Hell's Belle

by Karen Greco

  I thought to pick up where I left off with the coffee idea. A full pot would be good. "Anything interesting in there?" I called to Frankie over my shoulder as I headed towards the kitchen to finish the coffee.

  "Actually, yes," he said, tilting the book towards me. I squinted at the page.

  "Holy shit," I crossed back to the living room, picked up the book, and promptly dropped it on Frankie's toe. It was heavy.

  "Sorry!" I said, as he winced. I picked up the book again and held it out to him. He flipped through the pages, to the one he was reading.

  There was the dagger. And below it was loads of writing. In a language that looked familiar but not really.

  "This isn't vampiric tongue, right?" I asked.

  Frankie shook his head, "No. The ancient vampiric is different from today, but there are usually enough similarities between them that we can decipher ancient texts. I can't place this, though."

  "What about the book?" I closed the volume and looked at the cover. "Where'd you get it?"

  "After I lost Marcello's track, I went back to Babe's and I was mucking about in her attic. I found them in some sealed boxes." Frankie shrugged. "They were with your parents’ stuff. She said she forgot they were there or she would have given them to you."

  "Anything else in those boxes I'd be interested in seeing?" I was a little pissed that he didn't bring the whole haul with him. But you can't exactly transport moving boxes on a motorcycle. Besides, I had enough unpacked boxes in my apartment anyway.

  "You'll need to see yourself." He shrugged again, clearly wanting to stay out of the family drama. "What did the G-Man want?"

  "A knife just like my dad's was dropped at a crime scene," I was trying to push past my annoyance. Babe didn't forget about those boxes. I knew she was only trying to protect me. And I loved her and knew she had her reasons, and Frankie shouldn't be caught in the middle. But the five-year-old me wanted to pinch him.

  "One doesn't just drop a dagger like that at a crime scene," Frankie said incredulously.

  "And a dagger just like it did this to me last night, too." I pointed at my neck.

  Frankie cocked an eyebrow.

  "Any chance there are more out there than the five we know about?" I asked. For all we knew, this could have been the top-selling item at the Wal-Mart of ancient times. Although I seriously doubted it.

  "There's always a chance," Frankie said. "But I'd say the chance was slim."

  I yawned and got up off the couch to head to the kitchen again. Maybe this time I would actually get the coffee started.

  "How far were you able to track Marcello?" I asked. The dagger was leading us down a dead end.

  "A bit, but then he vanished," Frankie said. He looked worried.

  "How far did you get?" I filled the coffee carafe with water, raising my voice of the running faucet.

  "To downtown, and then I lost him by that big hotel." Frankie was clearly frustrated. He rarely lost someone's trail.

  "Which hotel?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "The one with the old glass elevator that's stuck between floors."

  I knew it. "The Biltmore. They have been seeing some seriously supernatural activity since I arrived, and it feels stronger every time I pass by."

  "Coincidence, then?" Frankie winked.

  I snorted. Neither of us believed in coincidences. I turned the pot on.

  The Biltmore Hotel still had a hint of elegance hidden beneath the shabby exterior. The historic old hotel sat in the center of downtown Providence. Built in the Roaring 1920s, it made headlines for installing a grand glass elevator that offered breathtaking views of the Capitol building. For decades, it was the toniest spot in town. A post-work cocktail at the Biltmore was de rigueur for the moneyed set that ran the City and the politicians they ensconced into office.

  But even something as grand as the Biltmore can fall apart. Buildings collect memories, and as the city of Providence fell further and further into decay, so did the once-stately hotel. Too many years of corruption, murder, and cover-ups bled into the walls and floorboards.

  The landmarked building now appealed to a seedier sort. Busted businessmen drank cheap whiskey in the off-key piano bar, while bored prostitutes tried to make a quick buck. The hotel had regressed to include mostly SROs, or single room occupancies, where residents on the same floor shared bathrooms and kitchens. Every now and again, some ignorant, unsuspecting out-of-towner who relied on an out-of-date guidebook or their own memories of the hotel's grandeur, checked in. Their expression -- a mix of fear and shock masked with a tart politeness -- said it all and said it best. But with nothing more to do and not wanting to embarrass themselves, they let old Jeeves (yes, that was indeed his name) cart their luggage along the dusty carpets into decrepit rooms with cracking plaster and peeling paint.

  And so the Biltmore was perfect for occupation by supernatural entities. They could sit shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar, their energy feeding on the desperation of the down-on-their-luck businessmen and the hookers that loved them. Sometimes these poor women left with something more than a date, and returned as poltergeists or vampires. Even more troubling, some simply didn’t return. I wouldn’t count out some psycho attempting to Bride of Frankenstein some of their bodies. Yeah, I dealt with that level of depravity.

  There was a lot of weirdness happening in the vicinity of the Biltmore, too. A concentration of bars and nightclubs behind the old hotel gave police a way to explain the pile up of dead bodies in the adjoining alleyways. From drunken brawls to muggings to gang turf wars, this tiny city had so much violent crime in a few downtown blocks that it was turning into that old movie, “Fort Apache, the Bronx.”

  "Did he go into the hotel?" I pressed Frankie for more details.

  "Don't know, Love." His nose was back in the book, his expression twisting as he tried to recognize what the archaic language contained.

  I crossed my arms and let out a puff of air. Frankie looked up and raised his right eyebrow.

  "Would you like to go down there and look for yourself?" Frankie offered, somewhat sarcastically.

  "Yes, I think I would," I said, pouring a mug of coffee.

  "Will you be wearing your bunny slippers, then?" The corners of Frankie's mouth twitched up. He looked me up and down, not even pretending to conceal his amusement that I was essentially in my pajamas. "Or would you prefer to put your boots on?"

  "Screw you, Frankie," I muttered. I put my mug on the counter and I stalked to my armoire. I yanked it open and grabbed whatever was closest -- a black tank top, old faded Levi's and a flannel shirt. My selection made Frankie laugh harder.

  "Going lumber jacking?" he scoffed.

  "Since when did you become Beau Brummel?" It was not an accident that I hoisted a reference to the famous British dandy.

  "You know, even his blood tasted a bit prissy." Frankie smacked his lips.

  Of course he knew Brummel, and of course he drank his blood. Probably at an opium party.

  I swirled around to say something smart-ass at him. But as my gaze caught his bright cerulean eyes, my heart accelerated and felt my gums rip as my fangs pushed through.

  Before I could even react, Casper flashed in front of my eyes. The ooze of him pressed at my body again. A searing pain shot through my head. I thought it was going to split open.

  My knees buckled, and I dropped to the floor. Frankie leapt over the couch and coffee table and was down beside me before I could process what was happening. I fought to catch my breath, and the room began to spin.

  "Frankie?" I whispered into the blackness.

  CHAPTER 10

  My head throbbed. I knew if I opened my eyes, light would pour in and make it worse. I could hear faint whispering somewhere in the room, but I couldn't make out the voice. It wasn't familiar, and I strained to make out what it was saying, which made my head ache even more.

  "I can't hear you," I muttered.

  Then I felt the cold thickness of plasma melt into my body. "N
o no no no no! Get out of here," I growled. "I will not share my body with a ghost."

  I was trying to keep my emotions in check and be firm about it, which was hard to do. Ghosts thrive on the adrenaline that pumps through humans when emotions run high, which is why possessed people are usually angry. But if you appear too weak, the ghost could try to push you into submission to keep the shell. Dealing with a ghost inside a body was delicate. I was not thrilled that this was happening.

  Now that the ghost was inside my body, I could hear him loud and clear. "I need your help," he said.

  "And I should help you... Why?" I took a sharp intake of breath when a searing pain sliced my head like a razor blade. Casper felt it too -- I felt his plasma push out of me for a brief moment.

  "Please," he said sounding scared. "You're the only one who can see me. And hear me."

  “Oh come on,” I moaned. “Find someone else to haunt.”

  “No, you’re it.” His fear was giving way to annoyance. “Believe me, I tried.”

  Well crap. I had heard about ghosts attaching themselves to people, but I had very little experience with it. When Blood Ops came across possessions, we’d call in an exorcist and leave it to the professionals. But he was body-jumping, not possessing, so he obviously wasn’t interested in controlling me.

  "Why are you attached to me?" That thought was kind of creepy. “Does it have something to do with the hospital?”

  "I was murdered," he pushed on quickly.

  "Well, duh." I felt bad and all but my head was killing me. I hated being possessed.

  "He'll kill more of us," he said as panic edged into his voice. It wasn't helping my head at all.

  “More of who?” I asked. Did he know the connection between the victims? “How many more of you are there?”

  “Not me. More of us!” His frustration at me ricocheted through my head.

  “Us?” I pressed my hands against my forehead. “Who is us? Friends? Relatives? What?”

  I felt him try to shake his head. Well, he was really trying to move my head and I was not going to let him do that. My brain would rattle.

  "What do you want me to do about it?" My headache was making me more short-tempered than usual. Plus, I had a freaking ghost in my body. I was allowed to be bitchy.

  "I want you to stop it, Nina," he said testily. Clearly he was in bad mood too. Of course, he was just brutally murdered, but I think my headache was bothering him too.

  I took a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen would help ease our pain. "Whoever you are, this is a human problem. I can't interfere."

  "Not human. El curandero," he panted. “From Veracruz.”

  “You?” I asked, startled.

  “Us. All of us.”

  My heart skipped. He was a curandero, a healer, a Mexican white witch. This must be serious if he was coming to a vampire to help. There wasn't a lot of love between vampires and witches, particularly el curandero. And I doubted those feelings changed in death.

  Babe's salty Spanish curse punctured my ears, and I felt the plasma lift out of me. I smiled slightly, relief flooding my body as Casper left me. I rolled onto my side. A wave of nausea hit me, and I quickly rolled onto my back again, groaning.

  A cool, damp cloth scented with ginger was gently applied to my forehead. It inhaled the soothing scent and carefully opened my eyes, expecting to see Babe's worried face. Instead Frankie was beside me, gently pressing the compress to my head. The centuries-old vampire looked a little scared.

  "What happened?" I murmured, not daring to speak much louder.

  "I have no idea," Frankie shook his head and squeezed my hand, which I didn't realize he was holding. It was cold, not uncomfortably so but slightly jarring.

  I groaned as a tried to sit up. His arm flew across my chest, and gently pushed me back down.

  "You just went pale and passed out," he stroked my hair. "You've been out cold for over an hour."

  "When did you eat last?" Babe chimed in. She sounded far away.

  I shrugged.

  "Great." I could hear her tap-tap-tapping her nails on the kitchen counter. The noise sounded like it was inside my throbbing head. "Lochlan, why is this happening? This is not supposed to be happening."

  I squinted open my eyes to look at her, and the dim candles felt like a blinding spotlight. I snapped them shut immediately.

  "What's not supposed to be happening?" I muttered.

  "Your blackouts, Love," Frankie whispered back. "Vampires don't blackout."

  "But humans do, Frankie. Half human, remember? I think I just need to eat more or something." I tried to focus on slowing my breath. It kept my mind off the dull ache in my head that the ghost had just left.

  Babe's tapping stopped suddenly.

  "Did you feel that, too?" Dr. O's resonant whisper carried across the room.

  I forced my eyes open very slowly and looked at them. Babe was frozen, only her eyes moved, searching the room. Dr. O cocked his head, listening. He took a few tentative steps, feeling the air around him.

  Babe released the breath she had been holding. "We are old and paranoid," she muttered. The teakettle began to sing, and she busied herself making tea. Dr. O sat down at my long redwood slab dining table. He looked exhausted.

  I knew my headaches were from Casper body-jumping into me, and maybe my blackouts too. But I didn’t want to mention it to them yet. I didn’t want them to freak out and try an exorcism. Witnessing a real live exorcism in LA three years ago kind of put me off of them. Besides, if Casper knew something about the murders, he needed to stick around.

  "What time is it?" I closed my eyes again, wondering if my friendly ghost would return.

  "Getting on to 3 AM, I believe," Frankie said. He rearranged the wet towel on my forehead, finding a cool spot.

  "Did you get a chance to check out your room?" We were still a few hours from dawn, but I wanted to make sure Frankie was okay. Better to know now if something was wrong with it.

  "It's lovely," he pressed the towel a little too firmly.

  "Frankie!" I pushed at his hand and opened my eyes, breathing through a wave of nausea. "You didn't even check it, did you?"

  When I took over the building, I built an apartment in the basement specifically for Frankie. It was as safe as he could get without being truly underground. And he hadn't bothered to give it a glance. I built a special room next door to him for Darcy’s banshee wailing. If he had seen his apartment, he would have noticed the room, and he would be whining about his sensitive vampire hearing.

  I was fairly certain that no sunlight could get into his apartment, but I would have felt better if he had given it the once over earlier, in case we had to come up with a Plan B to make adjustments to the space.

  "Nina," Frankie sighed. "I trust you. You know what you are doing. I am sure it's fine."

  Babe crossed the kitchen and placed a tray with a teapot and mug on the coffee table in front of the couch. She poured out the pungent brew, while Frankie helped me into a sitting position.

  "You will drink this, and you will like it," she said firmly.

  "What is it?" I asked timidly. Did I really want to know?

  "It will make you feel better, that's what it is." Babe looked stern.

  Wrapping my hands around the mug, I inhaled the steam, wrinkling my nose at the peculiar smell. I looked over at Dr. O. His lips twitched as he stifled a laugh. Babe pulled herself taller, put her hands on her hips, and pursed her lips. I sipped it cautiously. My nose wrinkled involuntarily. It tasted awful.

  Dr. O couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "It's henbane."

  I spit a mouthful of the tea back into the cup. "You gave me poison?" I gasped.

  "Oh for Christsakes," Babe crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "Yeah, it's poison. But the quantity won't harm you and it'll make your headache go away."

  "Along with all other feeling," Dr. O said, looking pointedly at Babe.

  "Lochlan, please. Back in the day, your people put this in beer and dr
ank it for kicks." She rolled her eyes. "God, it's the tiniest of tiny amounts."

  Dr. O shook his head at her, grumbling "henbane" while he followed her to my kitchen.

  "Who were you talking to, Love?" Frankie took the mug from my hands. He sniffed the brew. "Oh, that's awful!" Wrinkling his nose, he placed it on the coffee table, out of arms reach.

  "When?" I slipped back down to a horizontal position on the couch.

  "Just now, before you woke up." Frankie lifted my head gently and shifted a bit. He placed my head back down, resting it in his lap. Pressing the compress against my skin again, he reached out with his other hand and grasped my fingers.

  "I guess it was a dream?" I said cautiously.

  I didn't want to tell him about Casper yet. I never had any affinity for the dead, never showed any aptitude in dealing with spirits or poltergeists. Humans sure, but not the dead. Not only could I see a ghost, but he could body-jump me so easily? Even mediums with the innate talent to channel the dead couldn't do it without their rituals. Yet here I was, just channeling a dead guy whenever he felt like a chat.

  "Quite a dream," Frankie said. He played with my fingers. "Someone was following you, someone was murdered. And I'd swear you were talking to a dead guy."

  I sat up quickly, and the room rolled. I groaned and gripped Frankie's knee as a wave of nausea hit me again. "In case you didn't notice, things have been a bit stressful around here."

  "Nina!" Babe rushed from the kitchen. "Put your head back down!"

  My stomach twisted. My battle with the nausea lost, and I stumbled to the bathroom.

  "I blame the henbane!" Dr. O called after me.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was just past 9 AM when my eyes fluttered open. I snuggled deeper into the covers and shut my eyes again. Certainly, no one would blame me if I spent the day in bed. It had been a rough night, for sure.

  The enticing aroma of coffee wafting from the kitchen proved a stronger pull than my soft and warm bed. Let's hear it for auto-brew! I rolled out from under the covers, pulling a throw blanket over my shoulders, and shuffled, still a little unsure of my footing, into my kitchen and towards the heavenly scent.