Vampire Innocent (Book 9): An Introduction To Paranormal Diplomacy

by Cox, Matthew S.

  “What?” I stare at him. “If you go there, they’ll totally kill you.”

  “Aye, likely. My life is pretty shite as is. Gettin’ offed wouldn’t bother me. I can’t let a li’l one get hurt over me.”

  “No, it’s not quite like you’re thinking. They’re not holding her prisoner, threatening her to get me to kill you. They’re, umm… protecting her.”

  Ron stands, reaching for a shirt. “Aye, they don’t usually make threats with words.”

  “Why did you break the treaty and come to the city?”

  “Didn’t. Always been here. The werewolf part is new. Bastard what bit me’s the one who broke the treaty whatsit.”

  “So… you haven’t technically broken any treaty or rules.”

  “Other than staying in the city after the bite, aye.”

  “You could go to the countryside. Corley didn’t technically order me to destroy you. He said something like ‘deal with the nuisance.’ If you left the city, it’ll probably count. If not, I can play dumb American newbie vampire.”

  He pulls a clingy white tank top on, then grabs a flannel. “Not so easy ta pick up and leave. Need a job at least. Place ta stay. I’m just a dim sod with unusually strong arms—stronger now. Plenty of those around for the physical jobs.”

  “Is this your house? Could you sell it?”

  “Nah. Renting. Roommates.”

  “Oh, duh. Hmm.”

  Ron—who’s a bit taller than I expected—steps close and crouches to stare into my eyes. “Are you too much of a newbie to do the thing where you can make people follow commands?”

  “I can do it. Mental influence is one of the first abilities we figure out. Vampires who can’t make their food forget them or who have to kill people don’t last long. It’s probably an evolutionary survival thing necessary for the continuation of the species, like how people just know to avoid frozen dinners from Walmart or gas station sushi.”

  “Brilliant.” He flops back in his chair and starts clicking his computer mouse. “Maybe you can deal with the nuisance after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve been ordered to get rid of me. I could bugger off outta London for the countryside where I grew up if you mind-wank Mr. Nesbitt.” He sits at the computer, minimizes the game, and pulls up a web browser. After a brief search, he gestures at a picture of a rural factory. “He owns the Crowthorne textile mill. I don’t mind physical work now, seein’ as how I’m so strong these days.”

  Gee. I have no idea what it’s like ‘encouraging’ a boss to hire someone. So far, I’ve poked my mother’s boss in the head, got Hunter’s mom a job, and even saved Michelle’s internship. Though, honestly, the Michelle situation was totally necessary. Undoing paranormal weirdness is ethically pristine. Mildly exploiting a wealthy dude to hire on another laborer at his mill is far less morally dark than murder. Since Mr. Corley basically ordered me to get rid of Ron, I’m kinda obligated to do this. My actions will result in Ron no longer being in London. I’ll be satisfying the desired result of the request if not the intent.

  Mr. Corley didn’t specifically command me to tear the werewolf apart and bring his still-beating heart back as a tribute.

  “Sure. No problem. Want to lug crap around or be plant foreman?”

  Ron laughs. “I wouldn’t know what I’m doing as foreman. Laborer is fine. Better if you get him to hire me on at a decent enough rate.”

  “Easy. One small problem.”

  “What?”

  I hook my thumbs in my jean pockets. “I have to visit the guy at night. My powers don’t work in the daytime.”

  Ron gives me this look like I tried to offer a vegan a triple cheeseburger with extra murder. “Uhh, yeah. You’re a vampire right? Isn’t that kinda obvious. Got it sorted. Have Nesbitt’s home address.”

  “Oh joy. More breaking and entering tonight. Let’s go.” I fake smile.

  15

  Crowthorne

  Ron asks me to give him a minute to ‘hit the bog’ whatever the hell that means.

  He runs to the bathroom. Ooo-kay. Not sure what bathrooms and bogs have to do with each other, but it’s not worth wasting brain power on. A short while later, he returns to the bedroom and throws some clothes in a bag before breaking down his computer setup and packing it all in a cardboard box.

  “I’ll come back in the day for the big stuff. Your pals won’t notice as long as I’m gone before sundown.”

  I shrug. “Sounds reasonable. Didn’t expect you to move out tonight.”

  He gathers his ‘important’ stuff and goes outside. I follow him to a tiny green car. It’s so small it would be more accurate to say Ron ‘wears’ it rather than gets into it after putting his things in the back seat. Seriously, its tires are the size of Frisbees. Thicker, but about the same diameter. We bump into each other both going for the passenger side door.

  He looks down at me. “You want to drive?”

  “Umm. No. I have no idea where you’re going.”

  “Other side, luv.”

  I stare at the car. The steering wheel is on the wrong side. “Oops. Is it obvious I’m American?”

  “Aye. A touch.”

  “Heh.”

  While walking around the front to the other door, I scan the area for Kallen and Meredith. If they’re still here watching me, they’re hiding. Not seeing them makes me nervous. Did they see me talking to this guy instead of going all psycho-death-kitty on him? If they’re on their way back to tell Mr. Corley I ‘plan-B-ed’ the werewolf, what is he going to do to Sophia?

  Okay, bad thoughts. The guy gave me his word as undead king-emperor whatever she wouldn’t be harmed. He might give off Mafia boss vibes to me, but it’s the suit. And I’m not used to royalty. Actual kings and queens have a lot in common with organized crime bosses. Go back far enough in time and royalty arbitrarily ordered people killed for stupid, trivial things they considered insulting.

  Ron’s car is legit like a motorcycle with a cabin and seats. I’ve seen lawn mowers with bigger engines. Dad once told me a joke about a car company, Yugo. Something like the cars had so little power, turning on the radio made them drive slower. Pretty sure if I turned the radio on in this car, we’d lose ten miles per hour. I keep looking out the window waiting to see a four-year-old in a pedal car zoom by.

  Yeah, I’m accustomed to flying at 140, so being in a car at all is going to feel slow.

  Roads are for lesser mortals.

  Not sure how safe I feel in a car small enough for me to lift and carry around, but other than ending up trapped in burning wreckage, a crash isn’t going to cause permanent harm. Riding in the passenger seat affords me the opportunity to pull out my phone and trade texts with Ashley, Michelle, and Hunter. And yeah, I really ought to tell the parents there’s been a complication of the unavoidable kind.

  I’m still not fully confident big brother doesn’t read every text message everyone sends. It would require a ridiculous amount of staffing, but they probably have AIs set up to filter out the boring crap. So… I don’t use obvious terms in text messages. Pretty sure the Persons In Black appreciate me making their jobs easier. Vampires don’t want to go public, and the small branch of our government responsible for the ‘weird stuff’ doesn’t want them to go public. Win-win, right?

  Predictably, the parents are upset and worried at the delay. They pick up on the ‘local V-ip’ reference right away. Telling them I had to make nice with the ‘in-laws’ for using the wrong fork with my salad is hopefully enough of a clue I accidentally committed a breach of etiquette. I can fill in the details later.

  I’ve established a code with my friends and Hunter. ‘WSA’ for ‘weird shit alert’ tells them something vampire or paranormal related happened and I can’t talk about it by text. They’re understandably freaking out. Ashley went to the house and learned the truth from my parents. She knows Sophia and I got dimensionally yoinked to London. Since Ashley knows, Michelle knows. Hunter got the scoop via Ronan
.

  Everyone back home is in a state of controlled worry. Exactly like me. I’m hopeful the lack of Coralie showing up to warn me means Sophia is going to be okay. Then again, are ghosts capable of traveling close to 5,000 miles? We could be so far away she can’t warn me.

  Ugh. Bad thoughts.

  I need to focus on the task in front of me.

  Ron tells me about growing up in Crowthorne and how he moved to London after his parents decided to sell their home, buy a houseboat, and ‘go live the good life.’ Last he heard from them was three months ago when they docked at Malta. Before that, Jamaica. He’s got some friends and a grandfather out here, which is the reason he chose this town.

  “Yer sure yer kid sis is all right?” asks Ron. “She’s mortal, aye?”

  “Sure is a strong word. Mostly sure?” I manage a weak smile. “Yeah, she’s mortal. I don’t think they’re going to hurt her. Mr. Corley seemed angry when I worried about it.”

  He whistles. “Oy, right surprise, that. Never figured a vampire’d be dodgy about ’armin’ wee ones.”

  “Not so sure he objects to the idea of hurting kids as much as me questioning his offer of protection. But he did make it a point to say you ate children. Wonder why?”

  “Probably wanted ya ta throw a wobbly. Get all sorts a cheesed off and come at me right away. Er, maybe it’s the folklore. All werewolves devour babies, ya know.”

  “Not really. Never heard much about werewolves at all except for movies, and they’ve got to be far from accurate.” I gaze to my left out the window. Feels so bizarre to be a passenger in the ‘driver’s seat.’ We’re also driving in the wrong lane, but everyone else is, too, so no one’s getting into any accidents.

  We end up talking about more normal things for the remainder of the hour-long ride.

  He appears to know his way around the winding rural roads, not bothering to look at his phone for directions. The countryside is beautiful, making me grateful for the ability to see in total darkness, but it’s difficult to enjoy anything while worrying about my sister, or being stuck so far away from home.

  Come to think of it, it’s extremely weird how the mystics who abducted us simply let us leave.

  I mean, why go to all the trouble of magically kidnapping Sophia in the first place? Honestly, keeping us locked up wouldn’t have endeared us to their cause. Asher could be underestimating me. Perhaps he thinks I’ll storm off in a huff, get all scared and confused being in a foreign country, and reluctantly go back to him.

  Hah. So much for his theory.

  A few minutes after we make a right turn onto a road called A322, we go past a giant textile mill surrounded by farmland. Only someone with vampire eyes could see the mill clearly at night from the road, but it totally looks like medieval peasants built it stone-by-stone in the 1200s, except for the electric lights. The Skyrim-playing geek inside me squeals in delight despite everything else weighing on my mind. It’s a brief mental squeal. Not enough to feel guilty about while Sophia’s possibly in danger and we’re stranded in England.

  I’m allowed small squeals, right?

  Seriously, how often does one see a giant freakin’ building ripped straight out of the pages of a fantasy book? Okay, it’s quite a bit more boring and mundane than a Nord stronghold. This place doesn’t have archers prowling the walls, but still. Pretty cool.

  About a half-mile from the mill, Ron pulls over and points at a gated driveway up ahead. “Mr. Nesbitt lives here. Probably best if me an’ my car aren’t seen.”

  “Yeah. Probably. So, how should I do this? Do you have a phone number or something to stick in his head?”

  Ron thinks for a moment. “Best I remember, he’s usually at the mill during the week. I’ll go there tomorrow. Can you make him react to my name or some such thing and agree to hire me on?”

  “No problem. Be back in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hop out, shut the flimsy little door, and glide into the air among the trees. For no particular reason, I start humming Ozzy Osbourne’s Bark at the Moon. Yeah, my dad listens to oldies. And who am I kidding? The song isn’t in my head ‘for no particular reason.’ I just spent an hour in a tiny car with a werewolf. There’s gotta be a parallelism somewhere between fat man in a tiny coat and furry man in a tiny car.

  The driveway winds through trees for about a quarter mile before reaching a nice house. It’s smaller and plainer than I expected considering how Ron described this guy. Made him sound like the rich old miser who owns the entire village of Crowthorne. Miser’s probably not the right word, since Ron didn’t infer he’s nasty or greedy… merely well off. Anyway, it reminds me of the big houses people in movies always seem to have. Two stories, built-in two-car garage, faux brickface. Compared to the place Ron lived in, it’s basically a mansion, being five times the size.

  A few lit windows draw my attention first.

  I peek in on a pair of boys, maybe twelve and fourteen, playing a video game in a living room already fully decorated for Christmas. No adults in the room, so I move on. The next nearest lit window, almost straight up, is a bedroom belonging to a teen girl. Posters tell me she’s seriously into punk bands, but hasn’t taken it far enough to do anything funky with her hair. Headphones and a book occupy her attention enough for her not to see me floating outside her window.

  Again, no Mr. Nesbitt.

  Another lit window around the corner on the ground floor gives me a view of a TV room. A couple in their early fifties sit in recliners on either side of a small table, watching television. Nice of them to relinquish the larger screen—and room—to the boys for video games. Presumably, the man is Mr. Nesbitt. Okay, target acquired.

  The window’s not budging, so I check the doors. Both front and back are locked. Again, not surprising. After flying around the entire outside of the house, checking each window, I’m still without a means of getting in. Don’t want to take the chance they have a video doorbell. Unlike what some paranormal enthusiasts believe, vampires do show up on cameras. Hmm. I’m going to need an inside agent.

  Both boys on the sofa have their backs to the window and are quite absorbed in the game. The daughter has headphones on, but a book consumes her attention. Easier to distract someone from reading than away from an X-box, but the consequences for doing so are usually more severe. Especially in like Sophia’s case. If she’s into a story, interrupting her at the wrong moment can result in tears or screaming.

  I hover up to the girl’s window and use my iPhone’s flash to get her attention. The instant she looks at me, I’m in. All your brain belong to us. Or me in this case. It’s a little depressing to see her reaction to me is a desire to shriek. Suppose I shouldn’t take it as a reflection on my looks. After all, I’m hovering outside a second-story window. My hair’s dark brown and long. She probably mistook me for the girl from The Ring.

  The teen, Lucy, stares blankly at me while I implant the urge for her to open the window and screen. She does, and I climb in. Ugh. Whatever ‘music’ she’s listening to is horrendous. Some guy shouting bad poetry totally off key over guitar, drums, and bass played by people who’ve never touched an instrument in their life before they decided to record the track.

  More motivation to get out of here fast.

  Going down to the room where Mr. Nesbitt and his wife are watching TV is going to require sneaking past the kids playing X-box, and also require me to mind-tweak Mrs. Nesbitt. The more people who see me, the more risk. If they ask too many questions, it might cause the implant to unravel. He may or may not associate a strange girl in his house with the inexplicable desire to hire Ron Haddon on at the mill, but the last thing I need is to mess this up and have Mr. Corley get pissed. I’m doing this as much to satisfy my ‘atonement’ to him as to help Ron out.

  I give Lucy a mental prod to go tell her father there’s an enormous spider in her room. Wait, no. Giant spider might result in the boys coming up to check it out, too. New plan. Upstairs toilet is backed up. I p
rogram her to go fetch her father, complain about the toilet, and return to her bedroom. If all goes well, he won’t make it to the bathroom and wonder why she didn’t go there.

  A moment later, she blinks off the mental fog, spins on her heel, and hurries out as if I’m not standing next to her. I hide against the wall by the door, waiting. Soon, the grumbles of a mildly annoyed man come up the stairs behind the soft thumps of a sock-footed teen. Lucy diverts into the bedroom and stops with an expression like she forgot why she walked in here.

  Mr. Nesbitt goes by, muttering about shoddy plumbing.

  I pop out into the hall. He stops short, turning to stare at me. Of course, being I’m relatively harmless looking, he doesn’t immediately run off screaming. Probably mistakes me for some new friend of his daughter’s. His confused ‘who are you’ stare gives me plenty of time to place his brain on the derp express. I drag him into Lucy’s room, hit her with the same fog I use for feeding to keep her out of the way, and dive into Mr. Nesbitt’s head.

  Much like I did to the woman who ended up hiring Mrs. Lawrence—Hunter’s mother—I implant a mental image of Ron along with a strong sense of trust and loyalty. Provided Ron doesn’t do anything to actively piss him off, Mr. Nesbitt will regard him kind of like a son in law. Tomorrow, when Ron shows up at the mill, the guy will hire him for whatever job best suits a strong man, and pay him a little above average for it. Since I don’t know thing one about textile mills, I leave the exact job specifics to Nesbitt. So the boys don’t get in trouble, I start changing the reason Lucy called him upstairs to ‘spider,’ but in his head, it doesn’t make sense. Lucy would’ve smashed a big spider herself. Damn. Screw it. The mother already heard her ask for help with a toilet anyway. I simply erase his suspicion the boys caused it, make him blame the plumbing, and also think the toilet’s fixed. Finally, he gets a nudge to go back downstairs.

  Once I’m done with him, I erase myself from Lucy’s memory. For thoroughness, I give her a brief memory of having a problem with the toilet her father fixed. No need to go into detail about what sort of problem. While the two of them stand there staring into the fourth dimension, I dive out the window and fly back to the tiny car.