by D. R. Perry
“Wait, what?”
“You’ve got vampire ears. You heard me.”
“Okay, so maybe why is the better question.”
“They want us to pick an extracurricular activity, and I don’t want to.”
“Well, those are fun, though.”
“Really? Because they all seem like, too public, you know. I mean, for someone like me.” She holds her hand up, letting the mortar and pestle charm that links her to Baba Yaga dangle and catch the light. When I say links, I mean the teen talking to me is permanently tapped as the witch’s meat-suit any time she needs to leave her chicken-footed hut.
“Look, Scott runs track at your school. He did it back at Cranston West, too. And he’s a werewolf. The whole reason you’re going to Stout is that it’s for folks like us. We all have our ways of reining things in.”
“I don’t want to do sports.”
“Um, why not?”
“Because you can’t come and see me.” Leora’s looking down at her paper, cheeks reddening. “You know, competing and stuff. All of the sports at Stout happen in the daytime and outdoors. Or in the gym where they have windows.”
“Oh.” She does have a point. She wants me around because I’m her dad. Not biologically. I went to court and petitioned for Leora’s custody with my friend, Frankie. It’s a long story, told elsewhere. “How about Drama Club? Don’t they have one of those at fancy-schmancy Stout Academy?”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if it’s a good idea to go out for it.” She takes a deep breath and spills the beans before I can ask why. “Because that’s Sarah’s activity.”
“I see.” I nod, totally understanding what she means. Sarah Pickering is one of Frankie’s siblings, and her foster sister. The girls are a year and a grade apart. And Sarah’s a magician, meaning she’s got mojo she was born with. Leora’s got no powers of her own, only when Baba feels like channeling them. “Absolutely get the picture. You don’t want to make a frenemy.”
“Yeah, Tino.” She looks up, meeting my eyes. “How’d you know?”
“Because that was exactly what happened with Maury and me back in the day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We thought we’d compete for every role all the time.” I shake my head.
“What happened?”
“We didn’t. We’d get cast as the buddies, together for the most part.”
“Why?”
“Because our looks and talents were different enough. Like yours and Sarah’s.”
“Oh, wow.” She shakes her head as though it never crossed her mind that hair, skin tone, and stature would figure into auditions and casting. And that makes sense. Most people don’t who haven’t been there. “So, the two of you got roles all the time?”
“No, not always. Because I did happen to have a dude who looked and sang almost exactly like me. Only better.”
“The cookie.”
“Shut up, Scott.” I put my hands on my hips. “We don’t talk about our past clients that way.”
“No, I can’t remember his name for some reason.” Scott blows a raspberry in case I couldn’t tell he’s being extra sarcastic. Sparky gives him the TKO on Smash Bros. With Dr. Mario, ouch. “It was right on the tip of my tongue. Like a cookie.”
“Jeez.”
But now Leora’s giving me the eyes. You know, like a sad puppy dog but ten times worse. She’s an orphaned teenage kid with a refreshingly mundane problem, and she’s actually got a sympathetic parental figure to ask about it. That’s rarer than trace elements or noble gases or whatever. And I’d be a shitty dad friend if I blow her off. I decide to fess up.
“Yeah, I lost half the roles I went up for to Zack Milano. Including tonight.”
“Holy shit!” Leora immediately slaps her hand over her mouth, then winces. She should have put the calculator down first. Now she’s got a fat lip.
In a flash, I’m out of the chair, dashing to the mini-fridge for something cold to put on the inevitable bruise. I hand over the item I grabbed way too hastily. Which is a bag of blood because of course, it is. I need a t-shirt that declares me Worst Vampire Dad Ever.
But Leora’s not bothered by what I’m holding, or even the idea of using it as an ice pack. Which maybe shouldn’t be so unexpected. Baba Yaga does some pretty grody things to make her magic.
“Sorry, Tino.” Her voice is muffled behind the blood bag.
“Dude. I mean, Leora.” Can’t I ever get it right? “The stuff Esther says is ten times worse. Just don’t talk like that with your teachers or whatever.” Yeah, being a dad isn’t awkward at all. Why do you ask?
“But Zack Milano was your Drama Club rival? Like, seriously?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “What’s the big deal?”
“He’s the volunteer vocal coach at Stout. Practically everyone he helps wins everything.” Leora knocks over the chair and bounces on the balls of her feet. “And you’re as talented as he is. I could die!”
“Uh, please don’t.”
From in front of the game console, the werewolf clears his throat. “More talented.”
“Scott!”
“True story.” He drops his controller then pats Sparky on the head. “You got me good, short and scaly. Anyway, the only reason Tino here didn’t go to Nationals with musical theater and monologue his junior year is because he was in the hospital. We all were rooting for him, too.”
“Oh, my God! Tino, you’ve got to help me! If I’m gonna do this, I need to get audition pieces ready. We’ve got a musical revue coming up this fall!”
“Just. Finish that math first, okay?” At this point, I’m giving up on denying it all. Or trying to remember the hole in my junior year, because that doesn’t matter. I know why the memories are gone, even if the contents are still missing. You can take the geek out of the theater, but not even a memory-eating Lethian can take the theater out of the geek.
And now Leora’s bouncing around the whole room practically, having left the calculator and the bag of blood on my desk. I reach across and grab the latter item, open it, lean on one hand, then pour the blood into the cup sitting in front of me. If only it were whiskey, neat, and I was alive enough to fully appreciate it.
I understand now why so many moms drink so much wine.
Before I can even take a sip, my phone rings. I tap the answer button and put it on speaker.
“Tino, get down here.” Raven’s voice comes in like a wrecking ball. “We’re having the problem again. And he’s evading Maya this time.”
“Shitballs.” I stand, gazing down at the untouched blood like I’m Humphrey Bogart, and it’s Ingrid Bergman. “Okay, kids. You’ve got to do your homework and retro gaming in Warwick for the rest of the evening.”
“It’s DeCampo, isn’t it?” Sparky’s at my elbow, wagging a travel container in the general direction of my mid-evening snack.
“Thanks, kid.” I transfer the blood from one vessel to the other and screw the lid on. “Let’s go.”
Leora comes down from her starstruck cloud and packs her books up. Scott’s at his desk, shuffling through some documents. I see map printouts of Roger Williams Park, with marks where victims were found. I take the file Maury gave me out of my sports coat and tuck it in with the other papers for him to bring.
“Thanks, Scott.”
“No problem, boss.”
“Dude, stop calling me boss. We’re not those guys. We’re wiser than that.”
“Okay, Tino.” He sticks everything in the satchel I keep on the coat rack, then slings that and the CSI supply duffel over his arm. “We can go now.”
Leora glances at Scott without saying a word to him. Her cheeks almost match the red highlights in her chestnut hair, and I hear her pulse speeding up when he smiles back. Looks like my ward and my sidekick have a little mutual crush going on. Oh, boy. I’ll take things I’m not ready to have dad conversations about for five hundred, Alex.
“Hmm.” I’m side-eying Sparky before opening the door because he onl
y almost looks like a normal kid. Also because I can’t make that face at Leora or Scott without invoking the spirit of teenage rebellion that might make everything a million times harder down the road.
“Wha?” Sparky grins and puts one hand behind his head.
“You can’t go out looking like that, kiddo.”
“Don’t wanna shift.”
“Can’t we let him stay? Please?” Leora’s batting her eyes.
“Not like this, we can’t.” I gesture at the top of his head, indicating his nonexistent eyebrows.
“This good?” Sparky pulls a folded and well-worn blue ball cap from his pocket and puts it on his completely bald head. It’s got five symbols on it. Rock, paper, scissors, lizard, and a hand making a gesture made on Star Trek. Even salamanders watch television, I guess.
“Fine.” I put my free hand on the doorknob and gesture at Sparky with the mug of blood. “But you keep the hat on the whole time we’re outside on both ends of this trip and in the car, too. Don’t want people doing a double-take at your almighty hairlessness and getting in a wreck.”
“Okay!” Sparky’s grin turns into a smile that reminds me of the sun. In a good mortal memory-lane way, not a fright-fest like the day star typically is for vampires. The kid is strange but still good overall.
I can’t help but smile back. And it’s sort of a big deal to me that I’m standing in this room with honest to goodness breathing live people who don’t freak out over my fangs. Back when I got turned, I was pretty much alone with my inconvenient undeadness. I guess maybe things improve if you have an open mind and just keep on moving.
So that’s what I do. Keep on going through the music-filled hall, down the echoing staircase, and toward the dinged-up front door of the studio. I’ve got my hand stretched ahead of me, about to push out into the night.
“Rent’s due.” The voice at my shoulder comes complete with a flat-voweled drawl that’s too familiar for comfort. I know it’s Sebastian Caprice’s father, who’s been manipulated into running this building’s under-the-table rental racket. He drops a stubby cigarette butt on the floor, then stomps it out with his heel.
“Yeah, sorry.” I drop my hand to my pocket, grab my wallet, pull out five twenties, and turn around to pay the Mafioso behind me. And then I resist the urge to hold my nose because I hate cigarettes.
“Those kids ain’t in your act.” The new landlord’s not asking, he’s telling. And I manage to remember he thinks we’re a band, not an investigation outfit.
“Nope.” I pat Leora’s shoulder. “My sister’s kid. Just started at Stout Academy.”
“What about this?” He jerks one nicotine-stained thumb at Sparky.
“Exchange student.” I can’t say from where, of course.
“He got all his papers?”
“Excuse me?” I blink the second I realize that he’s not talking about the kind with five pages that get turned in to the English teacher. Caprice is talking about Sparky as if he’s a dog or something instead of an actual person. Because of how he looks. And dammit, he’s a sentient salamander, not some kind of animal.
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, I did. But the school keeps track of that. I’m just the cool uncle with the Emo band, remember?” I shrug. The chicken footed hut Sparky lives in with Baba Yaga doesn’t have a legal address or issue photo ID. But this guy’s a Mafia enforcer, not the government kind so that stuff’s none of his business.
“Whatever.” He snorts. “Keep ‘im out of trouble while he’s here.”
“That’s the plan.” I take a risk and turn my back on the guy, even though I’m one hundred percent sure he’s a murderer and just as confident he’s a bigot now, too. I’ve got zero evidence that would hold up in court or even convince Maury of the first part.
Sebastian’s the only member of his family with powers. Nothing the elder Mr. Caprice can do without an ax or a sword could kill me at first blow. My nose tells me he isn’t carrying either of those, so he doesn’t scare me at the moment.
The landlord lets us go without further comment. Out in the fresh air with the smoke scent clearing, I realize he should smell like Maury but doesn’t, and also why. He wasn’t a smoker before. Last time I saw this dude, he was on another guy’s case for the nicotine habit. So he only recently started. Sebastian’s influence maybe isn’t so benign as he tried pretending at the hospital.
I stop walking, shut my eyes. Thinking of the hospital makes me remember how I need King DeCampo to get over whatever’s been ailing him and back on the throne so I can ask his permission to turn Maury. Because I’m not doing a heel turn and going to Whitby with this. Yeah, the plan’s complicated as all get out. But it’ll be worth it if I can pull it off.
“Get the fuck out of the road, ya asshole!” The man’s voice booms in the flat r-dropping accent residents of the Ocean State are known for. Yeah, that’s right. I’m getting chewed out, Southern New England style. And I deserve it because I was standing in the middle of the street like a yahoo. Being easily distracted is a real vampire weakness, even if it’s invisible most of the time.
“Fine, jeez!” Trotting across the street at a regular person’s pace is hard at the moment. If my heart could still beat, it’d be going a mile a minute after that startle.
Leora and Sparky lean against Scott’s truck, doubled over as they shriek with laughter. Kids these days, with their morbid senses of humor. Well, I can’t blame them for sharing a trait with me. I chuckle my undead backside all the way over to the passenger side. Scott unlocks the truck, and we all get in.
Leora’s tapping her phone, but I know she’s not being anti-social. She’s setting up some Bluetooth tunes. Which would be fine with me if she weren’t at that phase most kids her age land in for maybe a year or three. I remember it well myself—the favorite song on repeat stage.
I figure anything that helps her cope with the loss of her mother and what she’s been through since then is a good thing. But she’s not blasting out anything you hear on Pandora stations or internet radio. Instead, it’s Take Me As I Am from Jekyll and Hyde. Yup, the theater bug really has bitten her. And Sparky, too.
The almost-human kid’s singing every word, with feeling. He’s got one of those signature voices, the kind that can’t exactly be called beautiful but will stand out in a chorus as instantly recognizable. He’s got a character actor’s tone and timbre.
Leora’s smile stretches as her voice joins her friend’s. And hers is everything his isn’t. It’s a challenge to keep my mouth from dropping because this is talent with a capital T. Powerhouse territory. Yes, I’m still going to coach her through whatever she wants, but I have to seriously consider getting her some more experienced and professional instruction down the road. Because even though I’m a vampire, her voice is giving me chills.
Scott drives to the old green gambreled house on Ocean Avenue in Warwick. We all head in because the Pickering home is full of my allies and a couple of friends. Leora’s and Sparky’s, too. This is where she goes after school but before the sun sets, and also where she sleeps every night Baba doesn’t need her help. It’s a strange parenting arrangement, but she’s no typical kid.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Chapter Seven
We park on the street and get out. I’m in such a hurry I have to run back and wait for everyone else to get out of Scott’s truck. Yeah, I’m just that nervous and that fast, too. King DeCampo is formidable even at the best of times and especially when he’s having these new fits of his. Apparently, there are hardships that come from being an extremely old vampire, along with all the prestige and power.
I send Sparky and Leora upstairs, where Frankie’s two younger siblings wait for them. Magical Sarah rolls her eyes at me, although her lips tilt upward at one side. Mundane Levi grins and gives me a wave tiny enough to fit in at a country club party. Leora and Sparky carry their books, the Smash Brothers game, and a sense of liveliness up to the second floor with them, thank goodness.
Scott hangs my bags in the hall and follows me.
Pickering House is one of those places with an element of gravity and emotion to it. When you walk inside, the air feels heavy and clammy, like a classic New England pea-soup fog. I’m not sure whether it’s due to the history associated with this family and its magical connection to Deep Ones. Maybe it’s just the fact that the backyard’s directly on the water.
At any rate, Leora and Sparky always serve to brighten the place up a notch or three. Maybe it’s because of their connection with Baba Yaga. From what Frankie’s told me over the last few months, Baba’s magic sits on some sort of metaphysical diagonal, balancing those creepy frog people. Yeah, I just equated Deep Ones to frogs even though they’re nothing like Kermit. But they still haunt my daymares. Everybody has their favorite ways to cope, I guess.
I head back toward the parlor, expecting to see the same tense scene that’s become all too common over the last month. And I’m almost right. On the other side of that doorway, the once and hopefully future vampire King of Providence stands, surrounded by his three closest allies as they try to calm him. But one thing is different this time.
They’re barely managing to hold him back.
King DeCampo is short but as solidly built as the Great Pyramid. Probably as old, too. My first memories of him are dominated by authority and gravity. Even in Mnemosyne’s Vault, the lost pieces of his history held a theme of sacrifice and justice. But tonight, he’s like a destructive storm on slow-churn.
His long dreadlocks hiss through the air like snakes, tipped with silver beads. The sheer length of his fangs tells me he’s close to some form of vampiric Rage. Strong brown hands reach, fingers splayed. He hasn’t activated the ability that turns them into claws capable of cutting diamonds. At least not yet.
Words flow from his mouth, rounded syllables and harsh consonants I can’t comprehend. They sound nothing like my childhood church Latin, the most ancient language I know well. The closest thing I’ve heard was Maury’s bar mitzvah Hebrew. But even with that slim linguistic insight, I’ve got no idea whether the true King of Providence is currently issuing blessings, curses, or warnings.
