by D. R. Perry
“All of that makes sense, actually.” Now that my mind’s back on our hitwoman issue, the facts fall into place. “Would the Caprices hand Kayleigh a list of people to bump off if they thought she had no experience?”
“No. And all the more reason to figure out where she is so we can stop her.’
“Exactly.”
“So, let’s do this.”
“Where should we meet?”
Scott laughs. “At her house, of course. Race ya!”
Before I can say we should do this more methodically, he hangs up. Yup, he’s got that typical adolescent invincibility mindset. Obnoxious, overzealous teenage werewolf with his childish race. Now I still can’t wash my damn face. I’d face-palm, but the greasepaint would just smear.
I grab my opera cloak because it has pockets and hides my frame, and it’s not like I’m going to overheat. Then I put my phone in airplane mode and tuck that away in a cloak pocket. Throwing it on over my clothes, I head out the door and get in my car. It’s not far to my parents’ house in Western Cranston and the lights stay green for me. I even remember to keep to the left at the intersection with the cockamamie right turn only lane.
Once there, I park around the corner to walk down the street and turn my back on the house I grew up in. I’m thanking God that it hasn't rained. Then I look up at the roof where this all began, remembering how everything smelled and sounded the night my dad got shot.
I have to walk between that house and the one to the left of it before picking up a scent. It’s faint but there, and I look up at the sky, glad that the New England weather is atypically constant for now. In May, it has the potential to be more unpredictable than a game of whack-a-mole.
Following the trail is pretty easy, making me wonder how Kayleigh could have known to put flash-bang rounds in her holdout pistol and not realize a supernatural opponent could hunt her down with enhanced schnoz powers.
I’m walking through the old neighborhood near Cranston West High School, taking shortcuts I haven’t thought about since middle school. It’s not a trip down memory lane because there are no lanes, only backyards and cut-throughs.
Kids today don’t use these old ways. I refuse to blame that on them, though. As a former law enforcement officer, I know that it’s not legal for the parents to let children under thirteen run around without adult supervision. I’m not blaming the lawmakers, either. It’s the fault of all those American psychos who snatched kids off the street when my age was in the single digits.
I guess I just might have something in common with some of those sickos myself now. Not in a literal sense, but I can’t fight the suspicion that supernatural people have contributed to the missing person caseloads in densely populated areas. As our numbers grow, so do the missing people. No wonder vampires have a rule to limit turning.
With my eyes closed to catch Kayleigh’s scent again, I realize I should do my part in preventing that sort of thing in the future. Not the part about Honoring the West in our rulebook. Something new about feeding more carefully, or having more accountability toward protecting humans. Maybe I can pitch it to Raven as a modern method to keep vampires secret. Or even the king. Nah, DeCampo’s too scary. That’s why Raven’s the attaché.
I find the rifle-oil-laced floral-scented thread again on the ground and in the shrubs. Following it isn’t as hard as trying to imagine how Kayleigh, who’d been the sort of girl to insist on free-trade organic everything and went vegetarian at age fifteen, became an assassin. Something must have happened that I don’t know about.
Eventually, the trail lets out in a cul-de-sac south of Cranston West High School, not far from Meshanticut Lake and its surrounding park. I know which house is hers the second I lay eyes on it. This is not because of some identifying factor on the building or by way of recognizing a car in the driveway. Scott’s already outside it, and I smell him sitting in the bushes. Dammit. The little varmint beat me here. He had a head start, remember.
Sneaking over there is easy enough. The black cloth on the outside of my cloak is useful for hiding in the darkness. If I plan on making this sort of activity a habit, maybe I’ll ask Shadow how he does his vanishing trick. The dude’s practically invisible half the time. But that’d probably get me into serious levels of debt with him, so I forget the idea.
“Shh.” Scott’s heard or smelled me coming. Possibly both. Of course.
I nod. We’re looking straight into the back of the house through one of those bay windows half the houses in this neighborhood have. Kayleigh is sitting at the dining room table with her dad. They’re cleaning a small arsenal’s worth of guns, but it’s the ammo that catches my attention. Boxes of different rounds sit on the table in the window, close enough for my sense of smell to take an inventory.
Wood-tipped, silver, dragons’ breath, rock salt, and even some with inscriptions sit ready to load into clips, barrels, or magazines, depending on the firearm in question. On the other side of the table are the ever-popular flash-bang grenades, more with salt, and others that smell like they’ve got garlic in them. One box of round glass bottles is stamped with a crucifix. A rancid smell comes off those bottles, like rotten eggs. I realize it’s Holy Water. A second set of glass containers is clearly labeled Silver Nitrate. Nasty stuff to use against werewolves.
“They’re not playing around.” I realize I’m not the only one who’s considered the role of supernaturals in human disappearances. And they’ve prepared more to deal with it than I have, to boot.
“The Killarneys are monster hunters, Tino.” Scott’s got to be the world champion of stating the obvious.
I don’t have a comeback for something like that. Instead of arguing, I watch Kayleigh pick a paper up and check over it. When she turns, I see it’s a copy of the list from the Caprice office in my new building. So the Caprice Family Mafia did hire her after all.
“Crap on a crap cracker.” I put my hand over my mouth.
Mr. Killarney glances up and out the window. Over our heads, thank God, but something about his gaze bothers me. It’s almost like he knows something lurks out in his yard without using his hearing or eyesight. Which would be Scott and me, of course. I wonder whether he’s another type of magician or a psychic. If a guy is a monster hunter and gets to be Kayleigh’s dad’s age, he’s got to have an edge, right?
It’s about time we get ourselves out of there. The last thing I want is to get caught lurking outside my ex’s window. That was bad enough the couple-few times it happened when I was Scott’s age. And I’m not sure whether the embarrassment or the potential to get slain by a hunter is going to be worse.
I elbow Scott to catch his eye, then gesture away from the house. We head out, and I lead him back the way I came. When we get back to my little car, I open the doors so we can sit and talk about all of this.
“So obviously we can’t just ambush Kayleigh in her own house.” I wave one hand at the armory disguised as a suburban single-family home.
“Yup.” He fiddles with the radio until he finds Thunder by Imagine Dragons. Ugh. I don’t want to imagine any giant scaly fire-breathers at this juncture. The prospect of psychics, magicians, and hunters is bad enough.
“We’ll have to keep eyes on her somehow and then get her alone.” I tap my palms against the steering wheel.
“Since she’s not nocturnal, I’ll have to do it.” Scott side-eyes me. “Unless you can think of another way.”
“Maybe, but I have to make some calls.” I lean back against my seat and close my eyes. Lately, it feels like I’m always on the phone. I’m sick of peopling already. Haven’t these older vampires learned how to text yet? I’ll bet the hunters do it. Which brings my thoughts back around to Kayleigh’s out-of-character killing spree. “Do you think all the people she killed were vampires and werewolves?”
“Probably.” Scott’s voice is low, sad. It’s time to get his perspective on this change in our old friend. "Considering what Gramps said."
“I wonder why, though. I mean,
you remember Kayleigh from when she dated me and lived down the street, right?”
“Yeah. She wouldn’t have hurt a fly back then. I’ll talk to Gramps again, see what he knows about the Killarneys.”
“Ditto for my contacts, kid.”
Scott’s phone rings.
“Dude, you didn’t turn that off while outside the monster hunter house!?”
“Sorry.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Thought it was a regular-person house before we got there.”
“You could have gotten us killed.” I’m about to read him the riot act about how having no sidekick is better than tolerating a shitty one, but the phone keeps on ringing. I take mine out and turn off airplane mode. Sure enough, there’s a text and a voice mail from my mom.
Scott holds up one hand and answers the phone with the other. “Hello, Mrs. Crispo. No, you didn’t wake me. I go for a run every morning at five, and was already up getting ready.”
My own phone rings. It’s Maya. I answer and try explaining that I’m busy. She goes quiet, though, and I realize she’s able to listen in on Scott’s conversation. I’m about to hang up but realize I don’t mind, even if she’s in Whitby’s crew and he just might be the big bad in all this.
After setting my phone in the cupholder, I listen to Mom on the other end of the line, excitedly explaining that Dad’s been cleared to go home. Today. At high noon. Scott explains that I’m on a case and will be pounding the pavement covertly all day.
“How do I know?” Scott glances at me. “Well, Tino asked me to help him with his new PI business. Answering email and phones, that kind of thing, because it’s hard to do that while he’s in the field investigating. Yeah, he’s paying me.” Scott smiles. “My dad’s got the day off from work, though. I’ll ask if he can help you two get settled back in. You’re welcome, Mrs. Crispo. I’ll see you later.” He hangs up.
“For Christ’s sake.” I reach across Scott and push the passenger-side door open. “Get out, Boy Scout. I've got to go home. Four-thirty’s too early for me to stay out. It’s not sun-proof at Mom and Dad’s.”
Scott exits the vehicle. I tell him I’ll send a text when I get to the Belfry. I would have thanked him for the excellent cover story because it more than makes up for him spacing on silencing his phone, but he told my mom I’d pay him, so I have to. With funds I’m running short on after paying two rents. And only fictional cases.
“Shitballs,” I say as I manage not to leave tread marks on the street. Don’t blame me, it’s the sun’s fault. I’ve got to race it home now. What do you want from me? At least my car is fast.
“Tino? Are you still there?”
“Um…” I almost hang up again but can’t stomach doing that. I click the button to put her on speaker. “Yeah, I’m here, Maya.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just trying to make it back to my place before sunrise. What’s up?”
“Just that I heard you discussed magic with Raven.”
“Yeah, I bet they’re bragging about all the favors I owe them.”
“No, actually. I just happened to be there at the time. Raven’s keeping your chat under wraps for now, and I got paid a set of small favors to keep quiet about it, too.”
“Huh, that’s interesting.”
“Yeah. They said I can only talk to you about it.”
I wonder what Maya means when she says “they.” Is it Raven’s preferred pronoun, or was someone else in on the favor-granting? There’s no time to ask.
“And you want to discuss magic this close to sunup?” I pull into my building’s parking lot. A glance at the sky tells me I made it with just enough time to get inside.
“No. I just called to tell you about that favor. Thought you’d want to know about the super-formal tactics they’re using to handle this. I can’t tell anyone else. Not any of the people I traveled to Providence with. You get what I mean.”
“Wow, Maya. Thanks.” I throw the car in park, wondering where a nice girl like Maya learned Mafia-speak. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I just like having you around is all.” Wow. Maya’s not ominous at all. That was sarcasm, by the way. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Listen, if you need any help with your dad, let me know. I’ve got the feeling things are going to get hairy for you in the near future.”
“What are you, psychic?” I unlock the downstairs exterior door.
“Yes, actually. And that’s one of the reasons I got turned. I’ll talk to you later, Tino.”
She hangs up, leaving me with a lot to think about on my way up the stairs and back into my apartment. The attaché wants the subject of magic off the social topics table, possibly with the king’s agreement, or even on his orders. But why? I think about Raven’s chilly staring contest with Whitby. I remember that they look more than a bit alike in the facial features department and my theory that they’re mortally related. Wait. My memory’s on the fritz. They’re siblings but different as night and day from what I’ve seen so far. But that’s something to investigate after the immediate threat to the people on that list is squashed.
Maya’s part of Whitby’s entourage, and though she seems generally contented with her vampirism, she’s clearly seeking other company. Why else would she hang around the king’s building with Raven and the Enforcers? Why else would she keep calling me? The former could be explained by assuming she's a spy, but I’ve never been much of a hit with the ladies, so both of those points together don't make sense for spy behavior. She hinted at being psychic, so maybe she’s seen that I’m mostly harmless.
But if Maya’s psychic, maybe the Killarneys are, too. Mr. Killarney probably is. There’s yet another thing for the new guy to learn about. But I doubt I’ll manage to study up on that before I have to face one or both of the hunters in combat. With weapons specially designed to ash me and perma-kill Scott.
“Oh, Madonn. What have I gotten myself into?”
After hanging up my cloak, I stand in the bathroom, staring at the greasepaint that’s all I can see of my face. It’s been smudged now, probably from leaves on my way through the old neighborhood trails. The bottle of oil is there on the corner of the sink, and I finally have time.
For the record, olive oil can clean greasepaint off faces. I get a washcloth and go to town, removing it all. After that, I scrub my skin with plain old soap for good measure. It’s what I used to do after my high school plays, and it feels just as good now as it did back then.
Once my face is clean, I take my stuff out of the opera cloak. Next time I put it on, I’ll be fully suited up. I go into the closet with more of my old police stuff. There’s a Kevlar vest in there, so I hang it with the frilly shirt. I’m not sure whether it’ll stop dragons’ breath rounds, but the first couple of wood-tips might shatter on it instead of staking me. There's a spare, but it’s too small for Scott. I send him a text, advising that he should take a spin by Surplus Provisions over on Pontiac Ave for some gear. He texts back with a dog face. Right. I forgot he can’t wolf out in tac gear.
I plug my phone in, shower, put on pajamas, get in bed, and draw the curtains. Once there, I jot the new stuff down in my composition book. Exhaustion catches up with me, and I fall asleep right in the middle of a sentence.
Chapter Fourteen
My phone’s beeping like crazy. At first, I think it’s ringing, but I discover that there are just so many texts the chime sounds like a ring. When I check, I see that it’s a series of messages from Mom and pictures from Old Man Fitzpatrick. Apparently the old werewolf thinks I want a photo documentary of Dad’s arrival home from a nosy-neighbor’s-eye-view. It’s about three in the afternoon, which is equivalent to the middle of the night for a vampire. I yawn and roll over, prepared to go back to sleep.
Someone knocks on the door.
I sit up and stare at the spot on the curtain that the door is on the other side of. I don’t bother wishing it were see-through. If someone does open the door, the sun won’t fry me with these curtains. I hear a scratc
hy noise against the wood. It’s creeping me out because I’ve got no idea what it is. And then, there are voices in the hall.
“Oh, no, don’t leave a slip.” It’s a woman’s voice, bubbly, and with a cheesy fake Valley Girl accent. I don’t recognize it. “I’ll bring it in with me.”
“But you don’t look like a Valentino.” This voice is male. “I can’t leave a package with anyone but the resident.”
“Like, I’m practically one.” A manic little giggle ripples through the air. “This is, like, my boyfriend’s apartment, you know?”
Now I’m almost freaking out. I don’t have a girlfriend, and if I did, she wouldn’t sound like that. Or be hanging around outside the door in broad daylight, either. Whoever’s in the hall wants to steal a package from me, and I can only think of one thing I’ve ordered off Amazon Prime. It’s my new greasepaint set, which I need for tonight. I get out of bed and head to the door, standing on the side, so it shields me from the hall window sunlight when I open it. I unlock it and turn the knob, standing in a patch of shadow cast by the slab of wood that’s the only thing between me and sunlit doom. Now that I’m by the door, I smell who the mystery girl is.
“Come on in, Esther.” I stay perfectly still, waiting as she walks across the threshold so I can close the door behind her. She’s got my package under her left arm. We stare at each other, waiting for the UPS man’s footsteps to get all the way down the stairs before speaking. I’m about to welcome her to the Belfry and ask what I can do for her. I might be a blood-drinking monster, but Mom, Dad, and Mr. Rogers taught me to be a good neighbor. Esther speaks first.
“Hey, asshole, you broke into my crappy frigging place.” She brandishes her right fist, her leather-clad forearm reminding me of armor. I guess I’m not the only person who goes around dressed too warmly for May weather.
