by D. R. Perry
This isn't frightening. I know you're probably concerned, maybe worried about my safety or even my sanity. Ignoring clear and present danger is a warning sign for maybe a half dozen psychological ailments. Those inventories and diagnoses were all made with humans in mind. I'm not one anymore, no matter how much I wish I could go back and be my old self again. But I do know something about fighting internal monsters that my buddy does not.
“Frankie, you don’t run from the stuff in your head.”
“Yeah. Like I said. It’s always there, slowly killing you. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, no escape.” He stares straight out the windshield at the road ahead, foot planted firmly on the brake. “Not even love can do that.”
“Not true.” I stare at the red traffic light and square my jaw. “You don’t run because brain goblins are monsters you stand and face. You fight them with the weapons folks like Dr. Young teach you to use. Love is one of them.”
Frankie’s wiping his face. Dammit. I didn’t want to make him cry. He’s the last person who deserves any more pain. And here I am giving him painful and shitty advice.
“I suck at fighting.”
I have to swallow past the lump in my throat before I can reply. Because the psychobabble I’m spouting has two edges, and one of those is cutting me too. I want to protest, tell Frankie to shut up, say that he doesn’t suck at fighting, that he’s one of the strongest people I know. Because I want that to be true. But even if my gut is judging his character right, he won’t believe a millimeter of that line. He’s not ready to hear it, so I’ve got to wait to say it. Maybe forever. But there’s something you can pretty much always say to a person in distress like this.
“That’s okay. All anyone wants you to do is try.”
I reach out, stretching to put my hand over his knuckles as they whiten on the steering wheel. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to get the message because it’s the same one between us since the night we met. Frankie’s not alone because I made him a vow, so neither am I. That’s absolute and at least as eternal as King DeCampo. And just as dangerous if we ever try to break this chain.
I have to face certain facts about my condition. I'm not who I used to be. Frankie knows this, fully comprehends the implications and impact my vampirism could have on the mortals closest to my heart. He’ll know immediately if I lose touch with where I came from.
In a more literal sense, he also knows where I’m going right now. Which is over to the studio to meet Esther. A reasonably working arm is sort of important at the moment. I tell Frankie that he can hang with me, but he says no. He has an errand to run.
We say our goodbyes in the parking lot, with far less eye contact than usual. Which makes me wonder what sort of task he’s handling. Maybe it’s something to do with his new job and DeCampo’s blood. I let that sleeping dog lie for now even though I’m getting that worried knot in the pit of my stomach.
Somehow, I get the impression that whatever my buddy’s doing is dangerous. But after this appointment, I know better than to be a helicopter friend right now.
Dr. Young is right. I need my own appointment with him. Even though He's not listening to a vamp like me, I thank God I made one. Now all I need to do is get through the week ahead of it.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hey, fuckwit!”
It’s just another typical evening’s greeting from Esther, nothing to write home about. Unless you’ve got a family full of drunken sailors, which I don’t.
“Hey, yourself.” I wave with my only arm.
She waves back with an unattached one.
I smile, bouncing on the balls of my feet. This seems like it’d be an odd reaction to a macabre situation if you didn’t already know I’d give my left arm for, well, a left arm. I’m excited, okay? Cut me a little slack.
It’s been seven days since DeCampo took my arm off.
As psyched as I am, hesitating at the threshold of Esther’s alchemy lab is a habit I don’t want to break. And it’s a good thing I do because she saunters over to throw a shower of green, glittery powder at the seemingly open space in front of me.
No, she’s not glitter-bombing me like some kind of one-woman Pride Parade. Esther’s deactivating the ward protecting this place. The motes of dust crackle and fritter into nothingness, and the energy shifts from electric to unreactive.
“Get the fuck in here.”
I follow that order. Alchemy is a potent form of magic, both versatile and also powerful in terms of raw destructive capabilities. The main drawback, according to Esther, is it “takes fucking forever to set this shit up.”
The main takeaway is, never get on the bad side of an alchemist. Generally, I like to refrain from pissing off any magician but especially Esther’s brand.
“So, the arm’s done?”
“Fucking-a, it is.” She smirks. Uh-oh.
“What’s the catch, though?”
“You got blood?”
“Um. Upstairs, yeah.”
“You’ll need that.”
“How much?”
“All of it.”
I’m taking Esther seriously here because it’s rarer than my dad likes his steaks for her to omit all the four-letter words. That’s why I shuffle out the door, then head up the stairwell at the end of the hall into my office to fetch my stash.
I’ve made it down the stairs again and am walking back down Esther’s hallway with the blood in a cooler when a high-pitched and breathy voice speaks behind me.
“Where’s the party, tiger?”
“Huh?” I turn to face the speaker.
She’s got shocking-pink hair with one side shaved, like Cyndi Lauper back in the eighties. She looks old enough to be said celebrity, too. I stand there staring at her like a total yokel, saying nothing with my mouth wide open.
Good thing I’m not hungry. Or angry. Otherwise, she’d have definitely seen my fangs.
“The party. You know?” She drops a wink then gestures at my cooler with a hand covered in enormous rings with semi-precious stones. “The one you’re bringing all the beer to?”
“No, nothing so fun.” I shake my head and also the cooler. “This is full of keto snacks. Perishable ones.”
I’m not technically lying. Blood has no carbs.
“Oh.” She smiles like a magazine cover model. “You look familiar.”
Oh, great. The old Rhode Island song and dance of “where do I know you from” has begun. Exactly when I didn’t need it. This is the smallest state, but it’s got the biggest social network. Sometimes that’s damn inconvenient. The only thing I can reasonably do is give her all my mundane deets as efficiently as possible.
“I went to Cranston West, graduated from URI in criminal justice, and worked at Cranston PD for a few years.” I grin. “Maybe I pulled you over. But before you did your hair pink. I’d remember that.”
“No, that’s not it.” Her smile widens, which I hadn’t thought possible.
“Um, I was in performing arts?” I shrug because I’ve got nothing else.
“I don’t think so.” She taps one neon-pink nail on her cheek. One of her rings is missing from it, judging by the tan line. “I think it was in a picture. Have you ever sat for a portrait? One of those sketches?”
“What the fuck, Mom?” Esther’s boot stomps the floor just outside her door.
I drop the cooler.
“Oh! So this is your—” she clears her throat over a word that could be vampire, “friend! He’s cute! Just like a little wind-up doll.”
“Shut your damn cakehole and get in here already, Mom.” Esther points at me. “You too, asshole.”
I pick the cooler up and follow Esther’s mother into the lab, wondering exactly how much trouble I’ve gotten myself into here. Hopefully not as much as the time Maya had to use her claws to extract wooden splinters from my heart.
Once the door closes behind us, I breathe a sigh of relief. The usual disorganized clutter graces the lab bench, all of the chairs are of
the folding metal variety, and there’s nothing resembling an operating table in sight.
Shrugging off my opera cloak is easy. Hanging it on the row of hooks by the door, not so much. A pair of well-lined yet deft hands comes to the rescue.
“Thanks.”
“Wow.” Esther’s mother flashes a smile. “A vampire with manners. I could almost start believing in unicorns, Essie. Is he always so refreshingly subservient?”
“What do you fucking think, Mom?” Esther rolls her eyes. “Tino’s not one of those weasel-dicked fangmasters from the fucking Bronze Age. This son of a bitch was turned practically fucking yesterday.”
“Oh!” Her mother actually claps her hands like an excited grade-schooler. “This is amazing! I’ve never met one of you people who was so new before!”
“Um, technically, we haven’t been formally introduced, Miss—” I raise an eyebrow. She blushes.
Yeah, I’m laying it on pretty thick here, but can you blame me? This level of flattery doesn’t come my way often, even if it’s a bit infantile. I’m so amused by this whole interaction that I forget the one rule of supernatural folk.
There’s always a catch.
“Oh, it’s Mrs. I’m still a married woman, although I divorced Esther’s father ages ago.”
“Well, what shall I call you then?” I grin.
“You’ll be calling her Queen Bitch of Nutsack Mountain in a minute.” Esther’s mumbling too low for her mother to hear, but my vampire ears pick those words up loud and clear.
“Oh, you don’t get to call me anything at all, dear boy.” Her eyes gleam in a way I don’t entirely like.
Esther’s mother taps the top of one of her gaudy rings. The gemstone top swings open on some sort of hidden hinge, releasing a plume of gray dust. Which lands all over me because of course, it does. She snaps her fingers.
And I can’t move. Flashes of that horrible night when a wooden bullet staked and paralyzed me advance on my psyche like a conquering army. I can’t possibly imagine how this could get any worse.
But it does.
Queen Bitch of Nutsack Mountain taps the tips of her fingers together, and my legs are moving without my consent. They march me over to a chair, where my rear end promptly rests itself. Forcefully enough to make my teeth clatter together like a bag of rocks.
There’s so much I want to say right now. Words that usually come out of Esther’s mouth, mostly. I can’t, of course, because this mother has total physical control of me. It’s worse than that one time Zack puppeted me toward victory against Carmine the Lethian. Because at least Zack let me sing in the big musical finale.
“Let’s do the needful now, Essie.”
“Stop calling me that fucking name, Mommy Dearest.”
“Oh, Essie. I’ll call you whatever I want. You’re the one who needs me, after all.” Her smirk is more poisonous than a basket of figs and asps.
“Like a fish needs a bicycle, mother.” Esther’s mouth twists into a smile that reminds me of flowers on razor-wire. She says nothing else but her actions speak volumes. My friend grabs a stick of green chalk and goes about the business of marking the floor with one of the geometric seals that help contain alchemical magic.
She works swiftly, making me think she’s done spells like this with extreme frequency. I remember the handful of times I bumped her prosthetic arm and leg. She must use a formula like this one on herself periodically.
I want to ask Esther how she manages to tolerate her mother so often, but I can’t. No wonder she’s surly all the time. But then I realize that I’ve got it wrong. During the course of the bizarre ritual, I overhear plenty.
Esther’s reference to fish and bicycles makes sense. She only needs Mommy Dearest this time because I’m undead.
Apparently, necromantic alchemy is a thing. And it involves a generous helping of gray, ashy-looking powder.
I’ve got plenty of time to consider this bit of information. The arm attachment process is painless but lengthy. It also itches more than I’d like.
I wonder whether Esther’s mom is acquainted with Whitby. She controls vampire bodies utterly. And if she’s eliminated my pain responses, she can affect us neurologically as well. It’s no big leap of intellect to guess that she’s capable of altering our memories.
I glare at my opera cloak, wishing I’d turned on my phone camera before taking it off. I’m a naturally curious dude. Even though I trust Esther when it comes to magic, it wouldn’t have been out of character for me to make a recording. But I’ll bet that’s exactly the reason evil mom “helped” me with my cloak in the first place.
I turn my eyes heavenward, praying to God for the ability to remember my observations and conclusions here long enough to jot them down.
Wait. I turned my eyes. I start laughing on the inside and feel the corners of my mouth tilt up. It’s a tiny smile, but persistent as a daisy growing in a pothole.
“Shit. Mom, your fucking dust is wearing off.”
“It’s because he’s so new.” She chuckles.
“What the fuck? You could have told me that fucking shit earlier.”
This strengthens my suspicions about her potential involvement in Whitby’s whammy. If necromantic alchemy doesn’t last long on the newly undead, no wonder he pulled the trigger on his conquest while I was away from the vampire club.
And Esther didn’t know.
In fact, this whole arm attachment exercise has spoken volumes. Just being present and aware for the duration is at least as valuable to me as the magical prosthetic that’s now attached to my left shoulder.
I guess it’s safe to say I gave my left arm to discover how DeCampo’s court forgot all about him.
“Now, give him the blood, Essie.”
Esther’s already a step ahead of her mother. She’s set the cooler at my feet and opened it, is in the process of tucking a bag of blood into my right hand. Since her back’s to her mom, only I see the ferocious snarl on her face as she nods.
“We don’t want him Raging when I lift the spell.” Evil mom holds up her right hand, fingers poised and ready to snap. “Or maybe you don’t want me to end the spell.” She grins. “If I leave it to wear off on its own, you can do whatever you want with him for at least another hour.”
Esther straightens, doing a snappy about-face worthy of the military veteran she is. Her hand’s in her back pocket, where I can see a stack of Post-it notes.
She can blow holes in entire walls with those things.
“Fucking let him out of it right now, or so help me—”
“Done.” She snaps and turns her back, striding toward the door. “Don’t forget how much you owe me now, Essie dear.”
“I forget fucking nothing, bitch.”
I’m gulping blood from the bag, holding it over my head with my chin tilted up to get it down quicker. My fangs tear the thin plastic practically to ribbons, but I don’t care. I’m no longer just angry for my own sake, but for Esther as well.
Tossing the empty sack aside is automatic, just like the motion I make with my left arm, bringing the second one to my lips. Except I miss.
The blood bag hits me in the eye. I try again and get my nose, which has me howling like Scott at a full moon and gnashing my fangs.
“Easy there. Slow and steady.”
Esther’s voice barely sounds like hers, but vamp ears don’t lie. She’s changed her tone and volume, softening the drawling vowels and slurred consonants of her Rhode Island accent.
I find myself following her advice, even though the Rage threatening to take over is still too close for comfort. The bag comes into view, I imagine myself making it float toward my mouth. When I bite down, she speaks again, this time facing me.
“Chill.” Green sparks surround her mouth.
I do. And I also make shorter but less violent work of the second bag of blood. When I’m done, I come up for air.
“Shitballs.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Your mom needs a serio
us lesson about consent.”
“No, she doesn’t. She knows what that is.”
“So, what’s her problem?”
“She thinks the undead have got no rights. And legally speaking, if the world knew about vampires, you wouldn’t.”
I’m not sure what to say about that. Esther’s probably right, and it sucks. There’s no scarier monster than an enormous group of frightened and uninformed people.
Instead of contemplating this for longer than I have to, I gaze down at the new prosthetic. It’s paler and colder than my own was, and that’s a major difference from Esther’s two replacement limbs. While hers feel like they’d been in the air conditioning while the rest of her was outside on a balmy day, mine feels more like one of those gel cooler packs that go in your kid’s lunchbox.
The fingers flex, and my grip is almost as strong as on the right. Which isn’t much different from usual, after all. I wonder whether the arm will show up in mirrors while the rest of me doesn’t. It’s probably a good idea to wear long sleeves and gloves now that the autumn weather will allow for it.
I stare up at my friend and catch her frowning as she dabs at the corner of one eye with the back of a hand. Esther’s gruff and rough around the edges. Normally it seems like nothing ever really gets to her. But this time is different. Finally, I know what to say.
“I know this is usually your line, but what a fucking bitch.”
“Fucking a.” She holds out another bag of blood to me. “You need at least two more.”
I nod and drink two more bags in a silence that’s grown less awkward. When I’m done, I get my notebook out of my back pocket. But then my phone rings.
Esther hustles over to the hook where my cloak hangs and gets it. I blink but recover from my astonishment quickly enough to jot down a few lines about necromantic alchemy.
“Private Investigation, Valentino Crispo’s phone, who may I say is calling?”
This time I can’t help it. I drop my pen along with my jaw.
“It’s a Doctor Eunice Terry.” Esther places the phone in my still open hand. Then she silently mouths the words, “You’re fucking welcome.”
