“Good evening, everyone,” I said as I opened the door.
A few responded with a strained, “Good evening, Miss Hollis.” I hardly counted it as rudeness. It was a new moon, after all.
“We’ll continue with Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist number ten today,” I said, hoping that work would distract them from noticing that I looked like a drowned mongoose. Papers rustled and the electric lamps above us flickered. Had he taken the boy to the basement? Could he manage alone? Class had never seemed so long, and nearly half my students wanted to talk to me after. I could hardly rein in my impatience when Sarra, a solidly human Russian who attended my night classes because of her late hours at the sewing factory, insisted on quizzing me about the proper interpretation of the eighteenth amendment.
“So it says only the selling of alcohol is illegal?” she repeated, with determined emphasis. Clearly, this issue had been weighing upon her ever since she discovered this nation’s draconian stance on her home country’s national beverage.
“Because,” she continued, “Boris has cousin, Naum, maybe you heard of him? Came here two years ago, and has a . . . you know, method with potatoes in a bathtub . . .”
She paused here, as though she expected me to beg for the recipe. Internally, I shuddered, but made the appropriate noises of appreciation. My solitary experience with a professional liquor (scotch, and possibly the foulest potion I’ve had the displeasure of drinking) made me more than wary of bathtub gin, let alone potato vodka.
“But, Miss Hollis, Naum is family and it is just a little alcohol and—”
“It’s a gift, right?” I said quickly. “You won’t give him any money?”
She pursed her lips, but seemed happy enough to nod. “Gifts, maybe. Gifts okay, yes?”
I smiled slightly. “It’s not illegal to drink alcohol, Sarra. Just to sell it.” A curious loophole that provided the semilegal rationale behind a hundred gin joints. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. I bring you some next time. Have a nice day, Miss Hollis.”
She handed me back the tattered classroom copy of The Federalist Papers, and turned to leave. I put it back with the others on the shelf and mentally steeled myself to discover what had happened to Amir and the vampire boy. However, when I turned back around to leave, I saw Giuseppe Rossi, a vampire who lived in a basement tenement in Little Italy and had been attending my classes for the past year, standing quietly by the door. I had never known him to linger after class—his family was large and his wife absent, which left him with little time. Curious, I put the last of my papers into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Giuseppe spoke English very well, but he still had difficulty reading.
“Miss Hollis,” he said, when I was halfway to the door. I paused. His skin was pallid under the yellow electric lights. Not a hint of blood tinged his lips or fingertips. It had clearly been a long time since his last feeding. Concerned, I stepped closer. Was there a polite way of asking where he got his supplies? I knew of a few who would help him, if he could no longer afford the street corner blood vendors.
“Yes, Giuseppe?” I said.
“I . . . have a problem. I would not have bothered you with it, only I’m afraid for my family and you’re the only one I know who can help.” He raised his eyes. “Or, perhaps, will help?”
I walked the rest of the way toward him and gripped his hand briefly. “Of course, Giuseppe. You must know that I’ll do anything I can.”
He smiled, relieved. “Yes, I had hoped . . . see, Miss Hollis, when I first came to this country, I was not like this. I had a wife. She had given me three children, and carried our fourth. It was hard, but we were happy. And then one night, when I left the factory late, they found me.”
My throat felt dry. I had heard too many such tales, but each one hit me with the force of fresh tragedy. Daddy says I feel too much, but I don’t. He’s a demon hunter. He just feels too little.
“Who?” I asked.
“That little gang of young vampiri, the ones Rinaldo lets run wild.”
Oh, God. That little boy, covered in bites and gone mad in the basement. “The Turn Boys,” I said.
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded. “They turned me. My wife, she tried, but in a year she ran away. That’s what I get for not marrying a good Italiana, they said. I needed blood, and money. The tunnel work . . .” He shrugged.
I had forgotten he did work on the new tunnel that would soon run from Canal Street into New Jersey. A good job for a vampire, even one as young (and proportionately sun-resistant) as Giuseppe. But it wouldn’t pay nearly enough for his four children.
“So, I went to Rinaldo,” he continued. “I delivered for him. Just a few times a week. And he gave me blood and money. It worked, for a while. But last week . . . I was delivering a little outside his territory. Some boys from another gang jumped me. The Westies, I think, but cannot prove. They took everything. Rinaldo says he doesn’t care, that I owe him the money.”
How I hated these mob bosses, self-styled kings of the neighborhood, who could destroy one man’s life so callously. As if it were his fault that some rival gang had stolen the delivery.
“How much?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Two hundred dollars.”
I sucked in air, sharply, between my clenched teeth. That was more than I made in three months of teaching.
“I have one hundred,” he said, “but I need to borrow the rest. He says he will . . . my children . . .”
Giuseppe looked close to tears and I realized I had never seen a vampire cry. With hardly a thought, I put my hand over his again and looked firmly into his unnaturally clear, bloodless eyes.
“You’ll get through this, I promise.” I reached deep into my pocket and pulled out the small stash of folded bills I had received just that morning from the local Citizen’s Council, which paid my meager teaching salary each month. “Here,” I said, pressing it into his hand, “this is fifty dollars. If you need help in the future, I hope you’ll ask me or the Citizen’s Council . . . even Tammany Hall would be better than Rinaldo.”
I couldn’t imagine what would have possessed him to get involved with the notorious bootlegger, Other-exploiter and gangster. He let the Turn Boys run wild, after all, and the Turn Boys had destroyed Giuseppe’s life.
Giuseppe pressed the bills briefly against his cheek and then turned away, as if to wipe his eyes.
“I have no words,” he said, finally. “I swear, I will pay you back, Zephyr.”
The sound of my first name brought my thoughts back, abruptly, to Amir. “Only what you can,” I said. Suddenly I was desperate to leave. How long had I lingered here?
Thankfully, Giuseppe pressed my hand only briefly before leaving. I waited to hear him exit the front doors before I shut the lights, and then made my way by memory through the deserted school halls and into the basement.
As I did so, it slowly dawned on me that I had, in a moment of impulsive pity, given away my entire month’s salary. My rent would be due at the boarding house in three days—a full twelve dollars, paid in cash and upfront. Mrs. Brodsky would hardly be sympathetic. Indeed, I could be assured of being soundly turned out in the middle of a New York winter with my belongings strewn about me on the sidewalk. I shuddered at the thought. Mrs. Brodsky was willing enough to serve me dinners without meat—who was she to complain if her boarders wanted cheaper food for the same price?—but she was decidedly lacking in basic human compassion.
“Well,” I said to myself, as cheerfully as I could, “you have at least three more days of that lumpy bed.”
“Do most do-gooders talk to themselves as frequently as you?”
Amir was below me on the basement steps, carrying an oil lamp and looking quite as good as he had two hours before, when he hadn’t been wrestling with a freshly turned vampire in an abandoned school basement. This bothered me more than it should. I felt positively dowdy beside him.
“Do most wastr
els accost innocent women on staircases?” I said. It was uncharitable of me, seeing as how he’d just risked life and limb for my sake. No matter that it didn’t seem to show.
He laughed—it was rich and warm and made me blink in the weak light. “A wastrel, am I? What kind of a wastrel attends immigrant night school?”
I crossed my arms over my chest and forced myself to breathe. “I haven’t figured that out, yet.”
He laughed again. I had never heard anything quite like it before. “Are you coming down, or will we just argue on the steps all night?”
Feeling decidedly silly, I followed the wavering light of his lamp down the stairs.
“Are you all right?” I made myself ask, when the silence had lasted for half a minute. I was surprised by how keenly I meant the question.
He shrugged. “The boy can’t hurt me. I’m surprised you lasted as long with him as you did.”
I took this as a compliment. “How is he?”
He paused before a closed door a few feet away from the steps. “Sleeping. I brought him a few pints.”
He had an odd look on his face, wistful and angry all at once. I almost touched the sleeve of his gray wool sweater, but some self-preserving instinct stopped me. I somehow knew that touching Amir would not be the innocent gesture of sympathy and friendship it had been with Giuseppe. He was feral and mysterious and Other, a combination I found too fascinating to be safe.
“Why such a small child?” he asked softly. “What possible purpose . . . ?”
His question seemed so strangely naive. “Sport,” I said. “The Turn Boys play with humans like cats play with mice. And far more cruelly.”
“What will you do with him?” he asked.
I glanced up at Amir, startled. “I . . . I suppose I hadn’t thought of it. I just saw him, and I couldn’t leave him there . . .”
The sudden realization of my dilemma cut off my words. What in hell could I do? I could hardly bring him back to my boarding house and risk him running wild amongst the other girls. I could leave him here, but what if he broke out during school hours? I would have given him to one of the charitable groups that deal with newly turned vampires, but they had a policy to stake anyone under sixteen. And if even they were afraid of the children, what good was I?
I sighed and leaned against the wall by the door. I felt a prodigious headache roaring into the space behind my temples. It had been a long day.
Amir looked at me. I mean looked at me, with his dangerously dark eyes and ridiculous eyelashes, just canvassing my face until I could feel the blush radiating from my cheeks. It felt impudent and entirely inappropriate, yet I could not say a word.
“I’ll take him,” he said, just when I thought I might melt from the intensity of his gaze. “I know a place where he’ll be safe. He’ll come back to himself. It might take the children longer, but they all do, eventually.”
God, how I wished I knew what he was. Or even just who. He was all mysteries, and yet so very physical, a mere foot from me in this damp, freezing basement.
“But . . . why?” I was proud of myself for managing to get even that much out.
He smiled. “My own reasons. And I need to ask you a favor.”
It’s just a smile. “Like what?”
“I gather do-gooding does not always come with vast monetary rewards? Well, it’s a simple request, and I can offer you a lot of money. It’s what wastrels have, you see, to make up for their lack of sense and moral fortitude.”
I couldn’t tell if he was mocking himself or me. It was hardly a surprise to learn that he had money. No one who dressed as well and as carelessly as he could be lacking in funds.
“What do you need?” I asked. This, at least, was familiar territory.
“I need you to find me a vampire.”
I blinked, slowly. He was still there. “And why do you think I’m a good person to ask?”
“Because you’re immune, somehow. And no one would ever suspect you. Your perverse love of blood suckers is well-known in this town.”
Just in time, I started to feel angry. “And why on earth would I help you hurt an innocent fellow-creature?”
His smile could have cut diamonds. “Somehow I don’t think you’ll mind. Do you want to know who it is?”
“I don’t imagine I have a choice.”
He cocked his head in acknowledgment. “True enough.”
“So who?”
“Rinaldo.”
CHAPTER TWO
He spit it out like vampire venom and I could almost imagine that I saw the name burning a hole into the wall behind me. In the deep shadows cast by the lamplight, his naturally imposing features looked positively demonic—and I have hunted demons. I might have felt my own loathing for the mob boss mere minutes ago, but it paled in the face of Amir’s hatred. What ever grievance lay between them, I could only imagine it was dangerous.
“Find him?” I managed to say, into Amir’s closed and expectant silence. “But everyone knows about Rinaldo.”
He shifted slightly and the light from the lamp settled in a more reassuring pattern on his face: wide, generous lips, prominent cheekbones and almond eyes that made him look striking. “But has anyone ever seen him? Most of his officers don’t even know he’s a vampire.”
“He is?”
For a moment, I could have sworn that his dark eyes glowed like coals. “Oh, yes.”
Before I could check if it was just the reflection from the lamp, he turned away and unlatched the door. The room beyond was dark, but I could just make out the boy lying on the rough brick floor. His eyes were closed, and his chest moved slightly—perhaps once every ten seconds. His skin was still very pale, but a rosy blush now stained his fingertips. I couldn’t see his lips. I will not berate myself for a moment of primal panic. Vampires might be people, but they are certainly not human. They are like sentient lions in our midst, and we are their natural prey.
Amir’s fingers brushed my neck briefly, where the tiny wounds caused by the boy’s attack had already scabbed over. It could have been an accident, it could have been a moment of wordless reassurance, but I felt it like the tingling of laudanum syrup down my throat. I stood beside the door while he picked the boy up from the dusty floor and tossed him over his shoulder. The gesture was oddly tender, but I couldn’t read his face. The boy stirred when Amir touched him, but while the movements were unnaturally quick, he did not seem likely to attack. Amir had even stuffed the lonely blue mitten in the pocket of the boy’s coat. I did not know much about Awakenings, and even less those of children, but they generally involved a period of animallike feeding and general disorientation that could last for weeks.
“Are you sure?” I asked, nodding to the boy. Amir’s simple solution to my problem raised so many questions. Who are you? How can you be sure it’s safe? Why do you seem to care as much as I do? So many questions, and none I could ask.
“I don’t normally involve myself in your kind’s affairs, but I’m taking a personal interest.”
My kind? I frowned. “How magnanimous.”
“If you don’t want my help, just say the word.”
I looked away. I felt his eyes on me for a moment longer, and then he handed me the lamp and began walking. I followed him, inexplicably afraid of losing them both in the dark. We climbed the stairs in silence, and then walked through the halls, the click of my heels on the stone floors echoing unnervingly. In the entrance hall, I picked up my bicycle and adjusted my bag. Amir paused by the door; I waited.
“So, will you help?” he asked, not facing me.
The boy’s red hair stuck out in all directions, stiff with grime. Rinaldo was hardly a simple (or safe) request, but I had no money and not many other options for finding some before Sunday. And there was the boy. Oh, I knew I owed Amir. So did he. Could that be why he had done it?
And really, did it matter? I had never in my life denied someone help when they asked for it. I could hardly start now, just because the person asking was stra
nger than anyone I’d ever met.
“I’ll need to know more,” I said.
He turned partly toward me, so the lamplight gilded the edge of his smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know much more about Rinaldo, or I’d find him myself.”
“But why—”
His expression turned suddenly regal and unforgiving. “My reasons are my business. Think on it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”
I set the lamp on the ledge by the door and extinguished it. “Well, I promised the Third Street soup kitchen I’d help in the morning and at noon I have to join the fair wages for night workers picket at City Hall . . . I might be able to talk after that, but there’s a local-chapter suffragette meeting at six and those always take a glacial age and . . .”
I stopped. I couldn’t mention that. His eyebrows had risen far enough already.
“And here I imagined you writing genteel letters to Tammany Hall. Do you sleep?”
“I can’t just ignore injustice.” I knew I sounded strident and harsh, but I didn’t care. How dare he look at me like that, as though he found me ridiculous?
“Apparently not. So even I’m worth do-gooding for?”
“I hardly know you.”
He opened the door and I gasped at the sudden blast of freezing air. I fastened the remaining buttons on my coat and quickly reached for my gloves.
“Didn’t your father ever teach you not to help strangers?”
He was mocking me again. I looked up at him and gave my best aloof smile. “Lucky for you I don’t listen to my daddy.”
He laughed—that uncommon, beautiful noise—and turned up the collar of my coat. “Why, Miss Hollis, I declare—is that an accent?”
And before I could respond, before I could blush, he was gone and the door was gently gliding shut. The air smelled like him, briefly. Like oranges and frankincense and firewood.
Like nothing human, and nothing I could name.
I bicycled home slowly, barely conscious of the flow of human, equine and motored traffic. Amir had intrigued me since I first encountered him in the back of my classroom, but now I felt as though he had pried apart my brain and tucked himself immovably inside. It was a strange sensation. I was supposed to help him track down a ruthless vampire mob boss who terrorized the immigrants in this city and supplied almost all of the gin joints below Fourteenth Street. A vampire who apparently wouldn’t reveal his actual whereabouts to even his own officers. And Amir thought I could find him because I was immune to vampire bites and no one would suspect a local charity worker? But I had to admit the idea appealed to me. Rinaldo had terrorized our community for long enough. Given this opportunity, what moral option did I have but to stop him? A bluestocking, Daddy called me, and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. And I must be, because otherwise I wouldn’t have saved that boy. Amir ought to be able to hold him for now, but eventually . . . I knew that despite my best efforts, we might still have to stake him. The boy would have a family, though. At the least I ought to find them.
Moonshine (2010) Page 2
