by D. R. Perry
“Yeah, probably. Put it with the neck thingy.”
“Cravat?” Scott scratches his head. “No, that’s not right. Dickey.”
“Don’t ever call any part of my costume that again.” The last thing I wanted to be was synonymous with a dick of the non-private variety. Or a different kind of private, anyway. This hangup is brought to you by the letter D and my guilt over being a tool to just about everyone recently.
“No problem.”
We go back to rummaging, and it’s all a blur. I swear, the clothes in the bag just fly through the air like so much confetti, pieces landing as fate dictates. Eventually, I end up with a pile half my height and realize that I’ll have to try stuff on. I bring it all into the bathroom and come out a few minutes later wearing a combination.
“It’s too bright.”
Scott’s right. I stare at the mirror where my clothes hang in what looks like thin air. The white dress shirt I’ve got on under the opera cloak and over the frilly thing-a-ma-bob stands out like the Beacons of Gondor. I go back into the bathroom and replace the pants, shirt, and belt with other stuff.
“Dude.” Scott crosses his arms and shakes his head. “You’re fighting crime, not going to Goth night at Dusk to get your flirt on.”
“Okay.” I check myself again. He’s right, the vinyl pants are both too shiny and too tight. Like I need a dance belt. They squeak a little when I walk, too. And even if they were dead silent, I always thought the whole superhero in tights thing was awkward. I mean, you’re carrying distressed people out of fatal danger and displaying your package at the same time? The last thing I want to do is rescue someone and then get slapped with a harassment complaint. And the boots with pointy toes and slippery soles aren’t going to do me much good in chases on foot. I set the clubwear aside and try different options.
“That might work, Tino. I think you’ve got it.”
I feel good. Comfortable and ready for almost anything. I look down and see the frilly collar stand out against a black button-down, red vest, and the opera cape over all of it. I stick my arms out, revealing the red interior. Scott smiles. I do, too. I mean, come on. It’s got pockets.
“Okay. But what about my face?”
“Here.”
I look at the mask. It has white lace edging that extends up over the forehead and down the bridge of the nose. I remember it unfondly from Halloweens past. Itch city. I tear the frills off and put it on. Even without the lace, it’s driving me crazy.
“Be honest.” I’m hoping he’ll honestly hate it as much as I do.
“It works.” No luck. “People will look at that instead of your jaw.”
“Makes sense.” I nod, wrinkling my nose. But there’s one way out of the stupid mask. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Take a picture.”
Scott gets his phone out and does it. I try not to blink at the flare of bright light, which is hard because, in some primal part of my undead brain, it reminds me of fire. Fire bad! Pretty much for everyone, getting literally burned sucks, but it’s a rage-inducing proposition for a vamp. I’m glad the flash is mostly harmless, though. No, I'm not talking about that red speedster from DC comics, for crying out loud.
When Scott turns the phone around, I see a hero staring back at me. Well, mostly, but I’ll get to that in a minute. I can hardly believe that photo’s not from somewhere else, of another person. Because I sure as Hell don't feel like a hero or even someone who can sleuth out the clues to solve a crime. I sigh and bite my lip. After that I wince. Fangs suck.
“I like it.”
“Really? Because you’re making a face like—”
“It's just the mask, Scott. I might do something else, but the rest rocks.”
“Okay.”
“And anyway, you should get yourself a disguise too if you’re going to run around with a vampire vigilante.”
“Already got one.” He grins like, well, a dog.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I wolf out, remember?”
“Not really.” And I don’t. Remember, that is. Because he's never done it in front of me.
“Okay. Well, you will when you see it. Trust me, it’s memorable, and I look completely different.”
“What if you have to do something that requires opposable thumbs? Like opening a door?”
“I’ve got thumbs when I shapeshift.”
“Oh, really?” Do werewolves turn into actual wolves or wolfmen like Lon Chaney in Werewolves of London? I don’t want to ask, afraid I’ll inadvertently utter a slur bad enough to start a vampire/werewolf war. My pessimistic imagination gets out of hand sometimes. I settle for stating the obvious. “But you’re not going to be wolfy all the time, right?”
“Hmm, forgot about that.” Scott shrugs. “I’ll figure something out. The thing is, shifting ruins most of our clothes. Except for family heirlooms or enchanted stuff.”
“Well, do you have any wearable hand-me-downs?”
“Maybe. But I have to check at home.”
“Fine.” I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It’s after eleven-thirty. “Um.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Scott chuckles. “Almost my curfew. I want to turn into a wolf, not a pumpkin.”
“Sorry, I can’t drive you home.” I forget why because I can’t think of anyplace I need to be. I glance at the calendar on the fridge. There’s nothing on it. Why do I think there should be?
“That’s okay, it's a nice night for a run. See ya, Tino!” Scott smiles. After that, he lets himself out the door. I look out the hall window, watching him walk across the postage-stamp of a lawn in front of my building. When he’s out of the direct beam from the orange streetlight, he starts jogging. Well, it looks like jogging, but the kid has to be going at least fifteen miles per hour. I try not to blink so I don’t miss anything, but it’s hard. I wonder how he can just run faster than the Boston Marathon winners like that. And does it hurt him to just do it? One thing’s clear. Nike’s got nothing on Scott Fitzpatrick, teenage werewolf from Cranston.
When he’s gone, I go back into my apartment and grab a bag of blood. I didn’t do anything vampy, but sometimes we get hungry just from being awake. It’s impossible to go about regular business without drinking the stuff, so I do. But why I feel like there’s no time to heat it up like a civilized vampire is beyond me. At least for the moment.
I’m changing out of the costume while contemplating my pajamas and a book when my phone beeps. I ask Siri to read the message. After hearing the robotic voice read what Stephanie sent, I speed the rest of the way through changing.
Instead of pajamas, I put on one of my two suits, the tan one. I’m a Millennial, what do you want from me?
I’d almost forgotten about the Blood Moot. And now I’m going to be late.
Chapter Seven
The ride in the car doesn’t wrinkle my suit that much. As I’m about to thank God for small favors, I step in a puddle on the way across the street and soak my wingtip. I try to tell myself the aroma of mud and sour seawater won’t make the wrong impression. I’m going in to see vampires, not werewolves who I'm pretty sure I have the better sense of smell. Mostly, vamps don’t freak out unless you smell like fire or blood, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be silently offended and lash out in inconvenient ways later.
I get to the door and make with the secret knock. It takes longer than I expect, but eventually the knob twists and I’m let in. The dude at the door wears a cloak with a hood that hides his face. I only know it’s a male vamp because I’ve already met this guy. Everybody with fangs in Providence has heard of him. He’s notorious, like his best buddy.
“You’re late.”
“Shadow, nice to, um, see you.” I’ve never actually laid eyes on the guy’s face. Rumor has it the only people who have seen it don’t live to talk about it.
“Shut your mouth and get in there. Walk softly.”
I do as he says. Shadow’s not known for m
aking nice with the peanut-gallery denizens like me. He’s one of the king’s enforcers, something like a spymaster. I’m just glad the other enforcer, Hargrove, isn’t answering the door. If Shadow’s a scalpel, Hargrove’s a sledgehammer. I nicknamed him Hardcase in my head with good reason. That guy’s nothing nice.
After I get down the hall, I take a right and hug the wall. The king’s on his throne as usual. What’s not so typical are all the other vampires from out-of-town standing in front of it and him. They almost look like an eyewitness lineup from a criminal investigation at a ComiCon. Most older vampires get anachronistic with their wardrobe choices, especially when they go to Blood Moots. Maybe I’m lucky Stephanie’s an exception to that rule. She has other age-related faults, though.
The shortest out-of-towner’s in the middle, wearing a pale trilby hat and a pinstripe suit in white with thin black stripes. Something about how this person stands is familiar. A long ponytail hangs down their back. I don’t recognize them from the rearview and they don’t talk, so there’s no chance to recognize them that way.
The trilby-wearer is flanked by two of the biggest vamps I’ve seen. One is tall enough to play pro basketball, and the other’s wider than a linebacker. They both look female and dress that way too.
The tall one’s wearing a get-up like something out of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, with a bandoleer full of bullets and everything. It smells like she’s packing loaded heat, too, though I can’t see any guns on her. Some vamps develop the power to hide items they’re carrying from view, so I trust my nose. The broad one’s got on a twill skirt and a pink cardigan. Librarian City. She’s also got a satchel full of books slung over one shoulder.
A strapping fellow in a tan trench coat leans on air like there's someone I can't see next to him. My nose tells me nothing's there. Finally, there's a young lady with an afro in torn jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. She’s the only one who looks normal. Just watching her stand there makes me want to smile because she’s probably younger than everyone like me. Like I said, old vamps dress weird, and this one is wearing normal clothes.
I almost bump into Stephanie. She shoots me a pointed glare and taps her watch. I nod to let her know that I get it, I’m late. But the king’s pretty well occupied anyway, so I don’t sweat it. Maybe if I act like it’s okay, everyone else will too. Part of dealing with other vampires is showing them that you're confident.
“So, what brings you to Providence this evening?”
“You’re having a Moot, and we’ve got business.” Trilby’s voice is a flat alto, faintly accented and familiar again. “Specifically about our intentions toward the island in your bay. Your Majesty.”
Did he just sass the king while asking to move in on Newport? Oh, yeah, he did. Just as I think I like the cut of the trilby-wearer's rebellious jib, that ever-present pain in my noodle, Raven, makes their appearance.
“King DeCampo already knows all about you, Whitby.” Raven looks down their nose at the whole group of them. "I just love telling cautionary tales with you in the leading role."
And there’s the accent I recognize. Whitby’s stance reminded me of Raven. I wonder whether the resemblance comes from it having been fashionable during the same bygone era or a past history. Maybe both.
“Raven. What a pleasant surprise.” Whitby’s tone tells me they think it’s opposite day at King DeCampo’s Blood Moot. “I’ve never cared much for what you think, as long as it’s about me.”
A low chuckle ripples, and I blink when I realize where it’s coming from. The king. He thinks this new animosity, sour enough to erupt into violence in front of his throne, is funny. I take a step so my back’s against the wall, wondering when my king will start unliving up to his head-severing reputation, but I’m spared the spectacle of sliced necks, blood, and ash. For now.
“You five visitors are welcome to mingle and carry out any traditional business for the duration of this Moot. I shall make my decision about Newport at next month’s meeting.”
The mood breaks. Or the tableau or stage blocking. Whatever you want to call it. One of the things I never get used to was how conspicuous vampires can be while trying to act in a normal-for-them fashion. It looks like something out of a green room at a movie set.
Whitby breezes by me, so I try to stop him and say hello. It seems natural to me that the frenemy of my frenemy might end up being a decent friend.
“What do you want?” The accent and inflection remind me of good acting in a bad BBC show.
“To introduce myself. I’m Valentino Crispo, and I’m new around here, too.” I stick my hand out and don’t bother mentioning exactly how new I am or in what way. In a society where value is based mostly on how not new you are, advertising that I’m a month old is the opposite of good.
“Whitby. I’m Raven’s brother, though I know they never mention me here.” He shakes my hand. It’s colder than mine, and he grips it with a strength he doesn’t look like he should have. I make a mental note not to underestimate him.
“Raven loves talking about anyone but themself.” Yeah, cattiness is natural for me. I’m a recovering performance artist, what do you want?
“I know. It’s been the most obnoxious thing about them since back in our mortal days.”
“So you were turned by the same vampire, then.” I grin.
“We had the same living mother as well, but you’ll never hear Raven admit to it.” Whitby makes air quotes. “They would just as soon have let me rot. But there’s nothing better than being a creature of the night. The thrill of the hunt and all.” There’s a gleam in his eye that disturbs me. “Siblings are more burden than joy.”
We’re not supposed to hunt humans the way Whitby implies except in absolute emergencies because it could get us discovered. There’s nothing about what he says or how he says it that makes me think he’s talking about hunting deer out in Chepachet or Coventry. I fall back on Stephanie’s old standby. Yes, she taught me social navigation before explaining what things smell like or blood abilities. Nobody's perfect. But anyway, that's how I know how to use a technique she calls the vague compliment.
“Huh, interesting.” I don’t make the mistake of saying it’s cool. Some of the older vampires think the word cool is an insult. Apparently, back in the day, it was one. Go figure. “I’ve got no siblings.”
“Lucky.” Whitby winks then tips his Trilby over my shoulder. “Be careful what you don’t wish for." He looks at something over my shoulder. "Milady.”
“Whitby, you bad boy!” Stephanie breezes forward and upstages me. She holds both her hands out, and he takes them. She locks her elbows, keeping him at literal arm's length. “It’s been entirely too long.”
I watch her make Cheek-kissing greetings with Whitby, who might be an old friend of hers. Or something. She blends in so much better than he does. Better than most of the other vampires often seen at these Blood Moot shindigs. They all have this way about asserting their individuality in a too-conspicuous manner.
On some of them, like Hargrove and DeCampo, it’s scary. On others like Whitby, Shadow, and Raven, it borders on absurd. I can’t imagine any of those three being able to do something routine like gas up their cars or buy a pack of smokes without freaking the norms. But Stephanie manages. I’ll have to ask her some night what she does to keep up with the mundanes. Because I don’t want to look like a misfit in the twenty-second century if you know what I mean.
“I hope I get staked and left on the beach before I ever get that bad at acting human.”
You know when conversation breaks in a room, and there’s an unintentional moment of silence? It happens all the time at Blood Moots. My hand goes over my mouth too late.
Everyone. Heard. I close my eyes and wait for both shoes to drop. There’s no way I’ll get out of this with just one piece of anachronistic footwear falling to the floor.
“What to the who now?” The woman from Whitby’s contingent, the young-seeming one with the big hair and the sweatshirt,
blinks at me.
“Um, nothing.” I smile, more out of nervous habit than anything else.
“You sound like how my brain thinks.” She tilts her head to one side and smiles back. "It's refreshing."
“Huh?” I blink, my face frozen the way your mother tells you it will when you pull undesirable expressions.
Her face has this quality that’s engaging. I don’t want to look away from it even though I should be making my apologies to Stephanie and walking out the door right now.
“No matter how many times I tell them to tone it down, they don’t listen.” She shakes her head, chuckling a little. Then she leans on the wall next to me and turns her head toward my ear. “Old vamps can’t dress even worse than white men can’t jump.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh but don’t dare shut my eyes. She tilts her head back, and I watch her shoulders shake. Somehow, this lady has mastered the art of silent laughter.
“I’m Tino.”
“Maya.” She shoots a glance in Stephanie’s direction. “She turned you?”
“Absotively.” I roll my eyes at Whitby. “He turned you?”
“You could call it that, in one sense of the word.” Half her mouth turns up. “At least she has fashion sense.”
“Yeah, one bright spot in the dead of night. Which we’re confined to.” I turn my head and side-eye her. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Not all the time, but yeah, it can.” The smile’s gone, replaced by what I think is her face-at-rest expression. Determination. And flawless mahogany skin.
“How do you deal with it?” I manage not to sigh. Which is a good thing because I don’t know whether that impulse comes from exasperation at my elders or something else.
“Don’t have much free time to worry about it, spend most of that trying to find sun-proof accommodations. I talk to the nice living people because the rest of them fail at it. Except for Roger, sometimes.” She jerks a thumb at the guy in the trench coat. “He calls himself Peligro, though. Believe it or not, he's great with kids, old folks, and animals. But he’s got his own special hurdles.”
