by D. R. Perry
“What happened?”
I tell her everything I can remember about my trip through the memory vault, including the fact that Carmine’s a Lethian. I also mention how I’m not even sure exactly what that means.
“Well, this is a wrinkle I did not expect.” She sighs. “I should have been with you. Then, I could have gotten the urn myself. But I had no idea things would play out quite this way.”
“Really? Because your little reading assignment kind of gives me the opposite idea.”
“I’m not infallible, Tino.” Stephanie sighs. “Those books I caution you with are based largely on guesswork and limited by what I'm allowed to reveal.”
“Woah.”
“Yes, I imagined you’d have that reaction.” She turns her head, gazing at me like an appraiser judging the worth of a diamond. "Especially considering you don't seem to remember asking me a question I gave that necessarily limited answer to a handful of nights ago."
“My mind’s blown like a slashed tire.” I shrug. "I don't remember half of anything half the time. Which is like a total handicap."
“I understand what you mean, more than you know.” She leans against the car, resting one hand on top of the trunk. “So, what will you do about it?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “But I’m starting to get the impression that most of us are flying at least half-blind. The ones with the best intentions, anyway.”
“Ah. Wise words from one so young.”
“I do my best. Even though it’s never good enough.”
“I disagree.”
“And we’re on a tangent.” I kick the tire. “Lethians, Stephanie. What do they do?”
“They feed on memories.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t make much sense. If what they eat ends up in Mnemosyne’s vault, what’s the point?”
“The point is prolonging their lives. They use the memories for fuel, but water only ever changes state. Eventually, all of it condenses in the urns. Carmine’s far older than he looks, though he's still technically mortal.”
“Huh.” I scratch my head. “And he’s running with the Caprices, who seem to have limited knowledge. Okay, let me ramble for a minute here.”
“Proceed.”
“Francesca Caprice is the real Boss in the crime family. Her son all but said so. She’s trying to adopt Leora for her connections to Baba Yaga. Francesca wants more power, the supernatural kind. But as far as I know, the Caprices aren’t magicians. They only know magic exists and maybe have the idea that making pacts with supernatural beings is one way to get it. But from what Raven and Frankie say about theophiles, magic’s in the blood as much as in the contract. So Francesca’s efforts are going to be futile. Carmine’s presence practically confirms that, because he’d have made a deal with her for sure by now. So, why does she want Leora, then?”
“You just said it, Tino.” Stephanie crosses her arms, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart now instead of leaning on my busted up car. “Blood. Francesca wants her family to have magic even if she doesn’t get to see it in her generation or even her lifetime. Leora’s got the blood of theophiles in her veins. She's the last surviving member of the Kupala family. And if she’s under the same roof as Sebastian Caprice, well, they’re both teenagers with hormones. What do you imagine Francesca hopes will happen?”
My nose wrinkles as my upper lip curls back in a snarl. A low growl comes from somewhere. Not my chest, either. It’s on the other side of the stockade fence between the front and back yard. And it’s familiar.
“Scott?”
The growl goes silent. I dash toward the expanse of wood, tempted to jump it and confront my wolfy pal, but the risk of staking myself on the pickets at the top is too high. I sigh and shake my head, letting Scott get back to cleaning up the yard ahead of Gina Paolucci’s visit.
“I’d worry more about the witch than the wolf for now, Valentino.” Stephanie’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, its light touch like a moment of reason in a rapidly maddening night. “Baba Yaga will want Leora to procreate sooner rather than later. And she'd prefer a regular mortal for her Lamb over a werewolf.”
“So you think Baba’s on Francesca’s side?” I turn, looking my sire in the eye.
“Not exactly.” Stephanie shakes her head. “But either way, you’ve got to leash your assumptions about your future ward’s romantic interests.”
“Huh?” I blink.
“Leora’s going to develop her own thoughts and feelings on who she cares for. You must let her have them. They’ll color the witch’s influence and allegiance.”
“Well, that’s a relief. She hates Sebastian Caprice.”
“Really?” Stephanie’s eyebrow arches so high I think it’s shooting for the moon.
“Um, well, she sure gave him a lot of lip during the chat in my office.”
“It’s been ages since I was Leora’s age, Tino, but one thing never changes about teenagers.”
“And that is?”
“They’re contrary to a fault. Tread cautiously where her heart is concerned.”
“Okay, I’ll try to do that.” I sigh. “On top of the list of things I need to fix up in this house in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t worry. We’re all handling that.”
“Really?” I jerk my chin at the nearest window. “It’s not just Scott Fitzpatrick’s Yard Service here?”
“It’s the least Maya, the king, and I can do in exchange for Raven’s hospitality.”
“Well, let me get in there and help, then.” I don’t bother asking why Raven cares whether my outstanding debt to Baba Yaga gets paid. I owe them more than I owe the witch, so it’s a good investment on their part to keep me from getting roasted, I guess.
Stephanie’s silent on the matter. But she beckons as she makes her way along the side of the house and up the front walk. I remember the first time I came here, brandishing a rapier in Mrs. Pickering’s face. It was just over a week ago but feels like ages. I wonder whether older vampires suffer from even more time-dilating weariness than I already deal with or if it’s just part of my memory trouble. Maybe I’ll find out somenight. If I survive long enough.
Inside the house, I find vampires working. It’s not as mundane a sight as that phrase might conjure to mind. Maya’s engaged in the relatively simple task of vacuuming. But she’s got enormous earmuffs on. I immediately understand why when I wince at the wall of sound smacking against my eardrums.
Luckily, I can copy the smart people. Stephanie’s taking another pair off the coat tree in the hall. I do the same. We put them on, and the noise goes from insanity-inducing cacophony to annoying but tolerable. Now I understand why cats hate the instrument of this chore so much. I never thought I’d have this much empathy for the feline condition, but here I am.
There’s only one machine of auditory apocalypse in the house, so Stephanie arms herself with a feather duster and goes to town on the shelves and mantel. I leave the parlor, understanding on a fundamental level that as a fellow Italian, Gina Paolucci’s going to care more about the state of the kitchen than anything else in the house.
King DeCampo’s in there, but he’s not doing any work. Instead, he’s listening to Sarah Pickering prattle on about the food in the fridge. Which makes complete and total sense. DeCampo’s literally ancient and doesn’t know the first thing about modern food preservation.
“You don’t want to throw any of it out,” she’s telling him. “It’s all still good enough for us mortals to eat.”
“But that’s going over.” The king points at half a chocolate cake.
“No.” Sarah’s in his way, blocking his path to remove the aging dessert.
And DeCampo’s right. I can smell how it’s gotten past its prime. There’s no visible mold on it yet, but the spores are there. The old vamp’s stance tells me he’s about to burn some blood and dart past the teenage magician in his quest to clean out the refrigerator. I put a hand on his arm before that happens.
/> I notice Sarah’s lip trembling. This isn’t just a cake to her. There’s an emotional connection, one that’s still raw. I don’t know which of her dead parents baked it, but tossing the confection in the trash will do more harm to her heart than the minimal mold will do to her stomach.
“Hey, why don’t we put it in the freezer?” I step forward, and the king lets me. I think he understands now though his owlish blink says he’s drawing conclusions slowly.
“The freezer?”
“Yeah, Sarah. It’s what they do with all kinds of celebration cakes and totally normal as far as the opinion of a social worker goes.”
Her grin is grimmer than I’d like, but it’s present. I think this compromise is going to work out. Which is all for the best because the last thing we need in this house right now is a knock-down-drag-out between an ancient vamp and a young but powerful magician.
Sarah pulls the cellophane-wrapped bundle from the bottom shelf, then closes the fridge. As she unwraps it, revealing the remaining lettering, I’m reminded of how recently the senior Pickerings died. And it’s a birthday cake. Sarah’s own, for her sixteenth. No wonder she’s willing to defend it with her magic.
I’m rummaging through cabinets and drawers, searching for a suitable container. But I’ve got nothing, of course. This isn’t my parents’ house, after all. I don’t know where anything is. But that’s got to change if I’m pretending to live here tomorrow evening.
“In here.” King DeCampo points at a door beside the dishwasher. I blink, and he responds by tapping his nose. Of course. I should have thought of that.
And I’ve hit the jackpot. Rows of plastic containers and rolls of various food wraps stand at attention inside the cabinet. I know just the thing because a few months back, we put the remainder of Dad’s retirement cake away exactly like this. I burn some blood and wrap it with vampiric speed because I can’t think of a good reason not to.
Once that’s done, I get out of Sarah’s way. She puts the container away in the back of the freezer, behind two tubs of ice cream. The way she sets it down is gentler than anything else I’ve seen her do. The Pickerings were horrible to Frankie, but to Sarah, they were different because she had magic. She doesn't grasp that yet though someday she will understand. But sometimes, the first step toward the truth is through your emotions, no matter how problematic they are.
With the near-miss supernatural battle behind me, I’m free to explore the kitchen and see what needs tidying or adjustment. And it’s a good thing I do because I find a number of stored bags of blood in the fridge up here instead of the one in the basement. I shake my head.
“Your majesty—”
“I know.” The king lowers himself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “That blood in there is my fault.”
“How so?”
Before he can answer, Stephanie’s through the door, earmuffs and all. How she managed to hear DeCampo over Maya’s vacuuming is beyond my comprehension. But she must have because my sire’s first action is to put one delicate finger over the king’s lips, and the next is dashing to the fridge to retrieve the bags from the top shelf. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone, the door to the basement swinging shut behind her.
“What are we doing about that?” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder at the cellar door because the last thing I want is for Gina Paolucci to go down there and discover a colony of elder vampires. She’s mundane and out of the supernatural loop, and I bet her brother Raph likes it that way.
But Sarah and the king have no idea, judging by his shaking head and her one-shouldered shrug. I scratch my head because I’ve also got nothing. At least until I notice the familiar stack of Post-it notes sitting on the counter. Frankie's had that since the night we dropped off the application. It’s one of those that’s cut into the shape of a poop emoji. The pad’s thicker than usual, but that’s because it’s not brand new out of the package. The entire thing’s been inscribed with alchemical symbols. But they’re not in Esther’s writing. I blink just as Frankie walks through the door from the hallway and scoops them up.
“Oh, hi, Tino.” My friend turns, and I notice a wire leading from an earbud in his left ear down to his shirt pocket. “Just a sec.”
Frankie pulls another earbud out of his pocket and holds it out toward me. Faint green-blue light comes from inside. I pinch the wire between my fingers like I’m holding a mouse by the scruff of its neck. I can hear what’s coming through perfectly fine. He’s spying on the Caprice’s home visit with Gina Paolucci. Well, it hasn’t started yet, but I hear Francesca barking orders.
“Holy shit, dude.” I blink. “How did you bug their place?”
“Not their place. Sebastian. Alchemy notes plus the Zippo.” Frankie pulls his pocket open, and I can see an iPod Shuffle with the lighter, a Post-it wrapped around both of them and rubber-banded together. “Handy, huh?”
“Illegal.” I drop the earbud, letting it dangle by Frankie’s side.
“Look, they’ve done worse is all I’m saying. We don’t want Leora living with them.” He’s right. And I hate it.
“And where did you get this idea?” I put my hands on my hips.
“An old friend.”
“Does Esther know you’ve been pinching her stuff?” I’d like to pinch Frankie’s ear and drag him off to exile in his room right about now, but I don’t.
“This isn’t Esther’s.”
“How many alchemists do you know?”
“Enough.” He picks the earbuds back up. "I'll be hiding the basement door and the damage on your car with these, too. Are you going to listen in or not?"
I shake my head, deciding not to touch Frankie’s illicit magical spyware. Heading through the hall door, I realize I’m about a hairsbreadth away from going full-out rage at my on-paper domestic partner. I need to cool off somewhere, alone, if possible. But of course, that’s not happening. Light footsteps behind me and a tug on my sleeve have me whirling around faster than a dervish. If those even exist.
“What do you want?” I bare my fangs at Sarah.
“It’s just, I got a look at those notes.” She stands her ground, even facing an angry vamp. Girl’s got more guts than some of the guys at Cranston PD. “You helped me, so I want to help you now. And there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“That’s Ruth’s writing.” Sarah shakes her head. “Esther’s sister. But she’s been dead since 2003.”
“Wait a minute. Let me check my notes.” The puzzle I’m presented with takes me down from the edge. It’s like those old legends, where mortals stump the vampire by throwing a handful of rice and making them count the grains. I need my notebook, so I take that out and flip it open. “No. I need the other one.”
It’s in the basement, so I head down there, Sarah following me. I really don’t want a tag-along kid, but I guess teenagers following me around is something I have to deal with. For whatever reason, vampires are awfully popular with that demographic. Anyway, I go into the room I used yesterday to escape the sun down here and find it on the desk.
When I flip through the notebook, I scan the entries for Esther’s name. Practically every time I mention her, there’s something about the creepy doll she keeps around all the time. And there it is, wedged into a margin. The description of the doll. And it’s familiar, but I can’t be sure because of my stupid memory.
“Sarah, is there a picture of Ruth somewhere in the house?”
“Yeah, hold on. I’ll get it.”
She’s back in under a minute with a dusty photo album. After flipping about halfway through it, Sarah turns it around then points at one of the pictures under the cellophane. It shows two women in military uniform, standing outside Pickering House. Their faces are impossibly young, and they look quite similar except for their hair. The one on the left has hers pulled to the side in a long braid, while the other’s curls peek out from under her hat. And of course, I recognize that first girl, though it takes a moment or two. Because t
his is the only time I’ve seen Esther Solomon's face wear a genuine smile. And then my eyes home in on Ruth.
“Curls.” I glance back at my notebook. “Like the doll’s.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Are you an alchemist?”
“Well, no, but people can’t be dolls.”
“Surely you’ve heard of golems before, Sarah.”
Stephanie’s voice surprises me, but it downright startles the kid. She takes a full jump toward me, then scuttles to the side, putting me between herself and my sire. Well, I'd better get used to it. I'm supposed to be a guardian. So I nod slowly, letting the kid compose herself.
“A golem, huh?” I shake my head. “Not what I expected—” I blink, setting the big notebook aside so I can get the little one out again. I peer at the page where I described the frieze on Esther’s urn, which Sparky’s still got.
“You’re drawing conclusions, Valentino.”
“Me too.” Sarah’s looking over my shoulder. I guess she can read my pidgin Latin.
“Yeah. Okay, so, Ruth got herself disintegrated, and Esther put her in the doll as a golem. I can buy that.” I shrug.
“But a golem who can do alchemy on its own?” Sarah shakes her head. “Implausible.”
“Except it’s happening.” I glance back at my big notebook. “It’s been happening. To me, even. I’ve encountered alchemy that wasn’t Esther’s before, but it’s all the same color and has a similar feel. So it makes sense to me, anyway.”
“But it goes against every rule of magic I’ve been taught.”
“I don’t know much about what you magicians do. I’m a detective. So my bread is deductive reasoning and my butter’s Occam’s Razor. Have you learned that in school yet?” I give Sarah a sideways glance, but she shakes her head.
“The simplest explanation, no matter how implausible, is probably true,” Stephanie lectures.
“And what’s simpler than an exceptionally powerful alchemist keeping her powers even after becoming a golem?”
