Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  They want breeding stock from magical families. I met Frankie practically right after he’d held up the Pickering’s end of that bad bargain, and I promised him it’d never happen again. And my vampiric ally Raven ensured it by renegotiating the terms. But they’re going to be the stuff of his nightmares for the rest of his life.

  Now it’s my turn to shudder, but I’ve got to shake it off. My friends need me.

  “Look, Esther.” Walking over to her desk, I set the paper on it. “I didn’t throw the scales away. I sent them out along with some other stuff to be analyzed. But I can ask to have it back when Raphael Paolucci is done testing.”

  “Wait one motherfucking minute.” Esther closes her eyes. “You mean to tell me you sent it to Cranston CSI?”

  “Yeah. I hoped the results would come back before now but—”

  “Raph ain’t sending any fucking results back.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No fucking way. Not to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t fucking know you’re a damn vampire.”

  “Shitballs.” I shake my head. Raph Paolucci is Esther’s in the loop contact. "I can't believe this."

  “Figured it the fuck out, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I grin. “So you can ask him for it then. And everything’s hunky-dory.”

  “He won’t give me shit.”

  “Uh, why?”

  “Because Alchemy fucks shit up, and he learned that the hard way. He’d stop me from doing my fucking thing forever if he could. Only reason he hasn’t is it’d take a bullet in the fucking brain to keep me from my magic. Raph promised he’d never put one there out of respect for—” She drags a chalk-stained sleeve across her cheekbone. It comes away wet, leaving pale green dust behind. “Never mind. Long fucking time ago. When shit was different.”

  “Wow, Esther.” There’s nothing else left for me to say. “I’m sorry. If I’d known—”

  “Well, you fucking didn’t, and now you fucking do.” She shakes her head. “My own goddamned motherfucking fault. Shoulda fucking known you two assholes had ties, you being an ex-baconator and all.” She’s swiveled the chair around, putting her back to Frankie and me, but I still see her shoulders and elbows rise and fall as she wipes her face a few more times.

  “All right.” I don’t even bother with rolling my eyes at the pig-related remark. Esther’s not okay right now, so a little tolerance for her slang is the least I can do. “I’ll get them back and send the sample over to you, then.”

  “Good fucking call.”

  “Do you think he’d give you the lab results, though?”

  “That asshole?” She turns the chair back around, raising an eyebrow. “Not unless I had an equivalent fucking exchange. But maybe I do have some shit to give him.” She sneers at me. “Yeah, bet your fucking undead ass I do. I'll give him you. Solves all the goddamned problems.”

  “Thanks, Esther.” Don't be surprised I'm grateful. Esther's actually doing me a favor by looping Raph in. I’m not allowed to reveal my nature to humans. But if they figure it out on their own and let it ride, it’s all good. The same goes if someone they already know isn't strictly human outs you. Esther's actually giving me something like a professional reference. At least that’s the gist of what I learned from Stephanie.

  “What the fuck ever, Tino.” Esther rolls her eyes. They’re bloodshot and salty with unshed tears. “Just get the fucking scales.”

  Yeah, those are some pissy words, but Esther’s tone is one of relief. With the air finally somewhat cleared, Frankie eases back on the anxiety, too. He tucks the Zippo back in his pocket, saunters over to my desk, and sits on the stool in front of it.

  "So, what do you want to do with this now that we're finished?" Frankie gestures at the stack of paperwork.

  "I told Gina I'd have my paperwork back in by the end of the week." I can’t ignore the knot forming in my gut as I say her name. The fact that Gina is Raphael’s sister can only be a coincidence, right? Maybe my gut instinct’s acting up for some other reason.

  "Well, I told her I'd have mine in tomorrow." Frankie shrugs. Either Frankie doesn’t know or doesn’t care that they’re related. Maybe he's got the right idea. "It looks like you'll be early and I'll be on time, then."

  "At least it seems like something's going right for us for a change." I grin.

  "Why in the hell did you have to say it out loud, shit for brains?" Esther's teeth actually grind. Yeah, I can hear that. "Don't you fucking know what a goddamn jinx is?"

  "I'm a vampire." I scratch my head. "Thought I didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing since I’m not technically alive."

  "You're mixed the fuck up in this with two fucking Lambs, two magicians, and a regular kid." Esther takes her boots off the desk and gets to her feet, clutching the neck of the nearly empty bottle in one hand. She swipes the lid from the top of the desk, then kicks the drawer closed with her foot. "I gotta get the fuck back to work and then call Raph at zero dark fucking thirty in the damn morning. You guys have fun with your fucking fake ass marriage paperwork bullshit."

  "Thanks, Esther." Frankie waves as she exits, smiling brightly. "See you later!"

  I'm not sure which oddity bothers me more, the suddenly shiny-happy Frankie or the plain-speaking Esther. It almost feels like I'm in some sort of alternate universe, but those don't exist, right? If they did, I'd have to go find the one where vampires are all millionaires, able to eat garlic inside a Church, and can go to the beach at high noon. Yeah, I seriously miss a ton of stuff, being a creature of the night and all.

  I put my signature on the last page of paperwork. After I lean back, Frankie does the same. I'm about to slap him on the back and jokingly congratulate him, but when our eyes meet, I realize my error in judgment.

  Frankie's eyes practically have stars in them, and I recognize that look. It’s like hero worship, the kind I remember from when little kids came up to me while I was in uniform. But I’m worried there’s more to it than that. I hope I haven't just led Frankie on because if I break his heart, Esther will fracking kill me.

  Chapter Five

  I say goodbye to Frankie, who leaves with more of a spring in his step than any mortal at two-thirty in the morning ought to have. I'll have to make it clear to him that I only want to be friends. I'm not gay, but even if I were, Frankie Pickering isn’t my type. Everyone I've ever had a thing for has been competent, assertive, and female. My romantic relationships tend to be few and far between, for whatever that’s worth.

  At any rate, there's still plenty of time before sunrise to do some legwork. I decide it's a good idea to check on the lead Zack Milano gave me for his case. You know, the stuff I get paid to do. I kind of need money for rent, internet, and investigation supplies. And even if I don't need groceries anymore, Leora will.

  I enter the address from Zack's text into Google Maps before I head downstairs. Once I'm in the car, I put the phone on the hands-free clamp. Rhode Island has laws about holding communication devices while you're driving, and for some reason I think it's ultra-important the police don't pull me over in the near future. I found my wallet, so it isn't that. Oh, yeah. A moving violation will look bad with that foster application.

  After I click start, I see that the Warwick address is across the street from a hoity-toity private school. Stout Academy is the institution of choice for wealthy people who want an Ivy League-level prep school without all the parochial elements for their kids. That's where Sarah goes. Levi will join her this year. Maury almost went there, but his dad lost a bunch of money in the dot-com bust. Yeah, that's right. Good old faith-neutral Stout Academy brings in the Jewish families. And, I’m beginning to suspect, most of the magical community as well.

  The exact address Zack gave me is the storefront for a music shop, the kind where you can buy or rent an instrument and then get lessons on it in the back room. A display in the window features the usual run-of-the-mill orchestral and marching band instruments, not
electric guitars or even Casio keyboards. We're talking clarinets and saxophones here. There are also several fliers in the window with tear-off strips furred along the bottom advertising the available lessons.

  I walk past the music shop just to see what’s next door. It’s a cafe, the kind that serves all the espresso drinks plus a variety of classic Italian pastries. I’m surprised at first that I can’t remember having been to this one. Before I got turned, I loved checking out places like this. But one look at the name on the sign leaves me shaking my head. I roll my eyes at the silhouette of a goat beside curlicue lettering.

  “Caprice Cafe?” I snort. “Yeah, big freaking surprise I avoided this joint.”

  “Probably a front, boss.”

  I look around for whoever just said that and see nothing. At least not until a shadow next to one of the music shop’s fliers catches my eye. But the sign itself drags my attention away. It’s got a huge graphic with a microphone, advertising voice lessons.

  Somebody short and slight stands in front of it. I blink at the half-grown fellow in the baseball cap because he’s wearing it turned forward. Atypical for his age demographic, but nothing's normal about the person addressing me. Yeah, I know this kid. Well, he's sort of a kid, but not really.

  "Hey, Sparky, what are you doing out in the middle of the night?" I put my hands on my hips, trying to project a paternal vibe. Which is probably a good thing to cultivate, all things considered.

  "I got no curfew, boss." Sparky the salamander, sometime minion of Baba Yaga, calls me boss for some reason. I don't even want to know why. I’m not the boss of him. Maybe it's because I offered to be his bestie's dad.

  "You might not, but the police will disagree." I glance at the street, hoping not to see the hut on chicken feet that Sparky inhabits with the most powerful witch in the world in the middle of it. “Uh, where’s the, um, house?”

  "Oh, don't worry, boss, it's invisible to the norms." Sparky jerks his chin toward a small historic cemetery at the end of the block. Rhode Island is full of those.

  "Because invisibility automatically makes everything okay." Oops. There goes my inside voice, coming out when I really don't need it to.

  "I just needed one of these, boss." Sparky tears a scrap of paper from the bottom of the flyer advertising voice lessons. "I'll go wait by the house now."

  "Baba Yaga wants to take voice lessons?" I blink. Stranger things surely have happened, but I can’t imagine the witch leaving her hut, even if it’s just to go into some retired opera singer’s parlor and run scales. "And what do you mean, wait?"

  "No, not lessons for Baba." Sparky smiles like a pageant contestant and jerks one thumb at his chest. "This guy."

  "Uh, I kind of know my way around vocal training, kid." I shake my head, trying to fathom the idea of a salamander getting formal vocal training.

  "I know." Sparky's smile dims, twisting into an impish little grin. "Been a fan my whole life."

  I try not to ask the million questions that come to my mind. One of these has to do with what or whoever Sparky is waiting for in Warwick at almost three in the morning. But the query that escapes my lips isn’t so useful. In fact, it’s downright conceited. But I’ve never met an actual fan before, so my reaction is more disappointing than surprising. The kid actually stops me from asking more about what kind of appointment he could possibly have at this hour.

  "You’ve seen me perform?" I blink.

  "Yup."

  "But it's been like ten years since my last show." I’m side-eying him now. "You'd have been a baby."

  “You'd think that.” The salamander kid winks, then turns his back on me and starts hightailing it toward the cemetery. I let him go because I don't want to deal with the fallout if the police come and ask me why I'm hanging out with what looks like a teenage boy in the middle of the night.

  Sparky looks like he’s maybe twelve. Could he be one of those magical creatures who ages slowly? Maybe. Can’t ask him about it now, since he’s vanished from view. If only I knew an expert on critters of the supernatural variety, I could find out for sure. But the specifics of salamanders aren’t a priority right now. Zack Milano is.

  It’s time to continue my investigation and information gathering session. I take one of the little spiral pads out of one pocket and a little golf pencil out of another. I love pockets. Thank goodness I'm not female, because I hear they have either tiny or nonexistent ones in the clothes designed for them. Someone ought to change that, but dammit, I’m a PI, not a fashion designer. If I meet one, though, they're getting a piece of my mind about pockets.

  I scrawl out some words in Latin about Cafe Caprice, along with its address. I want building and business records on that and the music shop, which is called Muse-icality. I close my eyes for a moment, sending a silent prayer that the whole Muse thing isn’t literal. The last thing I need are Greco-Roman mythological figures springing to life around the Caprice crime family, who are Italian, the modern version of Roman. Like me. Shitballs.

  It’s probably smart to get as much information as possible while I’m here about the local scene. So that’s why I jot down the names of the music instructors from each flier. And all of them seem to be either Italian or Greek. Maybe I'm lucky, and one of them is even the shop's proprietor. I also make a note to ask someone how old Sparky is in mortal years. After that, I look around for anything that smells or sounds supernatural in the immediate vicinity, and there it is. Something I never want to experience again, even if I unlive for a million more years. Deep Ones.

  The amphibious creatures who snatch bodies and impersonate whoever they can grab also drop slime. That doesn’t sound so bad until you realize the stuff’s literally full of bad luck. I had the, um, privilege of experiencing that effect first-hand in the very recent past, and I don't want an encore of that performance. It should come as little surprise to you that I hightail it across the street and back into my car, but I don't want to leave the vicinity since I'm not done investigating yet. I decide not to let those slimy assholes chase me away. In fact, I drive toward the slimy scent.

  I pull into the parking lot behind the music shop. Sure enough, half the spaces are labeled Music Store Parking Only Violators Will Be Towed” and the rest are for the cafe. I manage to see that through some unexpected and annoying fog back here. I'd be suspicious, but it isn't sparky or green, and this shop is in coastally-located Warwick. The ocean in New England likes to breathe out pea soup every now and again,u bt this bank of fog is starting to clear up. I roll the window down and take a whiff. Yup, the Deep One's slime smell is way stronger back here, and I immediately discover why.

  A set of bulkhead doors squat at the back of the building between the music shop and Cafe Caprice. There's no lock chain or other apparatus to keep them closed, either, so that can only mean one of their tunnels is under here. Body-snatching inhuman creatures or not, they've got to get around, and they don't exactly blend in. I don’t know whether any other supernatural denizens of Rhode Island use passageways like this, but I am absolutely sure the Deep Ones do. Or maybe did because Raven's renegotiation on behalf of their family also laid out rules against impersonating people without consent in the future.

  Last week was well before that new agreement. So I figure Zack Milano either got snatched deliberately because he's a celebrity or he went poking around on some journalistic quest in the tunnels and stepped in bad luck slime. That would explain where he'd been but not why he doesn't remember. Certain inhuman creatures have mood or memory altering effects on mundane mortals. If they didn't, everyone would know all about them. Secrets are important in the supernatural world, especially of the identity variety. But anyway, people remember Deep Ones. The memory whammy has to be something else. But I've got no idea what does that. Neither do the old vamps I hang out with. If they did, we'd know exactly how to counter Whitby's takeover of the vampire club. That's right. He did it with some kind of memory-wiping effect.

  Glancing up at the rear signage on the Capric
e Cafe makes me consider a third possibility. Zack’s a reporter. Well, sort of. News anchors often get their start that way, and the habit of investigation dies hard. Maybe my old rival tangled with the crime family and got himself dumped in this basement. After that, he’d be easy prey for the Deep Ones using it as a passage above ground. But it’s unclear why body-snatchers would want someone like Milano. Maybe who or whatever wipes memories has their own agenda. Or maybe Zack has dirt on the wrong person, place, or thing.

  As far as I know, he's a regular plain old mortal. Then again, I had no idea I lived next to a family of werewolves my whole life. Even I hide my supernatural details in plain sight. So maybe I'm wrong about Milano, too. But there's nothing I can do besides flat out ask him. As you learned during my whole Raph Paolucci conundrum, that gets dangerous real quick. Asking around, however, isn't a bad idea.

  I’ll need to chat with some of the older supernaturals I know, see if any of them have heard the name Milano bandied about in magician's circles. In case magical heritage comes from Zack’s mother’s side, I jot down a note to find out her maiden name and ask about whatever that is, too. All that’ll take is a phone call to Ma. She knows everybody’s business, including the Milanos’. Yeah, I guess I got all my curiosity from her side of the family.

  I look at the clock, throwing its blue-green light from the dashboard of my car. It's now almost four in the morning. I check the weather app on my phone that tells me what time the sun rises. Thank God for technology. I think I'd probably have burned up in the sun if it weren't for this app. Like I've said so many times, my memory sucks big blue donkey balls. That goes double for knowing what time it is off the top of my head like my friend Maury can do. And anyway, the app tells me it's too late to go spelunking. Which is a good thing because I'm sick of subterranean tunnels lately. At least I've got stuff to research while my curiosity keeps me up all day.