Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  “Precisely what he thinks he wants.”

  “And that is?”

  “None of your concern.”

  “Stephanie.”

  “We’re done discussing this.”

  “No, we are not.” I grip her hand tighter. “Look, my imagination’s going places, especially with everything Frankie went through. With the Deep Ones, and how they hurt him.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Tino.” She squeezes back. “I’m not closing my eyes and thinking of jolly old England in there if you catch my meaning. I’m vestal, a spinster, abstinent. One variety of what your generation terms asexual, and Whitby’s aware of that.”

  “Is this something to do with your special power?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Okay.” Vampires are bound by their word, and Stephanie’s given hers too many times for her to ever speak with absolute freedom. “Will it make taking the city back for DeCampo even harder?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I can’t tell you, but Raven may be able to.” She slips her hand out of my grip. “After we do this deed.”

  “So, what do I do while you’re, um, indisposed, anyway?”

  “Mingle as usual.” The left corner of her mouth turns up. “Learn what you can from whoever you manage to observe.”

  “You’re not giving me much here, Steph.” I get my new notebook out, flip it open, and lean it against a stone windowsill. I make a note to check on Maury’s mysterious assaults. After that, I’m ready to jot down more notes in Latin. “I’m an investigator. But having a goal helps.”

  “I’m not looking for the latest gossip. But I would like to know who seems discontented with the current administration.”

  “Should I lean on anyone in particular?”

  “Let me think.” She closes her eyes. “Peligro.”

  Stephanie can speak Spanish, but I know she doesn’t mean literal danger. It’s a vampire’s nickname.

  “Any reason you mention him?” I’m only asking because he came in with Whitby in the first place. And as far as I know, Stephanie’s not privy to the fact that he’s helped me before.

  “So did Maya, Tino. And you know where her loyalties lie.”

  “Yeah, good point.”

  “But Peligro’s a seer. He gets impressions of truth from people and things. If anyone left in that den of snakes can see a bigger picture of this situation, it’ll be him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Ask around about Shadow.” She opens her eyes. “Last time, Whitby told me he died, but that rumor may be greatly exaggerated. I’ve done some rather extensive searching in my free time, and his Lazakhar still hasn’t turned up.”

  “Yeah, he’s probably not an ash pile.” I tap my pencil on the paper. “And he went missing before Whitby’s memory whammy. So I can see why you want to find him.” I don’t mention that he isn’t likely to do me any favors because the fact that we weren’t friends is not important.

  “Ask Hargrove about him.” Stephanie glances at me, raising her eyebrow.

  She knows Hargrove doesn’t like me, and the feeling is mutual. But any port in this storm is better than none. Still, something bothers me when I think about Shadow. Almost like I’ve seen him recently. But my memory is notoriously faulty. I jot a few sentences about the pair of enforcers down in my notebook to check against my larger records from June and July.

  “Ask Hargrove about Shadow. Got it.” I flip my notebook closed and tuck it away.

  “Perhaps Shadow’s in a long sleep. If we find him, we could get access to a wealth of useful information. Waking a vampire of his age won’t be too difficult for me, and it won’t hurt for him to owe us a favor.” Stephanie glances at the court building again but raises an eyebrow at me before taking another step. “Is that enough to keep you occupied?”

  “Yeah.” More than she knows, but I don’t tell her that. Now’s not the time.

  As we walk, I glance behind us. Scott’s long since driven away. The building where all of the vampire stuff happens in Providence is across the street from the Arcade. I’m careful not to step in any mud puddles this time. Stephanie probably doesn’t even need to think about stuff like that. Maybe in a century or two, I won’t have to either.

  There’s a special knock everybody uses at the door, one designed to have nuances only people with vampiric hearing can discern. We get it right, so at least that much hasn’t changed. But when Hargrove, the last remaining enforcer from DeCampo’s time here, answers the door, we see that almost everything else has.

  The hallway used to be wood-paneled with the real stuff, not that fake 1970s pressboard. Now it’s all been whitewashed. This means there aren’t any more dark corners for vamps to commune in, the way I did with Maya the night we rescued Stephanie and King DeCampo from Deep Ones. I roll my eyes at the crappy new remodeling job.

  DeCampo’s style was discreet, and shadowy yet warmly appointed. Whitby’s isn’t. It’s also got more ornate decor in a baroque style that’s chic minus the shabby. Cut-glass doorknobs match a trio of chandeliers. All the walls are white, and the crown molding is painted in gilt I’d see myself in if I wasn’t a vamp with no reflection. These elements add up to a strange blend of Renaissance and art deco styles, with a finishing touch of chrome.

  I hate it.

  It’s like expecting Hogwarts and getting the White Witch’s castle from deep-freeze Narnia instead. I have to work at concealing my distaste. But Stephanie doesn’t bother. She’s even older than Whitby himself. And she isn’t stooping to put on airs over it. Following her example is probably the best choice.

  I watch her approach the throne, which is now a tufted affair with a back that would shame any self-respecting albino peacock. The buttons are all diamonds. Whitby takes foppishness to an entirely new and obscene level, apparently.

  The vampire who gets in Stephanie’s way is only a little taller than her but built like the love child of a brick shithouse and a linebacker. I’m talking about Mrs. Kent, the pink cardigan clad vampire. Usually, her ever-present sweater is unadorned. But tonight, there’s a white ribbon pinned to it.

  This means she is now one of Whitby’s court officers. Also, she’s an archivist. Whatever that means. Either nobody explained what vampire archivists do or I forgot. Probably the latter.

  Anyway, it’s pretty clear that Mrs. Kent is acting as King’s attaché. Which is what Raven does for DeCampo. Did. The attaché is supposed to deflect social threats and handle business considered beneath the king’s station. But Raven was lightyears better at this job than Mrs. Kent, who seems desperate to keep King Whitby all to herself instead of acting like she’s too bored to care what the little people want.

  Judging from the thorough eyeballing Whitby gives Stephanie, Mrs. Kent is right to be concerned. Stephanie wasn’t specific about all her goals here tonight, but I suspect one of them is positioning herself to make a play for Mrs. Kent’s job.

  Speaking of occupations, watching Stephanie’s personal drama unfold wasn’t one of mine this evening. She’s older and knows better, at least in social battles like the one she just started. After all, she’s just gotten past the attaché and directly to Whitby’s side. I lift my foot, about to turn away.

  “Crispo.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Good evening, Mrs. Kent.” I figure there’s no harm in being polite, even if this is the vampire who sold Zack Milano’s body, memories, and magical powers to the Deep Ones for a week.

  “What’s your sire’s game?”

  “Do you think she tells me any of that?”

  “There must be some reason you’re here with her, and I’ll have it.” Mrs. Kent’s fists are balled up and resting on her solidly built hips. Archivist or not, I don’t want our confrontation coming to blows. I’m a glass cannon in vampire terms. If she decks me, it’d be a TKO even without my stupid injury.

  “Blood, Mrs. Kent.” I lift the left corner of my
opera cloak with my right hand and give her the most blatant and unimpeachable excuse. “She’s here to help me get what’s needed to grow this back.”

  “And you couldn’t make such a request yourself?” She’s tapping one loafer-clad foot against the white marble floor.

  “I’m new, and you know it.”

  “Excuse me?” She blinks. Either Mrs. Kent’s deception game is stronger than I thought, or Whitby’s whammy also hit her memory. And here we thought he trusted someone enough to keep them in the light, so to speak. If I want more information, I’ll have to look like a rube.

  “I got turned back in April and did my trials in May, remember?” I shrug and give her that gee-whiz smile I learned from watching syndicated 1950s television at my grandma’s house. “We don’t want to offend King Whitby because the youngest vampire asks for a favor the wrong way. Well, at least that’s what I heard Stephanie say, anyway.”

  “Fair enough.” Mrs. Kent’s still standoffish but seems to disregard me as a threat for now. “Off with you.” She actually shoos me away.

  I nod, smile, wait for her to turn back toward the dais. Once she does, I have a stroll through the room. It’s unnerving, partly because I’m wearing a combination of red, brown, and black in a bright white room. I try to spot other vampires, but it’s not so easy. They all got the memo about the decor and are clad in pallid outfits of varying shades like a pack of Pastel Goths.

  Except for one man. Peligro. Peligro Cabeza, sometimes referred to as Roger. And since he’s one of the vamps I’m specifically there to see, I head in his direction. Quietly, so I don’t make too much of a spectacle or cause a ruckus.

  Unfortunately, I forget that anything or anyone Peligro gets involved with becomes blatant in ten seconds flat. He sees me coming, raises both arms over his head to throw me double waves, then trots halfway across the room, so we meet practically in the middle. Not that there are any dark corners for us to chat in anyway.

  “I think I missed out on the dress code announcement, too.” I gesture at the black turtleneck and slacks he’s wearing under the tan trench coat I’ve never seen him without.

  “Good.” Peligro’s nodding so enthusiastically I worry about the integrity of his neck and its ability to keep his head on his shoulders. “Lets you have wings.”

  “Um.” I stand perfectly still, unsure what exactly he means until Peligro grabs the lower corners of my opera cloak and flaps them like I’m some kind of fanged bird. “Okay, I guess.”

  He chuckles, rolling his eyes. The smile on his lips is strained enough to make me wonder what he’s really at. I wait his episode out. The whole process reminds me of the kid who shoveled the driveway last winter for my parents on days I was working. Wally, who’s on the autism spectrum. Peligro’s actions now remind me of Wally when he’s stressed and stimming. Maybe he’s coping with more than vampirism and whatever precognitive psychic ability he has.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.” Peligro’s smiling. He looks like how I felt the night my dad came home from the hospital after being shot.

  “No problem.” I grin back.

  He drapes one arm over my shoulders. “Everyone’s looking at us, you know.”

  “Yeah, it happens.”

  “Where’s your arm?” He’s whispering even though other vampires can hear that sort of thing anyway. But I’m okay with playing along.

  “Left it home,” I murmur back. “Too much of a drag.”

  “It drags?”

  “No, sorry.” I’ve heard that autism makes it hard to take some stuff as anything but literal, so I explain. “I made a bad joke just then. My arm got cut off by accident.”

  “Oh, no bueno.” He leads me toward a wall. All of the other vampires are hanging out at the sides of the room, even though there aren’t any shadows to hide in, no matter how close they get. “Like all this. Like swimming in a fishbowl. I don’t like it.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” I cut to the only chase I can think of. “Hey, don’t you miss your old friend Maya?”

  “Maya. Right.” He scratches behind one ear. “Sounds familiar, but I can’t put my finger on her.”

  I’m not sure whether Peligro’s actually remembering how things were before Whitby took over here or is just as clueless as everyone else. The finger on her comment might imply he’s got some memory or at least information about my girlfriend and her special ability. On the other hand, it might have been a subconscious slip. But then he speaks again.

  “She always made sense out of things.” Peligro glances at the wall then back at me. “Where angels fear to tread, there goes the girl with all the armor. And scary hands. I can’t see her now. But you can. And you do. How is she?”

  “Okay, good.” I nod. “She’s hanging in there. Helping my own good friend, who also has armor and scary hands. But he’s not doing so great.” I figure there’s no reason not to go for broke. “Do you know what he needs? Can you, uh, see it, I mean.”

  “See?” the upper half of Peligro’s face scrunches like he’s thinking hard. “Oh, yeah.” He snaps his fingers. “Magic.”

  I’m about to ask him to clarify. He could mean anything by that, from Maya’s technically psychic ability to the stuff Esther does in her lab. But I can’t because a shadow falls over us. It’s strangely comforting even though it shouldn’t be.

  “Is this guy giving you trouble, Peligro?”

  I look up into the face almost half a foot above my head. It’s framed by thick, amber braids, and looks about as aggressive as I feel when I think someone’s messing with one of my friends. I know this vampire, too.

  “Hi, Annie!” Oops.

  She doesn’t know I know her. Forgetting about huge memory whammies because your own memory sucks is a bad thing. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not a good feeling when people who you don’t know seem to have all your details. Even in Rhode Island, where everybody knows a guy.

  “Stay away from my partner or so help me. I’ll put a hole in your heart big enough to obliterate it. At range. When you least expect it.” Annie the vampire gunslinger pats the scope-equipped rifle strapped to her back. Which is a ballsy move, considering she’s not wearing the white ribbon on her chest that Mrs. Kent and Whitby were sporting.

  “Um, okay. Whatever you say.” I back away from Peligro, letting his arm slip off my shoulders. “Later.”

  Making myself scarce is next to impossible in there, but I do the best I can. It’s not working. All the vamps lining the walls stare at me. So I do the only thing I can think of. Smile and wave, like Miss Rhode Island in a motorcade. Without the dress, heels, and crown of course.

  It works. They stop staring and start whispering to each other instead. About me, but it’s still an improvement. I’m a performance artist, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally fine with being stared at while not on stage. That much attention at the wrong time has gotten people killed, after all.

  I realize I’ve blown my purpose for being here. Find out Whitby’s replacement version of events. But as the murmurs lamenting my newness and social faux pas continue, I start to get an idea that there’s consciousness of a collective history here. One where I did my Trials with Whitby and barely passed them, and the Deep Ones never dared show their faces above sea level.

  I have a look back up at the throne. Stephanie’s sitting on one white-draped chair arm while Whitby is turned sideways as she chats him up. Everything about his posture says he’s bored, but I know better. Power of observation comes with both acting and investigating. His eyes don’t leave hers. She’s got his full attention.

  I realize I’ve got to divert mine or else risk losing track of everything I’ve discovered so far. Fishing my notebook out of a pocket is easy. So is flipping it open. But I can’t write anything down without something to lean it on. Stupid missing arm.

  “Allow me.”

  “Uh.” I look up into a face I don’t immediately place. I blink, then recognize the meanest fanged mug in my memory. “ Hargrove, hi.”

&nb
sp; “Mr. Crispo.” He holds one hand out and glances down at my notepad, then looks me in the eye. I notice the white ribbon pinned to his lapel almost immediately.

  “Hey, thanks, but—” Before I can continue my protest, the intimidating vamp plucks the leather-bound paper stack from my only hand.

  My stomach does an elevator dance as I wait for him to flip through it and read all my notes. Shadow’s a polyglot. It’s one of the first things Stephanie told me about him my first night here after getting turned. Shadow knows something like seventeen languages, Latin included. It’s one of the things that makes him a good enforcer. Made. Right?

  I blink, then shake my head like there’s a bug buzzing in my ear. This is Hargrove here. Shadow’s missing, has been since the Deep Ones impersonated Stephanie and took DeCampo. Right? And of course, he’s not really reading my notes. The bulky enforcer makes his hatred of books no secret.

  “Well?” And he’s holding the pad up, paper facing me. Hasn’t so much as looked at the empty page it’s open to, let alone the rest of it.

  “Ah, thanks.” I make my notes. He’s not watching my hand or even my eyes. Instead, they’re on the wall behind me. The enforcer’s unexpectedly giving me privacy. After I’m done, he hands it back and is about to walk away.

  “Hey, Sha—” I correct myself, but he’s turning around anyway. Am I really this brain-damaged? Is he? “Hargrove?”

  “Yes?”

  “I really appreciate the help there, but I’ve got to ask why you’d do so much for a sore thumb from another town like me.”

  “Professional courtesy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Clearly, you are one of the Warwick king’s enforcers.” He clears his throat emphatically. “I expect you’ll use everything I’ve assisted you with in said capacity.”

  “Oh.” I don’t correct him. However, I do notice that he’s still the only vamp here who could remotely claim that title under Whitby. And vampire kings typically have two or more. So it’s possible that Hargrove’s as concerned about his missing counterpart as all of us over at Pickering House are.