by D. R. Perry
Unexpectedly, Peligro Cabeza has got my back. Or he's holding me back. Or both, maybe. This could be what he saw coming earlier, and why he never broke contact with my arm. His intervention gives me the few moments I need to calm the hell down, probably saving my life in the process. Attacking a king publicly is grounds for immediate termination. I'm talking public execution here. I'd thank Peligro, but don't want everyone to know what just happened. Subtlety is par for the course in vampire courts.
"And what value do your childe’s services carry, Miss McQueen?" As if Whitby doesn't know already.
"He has visions related to dead blood, which I believe you'll find useful. In specific, this evening."
I close my eyes again and take a deep breath I don't need. I hate my special vampiric power, mostly because it comes with an extremely embarrassing and painful side effect—vomiting. Now do you see why I’m no big fan of this whole vampire gig? Maybe in a hundred years I'll feel differently, but I don't have that kind of perspective right now. And there's no guarantee I ever will.
"Yes, I do believe that will be extremely useful. Your request is granted."
Mrs. Kent escorts Stephanie to the left of the dais, toward the area I remember from DeCampo's reign reserved for selecting bagged blood from the supply kept for court vamps by the king. I'm about to follow, but Peligro steps in front of me, shaking his head with his arms crossed over his chest. I'm about to disregard his nonverbal warning, but another far more dire one makes its point behind me. Literally.
I flare my nostrils taking in a breath. The scent of aged oak emanates from between my shoulder blades, where what I can only assume is a stake presses. If only that were a nice rib-eye instead of wood, but what can you do? Nothing, not with my luck anyway. With Whitby in front of me, Kent with Stephanie, and Peligro at my side, there’s only one other person who could be on the other end of that wooden death stick. I go with my first instinct and do the only thing I possibly can in the situation. Snark off, of course.
" Hargrove!" I put my hands up palms out. "Good to not see you coming." I chuckle, hoping I don't sound like as much of a lunatic as I feel at this moment. But that probably doesn't matter. I've already made my first impressions, and they are the opposite of good. “You’ve reminded me how much I miss Shadow. Have you seen him?”
"Move it, whelp." Hargrove’s steely voice sounds from slightly to my right, telling me he's a southpaw. A detail I probably noticed before but just don't remember, because of course I don't. One of these nights, I’ll have to ask Steph if there’s any way to fix my memory. “Shadow’s none of your business,” he hisses in my ear.
Hargrove was one of King DeCampo's enforcers, and it appears Whitby has recruited him to serve in a similar capacity. This makes sense because Hargrove stands about six foot three and is built like a linebacker. Vampires get extra strength, speed, hearing, and sight by burning blood, but it never hurts to start from a position of natural-born power. Maya could probably take Hargrove in a fight, but I sure can't. My only hope in a direct confrontation would be to outrun him. I'm pretty speedy even for a vamp. But of course, this isn't the time or place for that.
Stephanie sold my services to Whitby, and Hargrove is only making sure I keep her side of the bargain. I close my eyes and think of DeCampo, and how he appeared so deflated in the Pickering kitchen last night. And Maya. I'm doing this to get him back in charge here, or at least help us all hold out until we can manage that. A vamp’s got to do what a vamp's got to do, so I open my eyes again and step forward, letting Peligro and Hargrove lead me back behind the throne.
Chapter Nine
I've been in this hidden meeting room before. Last time I was here through one of Maya’s psychic link things. She showed me Whitby discovering a pile of ashes where everyone expected King DeCampo to be. That was the night he got body-snatched by Fake Stephanie and her Deep One allies during the whole debacle that got Whitby on the throne in the first place. If only they’d kidnap Whitby, they’d spare us all a heap of trouble. But the new treaty protects everyone including usurping assholes, so them’s the breaks.
I consider texting Leora and asking if we can summon Baba Yaga's hut directly into this room, but this building is a vampire-only zone. Baba’s a witch with godlike powers, and Leora is the last surviving member of a family of mortal magicians. The last thing I want to do is start a war between the magical sect and vamps just because I hate the idea of making visions for Whitby's amusement out of dead blood and an upset tummy. Besides, I promised Steph I’d help her, and this is what she wants me to do. So blah, blah it is.
The sound of leather-soled wingtips on marble taps behind me. Hargrove herds me into a wingback chair using the stake he didn't need to threaten me with. But he does anyway because he’s a sadistic son of a bitch and that's just how he rolls, apparently. I would've gone and sat down without that kind of incentive. Yeah, I respect Stephanie's judgment that much. I guess I'm a mama's boy. So sue me.
Whitby approaches with a bag of blood in his hand. He passes it to me, and I take a moment to glance at the name on the label, which says it’s courtesy of Rhode Island Blood Center. It's Michael Angelone, a name I don't immediately recognize.
"Can I get a cup?"
"Just sink your fangs into the plastic and drink, whelp," Hargrove snarls.
"Now now, no need to be so brutal with the childe." Whitby shakes one finger at Hargrove like a mother admonishing a misbehaving kid. I'd be relieved, but dammit, I used to be Cranston PD. I know a good cop-bad cop act when I see it. I also know how to navigate that sort of dynamic.
"I'd really like a cup if it's possible. Even just paper is fine, nothing fancy." I ease my lips into a gentle grin that's entirely fake but at least convincing, if all my effort at theatre rehearsals still means anything.
"I'm terribly sorry, Valentino, but we haven't got any drinking vessels on hand at the moment. You understand."
"Oh, yeah, totally." And I do. Whitby wants to humiliate me, but look like he's being a nice guy while he does it. What a piece of shit.
To a vampire, food tastes like cardboard. Stuff that isn't food and isn't blood tastes even worse. That includes the plastic encasing the dead blood I’m being socially strong-armed into drinking right now. It's like biting down on decaying bones, stuff that's been stuck under a swamp or bog for maybe a thousand years. Sounds gross, right? That's because it’s what plastic actually is. The fleshy bits of dead dinosaurs, long gone. Eww.
But at least the blood tastes relatively normal. There's a slightly more metallic element to it than most, a flavor I've begun to recognize as the hallmark of blood from a person who has since passed away. For most vamps, blood like this is a little less nourishing, like junk food. For me, it’s got a less-than-nifty side-effect, which is why Whitby's feeding it to me in the first place. I swallow it, finishing the entire bag. The best way to weather my allergic reaction to dead blood is drink as much as I can of it. Take that sub-lingually, homeopathic doctors!
It might seem counterintuitive to drink more of what makes me sick in the first place, but it isn't the blood that causes my massive vomiting, it's occupying the memories of the poor sap who died. I never tripped on acid, but it reminds me of the bad sort of vision-thing folks I know who have tried it describe. Drinking the entire bag of blood will actually help me recover from the process of puking my literal guts out. Yeah, it’s that bad.
I topple out of the chair as I feel the effects of my vision begin. That's for the best as far as the upholstery is concerned. When vampires vomit, it's messy, dusty, and tends to stain fabrics. This room is still decorated in DeCampo's style, and the last thing I want to do is sully the true king's last remaining decorative elements. Regurgitated ashes are messy.
On the floor, I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest. I throw my head back, relying on gravity to carry any debris away from my mouth. It's not a technicolor yawn, more like red and gray. Like I said, it’s disgusting. Thankfully, the memories of Michael An
gelone carry me away from the gory scene of my vision-having vampire self.
I'm in a dining room, the formal kind. The table has a clear glass top, supported by baroque marble carvings of dolphins in a wannabe Renaissance style. Mirrors line one wall, while the other is stucco, pale pink. The decor here is Nouveau Mediterranean circa 1999. I turned my head, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. It's a bit of a relief to actually see one, all things considered. However, it's not the face of Valentino Crispo glancing apprehensively at me.
Michael Angelone was about my height with my coloring, but he sported a goatee and shoulder-length wavy hair, sun-streaked like a surfer’s. He had a tan, too, and a wiry musculature that a certain sort of woman favors. One of said women sits at the head of the glass-top table. I recognize her immediately. It's Francesca Caprice.
"You'll do everything you can to get information on Miss Kupala and her family situation. I have it on good authority she'll need a home in the extremely near future, and I intend to be the one to provide it."
"Yes, ma'am." Michael shifts his weight from one foot to the other instead of leaving to do her bidding like the good little Mafia soldier he’s supposed to behave like.
"What is the problem, Michael?"
"I can't figure out why, ma’am."
"Yours is not to reason why, Michael. Don't make me finish that sentence."
"But I thought—"
"You're not as special as you’ve been led to believe." One of Mrs. Caprice’s blue eyes drops a wink that strikes a healthy measure of fear into Michael's heart. I feel it pause, then continue on at a hastier clip than before.
"All right, I'll do it. Where do I start?"
"With the good old Coventry School Department. Be sure to get there before either the magicians or the vamps. If you don't, our little understanding will come to an end, among other things. Capisce?"
"Perfectly, ma'am." Michael turns toward the door and takes two steps in that direction.
"Oh, and Michael?" Her voice stops him, one foot in the air.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"No more fraternizing with those Irish hunters. I don't care if one of them is engaged to your cousin.” She clears her throat. “Look at me, Michael.”
He does.
“You will obey me.” Francesca smiles again. “And you’ll succeed. If you don’t, I’ll let Carmine have his way with you.”
Michael swallows past a huge lump in his throat. Part of my experience of his memories are his surface thoughts. In his mind's eye, I see a young man I don't recognize and a woman I'd know anywhere. Kayleigh Killarney, my ex from high school turned hunter of supernatural creatures like me. He’s afraid for them. Not for their lives, but for their souls. And his own. Whoever this Carmine person is, he’s a harder case than Michael the boy-toy.
The next thing I know of Michael's experience is being outside at the edge of Tiogue Lake in Coventry. It's sometime in the early morning, just as the sun's tinting the horizon cotton-candy pink, and he's screaming because there’s so much smoke surrounding him. It’s not a fire; there isn’t any heat. Instead it’s downright clammy, like an autumn fog.
But it doesn’t behave like fog. At its center is a humanoid figure, making me start with recognition that’s almost immediately swept away. That thick slate smoke barrels down his throat, up his nose, and wherever else it can get in. And it consumes the guy, scrapes him clean like soap scum from tile. Michael dies, of course. All he can manage with his last suffocating breath is a name. Carmine, of course. My own mind returns. Shitballs.
I come out of the vision, realizing I said that last word out loud and hoping Whitby isn't offended. Oh, who am I kidding? I don't give a rat’s ass whether my language pisses off the pretend king of Providence, but now I have to think fast about what to tell him I saw. I definitely don't want to give him the whole truth, and realize Stephanie made no restriction on whether I can lie as part of her agreement. I can protect Leora and Kayleigh and my debt to both of them. It’s all fair game from here.
"What did you see?" The fake king of Providence leans over, his face all I can see under the thin brim of his ever-present Trilby hat.
"Mi-Mi-Michael" I pitch another hurl, inwardly lamenting the fact that I sound like GLaDOS from those Portal games. If Jonathan Coulton also writes me a theme song, I won’t mind feeling like that so much.
My spectacular display of the physical effects of my psychic powers puffs out instead of slopping to the floor. Yeah, it's all ash this time, which means part of the lining of my stomach came up. Whitby scuttles out of the way just in time to avoid getting any on his suit. Dammit.
"Stand back!" Peligro bursts into the room, both hands up and out like he’s commanding a trio of velociraptors as he steps between Whitby and me. "Give him blood! Air!"
"Your welcome in my Court is wearing thin, Mister Cabeza." Whitby's eyes narrow as he glares at Peligro. I'm actually concerned for the kooky guy’s safety, but I can't do anything but remain indisposed.
"Your Majesty," Hargrove rolls his eyes. "The idiot’s got a point. Crispo can't talk if he can't stop—" He jerks his chin, wrinkling his nose. “Whatever he’s doing.”
"I suppose you have a point." Whitby turns his back on me, then issues orders with a wave of his hand. I'm getting sick of that gesticular bullshit from him. "Get him some fresh blood."
Hargrove jerks his chin at Peligro, who scuttles around to the side of the room I can't see. I hear a clink of glass and catch a whiff of something that just might be the nectar of the gods. Which is to say, blood. It's the only thing that smells this good to a vampire like me. I grok why Peligro Cabeza’s on Whitby’s shit list, too. His antics reveal that there were drinking glasses here all the time. I try to snort out a laugh, which gets flooded by another gout of ash from my gut. Whitby is so full of shit, he could be a day-old colostomy bag.
It's Peligro who sits me up, dabs at my mouth with a bandanna, and holds the cup of sustenance to my lips. As bad as my memory is, I won't forget this kindness, even if he didn't dare deliver it before he got his orders. Self-preservation is only common sense, after all.
I realize the precognitive vampire has stayed at Whitby's Court even after helping Maya, surrounding himself with enemies deliberately. Yeah, I know he's not specifically my ally, although I have no idea whose side he's on. Maybe the guy’s got his own, but I can’t ask or assume right now. Acknowledgment of common decency will have to do for the time being.
"Thanks," I mutter. My voice sounds harsh and raw. I won't be winning any karaoke contests this evening, which is fine since it's been almost a year since the last time I tried one of those anyway.
"Don't mention it. Really. And take my wife. Really." Peligro's eyes roll, but not in an ironic way. They remind me of the one time I saw a pig slaughtered before a block party in my neighborhood. The trussed-up animal’s eyes rolled like that as the blade approached its throat. I realize Peligro's in mortal danger every minute he’s here, and I make myself a silent promise to help get him out of it as soon as I possibly can.
"Now." Whitby lays down a handkerchief before perching on the edge of the wingback chair, as though he thinks it's filthy. I sat in it, and can assure you it’s not. "What did you see, Crispo?"
"Michael Angelone. He got some orders from the Caprice Boss the night he died."
"What kind of orders?"
"I don't know," I lie, and then omit. "He got them before the vision started. But he called that meeting to complain about them, so he didn’t like his job at the end. Oh, and the Boss told him to stay away from the Irish hunters and the magicians."
"So." Whitby stands, leaving the handkerchief behind on the edge of the chair seat. Hargrave picks it up and tosses it in a wastebasket next to the chair. "The crime family is in the know."
"Sure seems that way. Which sucks." I attempt a grin, which turns into a grimace. My stomach still hasn't settled. I take another sip from the glass of blood.
"Your opinions are not my conce
rn. What else did you see?"
"The room they were in was super-swanky. Marble everywhere, glass-top dining table; had to cost a fortune to decorate that place."
“Interesting.” I don’t like Whitby’s smirk. "And what was the overall mood?"
"Michael was scared, which is saying a lot, considering he's a Mafioso, and the way they were talking, he's at least a step above Enforcer." I decide to take a page out of Raven's book and phrase part of my answer as a question. "Do you know if he's a hitman?"
"I know who Angelone was. However, the fact that his employer's orders disturbed him is enlightening." Whitby stands, then turns his back on me. One of these nights, I'll be in a position to stab him in it, but I recognize now is not the time. My elders were right when they told me as much back in the Pickering kitchen. "Thank you for this evening’s services, Crispo."
"This evening’s?" I can't help it, my voice squeaks. I hope Whitby thinks it's just part of recovery from all the throwing up and not a display of the apprehension I'm failing to hide.
"Yes. Expect to hear from me again next time I've got this sort of lead."
"Oh." I can't think of anything else I can reasonably say in his company without losing limbs or my unlife. Or both.
"Send him back to his sire after he's decent again." Whitby stalks out the door, closing it behind him firmly.
Hargrove retrieves a broom, dustpan, and trash bin from some dark corner while Peligro helps me to my feet. With those implements, plus a set of brushes and cloths, they clean up my mess and my person. Hargrove empties all the detritus into the trash can, picks that up, and heads out the door with it. Peligro escorts me back to Stephanie, a mask of benign vacancy on his face. But I know better. I need to get all of us out of our current situations as soon as I can.
