Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  "So what can I do for you?" I'm dying to know, or I would be if I wasn't already sort of dead.

  "I hear you're in the PI business." So that's how it's going to be. I’m a contact, the “guy” this locally famous Rhode Islander knows. Zack Milano's one of the last people I want to help at this point in time, but his money’s still green, and I’m trying to become a dad. Maybe working on his case will reveal whatever memory landmine lies buried in my subconscious. And it won't hurt my foster application to have more in the bank account than I expected.

  "You heard right. I'm in the investigation business. And I've got time if you've got something for me to do."

  "Boy, do I ever." Zack sighs. It's heavy, like somehow the air coming from his lungs is radioactive, Chernobyl style.

  "Well, then, lay it on me, man."

  Before Zack speaks again, Stephanie is shaking her head, pointing at my bookshelf. I turn, trying to see which book she's indicating. Stephanie's literary choices always mean trouble for me later. Or maybe she knows bad news is coming, and that's why she gives me reading assignments. I can't figure out which. Hopefully I won’t take a hundred years to suss her true motivations out. But anyway, it’s clear my sire thinks Zack's little job means big trouble.

  "This problem of mine might be a little close to home for you, Tino." I hear him swallow something on the other end of the line. "I'm missing about a week's worth of time, with no idea of what I was doing. Except there's proof. I was on the air." Zack's an anchor on Channel Forty-Two news. "You get how hard that is, right?" There’s a strain in his tone. Desperation. Stephanie’s probably right, dammit.

  "Yeah, I understand." No, I don't. As far as I'm aware, I know nothing about missing an entire week from my own memory. But then again, my recall is so bad, maybe Zack knows something I don't.

  "So I need you to help me figure out what really happened. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Well, tell me where to start, and I'll see what I can find out for you." Stephanie pulls her wallet out of her handbag, points at it, then points at the phone. Her intention is abundantly clear. She's helping me remember to ask for payment. "I get half my fee upfront."

  "Okay. Do you take PayPal?"

  "Yeah, I'll text you an invoice." I’m going to charge him top industry rates, of course. News anchors are well-paid in Rhode Island.

  "And I'll text your starting point. Thanks. I really appreciate this, Valentino."

  "It's what I do, man."

  "Who'da thought, huh?"

  "Dunno.” I chuckle. “Probably Maury. The man knows everything."

  Zack laughs with me. There's something in his voice this time that I don't like. That chuckle comes with a compulsion, something that makes me want to head out of my apartment and start right away on his case instead of waiting for the payment to post. What’s worse, it reminds me of something. But once again, I can't put my finger on what it might be. I just agreed to take this job, and unless Rhode Island's most popular news anchor somehow lacks the funds to pay me, I'm on his hook. We say our goodbyes, and he hangs up first. Because of course, he does.

  "What a cocky son of a bitch." I shake my head.

  "If that's how you feel, why are you working for him?" Stephanie’s eyebrow is as arched as her tone.

  "Well, I'd say I gotta eat, but you and I both know that's impossible. I've got rent to pay on two places, so I guess that counts. And Leora needs food."

  “I don’t like the sound of that goose chase he’s got you on.” She lowers her eyebrow. “Still, he doesn't sound like an utterly horrible person."

  "He never does at first."

  "Interesting."

  I swallow even though I don't have to. It's reflex, part and parcel with hearing what sounds like bad news. Stephanie's idea of interesting is usually pretty scary. She looks harmless enough, but the kind of trouble she chases is definitely not. At least I'm fairly confident I won't have to rescue her from body-snatching Lovecraftian horrors this time.

  "So, should we get back to this?" I tap the remaining stack of paper with one finger.

  "I believe we are stuck at this part." She indicates a line labeled home address.

  "I mean, why can't I just put down the one for here?" I know the answer to this, of course. I just don’t like it.

  "Because these instructions say they will ensure your living space is suitable.” She waves a hand around her head. "The mortal authorities won’t condone this one-room apartment for a fourteen-year-old girl and her completely unrelated single male guardian."

  "Yeah." I shake my head. "And they won't like my studio space, either. I think I’ve got competition for custody, too." I tell Stephanie all about the Caprices.

  My sire sits back in the chair, listening as she drinks warmed blood from my second-favorite mug. Her eyes narrow at my account of the near-miss accident outside Rhode Island Social Services, too. Once I finish my tale, she’s drained her mug. I refill it and hand it back before she answers. With a question, of course, because she’s Stephanie McQueen.

  “That does complicate matters. I don't suppose your income is at a level where you can afford a third residence?"

  "It's not. Not even if Milano pays me five times the industry maximum."

  Stephanie is flipping through the papers at the back of the stack, some recommended guidelines. She holds one up.

  "It says here they favor environments in which the child has their own room and access to the company of other children near their own age."

  "What are you, a speed reader or something?" I blink. There’s still a lot I don’t know about Stephanie.

  "As a matter fact, I am. However, I am no expert on good environments for children in this day and age." I don’t dare ask about other days or ages. If I do, we’ll be here all night.

  "So, what do you think I should do?"

  "I just said I'm no expert."

  "Well, you're the best I've got."

  "I'd suggest calling your mortal and modern associates and asking what they know about foster care."

  Stephanie has a point. Scott’s a werewolf who also happens to be a teenager. Maybe he knows some foster kids from school. And if he doesn't, I could ask Frankie. He’s not supernatural himself, but he belongs to a magical family, somewhat literally. In fact, he and his siblings were orphaned just days after Leora's mother died.

  Wait a minute. Frankie is legally an adult. Maybe he’s dealing with a similar situation right this minute. We could help each other. I watch my sire’s lips slowly pull up, just enough to dimple her left cheek. And she’s practically glowing. It’s like she’s been watching my entire thought process somehow. But as far as I know, she’s not telepathic.

  "Stephanie, I'm so sorry."

  "Yes, generally, you are." She breaks into a full grin, which I've come to learn means she’s waxing sarcastic and not intentionally being a megabitch. "So you finally realized that you have more knowledgeable connections than little old me."

  "Yup." I stand. "Thanks for all your help so far, and the moral support while I was talking to Zack Milano." I wrinkle my nose.

  "Don't mention it." Stephanie stands too. I wonder whether she means to say you're welcome or if I should take that statement literally and not mention that she was helping me with paperwork. I figure it probably doesn't matter in the long run. “By the way, I highly recommend having a look through The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. It’s dense but a valuable read.”

  I open the door for Stephanie, and she walks toward it. She's the sort of person you feel the need to do that for. It's something like a vibe she has, maybe part and parcel with her age and experience. But it’s possible she's always been like this, even back in her mortal days. Whenever that was.

  “Hey, Stephanie?”

  “Yes?” She’s stopped and turned, her heart-shaped face tilted up.

  “You don’t have to answer, but I always wondered. How old are you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal that detail.” She touches two finge
rs to her breastbone, which is completely covered by her blouse. “But I can tell you I spent my mortal days in mysterium. My vows after my last sunset prohibit me from saying more than I already have. All else, you must discover elsewhere.”

  “Thanks.” It’s all I can do to keep from diving for my notebook, but I suppress that urge and wait until she’s out the door.

  After she leaves, I grab a pencil and jot that down. I pick up my phone to google mysterium and realize I've forgotten to send the invoice to Zack. I rectify that, and shortly afterward he gives me an address, a date, and a time. I should start working on his case, but first I do the search.

  Wikipedia says it’s a term used by ancient Greco-Roman mystery cults. Awesome. So my sire’s an ex-priestess of something. But what? I jot down another note, realizing the second question doesn’t bug me as much as the first.

  With that inquisitive itch mostly scratched, I need to make more progress with Leora's application. So I call Frankie. He tells me to go ahead and bring the paperwork down to my office so he can meet me there.

  I set that up for tomorrow night because it’s getting late and I’m tired. Frankie’s yawning on the other end of the line, so it’s a good call for both of us. I should get a good day’s rest. And somehow find time to do Stephanie's reading.

  I put on my pajamas and settle into my comfy chair to read as much as I can before heading to bed. But I don’t get much past The Burial of the Dead before I zonk out right there in the chair. That’s why I got a comfy one, of course. For falling asleep during Stephanie’s boring homework assignments.

  When my alarm goes off the next evening, it’s clear I slept later than intended. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late to meet Frankie. After changing into some normal clothes and slathering on the greasepaint I wear to keep from looking like the invisible man in mirrors, I focus on collecting the paperwork, my notebook, and the slim volume of T. S. Eliot’s poetry. What would I do without my friends, anyway? Exact details are unclear, but I don't need to be a rocket scientist to realize I'd be completely screwed without them.

  Chapter Three

  My office is on the third floor of a shabby old converted mill that stands at the border between Cranston and Providence, near Roger Williams Park. The window gives a lovely view of the parking lot, which is practically empty in the middle of the week. Most of the other tenants have bands, and they practice on weekends.

  Because of this, the hallways are uncharacteristically quiet tonight, though I can still hear the sound of a bass guitar, it's player is plucking and slapping out notes on the other side of the building. I can't place the song this particular bassline is from, but whatever it is, it's putting a spring in my step.

  I'm bopping there outside the door, sticking the key in the lock, turning the knob. A deep and raspy voice sounds behind me, one I should have expected. But I don't like expecting creepy dudes who shake me down for money. I manage not to jump, but it's a near thing. Instead, I turn around with my heel in the door, propping it open while blocking the view inside.

  "Your rent’s due." The man speaking does so around a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. He's always got one lit up even indoors where that's mostly banned and generally frowned upon. He's also got his hand out, the nicotine-stained fingers sticking up like the legs of a dead spider. Yeah, my landlord gives me the creeps. He should, he’s in the Caprice’s Mafia.

  And the night I made the rental agreement here, he killed a guy. He'd be in jail, but the only reason I know he’s a murderer is because of my vampire senses. There's no evidence for me to point the police at. But I'll get him someday, for sure. I'm willing to bet he's done way more than the crime Scott and I supernaturally witnessed. So for now, I give the man what he wants.

  "Sure, just a sec." I put my keys in my front pocket and reach for my back pocket. But my wallet's not there. Because of course, it isn't. I stop and try to remember when the last time I paid rent was. Maybe I don’t owe; this asshole could be hustling me. My memory sucks, and so does my luck, apparently.

  "Hey, Tino!" It's Frankie, walking up behind my sleazy land/crimelord.

  "Hey, buddy!" I don't quite meet his gaze, mostly because I feel like a complete idiot right about now.

  But Frankie is one perceptive dude, almost uncannily so. Living as a nonmagical guy in a family of magicians practically makes observation a survival skill. He takes out his own wallet, attached to his front belt loop by a chain, opens it, and fishes out two fifty-dollar bills.

  "I got it this time." My pal hands the money over to the piece-of-shit landlord, a wide plastic grin on his face. I realize Frankie likes this guy about as much as I do. Which is not at all. Yeah, you know this already, but trust me, it bears repeating.

  Like I said, Frankie notices almost as many details as I do. Even though he wasn't in this building the night of the murder, he can tell there's no love lost in this hallway. It reminds me of how some people trust their dogs to make character judgments. Great. My friend thinks of me fondly, like a golden retriever. And I'm not even a werewolf.

  "Have a good practice." The landlord turns his back, stuffing the bills in his pocket and flicking a plug of ash in our general direction as he goes. I can’t tell whether the rasp in his throat afterward is a laugh or a cough, but I let it and him go because I can't even deal with him right now.

  I push the door open and gesture with my hand for Frankie to walk in ahead of me. He does, and I follow, closing and locking the door behind me. Once I hear the landlord's footsteps reach the bottom of the stairwell down the hall, I speak.

  "Thanks, Frankie." I shrug. "Got no idea where my wallet is."

  "That sucks." Frankie shakes his head, then leans against my desk and raps his knuckles on it. “Have you looked in here?”

  “Nah.” I open the top drawer, and there it is. “Woah, dude. Thanks!” I'd suspect him of teleporting it in there, but Frankie's got no powers at all. And he won't unless someone turns him, which probably won't happen. There are rules about that.

  “No problem.”

  "No, I mean it. You’re a godsend.” I take the wallet out and stuff it in my back pocket. “The last thing I need is to make a million phone calls over a lost wallet."

  "So, where's this paperwork nightmare you need help to get through?" He eyes the stack of stuff I’m carrying.

  "Right here." I drop the folder full of paper in the middle of my desk, where it lands with a hollow thud. My notebook and the T. S. Eliot chapbook topple off it to one side. "It's like the size of the entire Harry Potter series."

  "I don't know." Frankie paces toward my desk, eyeballing the stack. "It can't be as exciting as a series about a magical school. More like Dianetics, only way bigger."

  "Hey, thanks for coming out to help me with this."

  "It's the least I can do." Frankie grins, which looks good on him. When I met him a week ago, he was on the verge of suicide. And now, even if he's not completely okay, at least he's functioning. I pause to have a listen to his heartbeat. It's a little elevated but not enough for him to be hiding some kind of panic mode. Good.

  "So, what do you think I should do?" I flipped to the page about addresses and home visits that stumped Stephanie.

  "Hmmm." His eyes move from left to right as he reads the text and peruses the blank spaces on the page. "This is something like what I have to fill out for Sarah and Levi."

  "Oh. Too bad you didn't bring yours over, we could have worked on them together." Like I said, Frankie and his sister and brother are orphans. But at least they’re related, and he's a legal adult.

  "I did." Frankie fishes a few folded up pieces of paper out of his back pocket. When he opens them, I see that it’s approximately four pages out of this gigantic mountain I've got in front of me.

  I do just about the only reasonable thing possible in a situation like this. I laugh. I laugh so hard and for so long that if I were still mortal, my sides would hurt. But undead people don't have that problem. Thank God for smal
l favors, right?

  Frankie is wiping tears from the corner of his eyes as he bends down to pick up the paperwork he dropped. That's another cool thing about Frankie; we've got the same morbid sense of humor. Or maybe he’s an empath. No, I’m wrong on both counts. The strain around his eyes and how he’s laughing too loud tell me it's more than that. Coupled with that heart-rate elevation, I guess at some sort of nervousness. Maybe anxiety? The least I can do is reassure him.

  "Hey, Frankie, I just want to say I'm so glad you decided to stick around. You know, in spite of everything."

  His eyes widen, eyebrows trying to hide in his hairline. I shocked him, and I wonder for maybe two breaths, whether I've made a mistake. But after he blinks, I realize it was what he needed to hear. Maybe it's a little too soon, but in this case, that's got to be better than too late.

  "I will never think you're anything but a great guy, Valentino Crispo."

  It’s not the first time he’s said something like this. And I know he means it, too. We stand staring at each other, the air between us holding an energy that's familiar yet baffling at the same time. It's like being outside during the moments between thunder and lightning. Something's charging the air, and you know that once it passes that exact energy will vanish forever. But I'm not sure what to do with it, and neither is Frankie.

  The edges of the paper in his hand crumple slightly; I'm not sure whether from nervous reflex or as some sort of grounding method. Grounding is probably a good guess. Yeah, let’s go with that. I pick up the residence page, walk over to Frankie, and hold mine next to his. We compare them like college kids from two different sections of the same course going over notes.

  "Huh, it's exactly the same." Frankie scratches his head. "I guess I get the short form because I'm trying to get custody of my siblings."

  "Yeah, I've got no line of relation between Leora and me. So I'm not sure whether I'll even get a shot at keeping my promise to Baba Yaga." I shake my head.