Holy Crepes

by Melissa Monroe

  “Release Dean,” she said. “And I’ll go home. I’ll stay there and work. I won’t go charging headlong into the compound.”

  The look on his face told her that Arthur didn’t believe her. “Your word, Pratt. You’re just going to go home.”

  “I’m going to go straight home,” she said, lifting up her fingers in a salute. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You weren’t a scout,” he muttered.

  She smirked. “That you know of.”

  Amusement flitted very briefly across his face, and the subtle twitch of his lips said he was trying to hide a smile.

  “Fine. I’ll release him. But you keep an eye on him. He doesn’t leave your side, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  It took about fifteen minutes for Dean to be discharged and placed in her custody. She handed him a baby wipe from the box she kept between her seats when they got into the car. It took a worryingly long time for her engine to sputter to life. Apparently it liked the heat about as much as she did.

  Dean wiped his fingers free of ink with a grimace. “That guy is a tool.”

  “Arthur means well,” Priscilla said, putting the car in reverse so she could navigate out of the small parking lot. “He’s just overzealous. And speaking of zealots, I’m going to need your help carrying out my plan.”

  Dean perked up considerably and a genuinely delighted smile stretched across his face. “You mean it? Does this have anything to do with the murders? Because I’m up for anything that brings down the guy who tried to frame me.”

  “I’m fairly sure it was Amos Buckley. But Arthur says I’m not to go charging into danger, so I can’t be sure.” She flicked on her signal and turned onto the street. It was pitch dark at a quarter to ten, and she was afraid that she’d be waking someone as she carried out the plan.

  He frowned. “Then what are we going to do?”

  Priscilla smiled wide enough to flash fang. “He said nothing about bringing the danger out to meet me.”

  Dean’s eyes lit up, and his grin intensified. It lit his entire face like a megawatt bulb. He could say what he wanted about looking like a boy, but Priscilla couldn’t imagine a young woman who wouldn’t fall in love with him a little when he smiled like that.

  “You’re devious. I think I like you, Aunt Priscilla.”

  She smiled. “I think I like that.”

  “Me too,” he admitted. “So what’s the plan?”

  And so she told him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Matilda Reid took her proposal surprisingly well. Priscilla had been a little nervous about approaching the soft, kind woman with her risky plan. But she’d underestimated the woman’s devotion to her family.

  “If they have my son’s fiancée, of course I have to help,” she’d said matter-of-factly over the phone. “Do you think you can have your end finished in such a short amount of time?”

  Priscilla had laughed. “I have the easy part, Mrs. Reid. I only have to bake. You have to spread the word and get entertainment done on short notice. I don’t envy you.”

  Matilda had accepted the praise with a nod. “You’re sure this will bring them out?”

  “Fairly.”

  So here they were, three days later, setting up for the second Historical Society function in a month. June was drawing quickly to a close, and they’d had to haggle with several men to remove their tents and move further down the road so that Blackthorn Field could be cleared for the event.

  Priscilla had bribed them with discounts for her catering service, though the easiest solution would have been to call the police to clear them out. It was illegal to buy or sell fireworks in the state of Massachusetts but, without fail, people always tried. Matilda had strong-armed Willis Perry—the solemn, antisocial zookeeper—into helping for a second time. He’d been trying to buy fireworks on the down-low, and Matilda had gotten quite a discount on his normal price to perform.

  At least this time he hadn’t brought snakes. The monkeys he was showing the crowd didn’t smell good, but they weren’t likely to hurt anyone.

  It could all have been done faster and more easily with a call to Arthur, but Priscilla hadn’t dared risk it. He knew her too well. If she’d tipped him off that this was anything more than a routine catering job, he’d have her hide. At the very least, he’d put a stop to the plan. She understood why he was so adamant that she behave herself. Tilly Hall had yet to turn up, even after three days.

  The police were split on what they thought had happened. One camp, led by senior officer Jonathan Darby, thought that Tilly must have left town to escape justice. The other, led by Arthur, thought that she was probably being held captive somewhere. The only thing that kept it from becoming an all-out manhunt was the fact that Bellmare didn’t have a K-9 unit. Bellmare was too small a town for the state to allocate funds to something like that, despite the fact that the murder rate had shot up dramatically in recent years.

  Garrett McKnight had volunteered his services. With the transformation came a sense of smell that was much better than a vampire’s. In wolf form, Garrett was as good as any tracking dog. Arthur had been forced to decline. How exactly were they supposed to explain it to a judge if Tilly was somehow involved?

  So Arthur was busy trying to borrow a few dogs from nearby Worcester in order to start a thorough search of the woods. If their positions had been reversed, she would have been furious with Arthur for doing what she was about to do. It was almost enough to make her feel guilty, but she knew that Amos had to be involved somehow. The poisonous glare he’d shot Tilly at the funeral told Priscilla that there was more going on between them than Tilly’s abandonment of her faith.

  “Priscilla, are you all right?” Matilda asked, a note of concern in her voice. She realized belatedly that she’d been staring into empty air for a few minutes.

  “Fine,” she said, adjusting the line of coconut cream pies that she’d prepared for just this occasion. Matilda’s plans for the booth meant that very few pies would actually make it into people’s mouths.

  “This sucks,” Dean muttered from the metal chair that Matilda had him sitting in. He was covered neck to ankle with a trash bag and glaring at the sign that read “Pie-throwing contest. Entry fee $10.”

  “Agreed,” Gabriel muttered darkly from the other side of the booth. He was similarly situated in a metal chair. “Exactly why am I a player in this little scheme?”

  “Because you’re needed,” Priscilla said, trying to hide an amused smile.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if I were behind the booth?” he asked, eyeing her position behind the line of pies.

  “You’re a government official, Mr. Winthrop. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to take money from civilians. It could be construed as a bribe.”

  “You just don’t want to get frosting on your face,” he accused.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Vampire taste buds were different than a human’s. While Priscilla could distinguish pleasant scents and unpleasant odors, she could no longer taste anything. Well, nothing solid anyway. The only thing that vampires could taste properly was blood, and their new senses could only filter out good versus bad blood. The frosting would taste as unappealing as a lump of lard if she sampled it.

  Gabriel snorted and settled deeper into his chair, his trash bag crinkling as he did so. He’d cut holes into his bag for easy access to his weaponry, risking the integrity of his jeans and shirt by doing so.

  She’d learned, to her surprise, that he didn’t just carry the standard issue Model 23 Gen3 FG&R that all bureau employees were given. He also sported a wickedly curved dagger, a Swiss army knife, and a set of wire cutters. He’d said it paid to be prepared, and she supposed the fact he’d lived so long in a very dangerous profession meant that the philosophy had some merit.

  “Why us?” Dean griped. “You could have hired anyone.”

  Priscilla frowned. “I told you this already, Dean. We need as many vampires here as possible. It will
be an irresistible target for the Sons. That, and Mr. Perry’s menagerie of unclean animals make this event a prime ground for a protest.”

  She just hoped that half of the town’s vampire population would be enough of a draw. She’d tried to convince Diane Webb to take part in this event as well, but she’d staunchly refused. Maddison had wanted to help, but couldn’t get her shift off at the Big Bowl. Priscilla had had no idea where to find Logan Hobbes. So this would have to do.

  The crowds were still surprisingly large, given how little time they’d been given to arrange this event. Matilda stood a little way off, her back turned to the booth, watching people file in, handing over the entry fee, and receiving tickets in return. Her back was stiff with stress.

  “I’ll be right back,” Priscilla said to the two men on either side of the booth.

  “Where are you going?” Dean asked.

  “Not far,” she assured him.

  Matilda had a white-knuckled grip on the makeshift fence they’d put up. The faerie lights they’d wound around the posts painted her in twinkling golden light. It softened the strained expression on her face, if only just. Matilda jerked slightly in surprise when Priscilla put a hand on her back.

  “Relax. It’s only me,” she soothed.

  “The event is about to start,” Matilda said quietly. “Maybe you should get back to the booth.”

  “I will, if you’ll come with me.”

  “I need to be here,” Matilda whispered.

  “Why?”

  “I need to see their faces. I need to know if they took my girl.”

  Her hands shook around the metal bar and the lights danced in response. Priscilla rubbed slow, soothing circles into her back. She wasn’t sure how this kind woman had climbed her way to the top of a pile of Historical Society harpies. She was too kind for all of this. Tilly Hall was not her blood, but she was family to Matilda nonetheless.

  “Come on, Matilda,” Priscilla coaxed. “You know it won’t work out well. We need them to make the first move. They have to violate the law. They’re very good at getting a rise out of people. Do you really want all of your hard work to go to waste?”

  Matilda’s lip trembled and Priscilla saw a tear streak down her cheek before she could wipe it away. Reluctantly, Matilda pushed away from the fence and turned back to face the field. It looked like it aged her twenty years to do it.

  Blackthorn Field had been transformed into a fairground. Booths dotted either side of a narrow thoroughfare that went on for nearly a mile. The event boasted everything from games to vendors, selling anything imaginable. The nearest had scented candles. Apparently, apple pie and vanilla bean were popular scents this year, because it was all she could smell.

  Food trucks were parked at the very end of the line, and Priscilla thought it was probably wise that people were going to throw the pies she’d made, rather than eat them. Her food was good—excellent, in her opinion, though she couldn’t know for sure without being able to taste it—but in this setting there was no way she’d be able to beat out the competition. Her food was pricier and harder to eat while throwing a baseball at a tower of bottles. She couldn’t really blame them. If she’d been human, she’d probably have opted for a funnel cake too. It smelled wonderful.

  Behind the line of booths and food trucks were several slides and bouncy houses. Matilda had wanted to get actual carnival rides but hadn’t been able to find any for rent on such short notice. Unsurprising, given that the Fourth of July was just around the corner.

  Matilda joined her behind the booth. “What do I do now?” she asked, and Priscilla didn’t miss the subtle tremor in her voice.

  Priscilla bent to retrieve the bag of utensils she carried with her to every catering job. It contained all the basics she’d need, including tableware. Generally, people preferred to use their own cutlery when an event took place, but she was prepared for any eventuality. Sometimes forks were dropped, and utensils could break at the most inconvenient times.

  She withdrew a pie server and curled Matilda’s fingers around the handle.

  “I’d like you to cut the pies into eighths for the children who play. More chances to win that way.”

  “Hey!” Dean exclaimed. “You never said anything about that!”

  Gabriel grunted his displeasure, obviously in agreement.

  Matilda nodded shakily. “I can do that.”

  Their first customer was a little boy, his lips stained purple from the red, white, and blue snow cone that was melting in his hands. His father took the cone from him with a long-suffering sigh and handed Priscilla a ten-dollar bill.

  The first piece of pie fell woefully short of its target, and Priscilla tried not to wince as the coconut cream pie splatted on the ground. His aim was better the second time, and the pie hit Gabriel’s knee, splattering upwards. To his credit, Gabriel took it well, even when the third and fourth pieces hit him in the chest. In the end, the boy ended up landing five solid hits out of the eight pieces he’d been given.

  He went away licking the cream from his fingers, an inexpensive stuffed bear crammed into the crook of his elbow. Gabriel spat out a piece of piecrust.

  “That is foul, Pratt.”

  Matilda leaned over the front of the booth and sampled a glob of the pie that stuck to the side of Gabriel’s face. She popped it into her mouth and hummed thoughtfully.

  “Tastes just fine to me,” he said.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Priscilla promised. “There’s a café in Boston that caters only to vampires. It’s pricey, because they need a license to sell blood, but it’s worth it. I’ll take you sometime.”

  “Sounds suspiciously like a date,” Gabriel said. His face was infuriatingly smooth, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking about her proposal.

  “I’d call it recompense, but you can think of it however you like,” she said.

  Dean groaned. “It’s always gross when adults flirt, but it’s so much worse when it’s you two. Aren’t we here to solve a murder?”

  Priscilla would have blushed if she’d been able. She’d fed a few days ago, and the blood was already being utilized elsewhere. The vampire body was an efficient one, and it didn’t often save blood for something as trivial as blushing.

  “Right,” she muttered.

  For some reason, Gabriel didn’t look at all abashed. On the contrary, he seemed amused at her discomfort. It intensified the desire to blush considerably.

  Just a little ways off, Perry was explaining the Theory of Evolution to a group of middle-schoolers.

  “And somewhere along the line we diverged from our primate ancestors, but they still remain our closest relatives in the animal kingdom …”

  Priscilla was beginning to run out of pie by the time the Sons finally arrived. She was mid-transaction with Garrett McKnight—who seemed oddly gleeful at the prospect of throwing pie at Gabriel—when the entire atmosphere of the park changed.

  It was like someone had doused the entire field in cold water. There were some gasps and everyone fell silent. Every face she saw was tightened with fear, or at the very least stress. Gabriel’s hand crept ever so slightly toward his gun. Garrett’s nostrils flared and he turned suddenly wolfish eyes toward the newcomers.

  They were like pale, drifting ghosts in the illumination provided by the faerie lights. They filed in slowly, as if marching to the dirge that only they could hear.

  The wooden handle of Priscilla’s pie server creaked as Matilda clutched it too tightly. She glanced over at the woman, trying to signal with her eyes that action would be foolish. Matilda’s eyes were only for Amos Buckley, for the time being. Priscilla supposed she could always restrain the older woman if it came right down to it.

  The Sons stopped a few yards away from the line of booths. The only sound that split the night air was the chattering of the spider monkey perched on Willis Perry’s shoulder.

  Amos Buckley was the first to move. He, and only he, strode forward, past her booth. He spared one conte
mptuous glance at her, and her frosting-laden companions, before he was past them. His focus wasn’t on them, to her shock. It was on Perry.

  “You there,” Amos called to him. “Did I just hear you tell that group of children that they’re descended from monkeys?”

  “Apes, actually,” Perry corrected stiffly. “Not that I’d expect you to know the difference. Who knows what backwards dogma your parents shoved into that moldering gray matter of yours.”

  Amos’ face contorted in fury. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me,” Perry said in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried on the still night air.

  “You expect me to believe that we came from animals? Does it not say in God’s holy book—”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what your book says,” Perry said, glaring at Amos. “Or the fact that you treat it like it has any internal validity. I happen to have a master’s degree in biology. I believe in verifiable fact, not a sky daddy who’s vengeful and likes to break his toys on a whim.”

  Priscilla had a fundamental difference of opinion with Perry and people like him when it came to the existence of a loving God. She had to believe in it. There was no other rational explanation for her aversion to crosses. Psychologists theorized the block was mental, but it didn’t adequately explain away burns or the madness that could result from stepping onto holy ground.

  Still, she had to admire Perry’s courage in saying what he had to Buckley’s face. Especially since the man was still advancing.

  The monkey on Perry’s shoulder crouched lower and bared its teeth at the oncoming man. Perry soothed it almost on reflex.

  “Say that again,” Amos snarled.

  Priscilla’s hopes rose for the first time since the Sons had put in an appearance. Amos Buckley was much easier to rattle than Absalom had been. Perhaps if she could attract his attention …

  Amos was nearly chest to chest with Perry. “Go on,” he hissed. “Say it again.”

  Perry opened his mouth to respond. He didn’t get a chance before Amos spit on him. She expected him to miss, like Absalom had. Perhaps Absalom hadn’t had the heart to hit her, even with his saliva. Or maybe Amos was just better at expectorating. Perry flinched when a glob of spit made contact with his cheek and began to slide down toward his collar.