by D. R. Perry
Scott joins me at the stairwell door, leaning with one ear turned toward it. His hearing is almost as good as mine out of wolfy form and probably better in. Oh, God. I hope he doesn't decide to shift right here and now. The last thing I need is a wolfman-thing running wild through the halls.
But he does no such thing. Scott is sensible, at least. We just stand there, listening while Frankie and the kids huddle behind us. I hate this part of renting in a Mafia-controlled building even more than I hate my personal private space getting invaded like it is right now. But there’s nothing I can do about that. They’ve got keys, and I’ve got no formal lease. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.
"I'm telling you boss, the guy paying for this place said he had a band. I don't get it." This voice belongs to Cigarettes, the wiseguy who collects the money I pay for the privilege of being here. I happen to know he murdered one of his associates in this very building, but I've got no evidence except my own supernaturally enhanced senses because of course, I don’t. They’re the Mafia, not a pack of rabid weasels.
"I don't get it either." This new voice is warmer, and definitely not raspy. I flare my nostrils and take a breath, verifying my suspicions. This second speaker doesn't smoke, and probably never has. But I do smell an undertone of something chemical through the decidedly hoity-toity cologne he's wearing. Pain medication, maybe, or a less legal substance. Something mood-altering rides his bloodstream like a surfer on Narragansett Bay.
"What’s the big deal, Dad?" A teenage boy's voice comes out in a bored northeastern drawl.
"Pay attention, Sebastian. This is your family business, whether you like it or not."
I try to imagine the hand gestures that go with Alfredo Caprice’s words. Hey, I'm Italian. I know better than anyone how much we talk with our hands and how important those gestures can be in context. But without seeing them or met the speaker, I can't glean that without opening the door. And I'm definitely not doing that right now.
"Whatever." The teenage mantra almost makes me laugh. As it is, Leora and Sparky stand behind me, hands muffling mouths trying desperately not to giggle. They lean against the walls, sides shaking, while Frankie mimes zipping his lips at them.
And I get an idea. The boss and his murderous employee will definitely go on the offensive if Scott and I walk through that door. But a couple of kids? Not as likely, especially when one of them is the girl they’re applying to foster. Baba Yaga would step in for Leora and Sparky if shit went sideways anyhow.
Mrs. Caprice knows about the witch and the vamps, but that doesn't mean her family does. But even if father and son are in the know, they're probably not packing anything to take down magical amphibians or witches. I figure Leora’s got the best chance to cut in on the dance going on outside my office. Call me crazy, I don't care. It just may be a lunatic the situation is calling for.
I reach out with both hands, tapping each kid on a shoulder. Once I have their attention, I point at the door. Sparky grins, and Leora nods. They head over and push through. I watch them step into the hallway. I hold Scott and Frankie back, who both blink at me as though I’ve suddenly become the sun. Yeah, they think I’ve gone batty.
"Dude!" Leora's voice carries, ringing through the hall clear as bell. She's got serious projection skills.
"What…" Cigarettes voice squeaks out the word at a higher than usual pitch. She surprised him. Good. "What are you two kids doing here?"
"Just getting my homework." Leora sounds about as bored as the mob boss’s kid. "Summer school sucks, but turning in work late is even worse.” She lets out an honest-to-God laugh. “You understand."
"Um yeah, actually I do." The mob boss’s kid sounds startled and alarmed, almost like Leora shocked him in some fundamental way, possibly for the first time. Oh, shit, he's a goner. Crush at first sight, most likely. These kids today and their hormones. Exactly like they were back in my day. If I had a lawn, I’d tell you to get off it.
"Hey, buddy," I practically hear Sparky's grin as he speaks. He might be funny-looking, but the salamander kid has charisma in spades. "You let us in, okay?"
"Sure." The boss clears his throat. "Open the door, Carmine. Now." Finally. Mr. Caprice has given me an actual name for Cigarettes. I jot that down in the notebook.
"Boss, I don't think that's a good—"
"I said, now." Alfredo Caprice doesn't raise his voice, but his tone conveys an air of authority inherent in just about every dad I've ever had the privilege of listening to. I still think Mrs. Caprice's mom-voice game is stronger, though.
Nobody else says a word, but my ears pick up a key rattling in the lock and tumblers falling into place. I don't hear the door open because last time it creaked, I had a go at it for a few rounds with a can of WD-40. Leora and Sparky hurry into the room, their footsteps’ echoes decreasing as they exit the hall.
I hear the door close, the lock turn again, and then the chain I installed inside rattle home. Clever girl. And she doesn't even need help from Baba Yaga for that. I grin, proud of her. Like a dad. Shitballs, I’m going to be one to a kid more competent at that age than I ever was. God help me, especially if I ever need to impose a curfew on her.
Now it's my turn to put my hand over my mouth and stifle laughter. Scott does the same, and we’re like echoes of Sparky and Leora's behavior earlier. I'm struck by how symmetrical this all is, like fate is at work here. But as far as I know there's no such thing. At least not in this universe. Anyway, Frankie breaks the mood by elbowing us both in the ribs. That's probably for the best because of what happens next.
The sound of footsteps headed toward the stairwell puts me into a panic. I glance at Frankie, who’s just slapped a Post-it note on himself before dashing down the stairs. Alchemy speed boost for the win, I guess. Frankie and I can make it down a flight and halfway across the building before they get in here, but Scott won't. So I do the only thing that makes any sense at all. Yeah, that's right. I burn blood to get my speedy on, then pick him up.
Dashing down the stairs with a werewolf in my arms isn't something I ever imagined myself doing, but this is happening anyway. Frankie pushes through the second-floor door and we hotfoot it toward Esther's studio, then make a left. The hallways in this building are one massive rectangle. So, if we make it to the other long side, we can get into the opposite stairwell and head back up.
Our mad dash takes us there in what amounts to a span of four breaths for a living person. Or at least that's how many Scott takes in the interim. Maybe werewolves breathe slower, but I don’t know or care about that right now. Frankie pulling the door open slows us down a moment but once inside the other stairwell we’re heading up, Frankie and I both scale three steps with each stride.
Once we hit the third floor again, Scott gets heavy, and my frantic pace slows. I trot around the corner, stopping in front of the door to room 319. The index card we put in the holder beside the door still reads SVS, the abbreviation which now has a triple meaning, thanks to Maya. I set Scott down, then fish around in a pocket for my keys.
"Duh." I roll my eyes. "Leora, you can open the door now. They're gone."
The chain lock rattles, the door opens, and we step inside. I take a deep breath, about to praise the kids for their quick thinking under pressure. But I’m an idiot. Because the mob’s not all gone. I make a fist to keep from smacking my forehead in frustration.
"Good evening, Mr. Crispo." It's the kid. What kid, you ask? Sebastian. The kid with power. What power? Power of the Mafia, apparently. At least he’s not king of the goblins. If those even exist.
"No, it’s not good, actually.” I lean on the door frame, just far enough inside that Scott and Frankie can scuttle through. “I didn't invite you here. Leave."
"Can't do that, Sir." Sebastian Caprice shakes his head like it’s heavy.
"I don't give a good goddamn how polite you're being, it doesn't make up for barging in here uninvited." I step away from the doorframe, about to go parental on this kid, Mafia Prince or no.
"I invited him." I don't need to turn around and look Leora in the face to know she's not speaking alone, but I can't fathom why Baba Yaga wants Sebastian hanging out with her servant and her salamander. Maybe she thinks it's none of my business. She'd be mistaken, and we’ve got the agreement to prove it. But now is not the time to haggle with a literal hag.
"Okay." I put my hands on my hips. "I'm the adult here, and I’m uninviting him now. My office, my rules."
"Um, Tino?" Scott taps me on the shoulder. "Technically it's our office, and I'd like to hear what he has to say." This is my turf, according to vampire laws. But I'm only part-owner. Scott’s got a point.
"You've got exactly sixty seconds to deliver your message before I throw you out." I point at the clock on the wall. Yeah, I know I sound harsh, but dammit, vampires, and hospitality are thing. I didn't extend it, and Baba pushed serious supernatural boundaries by making that offer on my turf.
"Mr. Crispo, my mother would like to have a conversation with you. Parlay. She says you have a common interest."
"Go on." I point at the wall clock, reminding Sebastian that his time is limited.
"She said you'll know what I'm talking about." He crosses the room, away from Leora and toward my pals and me.
"I don't. Spell it out for me." I stand beside the combination hat, coat, and umbrella stand. My magically enhanced rapier is in there, still charged up since I used it battling Deep Ones. It'll be enough to scare one snot-nosed teen, Mafia Prince or not.
"She's put in a foster application almost exactly like yours." Sebastian’s eyes cut to Frankie, whose hand is in his pocket. He gulps. I guess he’s right to do so; we probably look pretty dangerous.
"I figured as much.” I shrug, trying to break the tension, but it’s like trying to cut bone with a butter knife. “Tell me something I don't know or get out."
"Don't shoot the messenger, Sir.” Sebastian looks at Scott, his eyes honeying. Apparently, he thinks the werewolf’s the good cop here. Maybe he’s right. “Please. Look, Dad is the Boss in name only. In practice, it's my mother.” He deflates, all his vitals decreasing. Exactly how hopeless does he feel about the lady who birthed him? And why do I suddenly care? “You don't know what it's like, working for her."
"Yeah, and I'm sure she sent you here because she knows I'm a softie when a kid's got a problem.” And she’s right. “But I've got a long list of business to take care of, and if you ever get on it, you'll be at the bottom. So get to the point."
"My mother wants you to drop your application.” He pronounces the maternal word like it tastes bad. “Let us take care of Leora. We've got the resources, and look better on paper than a gay couple."
Scott inhales and takes a step back. I guess that domestic partnership thing wasn’t in any of Frankie’s texts. Oh, boy. I almost don’t understand the implication that Sebastian knows what’s on my application when he shouldn't.
“It’s okay to be gay, and our personal details are private.” I snort. "You want me to believe the state will view the home of a notorious crime family as a better environment for any kid?" Yeah, it's a low blow, but the kid's reaction tells me we agree.
"Listen, sir, I didn't make this world. I was just born into it." Shit. That sounds familiar. I realize why when Frankie takes his hand out of his pocket and lowers the intimidation factor. I see the semicolon tattooed on his wrist. Same shit, different family. "I've got no power to change anything."
"Get some. And then be better than that.” I narrow my eyes. Frankie needed an open door, but this kid Sebastian might do better to realize that doors exist in the first place. “You might already know this, but my caseworker happens to be connected with law enforcement, just like I am. You tell me whose application looks better now."
"You make some good points, Sir."
"I'm glad you agree with me, so go back to that mother of yours, and tell her I said she can drop her application instead."
"She has something that'll hurt you. Your boy Frankie, too. Something that’ll mess you both up if she points it in your direction." His eyes move from me to Scott, then to Sparky. When they land on Leora, two spots of red form high on his cheeks like he's got a fever. "Knowledge and connections might not be fangs, claws, or spells, but they still have power. My mother’s not afraid to use it."
"She wouldn't dare tell the world about us. Every supernatural community would have her head. And if she isn't scared of that, she'd be here herself." Yup. When I see a bluff, I call it. Except that when I fail, I fail big.
"That’s not what she means.” Sebastian’s eyes move down to my frowning lips. “Sir."
"I’m not afraid of anything she or anyone she knows can do. Get out."
"She told me you'd reply like that."
"Did she give you a plan Z in case I did?"
"Yeah. She said, and I quote, he'll remember nothing." Sebastian’s as still as Meshanticut Lake on a calm day. The phrase reminds me of something I read recently. Oh, no. The Waste Land. “Trust me, you don’t want to take what she’s got to dish out.”
I don't speak. I can't, because he's right. And I don't miss the genuine fear in his eyes or voice every time mentions or quotes his mom. Daily life with Francesca Caprice must be like navigating a minefield. She's got me over a barrel and all because of my cockamamie memory and its inconvenient holes. But I’m not the only person with that kind of problem. It can’t be a coincidence that Zack Milano hired me to investigate the sinkhole in his recall. Maybe there's a way to fight back.
"Your sixty seconds are up." Scott saunters to the door and holds it open, waving his hand from Sebastian to the open portal. I don’t like the tightness around his eyes or crispness in his limbs. Scott’s usually relaxed and slouchy until things get dangerous. "Leave. Now. Don't make me ask twice."
"See you later, Sir." The kid actually snaps me a salute, like he's been to military school or something. For all I know, maybe he has. It takes Frankie stepping up behind him to actually get Sebastian moving, but he finally turns to step out of my office.
The tails on his flannel shirt tremble, which means this whole business rattles him more than he’s let on. I can’t afford any more sympathy, so I try closing my heart to Sebastian Caprice. I fail, of course. The kid’s got a raw deal in his home life and doesn’t deserve it. But I already gave him my best advice. There's nothing else I can do for now.
Scott closes the door behind him. It's so quiet I hear a pin drop. Literally. Because a pin drops. It falls out of the item in Leora's hand. A doll. It's not creepy and porcelain-like Esther's. Instead, it's made of straw, burlap, and twine, marked with dabs of ink. And still freaky.
"Voodoo? Really?" I shake my head. "Leora, you're not an alchemist, theophile, or an evocator. You’re a Lamb. So why have you got that doll?"
"It's not voodoo. It's sympathetic, and anyone can use these as long as a real witch makes them." She stares down at the object in her hands, shaking her head. “But she didn’t. I keep it to freak mean people out. It’s harmless, I promise.”
"That's not really the point, Leora."
"So what is?"
"The place for magic that might backfire, explode, or otherwise go awry is Esther's lab, not this office."
"Sorry. But I figured since that guy was in the know, dragging this out might help scare him away." Her eyes tilt up, her gaze piercing. "And he threatened you guys."
"So let's think about what we learned from this experience, okay?" I sigh, running one hand through my hair. "Did Sebastian threaten us, or was it really his mother?"
"No. It was his mom."
"Did your own threat actually work?"
"No."
"Could it have given Sebastian information he'll have to report back to our enemies?"
"Crap." Leora studies her shoes. I know the feeling all too well.
Suddenly weary, I sit in the closest chair and promptly regret it. Why did it have to be the pink and fuzzy one? Oh, yeah. Because I haven't had time to upgrade our o
ffice furniture from curbside chic to something reasonably professional. But that's lower on my priority list than just about everything at this point.
"Yeah, that’s a good word for what we’re in.” I shake my head. “Anything else you can think of?"
"Magic doesn't scare him as much as his mother does."
"Bingo."
I'm afraid of Francesca Caprice, too. God help me.
Chapter Thirteen
The office phone rings. It’s not anything so archaic as a landline, just a dedicated cell, but I still jump out of my pink, furry seat when it makes a noise. All five of us stand there, staring at it. Sparky and Leora immediately press their fingers to their noses. I’m fast enough to follow suit in a fraction of a second. Frankie looks like he was already scratching the bridge of his. Which is why it’s left to Scott to roll his eyes and answer the damn thing already.
“SVS, Scott speaking.” He listens while I try not to. “Oh, Mr. Milano, Tino’s out working on your case. Uh-huh. Okay, I’ll get that message to him as soon as I can. Thanks. Okay, I will. Bye.”
“Shitballs.” I pull the pad of paper from my pocket and flip through it. “I’ve done almost nothing on Zack’s case. I’m a shitty PI. Thanks for the cover, Scott, but you probably shouldn’t have.”
“Thank me by getting back to it.” Scott shrugs. “Do you have any leads at all?”
“Yeah.”
“Need help?” Frankie’s holding a handful of Post-it notes. I realize he might have put one on Sebastian a minute ago. Between that and the thing he did with the alchemical lighter at Rhode Island Family Services, I ought to sit him down for a chat. But there's no time for that.
“I don't think I need any with Zack’s stuff, but if you could bring Leora back to the group home and Sparky to Baba’s that’d take a huge load off my mind.”
