Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  "Yeah. I wasn't planning on renting the place but just had a feeling it was the right idea to do it, anyway."

  "Cool. So, where are we going to put all our musical instruments?"

  "We're not playing music, we're investigating crimes. Leave the tunes to the actual acts in here."

  "Why?” Scott cocks his head like the RCA dog. “They're not that talented. Well, except that one percussion duo."

  "I know, right? Anyway, we are definitely not as good as them. I'm a vampire, not a musician."

  "I saw you in the High School Theater productions. You can sing." He shrugs. “And as far as the vampy stuff, you seem to know what you’re doing. Covered your ass in front of good old Maury and all.”

  "Well, but I just got turned last month. Bet you've been wolfing out longer than that."

  "For about two years."

  "See? And you're not even fully grown yet."

  "Okay, you have a point.” Scott shakes his head. “But I’m gonna bring in my drum set and my guitar so we fit in. And if we're investigators, we still need a few things. A computer, desks, maybe stuff to sit on."

  "Expensive."

  "Not really." Scott shrugs. "It's May. All the college students move out of their places this time of year. We can pick some furniture up down by PC where the off-campus students rent."

  "Good idea. But how do we carry it?" I point out the window at the tiny car Scott already knows is mine.

  "I drove Dad's truck over here. So let’s go!"

  “I can’t. Sun’s going to come up before we’re done.” I realize that I've got a curfew too, even though I'm not a teenager anymore.

  “Okay, so we go tomorrow night. I’ll drop by your apartment at sunset. Let me just bring that drum set up now before we leave.”

  “You don’t waste any time, huh?”

  Scott doesn’t answer. We go downstairs, where I wait at the door to open it for him. I don’t want to break the door-propping rule on my first night in the place. My dude Scott has a drum set and the guitar he was talking about. There’s a stool and a stand, too. We lock the instruments in there and head out.

  As Scott gets in his dad’s truck, he waves. I return the gesture, then take a jog around the side of the building to peek in the dumpster. There's nothing in it, so Cigarettes must have gotten rid of Butter's body some other way. So much for my idea about calling the Cranston PD with an anonymous tip to inconvenience some Caprices.

  On the way back to my apartment, I wonder whether Cigarettes killed Butter under orders from higher up. The only alternative to that is Cigarettes is already on the upper tier of authority in Caprice family business. I’m not sure who to discuss this with besides Scott, and that’ll have to wait for tomorrow.

  Stephanie’s in my apartment like she said she’d be. But instead of being in shape to discuss anything she’s sprawled across my bed, fully dressed with her shoes kicked off. Sleeping like a baby. Her face is paler than usual, so I figure she used powers during the rest of the Blood Moot that I haven’t learned yet. There’s enough blood in the fridge for both of us when she wakes up.

  I let her sleep and go have a shower. The greasepaint isn’t easy to scrub off without cold cream, which I do not have. So I leave my face unwashed and change into my pajamas. With Stephanie in the bed, the only place for me to sleep is the comfy chair so there’s no risk of smudging it while I’m out for the day. I recline it and snooze.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m waiting by the coffeemaker, listening to the water running in the bathroom while Stephanie washes her face. I’m not sure whether it’s a habit or an excuse, her reason for going in there. Maybe both even though she’s way older than me. One month’s acquaintance is nothing compared to my still human friends, who I’ve known for as long as I can remember. She’s the vampire I’ve known the longest, but it’s hard to decide whether I can trust her. Then again, maybe she’s in there acting human to put me at ease.

  The blood’s warm now, so I pour it into two mugs and set them on the breakfast table. I take the seat facing the front door. Dad always called it The Paranoia Chair. Stephanie walks out of the bathroom wrapped in my terrycloth bathrobe. Before I continue, here’s a little four-one-one on Steph.

  Usually, the woman who vamped me looks more alive than most humans. She’s somehow larger-than-life, comes across like she’s six-foot-something and not someone you want to meet in a dark alley despite the lipstick and fashionable clothes. She’s posh, polished to a high-gloss like literal brass balls.

  I blink because I’ve never seen her like this before.

  She looks too short without her pumps, almost an entire foot shorter than my high opinion of her vampiric prowess elevates her in my mind’s eye. My robe dwarfs her frame, hangs longer down her legs than her usual slightly below the knee skirts. But it’s worse than that.

  Steph’s face is as white as the pancake I put on my own mug last night. That includes her lips. Her eyes don’t have their usual twinkle; instead, they’re flat. Even her chestnut hair lacks luster, sticks in limp clumps to the beige cloth under it. She sits in the chair across from me and curls both hands around the mug of warmed blood.

  “You okay, Stephanie?”

  Instead of answering, she lifts the stoneware to her mouth, steadily swallowing until it’s all gone. Her shoulders droop as she sets the empty cup down. Instead of getting up for the refill I can tell she needs, Stephanie looks at the coffee maker like a puppy being left behind at an animal shelter. The kill kind.

  “I got that.” I reach for her mug, and she lets me take it.

  Up at the counter, I pour her the rest of what’s in the carafe. I empty two more bags into it and turn the burner back on. Once she’s got her refill, I sit down again. She stares at her hands before wrapping one around the handle.

  “Thanks, Valentino.”

  “It’s no problem. About the blood and the crashing, I mean. But I still want to know if you’re okay.”

  “I’ve got to be, and so I am.” She holds the mug close to her lips and gazes at the blood inside. “Just fine. Thanks for asking.”

  It’s clear that she’s not, but I let her cover it up. For now. Stephanie isn’t telling me the truth, and the contrast between all her little tells then and now illustrates how she’s been mostly honest with me all along. Something happened the night before, but if any of it is my business, I’ll have to trust that she’ll tell me when I need to know. No matter how counterintuitive that might feel for me.

  “Okay. So, last night, you said we’d talk about Tierney.”

  “Yes. What do you want to know?”

  “Am I his replacement?”

  “To King DeCampo, yes, you are.” She closes her eyes. “But for me, nobody could replace Edwin Tierney. He was my best friend.”

  I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth, so I sip my blood and wait for her to say more. My patience pays off.

  “I told you about how we sleep sometimes when the years start weighing too heavily. The allies who should have been there to assist me when I woke had perished, so it was their mortal associate Edwin who found me and helped me learn the ways of the Twentieth Century. I got permission to turn him in the days leading up to the Second World War. He died one week before I turned you.”

  “Jeez, Stephanie. I’m sorry.” I turn the cup around in my hands. The aroma of the blood calls me like it always does. But just like the night my father got shot, I hold myself back from it. “There’s a rumor that the king was responsible for his death. Is that why he let you turn me?”

  “It’s part of the reason, yes.” She takes a long pull from her cup. “But not how you think. I don't believe His Majesty killed my friend. But he couldn't disprove it, so he took on the burden of punishment."

  "Okay, then." I narrow my eyes, my stomach turning at her evasion. "But you didn't answer my question. Why me?"

  "I'm not entirely sure. You see, Edwin had King DeCampo’s permission to turn a new Detective at the Cranston Police De
partment. You were supposed to get the promotion that was denied you. And then, you would have been put on the night shift. Edwin would have turned you and been responsible for everything I'm trying to manage teaching you now. I'm fulfilling a dear friend's last wishes.”

  It’s not typical to transfer turning permission like that. I already know there’s more than Stephanie’s telling me. If she’s not volunteering the info there has to be a dangerous reason. Maybe the king really did kill Edwin with his own hands. Or claws, as the case may be. “So you didn’t choose me. Edwin Tierney did. And he never told you why.”

  “Correct.” She says no more. Morbid curiosity makes me wonder who she would have picked, what she thinks my shortcomings are, whether she even wanted to turn someone in the first place. But I have to stay focused if I want to stop the murders.

  “So, I didn’t get my promotion because your Edwin was pulling strings at the PD, and when he died, I got cut off.”

  “Yes.” Stephanie’s lips curve up, but her eyes stay flat and serious. “Over the last month I’ve come to understand the potential he saw in you.”

  I don’t get what she’s saying. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Maury, with his natural talent for everything, would have been a better pick for Edwin Tierney than little old me. I try to think about what I’ve got that my best friend doesn’t. It takes me a minute, so I finish my blood.

  “I’m Italian. Like the Caprices. And half the people in the state of Rhode Island.”

  “That is a contributing factor. But you were a good cop, Tino. And you’ll be an even better private investigator because of all the setbacks you’re facing now.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence. And anyway, we need to talk about how Edwin Tierney’s absence might be connected to Detective Larry Tierney’s death.”

  “I can't say. And after last night, I realize I couldn’t help you with it even if I knew. But one thing I noticed when I awoke this evening is, you’re making more connections with the werewolves.”

  “Um, yeah." Stephanie's words are almost a blatant statement that she knows something but is bound by oath not to talk about it. I let her change the subject. "Scott’s been a buddy for a while. I hope that’s okay?”

  “It’s more than okay. Connections with the other supernatural groups will be an advantage others don’t dare try to make.”

  “Groups?” I get up, take the mugs for another refill. “You mean there’s more than us and werewolves?”

  “What is it that the aliens with the pointy ears said on that television show? The one with that spaceship Industry?”

  “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations,” I recite without bothering to correct her. Even if Steph was more modern, she probably wouldn't be a geek.

  “Exactly so. I’m far older than you, but even I don’t have many answers about what exists in the world and what does not. However, I can tell you that some mundanes have extra senses, and others experiment with more than science.”

  “Magic?”

  “Perhaps. I’ve not seen it with my own eyes. Raven knows more than I do.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask them what they know.”

  “Be prepared to—”

  “I know. Pay the piper.”

  Stephanie stands, leaving her empty cup on the table. When she heads back into the bathroom, I take it to the sink. The water’s running in there again but this time only minutes pass. I drink the rest of my breakfast and wait for her. She emerges looking like her usual self this time, in her clothes and with her face made up.

  “Tino, thank you for your hospitality.” Stephanie grips the doorknob and pauses. “It’s impossible for me to repay you now, formally speaking. But when you finally go through your Trial and prove you know the ways of vampiric society, I’ll make sure everyone knows that I am in your debt.”

  My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The door shuts behind her. It takes a few minutes to compose myself after the strange experience of seeing what amounts to my vampiric parent with her walls down and masks off. I glance at the clock and see that I’ve got enough time to walk down to CVS for some cold cream to take the greasepaint off my face. How Stephanie managed a straight face, let alone a straightforward conversation with me in ghoulish stage makeup, I’ll never know.

  The night air is nice and balmy, which is good because it’s Rhode Island in May, and you never know what weather you’re going to get until mid-June. Stretching my legs down the block is refreshing even though people are looking at me funny on account of my full face of makeup. There aren’t even any Goths in the Rolfe Square neighborhood for me to pretend to blend in with.

  I’m willing to bet that vampires up in Salem, Massachusetts have it way easier than us here in the Ocean State. Maybe someday I’ll move to a place where being an oddball is more common than here. Nah, who am I kidding? This state gets its hooks into a person, even the ones who weren’t born in it. And I was, so I’m pretty much a goner for Rhode Island. I hope that doesn’t end up being literal and permanent someday.

  I’m in the store trying to find where they keep the stuff for washing faces. But this is the third time they changed the layout in here over the last year. I get it; merchandising and marketing are important, but so is being able to find whatever the hell you’re looking for. Just as it starts to seem like I’m on the right track to hunt down some cold cream, my phone rings. It’s an unfamiliar number, but I’m too curious for my own good. So I answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Tino.”

  “Maya!” I glance around, then use my inside voice to tell its outside counterpart to settle down. “Good to hear from you. What’s up?”

  “Oh, thank God. You don’t say stuff like,” she lowers her voice in a fine mimicry of Whitby, “’What does Milady need help with this evening?’” She giggles.

  I snicker. A little old lady farther down the aisle gives me the stink-eye. I glance around one more time for the cold cream but fail to spot it. That’s okay, I’d rather talk to Maya than wash my face, anyway. I head out of the store, intending to go back to my apartment and finish the conversation there. I can always go back to CVS and ask an employee for help. But that’s not what happens at all.

  Listening to Maya, it’s easy for my mind to go back in time and imagine I’m chatting with one of my old High School theater friends instead of a fellow vampire. She mentions how it was fun to finally meet someone modern. Apparently, the other vamps in Whitby’s group are seventy or over. She asks me what’s fun to do around here because Providence feels so much smaller than New York City or even Boston.

  “Well, a couple of things I still like even after I got vampinated are movies and concerts.” I grin even though she can’t see me. “Live theater, too.”

  “How about dancing in a club? Do Rhode Islanders do that?”

  “I’d imagine, yeah.” I’m not a good dancer unless I’m wearing tap shoes and practice with a choreographer. Wait, human me wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean vampire me can’t bust some improvised moves. “That might be something to go out and try in the real world some night instead of just imagination.”

  “Maybe dancing’s even better than before since we’ve got really great reflexes now.” Maya doesn’t just share my line of thinking, she takes it a step further. “I can’t wait to try it.”

  Clearly, she isn’t as in hate with having fangs as I am. And somehow she hasn’t had a chance to dance yet. I wonder why but figure it’s personal, a topic to talk about some other time. For now, I want to enjoy basking in Maya’s optimism. But I can’t because no vampire calls another out of the blue just for fun. Not after the kind of night I know Stephanie had and Maya must have witnessed. Some serious blood-fueled powers got thrown down and around after I left the Blood Moot.

  “So, you must have called for a reason besides chit-chat of the social fun variety. So what’s up?”

  “Oh, I wanted to ask if Stephanie’s okay.” Her voice lowers, not exactly a
whisper but close enough. The concern in it comes through, anyway.

  “She is now.” I blink, realizing that no matter how bad I thought Steph looked this evening, she must have looked even worse before resting last night. “I just saw her maybe a half-hour ago.”

  “Good. After you left, we had a little chat about a few things. I like her.”

  “Cool. But why are you asking if she’s okay? What happened last night?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No, just said something like her duties wore her out is all.”

  “Oh, wow. Tino, be careful.”

  “Huh?”

  “Things are getting shaken up like a can of soda on a hot day.” The phone is muffled, but not enough to cover the sound of a door opening and closing in the background.

  “Yeah, I gathered that.” I remember how well-informed she seemed to be in matters regarding the king of a city she hasn’t been to.

  A gal so charming and easy to talk to must hear all kinds of things. I consider that maybe she and I share a common problem; knowing too much. And I think about the line of vampires standing in front of the king, more like a challenge than a presentation. That line included Maya herself. I lean the back of my head against cool brick. What if she's not just being friendly? Without her physical presence, the wheels in my head turn in directions they hadn't the night before. Why did Whitby bring his crew here, anyway?

  “You be careful, too.” If the king accepted responsibility for Edwin Tierney’s death, maybe Whitby and his crew were in town to challenge him over it. Penalties for ending another vamp's life usually include either death or a long sleep. But did DeCampo actually commit murder? If he didn’t, some vamp with abilities to rival the king’s is walking around free and might strike again to discredit the current leadership. I try not to panic at Maya’s sudden silence. “Maya?”

  “I will. As much as I can.” She’s being cagey. After how we talked the night before, I realize that’s not like her. She can’t speak plainly, either because of where she is or who she’s with.