My heart started to race. I didn’t want to trigger anything like the violent episode I’d just witnessed in the bar. I didn’t have the throat of a vampire. If he tried to make me swallow his blood, I’d just die slowly and painfully.
“I—I’m sorry,” I said. “I just saw all the instruments and wondered . . .”
Of course, it took me until now to notice they’d all been smashed, torn or shattered. Nicholas’s work, I guessed.
“My father’s,” he said. “He loves to play.”
Well, I’m certainly not the only person in the world with daddy issues.
“So,” I said, rubbing my hands together in what I hoped was a professional and specter-dismissing fashion, “let’s get started. Do you know the alphabet?”
Nicholas stared at me, and then sat down. “I can write my name,” he said.
I stifled a sigh. “It’s a start.”
We’d struggled our way to L by the time Charlie returned with several unmarked casks from what I assumed was the Pell Street drop. The door to the main room was closed, but everyone inside was cheering his return, and the noise easily pierced the thin walls. Nicholas looked up, his eyes bright with blood fever, and I knew there was no chance of convincing him to pay attention to the rest of the alphabet. I felt exhausted and frustrated, anyway—I wasn’t any closer to finding Rinaldo, and the tutoring had been tough going. Nicholas had a diffcult time understanding how letters were formed, and kept drawing them backward and upside down. Rather similar to the mistakes a young child will make while learning to write, but Nicholas had to be a few years older than I. Perhaps turning so young had irrevocably locked some parts of his brain into a childish state. He certainly had the attention span of a boy. Perhaps once I had earned more of his trust, that trait would aid me in my efforts to trick some hint about Rinaldo from him.
Nicholas took a quick step to the door, then paused and tossed a few dollar coins on the table. “For to night. You might not want to stay here any longer. The boys can get a little rowdy with this stuff.”
Chivalry, coming from a thirteen-year-old vampire known for his cruel and senseless murders and iron grip on the streets, might seem hard to credit. And yet Nicholas was perfectly serious. It occurred to me for the first time that Nicholas didn’t see himself as evil. But did anyone?
So I said, “Of course,” and followed him back into the bar.
The room was packed now, the air filled with smoke from a hundred cigars and cigarettes. Most of the haze hovered over the bar where vampires clearly half-mad for blood were holding up silver dollars and fives and practically tossing them at Bruno. The bartender poured shots of a ruby-red drink from a black bottle. Nothing else. Charlie pushed his way through the crowd, angling toward Nicholas and me.
“Did you hear?” he yelled, barely audible over the din.
Nicholas frowned. “Not the Westies again?” I wondered if there was some kind of gang war brewing between Rinaldo and the Westies. This was the second time I’d heard of a shipment raid, counting Giuseppe’s troubles.
Charlie took a quick step back, bumping into the crowd behind him. “No, no, drop went fine. Not a whiff of the micks. It’s Dore!”
“I told you, Charlie, I don’t give a fuck what that—”
“That’s just it, Nick! He’s dead! The runner told me. Popped in an alley. Sounds like it was a mess out there the other night—he said the crews scraped up at least four poppers this morning. The Boss doesn’t know how it happened.”
Nicholas let off a long, giddy laugh. He lifted Charlie off the floor in a bear hug that looked strong enough to crack human ribs and then yelled, “A round on the house!”
Charlie beat a retreat and I edged away from the roaring crowd. Against the walls, a few lucky vampires nursed their precious shots. Blood? But it seemed too bright and liquid. And certainly not alcohol. Even reckless vampires wouldn’t risk exsanguinating with such gusto. Yet they seemed to be getting . . . splifficated.
“What did you call this stuff?” I asked Nicholas as he led me to the door.
He grinned. “I didn’t, but I reckon a do-gooder like you will hear about it. Faust. And it’s going to make us Turn Boys the kings of this whole damn town, just you wait.”
Faust. The blood clone mixed with an intoxicating fungus that Lily had told me about. It had hit the streets even sooner than she thought—probably outside Horace’s, given the similarities between these inebriated vampires and the two I’d seen last night. Cleanup crews had dealt with no less than four exsanguinated vampires this morning. I looked around the frenzy inside the Beast’s Rum. The atmosphere was charged, just an inebriated incident away from violence. Kings of the whole damn town? I had no doubt in my mind that Nicholas spoke the clear, awful truth.
I wanted another encounter with Daddy like I wanted to fight a horde of zombies with an iron spoon, but I was afraid of what he might do if I didn’t preemptively discuss a few parameters with him. And, of course, I was rather curious about what kind of commission Troy had snagged that would necessitate dragging my famous daddy all the way from Montana to help. It must be a big hunt. The Gramercy Park Hotel was more than a mile away from the Beast’s Rum, but at least the ride gave me time to think. I wasn’t sure what unnerved me more about Faust: the sudden, unheralded appearance of a legal drug for vampires or the fact that it would make Rinaldo and the Turn Boys the undisputed kings of Manhattan’s organized crime. And where power grew, violence was never far behind.
Too soon I saw the familiar wrought-iron gates and perfectly manicured topiary of Gramercy Park. Like Madison Avenue, this part of town alternately intimidated and infuriated me, but I had to admit that Troy knew how to treat a partner. I left my bicycle with the astonished concierge and then entered the elevator. This new hotel was at the pinnacle of New York chic. If Troy could afford to put my parents up here, he must be doing even better with his Defenders than I’d thought. The elevator operator wore a red velvet jacket with gold epaulets and embossed buttons. He seemed a little disdainful of my presence; his elevator was apparently used to more elegant personages.
“Penthouse?” he said, incredulously, when I named the floor.
“I’d ride up with the freight, but I don’t think my daddy would appreciate it,” I said sweetly.
“Your daddy . . .” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Hollis?”
I nodded.
He turned back to the controls, but I enjoyed the chagrined blush on the nape of his neck the entire ride up. To be perfectly honest, though, even I was shocked that Daddy had managed to score himself some of the priciest rooms available in this golden city. He might get the royal treatment in Yarrow and Butte, but New York was an altogether larger pond.
There was only one set of doors on this floor, so I knocked. Mama answered the door in a blue and burgundy kimono that made her look shockingly in fashion.
“Zephyr!” she said, hugging me like we hadn’t just seen each other that afternoon. Then again, perhaps we were all better off pretending that had never happened. “Come in, your father’s just taking care of his collection.”
“Collection” was my mother’s euphemism for Daddy’s weapons. Silver bullets were a convenient, but blunt-force instrument against many Others—especially vampires. So Daddy and his type of Defenders preferred old-fashioned blessed blades. At this moment, he was engaged in honing his knives to a razor-thin edge. He usually sang while he did this—disturbing, bloody lyrics he tacked on to traditional mining songs. And why not? All he had to do was change the manner of violent death. He and Troy used to get ossified after successful hunts in Yarrow and roar these songs late into the night. It looked to me like Daddy was expecting to have some old-time fun.
“Hello, Daddy,” I said, when he didn’t look up at me.
“Zephyr,” he said. He almost never used my full name. My goodness, he was sulking!
“Daddy, what did you think I was doing in New York, anyway? Bible study and soup kitchens?”
He di
dn’t look up. “I thought,” he said, sliding the blade down the wetstone with a shudder-inducing flare, “that you were still my little girl. I guess I was wrong. Cause my little girl doesn’t go giving herself away to damn pagan wog demons!”
He stabbed the knife in the table and took out the next from his carrying case.
“He is a djinn, Daddy. A prince of the Djinni, in fact, so you can take your—”
Mama winced. “Honey . . .”
“Doesn’t matter what he is—”
“For once we agree, Daddy! It doesn’t matter, because I’m a modern woman, in the modern era, in a modern city, and I can damn well give myself away to whoever I please!”
“Whomever, dear.”
Daddy and I stared at my mother.
“Winnie,” he said, his voice pained, “do you always have to do that?”
“Well, if she’s going to teach those unfortunate illiterate immigrants how to read, she ought to at least speak properly.”
Daddy and I looked at each other. He rolled his eyes and Mama pretended not to notice. “Sit down, little girl. I’m tired of looking up at you.”
And thus the storm passed. Daddy still wasn’t happy about Amir, but I could tell that he’d resigned himself to the situation. You might think Daddy is the kind to disown a disobedient daughter, but that’s only if you buy his act. Daddy might hate a lot of things, but he loves me and Mama and the rest of us a lot more than that. I don’t think there’s a thing I could do to push him away. Not really. He’ll always be there for me, and I’ll always feel like I might want to kill him.
“So,” I said, when I had properly admired his knives and tested their balance, “what’s this fancy mission Troy’s brought you in for? It must be big, if he’s putting you up in a posh place like this.”
Daddy put the last blade back in his case and folded it up carefully. “Huge, Zeph. A whole sucker nest. Real nasty buggers—all turned too young, they say, and cruel like you wouldn’t believe. Torture, you know. Slow deaths. Bleeding, burning. Anyway, some guy has put up the cash to get rid of ’em, but Troy can’t do this one on his own. So he asked me to come down.”
My hands were shaking. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “This nest, Daddy . . . they have a name?”
“Yeah. You must’ve heard of them, with all your do-gooder stuff. Turn Boys.”
Bloody stakes. “And when do you think you’re going to . . . ah . . . wipe them out?”
He shrugged. “Next few days. Troy says the client will give us the word when they’re all in one place. Then we strike. Why, honey? You want in? I promise Troy will give you a good cut. At least six percent of the take. What this guy’s paying us, that’s good money.”
Six percent? That must mean Daddy was getting at least thirty. He hadn’t become the most famous demon hunter in Montana without a knack for deal-making. “Actually, Daddy, I have a problem. See, that nest you want to exterminate? I kind of need them alive for the next few days. I have another . . . uh, contract, and I need to use the Turn Boys to get some information. And if you kill them, no information.”
Daddy looked at me like I’d sprouted horns, but Mama just narrowed her eyes.
“It’s that Amir, isn’t it?” she said.
I swallowed. “Well, yes. He’s . . . well, something happened to him, I’m not sure what, but I think it’s making him sick and he asked me to help.”
Daddy sat up. “And that’s it? He asks, you help? Sweetie, your heart’s too big for your damn chest.”
“Well, he’s paying me. He’s got a lot of money, you know. And anyway, it’s a job and you can see how yours might cause mine some trouble.”
Daddy gnawed on the inside of his lip—what he always did when Mama didn’t allow him to smoke his pipe indoors. “I can see that, honey . . .”
“So you’ll hold off?”
He shook his head slowly. “I can’t really promise that. This is a bad bunch of suckers. If we get the chance, we gotta strike.”
“And what about Amir?”
“Well, he’s a man, ain’t he? Maybe he should solve his own damn problems instead of paying my little girl like she’s for sale!”
Oh lordy, not again. “Fine, fine. Could you at least tell me who’s paying Troy? Or is that too much effort?”
Daddy looked like he was about to yell, but Mama put her hand on his shoulder. “We can’t, sweetie. Troy hasn’t told us. I’m not even sure he knows. Apparently the whole affair is very secretive.”
I stood up. “This,” I said, glaring between the two of them, “has been a lovely day. Thank you so much for your help.”
Mama stopped me on the way to the door and handed me a cardboard box covered in gold foil.
“Hotel gave them to us, but I don’t like chocolate and you know your daddy’s allergic to strawberries. No animals, I promise. You look like you could stand some more food, Zephyr.”
I hugged her. “Thanks, Mama. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I pitched my voice so Daddy could hear. “And don’t you dare go hunting vampires without telling me first.”
It was nearly eleven, and Mrs. Brodsky wouldn’t hesitate to lock me out at midnight, but I still had to see Amir. Daddy’s news about his mission couldn’t wait. The snow that had restricted itself to flurries all night was now falling in wet, lacy curtains. I hunched over my handlebars and pedaled into the shrieking wind, which plastered the heavy, wet flakes against my exposed skin. I looked longingly at the few cabs that trundled past me, but didn’t think any of them would willingly take my bike on board without Iris to force the issue. And in any case, I needed to save my money—I could count on Mrs. Brodsky to demand her share tomorrow. After struggling against the wind, I finally slid to a stop twenty minutes later, nearly frozen solid in my slush-filled boots and wet jacket. I walked to the ware house door.
I stared at the massive, industrial padlock for nearly half a minute. Of course. The ware house was locked after hours.
“Trust me to bike over half the city in a blizzard and forget I don’t have a damn key,” I muttered. I looked around, vainly hoping for some kind of doorbell, but of course even if this place had one, Amir wouldn’t hear it all the way at the top of the building. Should I just go back home? The thought of riding another half hour in the snow made me want to curl in a ball and cry. Which would hardly befit the image of a hardy, tough-as-nails social activist, but there you go. It had been a long day.
“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered, swinging a waterlogged leg back over my bike.
“I would, if I didn’t think your father would use me for target practice.”
I spun around so fast my jacket got tangled in the handlebars, causing me to stumble backward and sprawl in the snow. Amir’s smiling, imperturbable face loomed above me.
“What are you doing here?” I yanked too hard at my jacket and heard something rip.
“Enjoying the show, I think.”
“Goddamn smug fire-breathing djinn,” I said, finally tearing myself clear of the bicycle. I stood up. “Are we going to go inside? Or would you rather watch me freeze to death?”
He blinked, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that I might be cold. Of course, he was wearing nothing but trousers and a silk shirt, but he radiated heat like a potbelly stove. He wiped away a few damp curls plastered to my forehead, and at the instant of his touch I felt the world lurch around me.
We stood in his foyer. I dripped a puddle onto the marble floor while he lounged on the couch, as though he hadn’t been standing on the sidewalk in a New York blizzard three seconds ago.
“I assume you must have some news,” Amir said. I shrugged out of my jacket. I was tempted to take off my shirt as well, but the thought made me feel unexpectedly wary and shy. The events of this afternoon already felt like they’d happened to a different person. It couldn’t possibly have been Zephyr Hollis who kissed the handsome djinn, tumbled into his bed, and was summarily tossed out of it by her gun-toting father? I hadn’t imagined the mutual attractio
n, but it seemed likely that Daddy dearest had changed the equation. And I had no way of knowing how serious he’d been—even before the destroyed Ming vase. Did I really want to get involved with some cavalier, womanizing, materialistic, spendthrift djinn who had apparently not heard of a social movement since the schoolmarms took away his legal alcohol?
“You do have news, don’t you? Unless you’d like to finish what we—”
“Just business,” I said quickly, and sat down beside him. I wondered if he radiated a little extra heat for my benefit, because I suddenly felt warmer than I had for the last several hours.
“Ah,” I said, leaning back against his rich brocade cushions, “sorry about your couch. I’m all wet.”
“You destroy priceless antiques, yet apologize for water damage. Are you stalling?”
I sighed. Maybe I was. Daddy’s news wasn’t pleasant, but Amir needed to know. He seemed remarkably calm while I explained everything, but by the time I finished I could tell his mood had turned bleak. For the first time, I wondered how long his attack had lasted that morning.
“Amir,” I said, tentatively, “how are you doing? Are the attacks—”
“As unpleasant as you remember,” he said. His voice was sharp, final. He obviously didn’t want to discuss it. “Your tutoring scheme . . . I see you made it back alive. Did you learn anything? Do you think you’ll be able to find out where Rinaldo is before your father plugs them all full of silver bullets?”
I winced. “Well . . . Dore, you know, Rinaldo’s fabled second-in-command, the only one who’s seen his face in the last ten years? He died last night along with four others. They just found the body, but no one knows who did it.”
“Maybe another gang? Or an internal hit, and they want it to look that way. It should throw Rinaldo off balance, though. He’ll have to use someone else to speak to the officers. You think this Nicholas is close to him?”
“I don’t know, I just get that feeling. I was going to take it slow, see if I could gain his trust, but Daddy and Troy’s contract changes things. I’ll have to see what I can do in the next few days. He has some kind of close connection to Rinaldo. I just have to figure out what.”
Moonshine Page 12
