esther sounded scared, and she's a tough bird, not the type to get the vapors over nothing. If she's worried, then there's got to be a good reason. Or a bad one, depending on how you want to look at that.

  Scott follows along with less urgency. Either he's not afraid of anything Esther might find threatening or he's conserving energy. Probably the latter since I haven't seen the teen wolf eat anything in over eight hours. That's a long time for a normal kid his age to go without food, let alone one with a werewolf metabolism who wolfed out in a tunnel less than an hour ago.

  At the second floor landing, there's a scene. Don't worry, it's got nothing to do with my alchemist partner's lab space. Well, almost nothing. It's only happening right outside her door.

  "If I told you once, I told you a million times." The guy with the bushy beard pushes the fellow he's talking to. Well pushes him away, like he doesn’t want a hug right now, thank you very much.

  "Um, whazzat again?" Said fellow's words are slurred like he's drunk. Except I know he isn't because I don't smell a drop of alcohol on him or in his bloodstream. Instead, he’s got a watery odor, like he spent the entire day next to a fishing pier. His hair looks all slicked back with some sort of gel, too. Or wet, maybe.

  "Stop showing up on my doorstep drunk. I can’t deal with your drama anymore, which is why we broke up in the first place. You look like something the cat dragged in. Smell like it, too. Go to rehab."

  Normally, I don't get involved in messes like this one but this guy’s personal misfortune is directly in my path. Also if they start trading punches, they might bust Esther's door down and that'll make her blow a gasket for sure. And I’ve been where this guy is right now after a bad break up. The guy’s mumbled apology and plea for help is almost unintelligible even to my ears. I manage to decipher it all the same.

  And that's all thanks to that spiffy enhanced vampire hearing that comes with the bloodthirst. The bearded dude gets in the not-drunk guy's face again, grabbing him by the collar of his faded black tee shirt. The poor sap cowers, trembling so hard that his gel-soaked hair is shaking.

  "Look, he said he's sorry, that he just needs a place to sleep." I hold my hands out in what I hope is a gesture showcasing my intention of peaceful intervention.

  "Yeah, sure, fine, whatever." Beard man drops his not-drunk ex boyfriend. He turns his back and delivers his parting shot as he walks away down the hall. "Just get outta here, Frankie. Get professional help. Get clean. And don’t even favorite one of my Tweets until you’re sober."

  "H’okay" Frankie looks up at me from his spot on the floor. "Thanks mishter. You're nice for a vam—"

  "Shhh!"

  “Izza secret, amirite?” He blinks, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it and stop talking like an internet meme. Maybe it even works. “Sorry.”

  "You'd better be." Scott's eyes are an alarming shade of yellow. Something about Frankie has him on a sharper edge than my dad's straight razor.

  "Look, pal." I hunker down next to him. "It’s late and you’re having a bad night. Why don't you call a Lyft and go home?"

  He garbles more words that almost sound like he wants to see Esther. But that can't be right, can it? I fall back on what I always try to do in this type of situation.

  "Look, you're in the wrong place. Maybe you should just go home and sleep the, um, whatever it is off."

  "Magic, Tino." Scott snarls. "From a creature, too. The worst kind of mojo I’ve ever smelled in my life. He totally reeks of it."

  "Oh." maybe I'm the one mistaken and he really is here to see Esther. Alchemists might know how to take the bad out of mojo. Or maybe not. I know next to nothing about what the three kinds of magicians can do, which is why I work with Miss Pottymouth Rhode Island in the first place. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I loop one arm under Frankie's shoulders, across his back, then try to help him stand up with me. It's not going so well. The guy is floppier than overcooked pasta and almost as slippery.

  Frankie's also more cumbersome than the average guy. For whatever reason, he's throwing my balance off like nobody's business. Maybe it's the mojo Scott mentioned. One moment he's top-heavy and the other his torso feels light as a feather. His face is pressed up against my chest while I try to hoist him up by the back belt loop on his distressed black jeans. It's not a pretty sight. So of course that's when we suddenly gain another spectator.

  "Get your fangs off my fucking uncle, Crispo."

  "Um, Esther. Hi!" I try waving but almost topple over with Frankie under me. Not a good look.

  "This dude's your uncle?" Scott's upper lip curls like a surfer's ideal wave. I can’t blame him for the doubt. Frankie looks younger than his niece. But I can smell the similarities in their blood. Complicated as it looks and sounds, my nose doesn't lie. They're definitely related.

  "Just get him the hell inside already until we figure out what to do with him, okay?"

  "I'd do that, but—" I try to shrug and fail miserably. “A little help here would be nice.”

  Esther rolls her eyes and ducks back inside her studio for a moment. She comes back out with a shaker, kind of like one you might see in my mom’s kitchen with Parmesan cheese inside. Except this one is full of sparkly yellow dust instead. It's got to be magic. A moment later, Esther confirms my hunch.

  She turns it upside-down over Frankie's head and shakes seven times. I figure it's some kind of alchemy she's cooked up in there. Turns out I'm right. It's the levitating kind of magic. Handy thing to have in a sprinkle can. Frankie lifts off the floor just enough so only his toes touch it. After that, it's an easy thing to guide him through the door like a partially deflated helium balloon.

  After we're inside Esther closes the door and positions Frankie over a bean bag chair in the corner. She flicks him on the cheek with one finger three times, then presses down on the top of his head. The floating effect wears off immediately, dropping him on his rump into the middle of the bean bag. Frankie's head lolls back and his eyes close. But I wait until I hear a faint snore before talking.

  "So, he looks a little young to be your uncle."

  "It's complicated."

  "By that she means some magician family trees are more like wreaths." Scott’s studying his fingernails.

  "Fuck you, distemper poster-child." I don’t blame Esther one bit for the insult.

  "Well it's what everybody I know says. And I said some, not all."

  "Look, I asked you guys to come down here to talk about the raspberry tracking thing, not the uncle fucker."

  "Okay." I'm cool with leaving Frankie in his niece’s care. "So lay it on us. Everybody knows it's raspberry jam now."

  "Good. But what you couldn't know is where those raspberries are from."

  I blink because it's hard to believe Esther Solomon actually said a sentence without any words that would give a censor a coronary. She takes that as a sign to continue, which is good because I'm totally speechless.

  "This jam was made of raspberries from the brambles on Baba Yaga's house. Same o
ld lady in all those Russian folk tales."

  "So you're telling me that Leora's dear old Baba is some kind of legendary magical paragon?"

  "I can’t fucking say. But whatever asshole gave the kid that stack of cash is in good with the old bag. She doesn't give that damn jam to just anybody. Or the witch actually handled the money herself."

  "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't Baba Yaga unable to leave her house?" Scott scratches his head. “The stories I heard said that's the reason it’s on chicken feet, anyway.”

  "I've got no clue." Hooking a thumb at my chest, I continue. "Italian, remember? Not a drop of Slavic anything in these veins. And Ma kept the scary stuff out of my bedtime stories."

  "Go read a fucking book or surf the web and leave me the hell alone. I don’t have time to give your lazy ass a mythology lesson here."

  "Well, can you track Baba Yaga’s little buddy or not?"

  "Yeah but like I said, I need some fucking alone time to do it, without you assholes hanging over my head like Damocles with his overcompensating sword of fucking dick substitution." Esther means that affectionately. I think. But there’s one problem I can see with her logic in telling us to get lost.

  "You're not alone with him around." I point at Frankie.

  "You're right." She hands me the yellow sparkle dust shaker. "I can’t risk having him in here with the shit pile he's stepped in. He might fuck up all the energy I'm using. Take him off my hands and I'll have some kind of fucking tracker for you by sunset tomorrow."

  Esther's cussing again but not her usual blue streak. I sprinkle the levitation dust over Frankie's head seven times like she did before. Scott doesn't complain or ask any questions as he drives us back to my apartment in Rolfe Square.

  All the same, I can tell my teenage werewolf sidekick is angrier than a nest of hornets because he doesn't help me get Frankie out of the car or up to my apartment. He burns rubber peeling out and drives off instead of hanging around like his usual tag-along self. Probably he’ll wash down the inside of the truck he borrows from his dad. I guess bad mojo is extraordinarily funky to a werewolf’s nose even if I can’t really smell it. Frankie might just smell as bad to them as they do to me.