Right to Silence

by Lily Luchesi

  “About monsters.” He had loved Angelica as a vamplet, a monster, and he had still loved her after she had to be turned into a full blooded vampire thanks to an evil vampire...who just happened to be Danny's ex fiancée, whom Danny had thought was dead for over two decades. He loved her now.

  "I didn't know you liked vampire books," he said. They’d been a bit more than friends, but never lovers for four months. How had he not known such a simple fact?

  "I love them!" Helena gushed. "Especially her books, she's only written two, but they are really amazing: very gory."

  As gory as watching a vamp tear a young girl to shreds before your eyes? Danny wondered but did not say.

  She handed him a different book by the same author, apparently a sequel. Love in The Time of Hell. This had the same female vampire on the cover, but in a different dress, and with a different man. She was holding his hand while he bled from a wound he apparently didn't feel.

  "Looks awful," he said.

  "Are you kidding? You've got an entire Stephen King collection in your bookshelf...in hardcover no less!" She giggled, pulling 'Salem's Lot from the shelf.

  "Yeah, but those were gifts," he explained. "That's the only one I made it through so far. I’m just not a fan of horror."

  Helena opened the cover and read the inscription. Danny knew what it said in that one. He knew what they all said. All were written in a spiky, rushed hand in red pen. That one was, "Vincent is nothing compared to Barlow! You'll see. xoxo AC." Thankfully, Helena didn't ask about the meaning behind it, or who Vincent and AC were. That would've been a fun explanation about the existence of vampires...not.

  Helena hadn't thought he was crazy a few years ago, unlike her father, but if he started to tell her about the FBI's Paranormal Investigative Division, she just might call Reed Center to admit him.

  She kept perusing his bookshelves, her round bottom in tight jeans facing him and her hips swinging unconsciously to the song on the radio. For any straight man, that was quite the tempting sight. But not for Danny.

  Danny couldn't become aroused over Helena, no matter how pretty and how great of a body she had. He didn't love her. He never could. He loved Angelica, and no one else would ever make him feel how she did. He felt bad for stringing Helena along like this, but the truth was he didn't want to be alone. The memories and the nightmares were already unbearable. He needed someone to make him feel normal. Human. Helena did that for him.

  “You’re fooling yourself if you think you can ever be normal again, Mancini,” said the condescending voice of Brighton Sands in his mind. “That’s like a butterfly trying to squeeze itself back into its cocoon and turn back into a caterpillar.”

  Helena started talking about the books and the author, Carrie King. Danny forced himself to listen, but he'd missed everything that was important.

  "You've even got books from Carrie's publishing company." Helena pulled out a few tomes that must've been Angie's. They looked creepy. "And if you say you haven't read them, you need to."

  "Uh-huh. I'll put it on my to-do list, right below piercing my nipples and getting rid of my Caddie." He smirked and she laughed.

  They ate dinner comfortably on the couch, watching late night TV. Helena wasn't much of a night owl, even though Danny's PID lifestyle had left him with insomnia. An episode of Supernatural ended and the local news came on with a breaking story from Hollywood.

  Three women had been found dead and decapitated in an alley behind a Goth nightclub, and now one was missing.

  "Carrie King is the owner of the club, but bibliophiles will know her as the New York Times bestselling author of the Undead Files horror series. She is the latest presumed victim of the person or persons who have been doing this, though she is the only one who turned up missing instead of deceased.

  "She's five-foot-eight, with black hair and brown eyes, similar to the previous victims. Like them, she is also a member of the Gothic subculture. If you have any information as to her whereabouts, you are encouraged to call the FBI, who are now taking over this investigation."

  Helena dropped her plate with a clatter onto the coffee table. "Oh, my God," she said. "Are you kidding me? Danny, could this be a publicity stunt? Like, for her next book?"

  "Why would she stage murders for a book release?" Danny asked, an uneasy tingle in his mind. His precognitive powers hadn't acted up since that vision he’d had, but right then his instinct was in overdrive.

  "In these books, the only way to kill a vampire is by decapitation," Helena said. "Maybe this is all a joke and the news is in on it."

  Danny's tingle became an itch. Not only was he psychic, he was also a damned good detective, and it wasn't hard to put two and two together. A Goth club was a perfect vampire cover. Decapitation is the only way to kill vampires, unless you count garlic poisoning. Could it be a renegade hunter? Or a rogue vampire killing its kin?

  When Angelica had left, she had made him promise that he'd stay away from the PID for his own safety and her peace of mind. And he had. Now this case was nagging at his mind. Could it be that innocent vampires were being murdered?

  Helena was devastated, so he had to turn his attention to her.

  "Look, all the other girls were killed in that alley, right? She's missing, not dead. She might still be alive. In fact, all signs point to her being alive," he said truthfully.

  She nodded, her bright eyes red with tears. "I'm going to get some of your brandy. Want a glass?"

  He said no. He wasn't a big drinker anymore, and he wanted his head clear for this. He went and paced, as he did when he was nervous. He went in front of his bookshelf, looking at but not seeing the titles. His book collection had been minimal until Angie had moved in with him. Most of these books were her gifts to him. She even arranged his shelf by genre, author, and in chronological order.

  Horror; King, Stephen; Carrie; 'Salem's Lot; The Shining.

  What can I do? he thought. I can't sit by and let Angelica's kin be slaughtered. I bet Mark won't let me rejoin, since she told him not to before going off to God knows where.

  He looked down at his hands, holding one of Helena's books. Was this author a vampire...or was it possible that she was the murderer? He looked up and then he saw it. No psychic premonitions. No visions. Just his own detective training being put to good use. He now knew what Sherlock Holmes must've felt like cracking a particularly difficult case. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and, as he was about to dial, it rang.

  ***

  Helena had been having a bad day already. Her boss was a bitch, the work was getting dull, and her new boyfriend was so reluctant to sleep with her it made her wonder if she was unlovable. To top it off, she'd found that his books had been given to him by what looked like a female lover, probably the same one he was still hung up on. She did not need to add in the fact that her favorite author had gone missing and might be dead.

  She heard Danny's phone ring and couldn't help listening in on his end. She knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but she had nothing better to do.

  "Mancini. ...Bart. You must be a mind reader. I was just going to call you. Let me guess: it's about those murders in Los Angeles," Danny began, and Helena's ears perked up even more. "Were all the women found dead innocent? Or is this the PID not doing a good job with cleanups? ...Murdered. Fuck. What about this author? What is she? ...Of course you can't. I'm not part of that damn company anymore. What can you tell me? What can I do?"

  It was quiet for a few moments, and Helena had time to wonder who Danny knew that was privy to the murders in Hollywood. It had to be the FBI, but she had never heard of him ever working with them, even as a case consultant at the CPD.

  "You called me to help, but what can I do? Angie made sure that Mark won't let me come back. ...You could get fired for that." He paused, then laughed. "I'll be there tomorrow. And thanks for calling. I'm glad you think I'm capable of helping solve this case. To be honest, I was going to help whether you let me or not."

  Helena
heard him hang up, and she went back into the living room. She wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but she was determined to do her part to help. She was a lifelong bibliophile, and authors were her rock stars. Carrie's books had given her hours of enjoyment, and she wanted to save her if she could.

  "Danny. I didn't mean to overhear, but what do you know about these murders?" she asked, making him jump. He'd been staring at the cover to Carrie’s second book quite intently.

  "Let's just say I have connections at the FBI branch who will be handling this case," he replied, placing her book in her hands.

  "I don't understand. You said you'd help them. Danny, I'll ask you again, what do you know that you're not telling me?" She was angry and a little worried. What if he got into trouble out of which he could not dig himself?

  Danny's eyes were hard as he said, "I can't tell you."

  "Can't or won't?" she wondered aloud.

  He smirked, but there was no happiness in his smile. "Even if I told you, you'd never believe me. And I won't tell you. This is not a life I want to involve you with."

  "Is this something to do with why you're keeping me at arm's length? Why you won't get personal with me?" She moved closer to him, placing a hand on his arm.

  "A part of it, yes, has something to do with this. Please, for your own safety, don't get involved. If I had a choice..." He trailed off.

  "What? If you had a choice what? Danny, come on. Don't do this. Don't hide shit from me. What is this PID, and what are you going to do to solve these murders? Whatever it is, I want to help." Helena was insistent, and was not going to give in so easily.

  "The PID is a special branch of the FBI," he said. "I worked with them for the past two years. I had to leave in December of last year. I helped catch the man who killed Camille Fuller, the same man who got me kicked out of the CPD," he said. “The man who murdered your roommate.”

  Helena dropped her hand from his arm in shock. "What? You told me he was caught. You didn’t say you were the one who caught him!"

  Danny nodded his head. "The PID contacted me and we took care of it."

  "PID? What does that even stand for?" she asked.

  "You really wanna know?" His warm eyes had a strange glint in them. "You're going to think I'm crazy, just like your father did."

  Helena felt insulted. "I could never think you're crazy!"

  "You will." He cocked his hand and beckoned her to follow him upstairs. He had a three bedroom house: one room was his, one was his office and the other he kept locked. When she asked him about it, he said it was a guest room under construction. She hadn't questioned him. It was his house, after all.

  He pulled a key from around his neck and started to tell her more than she thought he would. "Angelica Cross was the daughter of Vincent Cross, the killer I claimed was a vampire. She was the one who recruited me into the FBI to catch him. She had been hunting him for a very long time...since he murdered her mother right in front of her."

  Helena gasped. How disgusting!

  "Angie and I...I told you, we were very close. I loved her with all my heart, despite our vast differences. For a while, she lived with me, spending her days in this room. After she left, I couldn't bring myself to get rid of her stuff. In case she ever comes back, even if it's in a century."

  "What?" Helena asked. Okay, so maybe he is crazy.

  He unlocked the door and, before he opened it all the way, he said, "Oh, and Vincent Cross killed his wife in London...in eighteen-thirty-four. Angelica was hunting him for nearly two hundred years."

  Helena could do nothing but watch open-mouthed as the door slowly creaked open like in an old horror movie, revealing a Gothic lady's bedroom, only instead of a bed, there sat an ornate, beautifully detailed black coffin.

  Chapter Four

  Danny didn't know what he was thinking. To take Helena Collins into Angelica Cross’ old bedroom, to show her the truth of the paranormal world, was suicidal. She’d either think he was mad and call the police, or Mark would execute them both. He had signed a confidentiality clause back in when he first joined the PID, and though he was not part of it anymore, he was certain that clause did not have an expiration date.

  Helena cautiously stepped into the room, and like a switch being turned on, Danny started to see her thoughts and feel her emotions. It was as if agreeing to go and meet Bart at the PID the next day had reawakened his abilities that he had left dormant since that last vision he’d had.

  She was fearful that he was crazy, and had decided on tonight to kill her, which was understandable. This looked like the den of a madman who thought he was a vampire, like those people you see on Dateline every now and again. Except vampires didn’t collect Funko Pop dolls or Sailor Moon memorabilia, did they?

  “Danny...tell me you like to collect Gothic furniture and you’re not as insane as Dad used to think you were,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “No and no,” he replied. “You wanted the truth, so here it is. The crazy, fucked up truth I have been living since Vincent Cross nearly killed me in that alleyway four years ago.” He gave her the short version of what his life had really been like since that fateful night, and she listened with a dull expression of shock on her face, the same as one who has just been told their dog had got run over, or their brand new car had been wrecked.

  Helena leaned against the wall, still staring. “Were you always so mean?”

  “Excuse me?” That had not been a question Danny was expecting.

  “You find out I love vampires and somehow conjure up this prank? How elaborate, Danny. Trying to get back at Dad through me, are you?” Her voice got higher as she got angrier.

  Danny held up his hands in a pleading gesture. “Whoa, wait. That is not the case here. I told you you’d think I was crazy, but I’m not. And I am definitely not trying to mess with your head. Angelica Cross is a vampire, the PID stands for Paranormal Investigative Division, and I have spent the better part of nearly three years shooting werewolves in the heart and trying to catch demonic witches. Carrie King is most likely a vampire, and the other three women killed in Hollywood were definitely vampires. Don’t get angry with me because you can’t handle the truth you asked for.”

  Helena kept looking around the room, with its lack of light, mirrors, and single coffin inside a circle of grave dirt. “You’re...not joking, are you?” she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper. “This is all real. It was real back then, and Dad didn’t believe you.”

  “Bingo,” Danny said. “Come on. Come back downstairs. You need another drink and this time I believe I’ll have one as well.”

  In his kitchen, Helena sat still, and Danny heard her jumbled thoughts trying to process everything he had told her.

  “When I was a little girl, I’d watch all those black and white movies. I had a poster of Bela Lugosi in my bedroom and right now my ringtone is ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’. Remember that song? I lived in a very practical world with my dad, and I escaped to a place where monsters were real. I can't believe they actually are.” She downed her drink.

  He smirked. “You know, most little girls escaped into fairytales and wished princes were real. ...You’re taking this better than I thought you would.”

  She smiled beneath her lashes. “Trust me, I’m freaking out on the inside. I want to help.”

  “Pardon?” Danny asked. “Help whom?”

  “You. Carrie. The PID.” She stood up from her stool, putting her glass in his dishwasher. “Now that I know, I can’t just twiddle my thumbs, Danny.”

  He stood up, red DANGER alarms resounding in his head. He had thought he would scare Helena away, not make her want to play vampire vigilante. “No way. Helena, it took all my years as a cop and months of training to be able to hunt one vampire. We don’t have the time to train you, and even if we did, it’s way too dangerous.”

  “You told me all of this and expect me to do nothing?” Helena cried.

  Danny took her by the shoulders, wishing he could convey just
how serious this was. It wasn’t like every book and movie made: no one came back from the dead, most monsters were not benevolent, and demons didn’t make deals and do your bidding. This was a harsh reality of a world many horror fanatics fantasized about: bloodshed was not cool, hunting was not easy, and there were no Van Helsing or Winchester Brothers to save you when you got in too deep.

  “Helena, I have known you since you were a child. Speaking as someone who cares very much for you, I am begging you to leave this to the professionals. I have put those I care for in danger before, and it stops now.” He pulled her into a light hug, and she hugged him back. Hopefully, he thought, physical responses will make her forget all about her vigilante ideals.

  ***

  Danny approached the PID offices for the first time since Brighton died the next morning at around ten. Sunlight shone off the glass exterior, and it always amazed him that this seemingly normal, respectable building housed vampires, witches, and shifters.

  He used his old code to get into the building and took the elevator down to the armory, which was one level above the morgue. It was amazing how just being back here, packing his old weapons, and getting ready to defend humanity and the innocent made him feel so good. It was like the past ten months had never happened as he walked the familiar, darkened halls.

  Bart, the werewolf Angelica trusted to lead the entire PID security team, was pacing outside the doors that led into the armory.

  “Bart,” Danny called, realizing for the first time he did not know the shifter’s last name.

  The werewolf looked up, a mix of relief and annoyance on his face. “Mancini.” His voice was still a growl, as if the wolf inside of him was always ready to break out at any second. “I didn’t know you enlisted help. Bad enough I snuck you in.”

  “What? I didn’t ask anyone for help— oh, fuck me.” Danny sighed.

  “Sorry, you’re not my type,” Bart joked. “Your friend on the other hand… Who is she?”

  Danny pushed past his old colleague and entered the armory, finding Helena standing there and looking very pleased with herself. Danny, usually a placid man, had to bite his tongue. Helena was not someone who seemed able to handle the level of frustration currently roiling in his breast.