Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  Even though the weight’s no problem, I still have trouble getting them through the door and down the back path to the driveway. I drop bags as I go, like Hansel leaving breadcrumbs. But when I get to the car and pop the trunk, there’s someone standing there, ready to load them in. I can smell who it is right away.

  “Scott?” I set the boxes down.

  “Yeah?” He smiles.

  “What gives, my dude?” I grin back. Thankfully he’s not as pungent as last night. Maybe it has something to do with the moon, I don’t know.

  “If it were my dad in the hospital, I’d want help. So I’m giving it.” He holds out the bags.

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re too friendly for your own good?” I load one of the boxes into the Miata's tiny trunk and play Tetris with the other.

  “Yeah, but so what? Mr. Rogers is my Sensei.”

  “Oh, boy.” At least Scott doesn’t say he’s a Boy Scout.

  “Don’t dis Mr. Rogers, man. He’s a goddamned saint.”

  “You know how ironic that sounds, right?” I mutter a word that rhymes with itch at the second box as I dent a corner trying to get it in.

  “Helping people in need is sort of a tradition for my people.” Scott shrugs like the teenager he is. “Anyway, I don’t care about irony.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t about something like that.”

  “Words are words.” He loads a bag into the trunk, stuffing it on the side of a box.

  “Yeah, and water’s wet.” I grunt, pushing on the box. It’s at a bad angle for leverage, okay? “Your point?”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re an ingrate?” Scott shoves on the opposite side of the box, and it goes in.

  “Yeah. And the nice thing was after that they left me alone.”

  “I live next door.” He passes me a bag.

  “So?” I stuff bags into the now cramped trunk.

  Why am I being such an absolute asshole to this kid, anyway? The main emotion I feel for Scott right now is anger, despite his helpfulness. I realize it’s because he’s a liar who never bothered telling me he’s a werewolf. But then, I think about how I never bothered telling him I’m a vampire. I’m new at undeath but not so much at life. Absolute assholery goes both ways.

  “Look, I’m qualifying for the Jerk of the Year award. I’m sorry. Thanks for the help.”

  “You’re welcome.” He sticks his arms out when he says it, like a Disney character. Yeah, I watch Disney movies. I like musicals, okay?

  “But I’m going to tell you something." I lean toward him, lowering my voice. "I’m in a dangerous situation here, and I don’t want you getting in trouble because of it. Or worse.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “There’s no ‘and.’ That was a warning, Scott.” I try to close the itsy-bitsy trunk, but it won’t go. The bags fill it and then some. But they’re full of clothes and air. Something’s got to give.

  “Huh. Because it sounded to me like you maybe had another thing to tell me.”

  “This whole business I’m in is dangerous. I’m getting into situations that could kill a regular person.”

  “Okay. I’m not regular, Tino. I’m a werewolf.” He digs one toe of his sneaker in the dirt. “Woulda told you sooner but didn’t have permission.”

  “Oh.” So, there goes my whole reason for being pissy at Scott.

  I turn my back shoving on the bags trying to deflate them. Judging by my track record with this exercise in packing, it won’t go well. Like this whole conversation. But Stephanie practically told me werewolves were on-limits allies as long as I didn’t try to turn them.

  “You can say anything to me, you know.”

  “What is this, one of those old 80s movies?” I lean on the trunk, trying to close it. Fail. “Are you going to stand outside my window with a boombox next?”

  “No.” He’s looking at me with the same puppy eyes he used to make when he wanted to tag along with Maury and me when we were fifteen and he was five.

  “Okay fine.” I push the trunk with more than human force and dent it. Oops. “Look.” I indicate the dented metal. “I’m a vampire. You happy?”

  “I’m mostly happy, generally speaking. But thanks for telling me. And just so you know, you can put some of those bags in what passes for a back seat in this thing.”

  “Fucking a.” I do a face-palm.

  “I know, right?” He hefts a half-dozen of the puffy plastic bags and hauls them toward the passenger side. Somehow, he manages to open the door.

  “Fucking b.”

  Scott bends over, laughing as he slaps his knee. Bags fall around him like petals off a daisy. I roll my eyes, then open the driver’s side door. After that, I shovel bags inside bench in back just like my newly outed wolfy pal.

  I start to think that maybe Stephanie’s right. Working with a werewolf might give me the edge I need to keep my head above the water that drowned whoever had this gig before me.

  “Do you want to take a ride with me?”

  “Okay.” I remember now that the kid’s always been easy-going and chilled out. I wonder whether that makes him good or bad at being a werewolf.

  We get in my car. I watch Scott bend his knees, noticing how tall he was already. A sixteen-year-old kid without his full growth still barely fits in my little old Miata. If we team up more often, I have to consider getting a bigger ride.

  “There goes the Speed Stick book fund.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  I drive us back to my apartment building. Peering up at the tiny windows, I find them dark. No Stephanie then, which is a good thing. I try to remember why I know she’s not dropping by tonight but come up with nothing. There’s some reason hiding at the back of my mind, but it’s sticking to the shadows for now.

  I take a chance and grab as many bags as I can. Scott imitates me like he always did as a little kid. I guess the two of us, next-door neighbors and only children, have a bit of an unintentional brotherly vibe going on. Those two guys on the CW program with their Impala surface in my mind, and I banish them. I used to like that show, but now the idea of those dudes scares me. Brothers who kill monsters aren’t half so entertaining after you actually are one.

  I unlock the door and go into my rented place. Nobody waits in the dark for me except my unread copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel on the table. I pick it up, leaf through it. Then I gesture at Scott to shut the door.

  “Welcome to The Belfry.”

  “Cool.” Scott nods then sets his bags down in the small living room. “Why did you want all this stuff, anyway? The clothes, I mean. Don’t you have something to wear to Larry Tierney’s wake?”

  “Oh, shit.” I blink. “That’s tonight?”

  “Yeah. Gramps was talking about it all day. It’s at Michellino’s.”

  “We’d better go there first, then.” I drop the boxes I'm carrying near the cozy chair.

  “You were going somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, my first PI investigation. But I can do that stuff later. Wakes don’t wait.”

  “Okay.”

  “So let’s go.”

  “Um.” Scott points at the fluffy bunny slippers I’m still wearing. And the pajamas. Definitely not a fashion statement. Not a good look, either. Guess I’m not a morning-equivalent vampire. Madonn.

  “Oh.” I go into the bathroom and change into black pants, a black polo, and loafers.

  Scott’s already wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt, so he’s all set. We head back downstairs and get in the car. I think about stopping at CVS to get some condolence cards, but I have no idea who to address them to. I sigh.

  “What’s wrong, Tino?”

  We’re stopped at a red light, so I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the drugstore we passed. I tell the kid my failure of an idea about the cards.

  “We all knew Larry. Every beat cop at the precinct. Enough to know he had nobody. This sucks. I don’t even know who’s paying for his wake and the whole nine yards.”
>
  “I do. Anonymous donor.”

  “Huh. Weird.” I’ve got my ideas about that, but keep them to myself for now. It’s still unclear to me exactly how much I can reveal to a werewolf about vampire society.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence, which doesn’t take long. Rhode Island’s tiny, remember? I pull the car into Michellino’s depressingly barren parking lot. I’ve seen the place packed enough for cars to line Park Avenue on both sides before. But Larry, well-known to police officers, with the anonymous donor and all, barely has anyone here.

  The emptiness is downright weird. The only car I recognize is Maury’s. Not even the captain is here. There are only two reasons I can think of for nobody to show up to a detective’s funeral. Reason A, some big SWAT is going down. Reason B, most of the brass and all of the grunts on the force think Larry Tierney’s corrupt. Maybe they even think that was why he got killed. I wonder about the hitwoman and my dad. If they’re connected and Larry’s dirty, Maury could be the next target. He might even get hit right here and now.

  “You ready?” The kid’s question snaps me out of my pessimistic thought spiral.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  We get out of the car and make the short walk up to the doors of the funeral home.

  Chapter Six

  Only one viewing room is open, and the sign out front has Larry’s picture on it. He’s grinning, eyes bright with that twinkle they get when he cracks one of his dad jokes. No, I mean got. And he was never anyone’s dad, no matter how much he tried to act like one to every rookie who walked through the precinct's door.

  Here’s the one thing I can say for sure about what Larry’s damage was: loneliness. It’s not an excuse for disregarding your co-worker's personal time and space, but it’s an understandable reason. I banish contemplation of my own self-induced solitude before walking in there to look at the face of a man whose eyes won’t open, let alone twinkle again.

  I pick up my feet as I walk. It seems like a weird thing to do, put a spring in your step inside a funeral home. But I came into this viewing room just two weeks ago after helping Dad with a delivery and know from personal experience that the new carpet’s pile is high enough to trip me. Falling on your face at a wake is a mistake you don’t want to make twice in one month, believe me.

  Why was I even here before? I went to a random wake for a lady I didn’t even know. I forget her name. Mainly, I figured I was dead, sort of, so maybe I ought to go someplace to contemplate mortality. And you know for a vampire, doing that at Church is out of the question. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still a walking fanged disaster. My idea didn't have the effect I'd hoped either. The whole visit to that poor old woman's wake didn’t do me any good as far as coping with being undead goes.

  And this wake isn't doing me any favors, either. It’s got me down, as much as when my grandparents passed, even though Larry Tierney was way less important in my life than they were. It’s not him, it’s me. Maury’s sitting up by the front, and now I’m second-guessing myself for coming here. My oldest friend is going to know something’s wrong, and I don’t want his nose up in my vamp business.

  But I’m here. So’s Larry, with nobody else. I realize I can’t abide this nearly empty room. My heart tells me it’s wrong to leave, loudly enough to shout down my head. That’s rare, so I go with it. I let that too-springy step ferry me to the front of the room, where I give a golf-wave to Maury without turning to look at him.

  Beside the casket, I kneel to pay my respects. Genuflecting only stings a little.

  Looking at Larry close up, I see all the laugh and smile lines around his mouth, on his cheeks. There’s barely any next to his eyes. I bow my head, trying not to shame Larry’s lost clown tears with my own basic, bloody, and eternal ones. Basic because I'm not just crying for him.

  Loneliness sucks. Its possibility is the single most terrifying prospect of potentially unliving forever. Right now, I’m focused on all the people I’ll end up losing when they die, and I keep going and going like a blood-addicted Energizer Bunny. I think of my fluffy bunny slippers and consider burning them. A hand drops on my shoulder. I look at it, stained with nicotine and dry like a manila envelope. Maury.

  “Thanks for coming, Tino.”

  “Hey, he was your partner.” I unfold my hands and stand, turn to face good old Maur. “And practically a fixture, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Maury holds out a hand, intending to shake.

  But ain’t no human got time for keeping a distance like that. Like sands through the hourglass, all they are is dust in the wind. I hug him instead, closing my eyes to banish the illusion that it’s my best friend in that coffin instead of Larry Tierney. His shoulders quake and he sniffles, so I know Maury needed one of those more than a dumb old professional handshake.

  When I open my eyes again, I see a veiled figure in the back. It’s small, like kid-sized, but a little too big. And the crazy veil goes practically all the way down to loafer-clad toes so I can’t even figure anything else out about them. I try to remember whether Stephanie said anything about Faeries, but it’s a no-go.

  I lift one hand off Maury’s back to point at my nose while looking at Scott. He gets the idea, and I see him sniffing the air. He blinks, so I know we’ll need to have a chat later, but for now, the rest of this excursion is Maury’s show. I’m going to focus on him until he goes home.

  He lets me go, then straightens his jacket. His face is dry, but his eyes are red. I realize that even though I hugged him on a not totally full stomach, his blood didn’t make me hungry that close up. But is it unappetizing because of the medicinal odor of formaldehyde coming off Larry’s body or Maury’s mystery illness? I’m about to ask Maury how his health is when the funeral director pokes her head in to glance around the room.

  The small person in the veil heads out, garnering a nod and sympathetic smile from the too-perky blonde lady at the door. She wrinkles her nose at the three of us then glances at her watch. I get the message. So does Scott. Maury is another story.

  “Hey, you want to grab a coffee?” I figure the siren call of caffeine might motivate my buddy to get out of this depressing dodge.

  “There’s still fifteen more minutes, Tino.” He sits back down again in the front row, center this time instead of the aisle.

  “Yeah, Maury. Okay.” I take the hint and sit next to him.

  He’s not budging, and neither will I. Scott’s a trooper because he either understands or plays along. The kid gets up there and kneels to pay his respects, says some kind of prayer in Gaelic, too. After that, he sits on the other side of Maury. And we stay the whole time, immune to the constant impatient tapping of the funeral director’s foot.

  And I’m glad about going even though this errand comes with a side dish of existential dread. Maury’s going through it too, in his own actually alive way. And somehow, that makes it easier for me. As we finally head out to the parking lot and go our separate ways, I hope he’s thinking the same thing.

  Scott doesn't know what he smelled, and neither do I. All we can agree on is that it's mostly human but with a hint of something cobwebby and dusty. It doesn't seem dire, so I file looking into that after all of the assassination business is done. I don’t drop Scott off at his house. He says he’ll help me with the next thing I have to do this evening. Once we’re back in the Belfry, we tackle Stephanie’s homework assignment by unpacking the bags and boxes of costume stuff. But the kid still doesn’t know why.

  “Are you going to run a fashion show or something?” Scott scratches his head.

  “No. I need a disguise.” I hold up the book. “Like this guy.”

  “Oh, cool! That’s the first classic I ever read, you know. It’s about a masked vigilante back in like the seventeenth century. They say it’s the first superhero story ever written.”

  “Nah, that’s The Epic of Gilgamesh.” I point it out for him on one of my shelves.

  “Gilgamesh doesn’t wear a mask, though.” Scott sh
rugs. “He’s like Hercules; lets everyone know who he is. Was. Whatever.”

  “Good point.” I know Stephanie pointed Pimpernel out even though she could have given me Gilgamesh. I understand. The mask must be the difference. “One of my friends wants me to hide my identity. It’s just what vampires do. Big secret and all.”

  “Makes sense. I mean,” Scott puts Gilgamesh back on the shelf. “It’s what werewolves do, too.”

  “Did.” I shrug. “You came out as a wolf to me like one of those snakes in the fake can of nuts.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “But I already knew you got yourself vamped, Tino. That’s so last month.”

  “Huh?” I open one of the bags and pull out a purple wizard robe and hat from when I was ten. I look at the kid and shrug.

  Scott taps his nose then points at me. He sighs. “It sucks for you, too. Almost everything you like or want to do just doesn’t go with vampirism.”

  “True story.” I drag something red from the bag. It’s a Santa hat. I shrug and toss it at the pile with the wizard stuff.

  “Hey, check this out.”

  Patrick has a collar with ruffles all over it. I remember the piece from a High School theater production and set it on the table.

  “I remember Grandpa taking me to see that at the High School. You were Rosencrantz.”

  “Yeah. Fun times.” I didn’t mention that I couldn’t have managed performing in that play if Maury hadn’t been up there with me as the other friend of Hamlet’s with a funny name. And then I remember the title of that one-act play. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. That’s only halfway ominously prophetic, right?

  “Hey, how about this?”

  Scott holds up a red opera cape, something from Maury’s stint singing in a medley from Phantom of the Opera for a talent show that I perma-borrowed one Halloween. I glance at the book Stephanie recommended earlier and then think about that 80s graphic novel, The Watchmen. The older characters talk about a guy who died because his cape got caught in a door and choked him. But I don’t need air, and the cape hides my build. It’s not just your face that gets you recognized. Besides, the costume piece is gorgeous and has pockets.