Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set
Page 39
Glancing over my shoulder, I try to catch a glimpse of the lady's name on her desk placard. All I manage to see is she's got no alphabet soup after her name, which explains why Gina's doing the visit. Frankie has turned his head, too. Maybe he saw the full name, so we can see if she's got any Caprice connections. He's more likely to remember it since he doesn't have my memory issues. It's good to have a partner again, even if this is a totally different dynamic than the one Maury and I shared on the force.
And then I notice Frankie’s got his hand in his pocket, the one with the alchemical Zippo. He eases it out, points it in Francesca Caprice’s general direction, and flicks out a flame. I hold a breath I don’t need, but despite a faint smell of singed seaweed and a spark of blue I suspect nobody else can see, nothing happens. Mrs. Caprice shoots Frankie a wink. Something that feels like a small boulder drops in the pit of my stomach.
I steer Frankie toward the stairs because the Caprices are waiting for the elevator. At least Sebastian seems oblivious to everything that just happened. He’s finished screwing his earbuds in. Faint music emanates from them, but I recognize it. My vampire ears tell me he’s listening to the Sweeney Todd soundtrack. Not the movie, the original Broadway cast recording. Sebastian Caprice is a theatre geek. Who knew?
I set that thought aside and hurry down the steps. Frankie follows after. Instead of getting into the car, I try to stick to the shadows near the exit. Waiting for the Caprices to leave doesn't take long. I watch them go, and they seem oblivious to my presence. Frankie's, too. Once they're gone, I count to sixty, waiting a full minute before we leave the shadow of the building.
"What's that about, Frankie?” I gesture at the pocket where he’s stowed the lighter.
“Just figured any edge we can get is a good thing.”
"I have a mundane but probably still practical idea. Avoiding the competition for now." I pressed the button to unlock my car doors, and we get in. "I just found out this evening that the Caprices are in the know. We’ve got no idea exactly why they want an orphaned Lamb in their house. I'll look into that later, but for now, we need to meet Esther at her lab. Let her know we're on our way."
"Sure thing." Frankie texts while I drive. He's either writing a novel to Esther or handling more than one conversation at the same time. I don't pry. It's not my business who he's texting, and if it's something important, I can trust Frankie Pickering to tell me, right?
Frankie and I hustle up the stairs, heading straight for 219, the studio space where Esther does all her magical tinkering. I'm not sure exactly what they are, but they involve alchemy, one of the three disciplines magicians like her can learn. Or are born with. Or both, I'm not sure exactly how that works. At any rate, I've never met a magician who can do more than one type of magic, but my experience with them is limited. Anything beyond that kind of basic info is going to have to come from an actual magician. I'm just a vampire and a new one at that.
Before I knock, the door shimmers green. I don't dare touch it now. That hue means Esther's warded the door, which could be dangerous. Who am I kidding? You know that saying about not angering wizards? You know that other one about not liking the green guy when he's angry? Esther just happens to be both magical and constantly pissed off. I think I've seen her smile once, and that was when I broke Kayleigh Killarney’s back. So yeah, I don't knock. I just stand there and wait.
I'm rewarded for my patience by my werewolf buddy Scott opening the door and letting us in. He smiles as he steps aside, his entire attitude a distinct contrast with the surly magician bent over the workbench in the middle of the studio space. She's got what looks like a chemistry set covering the entire black enameled surface. I always wonder whether she went to a defunct high school's yard sale to get half her equipment.
Beakers, flasks, stands, and test tubes of different heights and width compete for my attention. Some are filled with a liquid that bubbles on its own, others appear to contain sludge, but the vast majority stand empty, or lean because they sit in crooked racks. The entire rig looks so haphazard, I'm amazed she hasn't burned down, blown up, or otherwise decimated the old mill building that houses all the studios, including our office directly upstairs.
"Hey, Esther." I speak softly, attempting to keep from startling her. The last thing I want is a chemical spill. Or a magical spill. Or both.
"Just a fucking minute." Esther waves her hand above her head as though shooing my greeting away like it's a fly or a pesky mosquito.
I keep my trap shut and turn away from the bench. I can't bear to watch. Being here while she works on this particular project feels like that one time I had to watch the bomb squad defuse a device down at Cranston Savings and Loan. I like suspense, but only in fiction. Unfortunately my life hasn't followed a peaceful course. Them's the breaks, I guess.
When I turn, I see Sparky and Leora sitting in the corner, giggling over a smartphone. I'm not sure where either of them got the device. Baba Yaga is the opposite of tech savvy, and I didn't lend them any burners. I side-eye Scott, guessing correctly that he's responsible for their little upgrade. Which makes sense. Scott’s mostly a kid himself, considering his sixteenth birthday was last spring.
I saunter over and peer at the phone. There's a flash animation I can hear even though Sparky and Leora are splitting an earbud. Vampire hearing rocks. As I watch animated sharks of different sizes, colors, and in modes of whimsical dress bounce along through a turquoise rendered ocean, I can't help but smile.
Sparky is a shapeshifting salamander, born in a magical hearth. Leora frequently carries Baba Yaga's consciousness with her. But they’re still kids, and this is still the modern era. Of course, they want to have fun, engage in activities their mundane peers take for granted. And I think they're right. So I smile and say nothing, let them have this rare normal moment.
"I need your fucking contributions stat." I turn, watching Esther brandish two syringes. One is labeled with my name, and the other with Scott's. Of course.
"Sure thing." I roll up my sleeve and hold out my arm as I cross the room. Scott says nothing but mirrors my action.
Esther's concentration makes sense now. She's working on the potion that's going to heal Kayleigh Killarney's fiancé and bring him out of the coma he's been in for the last six months. And pay her for quitting as the Caprices’ freelance hitwoman. Magically, Esther's already told me this potion is serious business. I don't like to pry which is why I haven't asked for further details. But I should, probably. I know for sure that Kayleigh has no such reservations about getting in the middle of other people's personal details. She hasn't asked me for an update, at least not yet. But that trend won’t continue.
Since we bought Kayleigh's promise of nonviolence with the creation of this alchemical coma-ending tonic or whatever, it's important that we deliver it as soon as possible. Medical bills suck, and the Mafia pays. Esther needs my blood and Scott's as ingredients, and who knows what else. Well, Esther Solomon knows. Other alchemists might, too. Or maybe not. Considering the rarity of miracle coma cures, I'm inclined to suspect she’s got an uncommon recipe.
As Esther draws blood from my arm, I notice Frankie leaning against a bookshelf on one wall. He appears to be whispering something over there, but I don't bother listening to what he says. The only thing I know for sure is he's not on the phone. I can't hear an open line. But I let him keep his one-sided conversation private for now. I spot something on the shelf and understand what he's doing. It's none of my business what Frankie says to Esther's creepy doll. I want nothing to do with that thing ever again.
Yeah, that’s right. The alchemist has one of those faux-Victorian porcelain dollies, the kind with ringlets and a rosebud mouth. In case you're wondering, it's no ordinary toy. I've tangled with that creepy thing before. Esther's got some way to make it come to life in a giant-sized version of itself, frilly dress and all. The last time I saw it off the shelf, that doll made like the good fairy in that Bunny Foo Foo rhyme and bonked me on the head.
Frankie's conversation with the doll almost seems two-sided, except I can't hear a thing coming out of the painted-on porcelain lips. I wonder, not for the first time, whether Esther's doll is sentient or just a construct loaded up with the magical version of a computer program. Is alchemical AI a thing? Whatever. That's not important now.
"Are we all set?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Not fucking yet." Esther drains the syringes into one of the test tubes, mingling my blood with Scott's. They don't seem to react, which is a little anticlimactic, but something I should have expected. Vamps and werewolves aren’t supposed to put the bite on each other, but nothing much happened that one time my fangs actually got a mouthful of the wolfkid’s wrist.
"What else do we need, then?" I rolled my sleeve back down.
"A motherfucking impossibility is what we need." Esther taps a line in a small leather-bound book. I can't read it, it's in Hebrew.
"Does said impossibility have a name?" Sometimes conversations with Esther are how I expect the ones with Scott should go based on his age. But he's not intractable, doesn't make me feel like I'm pulling teeth to get information out of him, even if he is obliged to stay mum on werewolf matters.
"No one's gonna find any God damned fucking Sasquatch hair in the middle of suburban sprawl central like Rhode fucking Island, Tino."
"Um, Esther." I shuffle one foot against the concrete floor. "I might have some."
"How in the fucking hell did you get something like that?"
"I might've hit Sasquatch with my car the other night." I look everywhere in the room except at its other occupants. "Totally by accident, I promise."
"Holy shit, Boss!" No, that expletive did not come from Esther's mouth. Sparky dashes to my side, pulling on my sleeve. "No way, Tino! You didn't! I’m supposed to talk to him."
"I'm sorry to say I did. But don't worry," I clenched my fists then unclench them. "Maya checked him out, and he's fine, just hurt his dignity is all."
"You don't do things halfway, huh, Tino?" Scott's shaking his head, but he's grinning.
"I'm sort of a glass-all-the-way-full kind of guy. Or overflowing. You all know that."
Almost everybody gets a chuckle out of that, except Esther, who's putting on her jacket. I glance at her benchtop and its volatile contents, then back at her.
"I'm going the fuck down to get the goddamn hair off your motherfucking bumper." Esther rolls her eyes than chuckles. I know there are no hard feelings here, just Esther's typical profanity peppered vocabulary. "Chill."
"Okay. You want the keys?" I scratch my head, wondering why I think there’s something else inside my car that she’d want. But that idea flies the coop. I shrug. “For, um, some reason?”
“Yeah, Esther.” Frankie glances over his shoulder at his niece. “Get his cloak thingy from the backseat. Just keep it away from me.” He shudders, then turns back to his conversation with the doll.
"Fine. Remember not to touch any goddamn thing in my fucking lab, or I'll rip your heads off and shove them up your asses." She smiles like an angel. The avenging kind.
"I won’t forget, Esther." Except I’ve been forgetting practically everything lately. Even more than usual. And I don't know why.
She heads out the door, stomping her feet but closing it gently behind her. I still haven't quite figured out whether Esther actually likes us or just tolerates our presence like a cranky old cat. I prefer to believe the former.
But what can I say? I guess I’m some sort of optimist. It makes little sense, considering everything I loved about being human I can't do anymore as a vampire. And of course, so many things I try go wrong. Sometimes I wonder whether the Murphy who wrote that cockamamie law isn't a disembodied supernatural being, watching us all and waiting for the best time to mess with us.
But then, I look at Sparky and Leora sharing a device that just fifty years ago would've been considered magical and unbelievable. Humans made it anyway. Regular people, no spells, blood abilities, or wolf shapes required. There's more good in the world than we think. Even though I can't go to church anymore, that's what they taught me there, and I'm sticking to it.
When Esther returns, she's got my cloak over her shoulder and her right hand up, thumb and middle finger pinched like she's about to snap them. Except I hope she doesn't because I spy a clump of off-white hairy fur between them.
I give her plenty of room to approach the bench, which is a good idea because Esther stomps right over and drops the hair into a beaker. It's got an unlit Bunsen burner under it. In fact, none of the flame-producing equipment in the room is actually lit. I take that as evidence that Esther wishes me no ill will. She drapes the cloak over an empty chair.
"We want to know when you'll start brewing that." Leora's voice sounds flatter than usual. That, coupled with the use of “we” instead of “I,” tells me Baba's watching through the kid's eyes.
"Why does the witch care about curing a hunter’s fiancé?"
"That's none of your business, alchemist." Leora isn't even participating in the conversation now; I can tell it's all Baba all the time. So can Sparky. He's staring at her intently, as though he sees something I don't or maybe can't in her face.
"Well, it's sort of my business." I almost slap my hand over my mouth. Challenging the most powerful witch in the world is the opposite of a good idea. Who am I kidding? That's an understatement. But on the list of bad ideas is also reneging on one of my vampiric vows. "This cure is one of my obligations, just like the foster paperwork is. I'm sure you understand that, Baba."
"Let's just say we've got a common interest in the Killarney family's business, Mr. Crispo." Leora's flat voice would give me chills if I were still alive. I manage to play it cool, thanks to my undead anatomy.
"Good enough for me." My mind races ahead, splitting its focus among tangents, threads to investigate connecting the Killarneys with Baba Yaga. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure Leora was the kid under the veil at Larry Tierney's funeral. So I ought to investigate that, too.
Of course, I'll probably forget all about this in five minutes, or the next time something shiny dangles in front of my nose. And I left my notebook behind. Dammit. I sigh deeply enough to shame an emo kid.
"Hey, Tino, whatsamatta you?" Scott waves his hands, completing his mimicry of talking like a stereotypical Italian. Yeah, that's right. We talk with our hands. Get over it.
"This whole memory business sucks." I shake my head. "And it's getting worse. I can barely remember a thing."
"You need a to-do list." Scott shrugs. "That's what works for my mom, anyway. She has a pen and paper practically glued to her at all times."
"Yeah, but lists of chores or shopping aren't as sensitive as the stuff I need to jot down."
"Maybe you need a magicked notepad." Scott points at Esther's back, which is bent over her vials and bottles of ingredients.
"He can just go the fuck down to the magic store and buy one on his own dime."
"Hey, I wouldn't ask you for something like that when you're this busy." I scowl at Scott. "Adulting ain’t easy, kid."
"How about putting it in your phone?" Sparky waggles the one he's holding in my direction.
"Again with the security issues." I shake my head. "Besides, I'm kind of old school when it comes to investigations. Just ask Maury. Oh, wait. Please don't, he's got no idea salamanders, witches, or even vampires exist."
"Just trying to help." Sparky shrugs.
"What?" Leora blinks, and I can tell it's only her this time.
"Nothing much, kiddo." I point at my head. "Just trying to come up with secure ways to make notes on the fly and coming up short."
"Oh." Leora stands up, pulling a small no
tebook out of her pocket. It's shabby, one of those fifty-page deals you can get for a dollar at CVS. There's a tooth-marked golf pencil stuck through the spiral at the top. "You can use this until you think of something better. Why not just write in another language?"
"Duh." I hold up my right hand, extending my thumb and forefinger, then apply it to my forehead. "Church Latin to the rescue."
Leora and I cross the room, meeting in the middle. She hands me the notebook, which I flip to the first available page. It's blank, but I can tell a few have been torn out, leaving only faint impressions of what she wrote on them. I let her have her privacy and scrawl my ideas on investigating the Killarneys, the Tierneys, and Baba Yaga.
It sounds strange, but the act of getting those thoughts out of my head and onto the paper soothes me. They'd been running around like panicked children, frantic in my head, and I've tucked them in for the night so I can take care of them tomorrow. It's not catharsis. With hanging investigations, that's impossible. But this is as close as it gets for now.
"Better?" Frankie pats my shoulder. He’s got one hand in his pocket, but it’s not the one with the magical Zippo inside, so I let it ride.
"Yeah, thanks, Leora. And you too, Frankie." I glanced up at Scott, who is studying his fingernails. "Good idea, Scott."
“I need you all to get the fuck out of my goddamn lab.” Esther’s holding up the bundled gloves from the pocket of my opera cloak. What’s in them again? Oh, yeah, Deep One scales. She tosses the garment at me. “You fuckers don't have to go home, but you sure as hell can't stay the fuck here."
"You heard the lady." I waved toward the door.
"More like a sailor with the way she talks." Frankie drops a wink.
We head out the door and toward the stairwell, intending to reconvene in the PI office. But that's not what happens. Because of course it isn't.
Chapter Twelve
I'm in the stairwell on the way to the third floor when I hear the voices. No, not the kind some people get in their heads when experiencing schizophrenia. I'm talking about voices coming from down the hall, exactly in front of my office door. I raise a hand, making a fist to indicate I want everybody to shut their yaps.