The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “Spooky,” Luna commented. “Mac, I’m gonna go file my shooting report to Internal Affairs. Copy on your desk?”

  “Stay for a minute,” he urged, and ushered me into a chair.

  “Considering the sudden interest in you, Ms. Swann . . .” Nielsen smiled at me. I felt a little bit like a mouse looking at a cobra. “We were hoping you could enlighten us as to the nature of this message.”

  “Well . . .” I was very hot. The room was hot. They were all staring at me. Did I have sweat marks? Or worse, blood on my shirt? I’d been awfully close to Abrams when Luna shot him. . . .

  “Sunny’s strictly white-magick,” Luna said. “She doesn’t know anything. Why don’t you ask Trotter?”

  “Trotter was a minion in the witchcraft aspect of all this,” said Nielsen. “He’s told us what he knows. Doesn’t look like she’s of any more use. Sorry to waste your time, Mac.”

  “Seamus O’Halloran was the most powerful caster witch on the Pacific Coast,” I blurted. Now I was hot for entirely different reasons. I was used to Luna dismissing me, but ASA Barbie? Uh-uh.

  “We’re all aware of that,” she snipped coolly. I suddenly understood why Luna was angry at her job 90 percent of the time.

  “He’s dead now,” I pressed, “and obviously, it’s created a power vacuum. Trotter is the last power player in O’Halloran’s little coven. You get rid of him and you pave the way for a new witch to take on O’Halloran’s position, and that comes with a lot of perks. Influence, money, sacrificial rites . . .”

  “I thought caster witches didn’t sacrifice,” Luna reminded me.

  “It’s for dramatic effect.” I gritted at her, flushing. Nielsen was regarding me like we were playing poker and she’d just learned my tell.

  “Well, then, Ms. Swann. We think you should go to this meeting.”

  I blinked at her stupidly. Luna was out of her seat. We said “What?” at the same time, with different levels of You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  “No offense, ASA, but there’s no we about this. Sunny isn’t a police officer, and she’s not used to this sort of magick,” said Mac. “I won’t authorize it.”

  “Oh, yes. If you want bombs and death threats to continue to be a part of your precinct, be my guest,” Nielsen purred. “Or maybe you want to actually stop witches committing crimes, in which case, Ms. Swann is our only in.”

  “Well, she’s not doing it,” Luna snarled, and I saw the gold creep into her eyes. The were was always there, watching from under my cousin’s skin. “Sunny’s not built for this. Forget it.”

  “Since when do you give orders?” Nielsen asked.

  “Since you want to get my cousin involved in something that’s way over her head!”

  “Excuse me!” I hissed at Luna. She blinked, and her eyes were their usual gray. “Would you step outside with me, please?” My tone must have conveyed my mighty annoyance, because she nodded meekly and we went into the hall.

  “Will you stop doing that?” I demanded. Luna spread her hands, a gesture that hadn’t changed since my mother, her aunt Delia, had found pot in her bookbag.

  “What?”

  “Acting like I’m some frail thing that needs protecting! Maybe I want to do this.”

  “Sunny, undercover work is dangerous. Hell, I wouldn’t do this, and I’m trained.”

  “You’re not a witch,” I said plainly. “They’d probably pull your skin off in the first five minutes.”

  “Charming. You’re still not doing it.” She crossed her arms. I glared.

  “I hate to tell you this, Luna, but it’s not up to you. If someone is willing to kill to be on top of the caster witch circuit, do you have any idea what will ripple out? Bad magick in this city is already thicker than coke dealers, and you’re willing to exacerbate that when we can stop it?”

  She grumbled. “You don’t even know that the call came from the same people.”

  “What’s that you detectives get? Hunches. Yeah . . . one of those. Who else would be watching that courtroom to make sure Abrams blew it up?”

  “Sunny, you don’t get it—”

  “No, Luna, I do.” I got into her personal space, because I knew it irritated her. “You hate the idea that I can do something you can’t, because you need to be the one on top. But I want to do this and I think I’m going to.”

  “Fine. Fine!” Luna snarled, and then threw up her hands. “Go to it. But when it all goes horribly wrong, don’t come crying to me.” She started to walk back to her desk. “And watch out for Nielsen. She smells off.”

  “Helpful,” I commented. “I’m so glad we had this little talk.”

  My cousin flipped me the bird and walked away. I wish I could say that’s unusual for our family, but I’d be a liar.

  FIVE HOURS LATER, I sat sweating miserably in one of Luna’s vintage cocktail dresses (both too long and too loose for me, who’d gotten the petite end of the gene pool; Luna got the Wonder Woman end) inside an unmarked squad car while Troy and Luna both threw advice at me from the front seat.

  “Don’t act nervous.”

  “Don’t touch your wire.”

  “Don’t go wandering around.”

  “Don’t act suspicious of anything they might do or say.”

  I held up my hands to stop the duet. “I get it. Keep the wire on and don’t be a spaz, right?”

  “Pretty much,” said Luna. She handed me a pin. “Camera in there. Your earpiece is your transmitter. Don’t lose either of them—department budget is bad enough as it is.”

  I pinned on the camera and Luna fiddled with it to activate the lens and transmitter. Troy raised his radio.

  “Tech van, this is McAllister. You receiving?”

  “Ten-four, LT. You sure do look pretty.”

  Troy looked me up and down. “Nice work, Luna. She looks innocent.”

  “That’s because she is,” Luna said. “And if anything happens in there to change that, it’s your ass, Mac.”

  “Hey,” he said. “This was all Nielsen’s idea. Go cry to her.”

  “I’m leaving the car now,” I informed them. “Enjoy your banter.”

  “Sun.” Luna caught me by the wrist. “Be careful.”

  I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. One that did not telegraph the eels currently warring with the butterflies in my stomach, or the fact that my heart was throbbing like I was in the middle of a cardiac incident.

  Then I turned, and walked across Old Nocturne Way toward number 89.

  It was a brick foursquare, circular drive filled with shiny cars with names like Boxer and Stinger and other aggressive nouns. I climbed the tall set of stone steps and rang the bell.

  A goon answered. I can only describe him as such, because he looked like he’d arrived via a Mafioso convention. Shaved head, shoulders wide enough to plug an industrial pipe, mean little eyes and hands that reached out to stop me from stepping over the threshold.

  “Name?” He had a clipboard.

  “Uh . . . Sunny Swann. Rhoda.”

  “Which is it, sweet cheeks?”

  Fantastic, Sunny, this is off to a smashing start what with him thinking you’re a gate-crasher. Luna’s voice erupted in my ear, and I jumped a mile.

  “Get it together, Sunflower.”

  The goon cocked his head. “Something wrong?”

  “Uh . . .” Think, dammit. What would Luna say? Go piss up a rope, cueball. Okay, that’s not helpful at all. Get someone else in your head. . . .

  “Just the fact that you can’t seem to find my name on that list,” I snapped, drawing my spine straight as if my grandmother were there.

  Cueball rolled his eyes, obviously disgusted with the vagaries of the rich. “Swann, you said?” He ran a blunt finger down the lines of type. “Here you are. Sorry for the confusion, miss.”

  “Yes, well.” I flounced by him and into the entryway, my borrowed heels clacking on the parquet floor. A chandelier swooped above me. Walls covered in mural scenes of Greek myths surrounde
d, dryads and satyrs cavorting along the plaster.

  “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

  I spun around and almost fell off my heels.

  The woman laughed. She was tall and golden—skin, hair, jewelry and even the silk pantsuit she wore. “It was my father’s house. Never got around to taking a wrecking ball to the old pile, but it suits for parties like this.”

  “I. . .”

  “You must be Rhoda. Come into the salon—everyone’s here.”

  “I . . . thanks. Are you the one who called me?”

  She laughed again, and damn if it didn’t sound like honey pouring. “No, that would be Bentley, my second. He handles all of my administrative affairs.”

  We stepped into a salon, glass looking down the slope toward Siren Bay, a view many climbers in Nocturne City would die for. Goldie waved a hand. “Oh, Bentley? Come here, dear. There’s someone I’m dying to introduce you to.”

  “Bright lady,” said Luna in my ear, “what is this? Dallas?”

  “Shut. Up,” I hissed, trying not to move my lips. “You’re gonna blow my cover.”

  Bentley scurried across the room, dodging penguin-suited waiters carrying trays of champagne and nibbles. “Yes, Mrs. Hanover?”

  “Dear boy, this is Rhoda Swann. You remember—from the courthouse? That was a terrible upset, wasn’t it?” She didn’t sound like she thought it was terrible. More like it was terrible Abrams hadn’t managed to blow something up.

  Bentley shook my hand and left sweat behind. I couldn’t even wipe it on the dress—Luna would kill me. “Hello.”

  “Hi. Yeah, I just did what anyone would do. That guy was . . . well . . . crazy.”

  “Not what anyone would do,” Mrs. Hanover corrected me. “But what a brilliant witch would do. You know, my dear, you rather remind me of myself.”

  Ew. I was so not this old bat thirty years ago—or maybe forty, judging by how tight her face was.

  “Get her talking about Trotter,” Troy murmured in my ear.

  I smiled at Mrs. Hanover. “When did you start practicing?”

  “More years ago than I admit in mixed company,” she hooted. Bentley was still standing by us like Gollum in Armani. “Go refresh my drink,” she admonished, waving a highball glass at him. “And get one for Miss Swann while you’re at it.”

  Bentley bobbed his head and hurried off.

  “He’s a gem,” Mrs. Hanover sighed. “Gayer than a treeful of Mardi Gras monkeys, but oh!—so efficient, and trustworthy.”

  I craned my neck for any escape excuse—fire, apocalypse, the sudden appearance of Brad Pitt—but no one looked at me. I was trapped with Hanover. Swell.

  She made conversation about her charity work with the city for another five minutes before someone stepped in. “Martha, shame on you. You’re keeping this gorgeous woman all to yourself. That’s not considerate to your guests, not at all.”

  I blinked at the prosecutor from the courtroom. He smiled back at me. His tuxedo fit much better than his suit.

  “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello yourself,” he said, reaching out a hand weighed down by a gold watch.

  “Where the hell did he get that?” Luna muttered.

  “The same place you got that knockoff bag,” Troy said. They started to argue. I reached up and palmed the earpiece, dropping it into my purse. They’d get sound back when they could behave.

  “Matthew David Procter,” said the prosecutor, gripping my hand. His palm was warm. “I never got a chance to thank you.”

  He was blond, tall, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. Throw a star-spangled headpiece on him, and he could be Captain America. I swallowed. “For what?”

  “For saving us all from being a courtroom-sized extra-crispy meal,” he said. “You dropped Abrams like you’d done that before.”

  “No,” I stammered. “Never. Just lucky.” Men talking to me, other than to ask “You want fries with that?” doesn’t happen a whole lot. Luna had guys buzzing around like bees on a flower. I was more like a plastic bouquet.

  Matthew laughed. “Could have fooled me.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Martha cooed, swooping across the room to ensnare more hapless victims into conversations about polo and tea luncheons. Poor bastards.

  “She’s harmless,” said Matthew, following my look. “Just a little overbearing.”

  “Are you a witch?” Whoa, look at you go, Sunflower. Way to blurt.

  Matthew laughed, little crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. They gave him a tinge of authority that kept him from seeming like a frat boy. “No, I’m not. Just a good citizen who’s not afraid of a little magick.”

  “Ah. Well, good. Do you know much about this . . . whatever it is?”

  “For that, you’d have to ask Martha or someone else in the coven,” he said. Coven? Covens went out with putting people in the stocks.

  “Maybe I should,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “I like to know what I’m getting into.”

  Matthew clasped my hand as music started burbling from speakers hidden around the perimeter of the room. It was slow, big-band sound doing “As Time Goes By.” Good thing I was here instead of Luna. Her sense of cool would be irrevocably dented.

  “You know what I think? I think you’re way too serious for a pretty girl at a party. Dance?”

  Before I could say No, I have the coordination of a drunken fruit bat, he spun me around like the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Las Rojas boardwalk. Crap, I really was going to fall off these shoes. Maybe he’d catch me. . . .

  Oh, get a grip, Swann. I gasped and grabbed on to Matthew’s shoulders as he dipped me again. From my upside-down vantage point, I saw a flash of red hair disappear into the tall doors at the far end of the room. A couple swung by me, and the door slipped shut.

  “You’re fine,” Matthew said. “I’ve got you.”

  “I need to use the ladies’ room,” I said, disentangling myself from his strong, heroic grasp. “And then I’d like to talk about why I was invited here.”

  “I’ll tell Martha,” he said. “But do hurry back. I’m going to look awfully silly if you run off.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, and walked to the doors, managing to keep my footing in the devil shoes. I didn’t actually need to pee. This whole subterfuge thing was easier than it looked.

  I slipped inside, following the person I’d seen. “Hello?”

  A door creaked and slammed far ahead. The house was dark and dusty, away from the party. The walls were dark-paneled and red-painted, portraits glaring sternly at me from lighted alcoves. Martha Hanover had some really unattractive ancestors.

  “Hello?” I whispered, my steps silent on the carpet. I dug out my earpiece and stuck it back in. Only static fizzed. “Fantastic,” I muttered. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so fearless. Having a badass were in your head will do wonders for your confidence.

  I walked the length of the hall, checking doors as I went. Bedrooms, an office, a laundry closet. No dead bodies or anything. It was quiet, and the quiet spooked me. The house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the explosion.

  The hall ended at a plain door, paint chipped off, locked. I rattled it, and checked behind me, the shadows closing in. I reached into my purse and rubbed my caster. It pricked my fingers. There was ambient magick here, although who was using it was anyone’s guess. I hadn’t pegged another witch besides Martha and Bentley since I walked in.

  I passed over the caster for my wallet, and pulled out my debit card. Luna had lost the keys to our first apartment often enough that she’d finally taught me to jimmy locks. I hadn’t paid much attention during the lessons—I had better things to do than hone my criminal skills—but it was a simple bolt, and after five minutes of fiddling and cursing, I had a chewed-up card and an open door.

  Which led down a set of slick cement stairs into a black basement.

  “This,” I said to the dark, “just gets better and better.”

  I don’t smoke, and I don’t carr
y a light, but feeling around the wall got me a switch, and an arthritic bulb flickered on at the bottom of the steps. It buzzed and dimmed, casting pulsating shadows over the stairs and the murky dark beyond.

  Okay, Sunny. You can leave, go back to the car, and make Luna go down into the basement, whereupon she will never let you forget this. Or, you can go down into the basement like every horror movie ever, and die in some gruesome manner with your dignity intact.

  I took option two. I may be a wuss, but I have my pride.

  Shoes in hand, I descended the stairs. In another part of the basement, I heard a gate rattle and muffled laughter. I swore that if the end of this road was a skanky cross-dresser with a poodle, demanding that I put the lotion in the basket, I was going to strangle my cousin.

  I made it about ten steps across the cellar, bare except for a few shrouded pieces of furniture, when the light went out with a shower of sparks. I yelped and dashed ahead, blindly. Another light came on, much farther away than the size of the house would suggest. I felt my way along the wall, texture changing from plaster to brick under my fingers. Water squelched between my toes. I was in a tunnel. A tunnel of evil, no doubt. But at least there was light at the end.

  No way I was going back to that basement. I walked on.

  A LONG, STICKY time later, I hit the other end of the tunnel. An old wooden door was propped closed and illuminated by a spitting lightbulb.

  I stopped and listened again. The murmur of voices that had freaked me out in the basement was closer.

  Hand on the door, I felt for magick. Nothing, just the same curious dead sensation. That was starting to freak me a lot more than feeling Abrams’s raw, tainted power had. It’s like when you’re in the woods and all the birds stop, and you know the Blair Witch is going to burst out of the trees and eat your organs.

  The door opened with only a whisper, and I stepped into a bricked-over rotunda with an earthen floor, the smell of urine and too many bodies making me gag.

  “Hello?” I coughed, clapping my free hand over my nose and mouth. The room was mostly in shadow, and I caught a gleam of metal bars in the corners my eyesight couldn’t penetrate.

  The whisper was quiet, but it almost made me jump out of my skin all the same. A child’s voice, harsh with fear. “Help us. . . .”