by D. R. Perry
“Yes, and it was the way King DeCampo set things up. But there are two reasons I can imagine for Whitby to make this mistake in particular. Hasty ignorance, or misinformation.”
“I’ll take misinformation for five hundred, Alex.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a joke. It only means I think it’s because someone gave him the wrong details while he planned this coup.”
“Raven disagrees. Their brother’s always been the sort to put the cart before the horse.”
“Well, maybe it’s a little of both.” I shrug. “How is all of this going to affect the other projects we’ve got in the works? The Mafia and that supernatural hit list they’re probably still shopping around after Kayleigh quit? And Leora.”
“That remains to be seen.” Stephanie turns and heads toward Maya, no doubt, to share these same ideas.
I wait for King DeCampo to stand up and challenge Whitby to the throne. He’s absolutely going to outdo him in a Test of Ages. But even with the bagged blood we drank, he doesn’t. I wonder why but don’t want to ask where the walls have ears. There’s a solution to that problem. My office.
Once I reach DeCampo’s side, I suggest a change in location. He agrees and gathers the rest of the group. We head back to the dais where we go through the motions of civil farewells. Mrs. Kent gives us the phone number for checking in any time we cross into the Providence city limits. She tells us we can contact Shadow to arrange for blood bags and gives us that number, too.
And just like that, I’m saddled with a handful of vampires who lost everything.
Out in the street, I realize we don’t have a car. We walk away from the immediate area, back toward WaterPlace park. The remains of the Pickerings’ van are gone; only a few shards from busted headlights are still there, glinting under the LED street lights. I take out my phone, which is intact, thank God. I dial Esther.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“You still using the office?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’m bringing a few vampires over there.”
“Well, la-di-fucking-da.”
“I don’t have my car.”
“Tino, you’re killing me here.”
I cover the phone with my hand and ask permission to give some details. DeCampo nods.
“No, the old vampire king says that the new vampire king will kill us if we don’t get out of his city in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Shitballs.” Esther’s stealing the catchphrase she always rolls her eyes at.
“You said it this time.”
In ten minutes, she pulls up to the curb. Fitting all five of us inside even the mid-size sedan, Esther drives would be a comic exercise if it weren’t for the depressingly dire circumstances. I notice as she helps us inside that her left arm and right leg are moving more smoothly. No wonder she’s in a less grouchy mood than usual.
That does nothing to cheer anyone else up, though. Inside the crowded car, it’s like we’re in Glum City at the border of Despair Town. But before we can all fall into an irreversible funk, Esther’s music comes on.
She favors ‘90s bubblegum pop. Last time I rode in her car, she played Barbie Girl by Aqua. This time it’s the Spice Girls singing Wannabe, a fitting anthem for down-and-out elder vamps trying to get everyone to remember how powerful they are and the assholes who deposed them in the first place.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” I mumble. “The right to change this music.” Nobody answers. But I really, really want that, as a matter of fact. I know from previous experience that Esther will zig a zig my ah if I even ask. Dammit. I forgot how catchy this song is, the type of earworm that digs into your brain. It’s taking over my headspace, but at least it ends when she shuts off the ignition in the parking lot. Finally, I get to stop being a Scary Spice zombie. Yeah, Scary was always my favorite. Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Esther heads for the bathroom on the first floor to take care of human biology the rest of us don’t have to worry about anymore. I bring everyone upstairs. Raven’s seen it already, but I give everybody else the grand tour, for what it’s worth. We share the bags of blood in the mini-fridge. I realize something. Well, more like someone.
“Hey, did any of you see Hargrove tonight?”
Nobody has. I think back to the piles of dust and ash Maya shared with me before the whole mess. Well, some of that was the remains of my vision pukefest, but Stephanie and DeCampo weren’t dead. Maybe Hargrove isn’t. He definitely wasn’t in the Deep One’s body double bubbles. Try saying that five times fast. Wait, don’t. I’m wool-gathering here.
We could look for Hargrove, see if he’s still got the real memories in his noggin like we do. And then, I also remember Peligro. He helped us before, definitely against Whitby’s wishes. He’s psychic as well, so we might have a decent chance of getting Providence’s real history restored if we can leverage his ability in that direction. I don’t tell everyone all of these ideas. Instead, I’m jotting them down on some paper from my desk. Remembering is at an all-time high on the scale of important things to do.
“Hey, guys, there’s still hope.” I set my pen and paper in the desk drawer, done writing for now. “We’ve got to keep on keeping on. Otherwise, we’ll lose the will to make things right again.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Tino. But there’s a reason we elders like it when the younger set runs around and gets things done for us.”
“Yes. We’re tired.” DeCampo leans against the counter running down one wall of the studio space I use as an office. “With a change like this, perhaps the best option is to sleep for a while and let Whitby have his short-sighted run at being king.”
Maya’s standing there silent, eyes wide as though his words are a physical blow. Maybe she saw something in the king’s memories while she fought the fake, or she might have remembered some detail about Whitby’s plans after coming to power. But I think those are both wrong. The expression on her face looks like someone reliving their own experience, long forgotten. My mind’s ear hears an echo, Baba’s voice saying Maya of Macedon. But a real voice, front and center in the present, derails that train of thought.
“No, Your Majesty.” Everyone turns to look at Raven, who’s been sitting in the pink saucer chair in front of Scott’s desk. “We’re going to get everything back the way it was.”
“But how?” Maya’s hands clasp in front of her chest.
“I’m taking a page out of Tino’s playbook.” Raven stands. “Last night, he showed me how much of a difference alliances with other supernaturals can make. It’s a powerful tactic, and something my brother will probably never bother doing himself. He’s too proud for that.”
Raven’s at the door, hand on the knob.
“Where are you going?” Stephanie blinks.
“I’ve got a family of teenage magicians to manage. Their parents just died. They need their dear old dad’s ancestor and the head of their family to help them through that loss and focus the energy grief generates in a constructive direction. And I think we can all agree that Whitby had something to do with the Deep One uprising.”
“That’s right.” I nod. “He’s a Pickering, too. And with magic.”
“Yes.” Raven turns the doorknob but stops short of opening the door. “He didn’t go to the mortal family, opting to drop information to the other side of that contractual agreement I renegotiated last night. Whitby doesn’t make real alliances; never has. He prefers duping people into letting him exploit them.”
“So all we’ve got to do is make or reinforce our contacts?” Maya grins. “I can do that. So can you, Stephanie.”
“Yeah, aren’t you friends with Fergus Fitzpatrick?” I pat my sire on the shoulder. “I hear he’s in charge of all the werewolves.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Go have a meeting with him. And I’ll talk to Leora.”
“Who is that?” DeCampo asks.
“The girl with the salamander. She’s Baba Yaga�
�s Lamb, and recently orphaned. Last night I volunteered to take responsibility for her. You know, all the mortal paperwork. It’s part of an agreement with Baba. So I’ve got an in with her.”
“Perhaps there is hope after all.” DeCampo straightens, finally beginning to resemble the vampire I faced during my Trial last month.
“Come on.” Raven beckons to their once-and-hopefully-future king. “There’s room at the Pickering house for all of us.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay at my apartment in Cranston.” I yawn with good reason. It’s been too long since I really rested.
“Yes, Valentino.” Stephanie grins. “And I’ll stay there, too.” There she goes, inviting herself again. Except this time, I don’t mind at all. For now.
“Just don’t give me any more reading assignments by H.P. Lovecraft, okay? Those daymares suck.”
We have a nice chuckle over that, then follow Raven out the door. I use my phone to summon a Lyft. The driver drops us all in front of the Pickering house. My car is still there. Frankie opens the front door, listens to Raven’s brief explanation about temporary guests, and nods. He welcomes them all inside the big gambreled house by the sea. Before shutting the door, he waves at me.
Steph and I get in my car and head home. I get a message from Raph Paolucci, but the crisis he was investigating has passed, so I let it wait until tomorrow.
Stephanie curls up in the comfy chair under the fleece throw that goes with it. She’s small enough to fit there comfortably. I climb into my bed, which I have sorely missed. After I shut off the light, I stare up and into the darkness, and I smile because together, we can weather Whitby’s storm.
We will take back our city.
Counting Costs
Supernatural Vigilante Book Three
There’s no fortune in favors owed.
After saving a king but losing a kingdom, Tino’s up to his fangs in debt. But he doesn’t owe money. A vampire’s word is his bond. When a rival, a witch, and a hunter all call in their markers at the same time, Tino’s suddenly got a metric ton of promises to keep.
To keep his vows, Providence’s newest vampire must find missing memories, adopt an orphan, and cure a comatose fiancé. Sounds easy, right? Wrong. The Mafia’s in his way at every turn, and the holes in his own recall are a total roadblock.
Meeting obligations is impossible if they’re forgotten. Can Tino pay his debts without cashing in his unlife?
Chapter One
I owe Baba Yaga, big time.
All I wanted to do with her borrowed power was to rescue some friends. Instead, I helped foil a world-domination plot. And I lost a kingdom in the process. At least that last part wasn’t completely my fault.
No, I’m not the protagonist in some Eurocentric epic fantasy novel. I’m Valentino Crispo, Private Investigator. Also, I’m a vampire. Which kind of sucks, but I’m getting used to it. The kingdom I mentioned before is a secret vampiric one, and yeah, there’s a king. Was, because he’s deposed now and the new guy is a nasty piece of work. But brooding about my unlife is a bad idea now. Sitting in this office is like being on display. And it’s all part of paying back that favor I mentioned earlier.
I’m applying as a foster parent for Baba’s servant Leora Kupala, who also happens to be an orphaned minor as of last month. Yeah, I’m trying to convince a Rhode Island Social Services caseworker that I’m dad material. Good thing they know nothing about my so-called undead life.
So I’m sitting across from the nice lady in the drab beige office, listening to her list all the paperwork in my immediate future. It’s a fairly straightforward process. But from what she's telling me, I’ll have to submit something the size of an Epic Fantasy manuscript in order to pay off my debt to the notorious witch. Keeping vows is part of being a vampire. We can’t go back on our word without serious consequences.
All in all, it's not too atypical that I owe Baba Yaga a favor. Last time I made a deal like this with a non-vampire, the homework was helping formulate a cure for a comatose hunter with a werewolf and an alchemist. That’s only almost done, though. Yeah, my life is pretty strange. Or unlife. Whatever you want to call it.
Here at Rhode Island Social Services, it comes as little surprise that this process is just one huge knot of tangled red tape to cut through. Since I’m an ex-police officer, following procedure shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s the tower of forms she’s putting in the expandable folder that makes me nervous. For some reason, it reminds me of fire, which no vamp in their right mind likes. How flammable is all that wood pulp, anyway? Something she says catches my ear.
"Excuse me? Could you repeat that, please?"
"I said, you'll need to schedule a home visit so your caseworker—that's me, by the way," she drops me a wink, "can ensure your living space is an adequate and nurturing environment for a young teenage girl like Leora. We always do this when someone applies as a long-term foster parent."
Shitballs. Fortunately, I don't say that out loud. I close my mouth, though, because it's hanging open. Don’t worry, my fangs aren’t noticeable unless I’m angry or hungry. Which I’m not, because it’s the opposite of smart to go meet with the living on an empty stomach.
"Oh. Yeah. Of course. Can do." No, I can't, but this nice lady doesn't need to know that. I will need super-sized help in an itty-bitty time span in order to find anything resembling an “acceptable environment.” I can't think about failing either because I'm not going to like Baba Yaga when she's angry. I also can’t abide the idea of a girl like Leora living out of a trash bag in a group home with non-magical kids. Yeah, the state makes them carry around all their possessions like garbage.
"That's great, Mr. Crispo." The lady smiles, stands, and holds out her deep olive-complected hand.
I get up too, extending my much paler one, expecting a handshake. But that's not what's going on here. Instead, she's got a business card which I didn't notice because my brain craps out on me sometimes. I glanced down and pinch the edge between my thumb and first finger. The name on it is way too familiar. Gina Paolucci. Yeah, that's right. The caseworker for this foster application is the kid sister of the best CSI at Cranston PD. Did I send him something sensitive to analyze just recently? Yes, I did. So I just might owe him, too.
Finally my memory jogs. I've met Gina before, at one of those police charity mixers. Even danced with her there. How did I not recognize her? Oh, yeah. That lousy memory of mine. For whatever reason, my brain is like a sieve. Has been for as long as I can remember. Anyway, maybe she forgot me, too. She hasn't done the typical Rhode Island name drop that usually comes with prior acquaintance in this quirky little state.
"Thank you so much, Gina, for all your advice, help, and this." I nod, smile, and pick up the overstuffed folder she’s finally finished filling. "I'll make sure to have this back to you in the next week."
"Make sure and get some help with that. If you need it, I mean. From what Raph always tells me, it was Maury's name on all your paperwork during your days at the precinct."
"Yeah, Maury sure liked putting his John Hancock all over everything." I try to stifle the nervous giggle aching to escape my throat. I fail. Yeah, she remembers me. Maybe leaving off the name-drop was some sort of test.
"Just make sure you get it in as soon as possible, Mr. Crispo." Gina's emphasis on using a formal address instead of my given name tells me all I need to know about how seriously she takes her profession. She won't make any exceptions just because her brother worked with me for a few years. If she thinks I'm not a good guardian for Leora Kupala, she'll deny my bid for custody.
Good for her. Government agencies need more people like Gina, inconvenience for yours truly notwithstanding. I'll just have to do everything I can to make sure I pass her standards.
"Will do, Miss Paolucci."
“I mean it. We process first-come, first-served.” I don’t like the way she raises her eyebrows and looks over my shoulder. But I don’t turn my head and look through the glass p
ane in her office door. “Don’t wait around on this.”
As I head out, I wrack my brain, trying to think of where Leora can stay if I get custody. I call my studio apartment the Belfry. It’s pretty much one room with a bathroom. I sleep inside a closet with the doors removed. Gina might not hate my place, but she won't consider it nurturing. And I can't show her around Baba Yaga’s hut with all the bones in the corner and the salamander living in her fireplace.
There’s a reason the witch enlisted a vampire to navigate state bureaucracy on her behalf. We’re supposed to be the experts at this kind of thing, blending in, while witches are the rebels of the supernatural world. I suspect Baba’s at least a couple of centuries behind on the mortal times and seems to suffer from a form of supernatural social anxiety. And potentially agoraphobia.
I take the elevator to the ground floor. It's dark out, so I don't have to worry about going up in flames by walking outside. Luckily, this office has night hours, like the Family Court. The fact that modern-day employers have flexible schedules at all hours sucks hardcore, but it means government services have expanded to keep up.
I get in my car and set the stack of paper in the passenger seat. As I pull out of the parking spot, a horn blasts. After turning my head hard enough for a mortal to get whiplash, my vampire reflexes manage to avert the impending accident.
Slamming on the brakes, I see the car come up behind me and swerve to one side, rubber streaking the asphalt and stinging my nose. The driver blasts his horn again and waves a fist, his mouth an angry rictus, spouting off profanities in Italian I recognize from my late grandfather’s repertoire. I know this guy. He's usually acting as the slumlord in the converted mill building where I rent office space, but tonight, he's a driver. For someone important.
I recognize the people riding in the back of the black sedan. Caprices. Not the car, the crime family, which is Rhode Island's biggest and best. Supposedly, they've gone mostly white-collar this decade. But that hasn't stopped them from ordering hits on people in the supernatural community very recently, myself included. Big mistake. On their part or mine, it's too early to tell.
