Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  She’d pulled some serious chicanery on me that night, acting like she needed me to escort her out of Dusk because of the sudden arrival of a violent ex. I wish I could say I don’t hold grudges, but it’s hard not to when I don’t know the answer to my biggest question. Which was “why me,” of course. But she’d said nothing, and probably wouldn’t unless she absolutely had to.

  “We’ve discussed this ad nauseum since then." Stephanie talks like a lawyer half the time, slinging Latin like she just passed the Bar Exam. She stands, then heads back toward the door. "I came here to help, but if my mere presence causes you this much distress, I’ll leave you with your thoughts.”

  I let her hang because I think she deserves it. Waiting always gets to me, though, especially after I became technically dead. The idea of an eternity waiting alone freaks me out, so I cave. Nobody wants to be alone and Steph is one of the only vamps I’ve met that I can tolerate having around. After all, I can use a second opinion from someone who knows more about my new state of being. And my mistakes are still on her head, like she said before.

  “No, Stephanie.” I shake my head. “Wait a minute.”

  I pull a chair away from the breakfast table in the dinky and mostly useless kitchen and wave a hand at it. She sits again, less comfortably this time. I hunker down in the other seat and lay the entire story on her, warts and all. She rolls her eyes at my trouble going to church, having dinner, and the oven. But when I get to the part about the window and the gunshot and the roof, she narrows her eyes, which get a little red and glowy. But when I mention stinky Scott Fitzpatrick, she opens her mouth and laughs.

  “What?”

  “Oh, Tino.” Stephanie grins. “You’ve met your first werewolf. The Fitzpatricks have one in their family every generation.”

  “So, the boy next door is Teen Wolf?” I shrug. “I’d say there goes the neighborhood, but they’ve lived in it longer than my folks. Is it their territory or something?”

  “Essentially, yes. And you may find this family of wolves quite useful if you play nicely with them. They're good people.”

  “Good people?” I pour warmed blood into my mug, then gesture at the pot while looking in Stephanie’s direction. She shakes her head. “Play nice? What do you mean?”

  “Nicely.” Stephanie loves her some grammatical correction. “And by that I mean play all hands you deal them honorably. Oh, and remember not to feed on them or turn any of their kin.”

  “Okay.” I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t want to anyway, they stink to high heaven.”

  “That’s fine and well, then.” She folds her hands and sets her chin on them, grinning. I’m reminded of silent film ingenues. “Continue.”

  I talk about the paramedics and then the cops, including my old pal Maury Weintraub. Stephanie sits up and purses her lips, tapping her cheek with one silver fingernail. But then she moves it away and in a circle so I know she wants me to keep on talking.

  “But that’s it, Stephanie. After Maury left, I came here.”

  “Hmm. The chippie on the roof, you said she smelled familiar.” See what I mean about how Stephanie talks? She can’t even insult a bitch without sounding like a class act.

  “Well, it’s a super common perfume.” I bite my tongue before adding something about how it’s common in this day and age. I don't want to accidentally on purpose insult her.

  “Ah, I see.” Stephanie makes her thinking face, which is opening her mouth and tapping her right fang with her tongue. It’s kind of cute in a mom-friend sort of way. Oh, God. I have a vampiric mom-friend. What’s next, a manic pixie dream girl or a magical girl?

  “So, what do I do now?” I ask so my mind doesn’t turn into some kind of Tumblr meme.

  “Visit the scene of the murder.”

  “Um, but my dad’s alive.”

  “I’m talking about your friend’s partner.” Stephanie snaps her fingers absently. I wonder whether she's faking this sudden case of absent-mindedness. “Weinberger?”

  “Weintraub.”

  “Yes. You need to have a look at what happened to him.” She stands, then claps her hands. “Whatever are you waiting for? The night’s still young. Chop-chop, Mr. Crispo.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out and bounce on the floor. Maybe I’m lucky. She could be snapping her fingers like I’m a butler or whistling like I’m a dog. I grab fresh clothes and go back into the bathroom to change into them. We're undead and don't reproduce sexually, but I'm keeping my modesty, thank you very much.

  After that, it’s to the kitchen to shut off the coffee maker and chug the rest of my bloody beverage. I head to the door and grab a coat because I like having lots of pockets year-round. I’m a freaking vampire now, and it’s not like we sweat in the heat or anything. Our beards don’t grow, either. I save a chunk of change on Speed Stick, razors, and Barbasol, too.

  “You coming?” I’ve got my hand on the doorknob.

  Stephanie stands there, finger running along the shelf where I keep my books. That’s where all of my ill-gotten Speed Stick savings go. Books. They’re in storage cubes lining the half-walls I can’t do anything else with. Eternity sucks, and good stories don’t. I understand why Stephanie might find them appealing, too.

  “Excuse me?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “You said you’re here to help. You know, earlier. Before I, um, insulted you.” I gulp. “Sorry, by the way.”

  “Accepted. Yes, I came to lend my support.” She tips one volume toward her, then eases it out from between its shelf mates. “And I did by advising you on your next course of action. Now I believe I’ll curl up with some tea and the incomparable Richard Adams.”

  “That book’s about a bunch of rabbits, you know.” Shifting my weight from one foot to another, I wonder how to motivate her to come with me.

  It’s not because I think I need help to check a crime scene, either. I just like my privacy. But I can’t make her leave my apartment just because, or even ask her to. Not even while I’m gone. She’s like my warden or legal vampire guardian or something. I’m an adult by human legal standards but a minor according to the vampire brass. Or nobility. Because that’s a more accurate term for them. I mean, our leader calls himself a king for crying out loud.

  “Yes. Rabbits are violent little creatures, and this book is supposed to give a well-researched portrayal. I’ve been meaning to read this for decades.” For all I know, she means that literally.

  “But—”

  “Val.” She closes her eyes and corrects herself. “Tino. You’ve got the right mindset to navigate modern issues in this era. I’m afraid my theories and conjecture would only muddle your take on what you find.”

  “Look, I don’t want to be out there skulking around alone in Providence. That’s one sure-fire way to get myself caught and vampires revealed to the world.”

  “Oh, Tino. If you’re truly this worried, perhaps you’d do well to construct a disguise, like the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Um, what?” I’m not sure whether she’s insulting me or not.

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel.” Stephanie peers at the lowest shelf on my bookcase. “Ah, here. Put this at the top of whatever stack of books you’re currently reading through. It’s a classic and might help you besides. And this.” She points at a copy of The Murders in the Rue Morgue.

  “I read that one last month.” I pause by the fridge to pocket a couple of bags of blood just in case. “All the hard-boiled investigator stuff, too. I was a cop, remember? Anyway, I’d better get going. There’s a stop I’ve got to make first.”

  “At Rhode Island Costume?”

  “No, to get investigation supplies. I have any costume I could possibly want in my parents’ basement.” I don't tell her that I own several boxes of costumes from Halloween and the Community Theatre productions I never manage to find time to audition for anymore. But maybe I’ll grab some pieces along with my old crime scene supplies while I'm there.

  “I see.”

&nbs
p; I’m almost out the door, tucking the blood into my jacket’s inside pocket. Stephanie clears her throat. I turn.

  “Have fun.” She’s already back on the comfy chair with my favorite fleece throw draped over most of her body. It's like she wanted me to see her settling in and getting comfy. I haven’t mentioned that Stephanie’s tiny, probably has to shop in the kid’s section, might even need to sit on a booster seat to drive a car. Usually with vampires, the smaller they are, the longer they’ve been undead. People weren’t so big back in the day.

  “Fine.” I shut the door, locking it behind me on the way out. Not that locks ever seem to stop the vamp who turned me. Maybe someday the same will apply to me. A guy can dream, right?

  In the car on the way, I drain the bags. Back in the 80s, Gary Numan sang about how being in a vehicle makes people feel invisible. Invincible too. I’ve heard of vampires who can actually be either or both of those things by burning some blood. But either I’m not one of those or too much of a noob to do it for now. I force down the cold blood. It’s not pleasant or even satisfying to my palate, but it does the trick, so I’m not lusting after every neck in the universe. God, I miss Chianti.

  At my parents’ house, I almost grab a box of costume stuff just for kicks. I pass it all by and take the small case of crime scene supplies I’d purchased the day I quit the force. Having them on hand was supposed to be my motivation to start PI work right away. And I would have done it too if it hadn’t been for that pesky vampire. After that, I get back in the car and head out of Cranston.

  I drive into the City. Providence isn’t as lit up as Times Square at night, but it’s almost the same difference. Maury mentioned a parking lot. If a dead cop goes unnoticed all night, it has to be in an unmanned one. Providence has a handful of those. I drive to the nearest one, across the street from a titty bar, and roll my window down.

  Not a hint of gunpowder or blood meet my nose. Mostly, I smell a miasma of mingled perfumes, Axe body spray, and jizz. It’s gross, I know, but that’s life outside a strip club in downtown Providence. And there’s no hint of blood or death this time, so I move on.

  The next unmanned parking lot is at the edge of the nightclub district. I used to get the best sausage and pepper grinder in the universe across the street at the Haven Brothers truck, but vampires can’t eat sausage or any other kind of sandwich, so I try to ignore the aroma. And there it is, underneath the motor oil and spices. Day-old blood.

  “Bingo.” After parking, I open the door and get out of my car to walk around the lot.

  I’m rewarded for my efforts by a few scraps of tape backing and a discarded vinyl glove that almost declare “CSI Was Here.” I shut my eyes and let my nose do the walking. Someone shot whoever bled out here, and the wound was a geyser. I taste the gunpowder residue and recognize it. Same kind of rifle as before. Of course. There’s a conclusion in sight, so I jump to it.

  “The bitch of a hitwoman was here, too.”

  Maybe I’m insulting bitches by calling the assassin who killed Larry and tried to off my dad one, but if you have a problem with that, I’m sorry. I call them how I want, and this is my story. I’m not sure what else to call a chick who kills for hire anyway, but if you’ve got another suggestion, I’m all ears. Literally. Vampires hear practically everything, you know.

  I open my eyes only to see a rotund figure move away off in the corner of the lot. I follow it but not at top speed because regular plain old people might see. Whatever I’m chasing either doesn’t care about that or sticks to the shadows. When I get there, the noun has left the vicinity. I rely on my nose, ears, and eyes for more clues.

  Footsteps moving with a longer stride than the typical human head away down a dark alley. Their owner isn't alive but smells wrong for a vampire. There's a pungent odor, too. Not like Scott the reeking werewolf, and not of perfume like Sniper on the Roof, but something new and different. A burnt sort of spicy. My skin's tingly. Intriguing. I follow.

  Halfway down the alley, a glittering green fog rolls in. Everything I hear and smell melts away in it except the tingly feeling. I wonder whether I’ve been whammied by some chemical. Visions of the Joker dance in my head, but that feels all wrong.

  Maybe this is more like one of Batman’s smokescreens than a mind and body-warping attack. Except as magical and green as the Wicked Witch of the West. Whoever I tailed gives me the slip. And I’m okay with that for the moment. Resistance means I’m on the right track.

  When I get back to my car, there’s a faded yellow post-it note stuck to the driver’s side windshield. I pull it free and peer at the fat-fingered scrawl. My fingers tingle.

  “What the fuck is this?” I blink and shake my head.

  The inked missive is sloppier than a Jackson Pollock painting and might not even be in English for all I know. I can’t even begin reading it. Whether it’s a clue, warning, or bad example is beyond me. But at least it’s on paper and more indelible than lipstick on a mirror or some other lame method of hastily done communication. I pocket it and get into the car to head home. Except I remember I can’t do that until I make a stop first because inconvenient vampire rules are inconvenient.

  On the way toward the highway, I take a few turns and stop at The Arcade. Across the street from there, in a building everyone who’s really alive thinks is boarded up, is the place I have to go and check in. It sucks, but it’s something I’ve got to do every time I go east of I-95 inside Providence city limits.

  I lock my car and jog across the street. Around the back of the building is the door where I’m obligated to knock four times in a circular pattern. The doorman inside hears it and decides whether it’s right or not. Of course, it is, so he lets me in. I head downstairs and prepare to do the necessary. When I enter the long, dark room, I bow in the general direction of a throne whose occupant sits in shadow.

  “To what do I owe the—” The gravelly voice pauses, and I hear a sniff of disdain. “Unexpected pleasure?”

  “A murder, Sir.” Even with the chilly reception, I do my best to behave properly. And fail miserably.

  “How many times must I insist, Valentino, child of Stephanie?”

  “A murder, your Majesty.” I twist my hands together behind my back. "A human's."

  “Very good. You’ll make performing monkey any night now.” The new and brighter voice belongs to the figure emerging from the darkness to the right of the enthroned one.

  “Thanks, Raven.” I try not to grin because I know they don’t like that. Raven keeps track of all the vampiric social engagements, like a who's who columnist except not in a newspaper.

  “Coming to meetings regularly is the key to a proper recovery.” Raven bats their eyes. “Our Monarch wants your attendance to improve.”

  “And I’m here.” I keep my head and gaze low as befits my station among these people. “I aim to do my best.”

  “But this isn’t one of the meetings His Majesty means. So, you’ll be at the next Blood Moot, I assume?”

  “I understand that, Raven. And I’m sorry. I promise to make it the next time.”

  “Then we’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Okay. See you!” I try making a mental note of that, but I suck at keeping dates. That isn’t something I want to whine about in front of the vampire king of Providence. He’ll probably cut off my head if I piss him off too much. I don’t let my inside voice call him King Decapitate instead of King DeCampo for nothing.

  I wave and then turn, trying to measure my strides as much as formal vampiric decorum will allow, but the tap of long fingernails on the king’s ebony armrest tells me I won’t make it out that easily.

  “You uttered the word ‘murder,’ child of Stephanie.” The king's voice stops me undead in my tracks.

  “Yeah, I did.” I don't turn around. If King Decapitate's going to make good on his name, I'd rather not have him go all Edward Scissorhands on my neck while I watch. Yeah, one of his special talents is turning his hands into claws when he wants to. Creep ci
ty.

  “Who?”

  “Detective Larry Tierney. He was a police officer from Cranston, where I live. Friend of a friend.”

  “A mortal associate?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t want to say anything else about Larry or mention Maury to the king, not even their names if I can help it. But my old friend’s luck is apparently better than mine when it comes to not getting King DeCampo’s attention.

  “Well. I must ruminate on how interesting it is that the youngest vampire in my territory has already taken an interest in cultivating his mortal assets.” The king’s remark makes Raven gulp. The word interesting is doublespeak for something a vampire wants to keep their eye on.

  “Uh, thanks?” I think that means King Decapitate believes I'll be manipulating the Cranston PD with all the vampiric powers I don't know how to use yet. I don't bother correcting him.

  “Be aware that others have tried and failed at making inroads there. We believe this is due to another sphere of influence outside our control exerting its force on Cranston’s Finest. Perhaps the victim you are investigating has displeased someone whose allegiance does not lie with this Court.”

  “Wow, Sir.” I blink, glad the king can’t see my face. He just gave me a key piece of information. “I mean, Your Majesty. Thanks for the tip.” But nothing’s free, apparently.

  “Please inform Miss McQueen that my debt to her is paid. Raven?”

  “Noted.”

  “Um—” I shut my own mouth around the protest. Stephanie is going to be pissed about me cashing in her chip without meaning to. “Thanks again, Your Majesty.”

  “You may take your leave, Valentino.”

  I do exactly that and spend the entire drive home wondering how to explain this to Stephanie.

  Chapter Four

  I take back roads instead of the highway back to my apartment. My old work bag comes upstairs with me. Stephanie’s still there. When I walk in, she closes Watership Down around my favorite bookmark and tucks the volume into the giant handbag she brings with her everywhere.