by D. R. Perry
Chapter Seven
I park the car around the back, hiding its damaged rear end by backing in beside the garage. The last thing I want is for somebody to knock on the door looking for me in the middle of the day because they think I hit a deer, or possibly a great Dane. Or an escaped lion from the zoo, which is more Sass’s size anyway.
Maya walks right in through the back door, almost like she owns the place. But almost doesn't count. The main thing is, she's there as one of King DeCampo's allies. Which I guess also goes for me, all things considered. He's staying here, too. Even though our goal is to get him back on the vampiric throne and owning everything undead, he’s not the boss of the Pickerings. Raven is.
When I walk into the kitchen, I see the king sitting at the round four-seat table, his head bowed over his amulet. It's called a Lazakhar, and every vampire who’s become a full member of our society has one. They’re how we identify each other, verify that any given vamp is who they say they are. During the body-snatching incident, Stephanie's went missing. Finding her Lazakhar was how I figured out her body double was actually a fake. So those are useful even though I don't know the full extent of their properties and powers. At least not yet.
Right now, I’m wondering why the king has his out. Most of the time our Lazakhars remain hidden when we wear them. The way he stares at it, how his lips move, forming words in a language I don't recognize, is disturbingly familiar. It’s how I look while trying to remind myself of something. For the first time since I heard he existed, I'm concerned the king has problems he can't handle. Since he's basically a good guy, and the rightful leader of all vampires in the state of Rhode Island, I'm not happy about that prospect.
"Hey, Your Majesty. How's it going?" I stand beside one of the empty chairs at the table. Technically, I could sit down, but it’s probably better to wait for permission.
"As inexorably as time itself." Hey, I said the king was a good guy. Not that he wasn't overly formal and too wordy most of the time. Age and experience do that to vamps, apparently.
"Anything I can do?" No, I'm not brown-nosing. I genuinely want to help King DeCampo. Like I said, he's the rightful king, and I want him to get his throne back one of these nights. Besides, the guy currently on it is a conniving twatwaffle.
"I believe you're already doing as much as can reasonably be expected of such a young vampire, Valentino."
"Thanks, King DeCampo." I stare at my shoes because it's the only place my eyes will go at the moment. "Just seems like I should be making more of an effort, you know?"
"I absolutely understand." The king clutches his amulet, curling all ten of his fingers around it so he looks like he's holding his heart in his hands. For all I know, maybe he is. Or something at least as important, anyway.
"Your Majesty, do you think it'd be okay for us to spend the day here?" Maya's voice is gentle, the placement of her hand on the table within the king's field of vision is as decisive as anything else I've seen her do. And I watched her hold back a doppelganger of the king in full-on blood-fueled armor for an entire battle so that’s saying something.
"This house’s hospitality is not mine to give." The king sounds weary, like he needs an extra-long sleep. Vampires can do something like hibernation, not just sleep during the day when we can't go outside. According to Stephanie that sort of thing can last for decades. My sire took a long nap in the middle of the twentieth century. I'm hoping King DeCampo doesn't have an extended siesta in mind.
"Oh. It's you." The girl standing in the doorway flips a wavy lock of long dark hair, nearly blue with how black it is, over her shoulder. After that, she points her nose firmly in the air.
"Good evening, Sarah." Maya nods in a gesture of more respect than I'd want to give this little twit, but like I said, she's got grace. And Sarah is Raven's great-to-the-umpteenth-power grandniece.
"There's nothing good about being woken up after three in the morning." Sarah sniffs. "I'm sick to death of you vamps coming and going at all hours of the night while I'm trying to get my beauty rest."
"And I'm sick to death of hearing complaints from whelps like you." Raven looks down their nose from the other doorway to the kitchen, meeting Sarah's upturned gaze solidly halfway. Now I see where Sarah got her chutzpah.
"Whatever." Sarah rolls her eyes. Her attempts to out-snark a vampire with centuries of experience at slinging insults floats like a lead balloon on Lake Michigan. Because of course, it does. At least I'm not the only person getting outclassed on the regular by their own family. Along with this observation comes the knowledge that I'm not angry or bitter at Sarah. With this much in common, we might end up as friends someday for all I know. Yeah, I'm an optimist. So sue me.
"If you need sleep, I suggest you get it before your alarm rings and you head out to those lessons you're so fond of in the morning." Raven's leaning in the doorway, clearly enjoying the little family spat. When it comes to arguments, Raven tops the leader boards practically every time. The only person they don't bother initiating one with is King DeCampo. Considering what I've seen of his combat skills, I don't blame Raven one bit.
Sarah turns and shuffles off toward the stairway. I watch her go until the door closes on her retreating, bathrobe-clad back. Once she's gone, Raven steps into the room to take the seat across from King DeCampo. They reach out with both hands, laying them palm up on the table, cupped. The king only gazes at them longingly. I think. It's hard to suss out any emotional tells with him. He's so stoic most of the time, I'm surprised to witness even the faint trace of melancholy he’s revealing this evening.
"Valentino, unless things change spectacularly for the worse, you always have my hospitality." Raven doesn't look up as they speak, but the gravity behind their words carries the full effect of an honest-to-goodness vampiric vow. The one vampire I owe the most favors to has given me a permanent pass into their living space. So that’s a thing I never expected.
"I'm not sure how to thank you, Raven."
"Continue to serve our King. That's thanks enough."
"Okay." I nod. “So, I don’t want my stay to be one-sided. Is there anything I can help either of you with while I’m here?”
“As a matter of fact, some troubling news has come to my attention.” The king looks up as though hanging his gaze on me. It’s leaden. “A youthful perspective would be much appreciated.”
“I’ve got that. What’s this about, then?”
“Please have a seat.” The king gestures at the one to his right. As I lower myself into it, Maya takes the one on DeCampo’s left. “Let me show you what I’ve seen.”
The king places his amulet in the center of the table and murmurs a few words in that mysterious language again. My eyes widen as it lights up, projecting a red-tinged display of images. Along with them comes a tinny soundtrack, reminding me of the AM radio my dad listened to back in the day. I see a series of numbers; dates and times on a television screen. And there, reporting on a story about photo evidence of a superhuman being, is my client Zack Milano. Here’s his on-air appearance during his missing time, then.
The images shift, showing a dusky-skinned man with silver-tipped dreadlocks and claws on his hands, like Wolverine from the X-Men comics. The film quality is grainy, not even close to high-definition. All the same, I know exactly who it is. King DeCampo. My mouth drops open as I listen to Milano’s voice-over.
“Are there superheroes in our midst? How about villains? Which is this vigilante? Did this superpowered man intervene on the side of the law or the criminals during an Organized Crime investigation?”
King DeCampo waves his hand and mutters again. The images zoom in on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. I blink, then rub my eyes to make sure they’re working properly and I’m actually seeing this. Then, for final verification, I read them out loud.
“Suspect in the murder of Detective Larry Tierney found dead on Oakland Beach.” A square to the right of the ticker shows a picture of a wiseguy whose murder I witnessed during a de
ad-blood vision, and DeCampo definitely isn’t the killer. My skeezy landlord at the studio is. I shake my head. “Shitballs.”
“Someone’s using us to deflect attention from their own crimes.” DeCampo shuts down his little hologram show and lets the Lazakhar rest against his shirt again. “Or perhaps, toward some end still unknown to us. And I’ve no idea who or how.”
“But—” I drag my notebook out of my satchel, the one I brought out of my apartment at the beginning of all this. “Your Majesty, can I speak frankly about something we discussed privately back in June?”
The king’s mouth hints at a grin and his eyes downright twinkle, belying his formal speech. “You may. Proceed.”
“Good, because I think their ends aren’t as mysterious as you believe.” I flip through pages until I find the notes I want. “You got framed in the vamp community for Edwin Tierney’s death, which happened before he could turn me. And now, the mortal news is making you out to be some kind of comic book vigilante—”
I clear my throat, glancing at Maya because something’s bugging me. “And all because of claws supposedly only you have. But we all know your power isn’t unique. Someone else knows, too. A vampire who’s connected to the crime family mentioned in that news report. I’m sorry, Maya. I don’t want to make assumptions, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure you have another piece of this puzzle.”
“It’s cool, Tino.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine to take me on a trip down her own memory lane. Before that talent of hers blocks out all sight and sound in the present, I see the king and Raven add their own hands to the pile.
And there’s Maya standing outside the triple-decker in the Stadium neighborhood of Cranston that used to belong to Tierney before it burned down when he died. Because it’s all from her perspective, I know that down in the basement, Edwin is already a pile of ash. Whitby is with her, holding her by the wrist, forcing her to clasp hands with good old Detective Larry, who was a mortal in the know.
In their combined grasp is something we never get to see. But since Maya's touching it, I know the thing is living and warm, humming with magical energy. Maybe it's a person's hand, but the spot they'd be standing is obscured by thick, gray smoke. The object's identity is less important than how it makes Maya feel. And I feel every emotion coursing through her heart at that past moment. We all do.
Blinding rage. With a thick coating of guilt.
The feeling is so familiar I almost mistake it for my own. It’s how I felt when I couldn’t stop the older mortal Pickerings from suicidally leaping in front of a pack of Deep Ones. And this vision comes with more context. We all learn that someone, possibly Whitby, forced Maya to do more than what we’re seeing. Whatever whammy he had put on the vampires in Providence to make them forget DeCampo is their rightful monarch, he managed to pull it on Larry too. With Maya’s unwilling help, Larry reported the mocked-up version of the murder back to Stephanie.
When we all return to the present, Maya’s shaking. I don’t blame her. I’d put my arm around her if the king wasn’t sitting between us. But DeCampo surprises me by doing it himself. She leans toward him, too. Hides her face against his chest like Ma sometimes does with Dad when there’s a tear-jerker on television.
I blink. You would, too. An honest-to-goodness vampire king outclasses yours truly every day of the week and twice on Sundays. Raven’s shaking their head. I can see them from the corner of my eye. I’d rather look at them right now, so I do. And Raven’s face tells me everything. The raised eyebrow and the smile fighting for dominance on the attaché’s features holds no irony or trace of pity for my plight. Instead, they clearly find my knee-jerk assumption amusing. Which raises my thoughts to a much more optimistic level.
Maya and DeCampo aren’t a thing. They’re related, although I’m not sure how at this point. It’s clearer now that this isn’t like Dad embracing Ma; it’s like one of them comforting me after a nightmare. Which leads me back to the facts as I’ve just seen them. Whitby forced her to provide a false version of events, contributing to the truth being overwritten by whatever that other power in the object was. And he did it to harm one of her family members, depose him, maybe even get him killed.
Fuck Whitby.
I grab my notebook, flip to the first blank page, and scribble all that rage and the details surrounding it down on paper in my Church Latin. I press so hard the nib of the pen threatens to break through the top sheet. But I don’t care about that. All that matters is getting this down so I never forget it. Because if I can only remember, I can gather the rest of my supernatural gang together and do something about it.
Raven’s been watching me the whole time, their face back to inscrutable for now. But I know they’ll back me because we saw the same thing. And when DeCampo looks up, I know Hell can’t match the fury he’s carrying around now. The woman scorned has that too, but she’s not alone in this anymore. With folk rallying around her now, Maya’s all but guaranteed victory.
I stand up, practically toppling the chair as I push away from the table. The time to act is now, dammit. Whitby’s shit has gone down too long as far as I’m concerned. But the others don’t even lift a finger, let alone stand up. I blink.
“What gives?”
“Excuse me?” Raven just loves answering my questions with more of the same. I’m almost used to it.
“Aren’t we going to march into Providence and kick Whitby where it counts?”
“No.” Maya leans back in her seat, unentangled from the king. “We still don’t have everyone and everything we need.”
“But he’s a monster, and we all know it now.”
“We’re just as outnumbered as we were the night we came out of that tunnel. And it’s almost sunrise.”
“Oh.”
“We’ll also need harder evidence than a collection of incomplete memories.” King DeCampo sounds wearier than a hollow Bristlecone Pine. For all I know, he’s got a five-thousand-year lifespan like one of those, too.
“I’m going to go out and get that for you.” And I will. Nobody should go through what Whitby did to Maya. And I’m also investigating Milano, who I happen to know was missing when that news report aired. For all I know, the two incidents are connected in more ways than even I suspect. And it all comes back to what or whoever added the memory-altering mojo to the mix.
“Good. But wait until tomorrow night.”
“Will do.” I'm not going to wait. Not really. Old vampires forget about the internet. But there are tasks, preparations, and knowledge to gain, and I have methods.
I reach down for my notebook and see something I entered not long ago. It’s about the Deep Ones and how they’re related to both Raven and Whitby, who are brothers from back in their mortal days.
Both of them have a claim on the Pickerings’ traditions and arrangements, but while Raven made it their goal to become head of the magical family, Whitby went straight to the monsters. Even though he was the one who inherited magical ability. Raven was mundane until they got turned.
My notes are only confirming the conclusion my gut wants me to follow. Whitby’s not resting on his laurels or his stolen throne. He’s still working against us, putting DeCampo’s image out there to limit his activity. He used footage from the Deep One’s copy of the king, but that means he was prepared to lose their help eventually. Whitby must have other magical creatures on speed-dial to do his dirty work, make it harder to trace things back to him. And for now, we don't know what’s in his arsenal, only who he's trying to screw over with it.
“Listen, Your Majesty.” I gulp out of reflex at my audacity, addressing him with what sounds like an order. I’m subordinate to him in every imaginable way and vampires can Rage when insulted, so this is riskier than it sounds. “You need to stay in. No going out for anything. I know we’re short on blood, but the others will just have to bring it back for you.”
“I’ll see what we can do tomorrow.” Stephanie’s voice from the open doorway isn’t e
ntirely unexpected.
“It’s about time you got here.” Raven taps the watch on their left wrist. “Let’s go and do our busywork.”
My sire and the king’s attaché stalk through the kitchen and into the parlor, which has been tweaked to let no light in. They remind me for all the world of a pair of cats. I don’t bother asking what work the two of them are doing, either. Because I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy.
I bring my notebook and the pen with me as Maya leads the king and me down into the basement. A short hallway with four doors off it is at the bottom. I’m shown to one of these. Behind it is a small, Spartan space with stark gray walls, a threadbare recliner, and an old school desk with the chair attached. The belly of the desk holds markers, Post-its, string, and tape. This place is a conspiracy mapper’s dream. A gooseneck lamp is clamped to the side, bowing its head over the smaller than average workspace.
I’m used to tight quarters, though, so this doesn’t bother me. Not having my laptop does. But the electrical outlet has room for my phone charger so I can use that if I need to access the web. I plug it in to let it charge up, then begin looking over all my notes on the supernatural, starting with the entries from the night Stephanie turned me.
At least Leora’s paperwork is already done. It’s going to be a busy day.
Chapter Eight
The room I’m staying in is windowless and has no clock. The notes I make take so much of my attention that I lose all awareness of time's passage. I know it sounds impossible, but it’s not. When you remember that I’m undead, it makes sense. There’s a reason the lore says vampires get distracted by details.
My feet don’t fall asleep, I don’t need bathroom breaks, the urge to yawn doesn’t derail trains of thought. Fatigue is not an issue. I’d say I don’t get hungry, but that’s not exactly true. Nothing I do in that room, from reading Latin to writing and tacking up sticky notes to connecting them with string on the wall, requires using blood.
