Body Count_SVS Book Two

by D. R. Perry

  My old flame will want to help Leora stay safe for sure. She always loved kids and as a hunter, it’s sort of her duty to protect regular humans from the supernatural set. But it’s way too early to get in a conversation with a human whose job makes them stay up during my usual hours. She’ll get her rest before getting back to me. And that’s okay.

  Back in the apartment’s main room, I listen for any sign that Frankie’s been woken up. There’s nothing but even breaths. I stare at the phone, wishing there were someone I could call at this hour, just to hear a friendly voice.

  Well there’s Maya. She’s awesome, but I already sent her a text and she hasn’t replied. Five in the morning is like two for a vampire. She’s probably asleep. And maybe that’s where I should be, too.

  A charging cable for the phone is right on the side table by my reading chair. I set the alarm for a few minutes before sunset and put it down on top of Shadow Over Innsmouth. Pulling my favorite fleece throw around me, I settle into the comfy chair for a nice little sleep. But it’s not restful at all. I have a daymare because of course I do.

  My dreams are dank and echoing, like I’m in a humid drainpipe or maybe a cave. Then I’m out and soaring through the air. My vision resolves into a reeking low-tide puddle where I get a bird's-eye view of a body so maimed it barely looks humanoid. Except I know who it is. An old friend.

  A squat hut sits near her body, its foundation raised slightly off the ground, windows lit and doors closed. I sense that its occupant won’t welcome me so I drop the item that’ll get the message across where it’ll be seen if I don't make it back. But the dawn is coming and I want revenge, so I swoop down on leathery wings toward the drain pipe.

  A hand, webbed and slimed over in something, curls around my fragile body. Wings crush, I can’t escape. Bones, skin, and hair transform as I change, trying to shock my captor and break free. But that cold grip is like a riptide. I’m a fly in amber as darkness takes me.

  In the distance, something beeps. No, not in the distance, next to my ear.

  Wakefulness pulls me up from dreamscape perdition. I open eyes crusted at the corners with dried bloody tears. Pulling the phone from its charger, I read the name of my savior.

  Maya. She’s saying sure, I can ask her anything I want. Is she flirting with me? I can’t tell over text so I figure a call might be in order even if I’m totally out of her league. But I have to check on Frankie first. The last thing I want to do is stomp all over the poor guy’s damage by asking point-blank questions about magicians where he can hear. If he’s too messed up to talk about them coherently, he’s too traumatized to listen to that yet.

  Frankie’s still out like a light but he isn’t snoring anymore. He’s moved too, as though he had a bad dream at the same time I did. To play it safe, I head into the bathroom and close the door before calling Maya.

  “Tino, good to hear your voice.” I imagine her smiling, the white of her teeth and fangs hanging like a crescent moon on the dark sky of her face. Yeah, I think I’ve got it bad. “What did you want to ask me?”

  Ways to ask her out litter my mind like stars in a clear night sky. But I won’t make any assumptions on how she thinks of me, not over the phone anyway. And I have to figure out how to help Frankie. Right. That was the reason for my call in the first place. Maya’s great but she sure is distracting.

  “I’m trying to learn about magicians who aren’t alchemists. I got a new case and this poor guy from a magic family needs serious help but none of his relatives will even talk to him. Do you know anyone besides Raven who’s got knowledge or experience with magicians and their ways?”

  “Wow, Tino.” Maya sighs. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “Lay it on me, good news first.”

  “I only know a little but I’ll tell it all to you.”

  “That’s amazing, Maya.” And it really is because she didn’t mention a favor exchange at all. “Thank you. You’re the best. Now what about that bad news?”

  “There’s another vampire who’s in the know about magicians. But you aren’t going to be happy hearing who it is.”

  “The King?” I can't think of a scarier vamp in the entire state of Rhode Island.

  “No. Whitby.”

  “Shitballs.” I sigh. Whitby is a powerful vampire from maybe the middle ages with a handful of followers chained to him by blood or debt. Or both. Maya’s one of them, too and she’s made it very clear she’s not happy about that. I suspect Whitby’s involved in crimes against both the vampire and human communities. On a personal level, I like Raven way better than him. But so far I don’t owe him anything. If his price for information is too high, I have the right to refuse the deal.

  But there’s one factor to consider before making a deal with the proverbial white-suited devil.

  “Okay, Maya. Tell me what you know. I’ll investigate what I can on that before deciding whether to go into Whitby’s debt.”

  “Sounds like a plan. There are Alchemists, Spell-Singers, and Theophiles.”

  “So what do they all do?” I already know a pretty respectable amount about alchemy but want to hear Maya’s take. My pen is against a blank page in my notebook, ready to jot down everything she says. I’m forgetful, okay? At least I'm doing my best to cope with it.

  “Alchemists make stuff. They do magic by crafting and always need materials and a little bit of time to prepare. Spell-Singers don’t have to do music, but their words have literal power with almost no preparation. They need to be careful what they say or they’ll risk an accidental cast. And Theophiles get their magic by paying tithes to magical or divine creatures in exchange for power and good fortune.”

  “Divine?” I blink. I’m Catholic, so the idea of gods doesn’t play nicely in my head or heart with my beliefs. “Like Greek and Roman classic mythology? Zeus? Or is it monsters?”

  “I’m talking about the stuff of myths and legends here, Tino.” Maya sighs. “Not Zeus. Not hybrid people like us or the werewolves, either. More like Yokai or Dryads. It’s been a long time since the majority of humans believed in those creatures. But magicians do and that’s what counts. Because the only other thing I can recall about Theophile magic is this; it only works if the head of the family believes the pact is valid.”

  “Wow, Maya. Thanks, that’s incredibly helpful.” And it is. Because she’s awesome. But I don’t say it because she’d probably rather hear that from someone cooler than me. Which is practically every other vampire in Providence.

  “You coming to the Blood Moot tonight?” The event she’s talking about is a monthly vampire gathering endorsed and enforced by King DeCampo.

  “I am now.”

  “Good!” She sounds happier about that than I expect.

  We say our goodbyes. Maya hesitates over the farewell though I’m not sure why. Once I hang up, I tell Siri to set a series of alarms so I’m not late to the Blood Moot like last time. After that, I settle in for another attempt at sleep. This time, the daymares don’t plague me.

  The sound that wakes me up this time is not the phone. It’s a hollow thud followed by a short muffled scream. I open my eyes to see Frankie on the floor by the bed, tangled in the curtains and blankets. His arms pinwheel, flailing wildly as he sits up. In half a moment, I’m at his side.

  “Frankie, cool it, man.” I put one hand on his shoulder, feeling its heat. Was I this warm when I was still really alive?

  “Tino?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I grin. “Your friendly neighborhood vampire guy.”

  “God, I thought—” He hangs his head. “It was like being back there. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for.” I help him up, back to the edge of the bed. “Nightmares are normal, under the circumstances. Or daymares.”

  “Is that what you call them?”

  “Yeah.” I pull a section of blanket out from where it’s twisted under his arm.

  “You’re a good guy, Valentino.” Frankie yawns.

  “T
hat word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.” I gesture back at the bed.

  “It’s not inconceivable for a vampire to be a decent person.” Frankie curls up in a ball with his head on the pillow. He looks so young that way, not like the newly adult man he is, more like a Freshman in High School.

  “Yeah, well. I try.” I tuck the blanket around his shoulders.

  “Thanks for that.” His eyes close. “It’s more than my parents ever did.”

  I listen to his breath and heartbeat until they’re at a pace to indicate he’s sleeping. After that I look at the clock. It’s one in the afternoon now and I’m wide awake so I figure it’s time to do some checking on the information Maya gave me. I use the terms in the notebook for some Google searches. Most of it is fiction, but that’s what you get when you look up vampires so I expect it to be the same for other supernaturals.

  I end up finding one site that looks like it actually has legitimate information. I read the About page and see that it’s still a fictitious website. I mean, no factual page would claim to be authored by a real Sasquatch who interviews cryptologists and their subjects, right? But anyway, the site’s a blog, with posts on cryptids from Chupacabra to Yeti. Baba Yaga’s even listed but I leave that entry open in its own tab for now.

  Each post I look at has information about the featured creature, including human legend. But the difference between this site and others with similar subject matter is the sympathy for the monsters. Usually, websites about the supernatural don’t humanize their subject matter, and often give advice on how to harm or kill the creatures in question. Not so here. The writer actually cares about giving a fair description.

  That empathy is what kicks off my hunch that this is the real deal. Or at least as real as these things get on the world wide web.

  So, I select a few entries with the idea in mind that at least half of the content is true. It takes a while even with a mug of blood at my elbow so I can read at high speed. But eventually I find it, tucked away at the end of an article about Domovoi.

  In case you’ve never heard of them, the article says Domovoi are house-elves. Well, not really elves exactly but spirits who look like little old people and appreciate good housekeeping skills. But the part that interests me isn’t the fact that they’re from a Russian legend, it’s that they’re known for following families.

  Even with his Crocodile Hunter style enthusiasm and clear appreciation for his subjects, the blogger doesn’t slack off in the research methods department. Sasquatch lists citations and credits at the end of all the blog posts. There’s a name for this article, a very familiar one. Leora Kupala.

  “Well I’ll be a bat’s brother.” I shake my head. “Even the internet’s a small world when you’re from Rhode Island.”

  I lean back in my comfy chair, laptop across my thighs. If the kid talked to a blogger who dresses up like Sasquatch, she’s definitely no ordinary tween. Or maybe she is. Leora seems to be at about the top limit of the age where most people stop believing in imaginary things. According to Maya, belief is a big deal for magicians and their kin so maybe that makes a difference for mundanes who sit down to toast and jam with Baba Yaga, too.

  The phone beeps and this time it’s Kayleigh. The message says yeah, she’ll help me track the kid down. I give her the phone number that called us last night and a description of Leora, leaving out the part about her interview with the Sasquatch. If this blogger is really what he claims to be, the last thing I want is for him to end up in the Killarney family crosshairs.

  I drink down the last of the blood in my mug and go to get more. High-speed internet searching is thirsty work when you’re a vampire and part of that speediness moniker has to do with using a blood-burning ability. I’m jotting down what I hope are useful notes off the website when the phone beeps again.

  Kayleigh has found Leora’s record of enrollment in Alan Shawn Feinstein Middle School. Apparently, she’s just finishing eighth grade already so maybe she’s older than I thought. And from Coventry where it’s a little bit country and a little bit crunchy. Well, nobody’s perfect.

  My ex says she’s on like Donkey Kong for the recon. Yeah, she actually uses those words. Our time in High School was spent in the geek crowd and while I was into theater like Maury, Kayleigh was a gamer. Maybe still is, actually, considering her favorite titles back then were Halo and Call of Duty and she’s an expert sniper.

  I send back a thumbs up emoji. Yeah okay, I’m a creature of the night but still a Millennial. Of course I use emoji in text messages, I’m not an undead relic yet.

  Settling back into the comfy chair seems like an exercise in precarious Feng Shui. I move everything over to the breakfast table except for the fleece throw, which I end up staring at longingly every time I woolgather after reading one of Sasquatch’s articles.

  This is taking forever, but the blood has finally perked me up enough to do the sensible thing. A site search. I look for articles that include the word slime. A handful pop up and I have a browse through them. I read the entry on Deep Ones seven times. After that, I get up and stand over Frankie, watching him sleep.

  I’m not sure whether I’m on the right track or not because there are inconsistencies. But the similarities chill me to the bone despite Rhode Island’s warm early summer weather. Deep Ones make contracts and mate with humans in exchange for relics from the sea. They’re immortal creatures, tied to unnameable entities they worship as gods. And the families they tether themselves to become prosperous and stay that way. I get the impression that even kindly old Sasquatch didn’t like them much.

  Stephanie was right. As much as I want to hate that, the desire to help Frankie takes priority over getting angry at her for giving me creepy homework. I shut the laptop down, plug it in to charge, and take my mug of blood back over to the comfy chair where I take my sire’s advice.

  I read Shadows Over Innsmouth while I wait for either the next text messages to come in or sunset. And it’s just as disturbing a read as I expected. The Deep Ones from Lovecraft’s imagination are true monsters, treating their human allies like livestock needed to produce their hybrid offspring. And the humans get the short end of the stick every time.

  Esther’s text comes first. It says to call her so I set Lovecraft's disturbing book down, head to the bathroom and tap her number on the screen. It rings only once before she picks up.

  “That tracker was a bitch to make, Tino. It’s not my usual, either.”

  “What do you mean?” I stare at my empty collar in the bathroom mirror.

  “I mean you’ve got to drink this shit, mix it in soda or water or whatever. And it won’t even fucking work for blood suckers.”

  “It figures.”

  “Also, I’m not fucking taking it.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn't fucking work on magicians, either. Don’t be an asshole and ask more stupid questions when I've got a date with my pillow.”

  “Okay.” This is why I have two partners. “When can I get it?”

  “Dropped it in your mailbox already. Now I’m going the fuck to sleep. This bitch is tired.”

  “Thanks, Esther. I owe you one.”

  “No. We’re even. Thanks for helping with that other fucking thing.” She’s talking about her uncle without naming him. I’m getting the impression that she’s not allowed to help him or even say too much.

  “Ah. You’re welcome.” There’s a list of questions I want to ask her about magicians so the entire situation's a bummer.

  I let her hang up and look at the clock. It’s getting late so I stay in the bathroom and take another shower. Yes, Shadows over Innsmouth and the fact that Deep Ones are real and also really horrible is literally making my skin crawl. The shower helps.

  When I’m done, Frankie’s awake. He’s rummaging around in the fridge looking for food and coming up empty, of course. I open the closet and get out the stash of Myoplex bars I keep here for when Scott gets hungry. And I grab a duffel to stuff the e
vidence bags into. I also snag my jacket because pockets are important when you need to carry blood around.

  “Sorry for poking around in there,” Frankie jerks one thumb at the refrigerator. “And thanks for the bars.”

  “No problem.” I get some of my blood bags and stock up my jacket. “We’ve got someplace to go in a few minutes.”

  “Will there be more food there? No offense, but—” His stomach rumbles.

  “I’ll find you some.” I don’t think the Fitzpatricks will feed someone they can’t stand the smell of. But my folks have a fully stocked fridge right next door and we’re Italian. They expect me to eat when I go to their house.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got to talk to some werewolves.”

  “Oh no.” Frankie takes half a step back, the counter stopping him when he bumps it with his hip. “They’ll want to kill me.”

  “These are good werewolves, Frankie. Friends of mine and my sire's from way back. I’ll explain how I’m helping you and they’ll step off.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s how I smell to them now, it’ll enrage them. I can’t go into a werewolf’s den.”

  “That’s why we’re only talking to one and our meeting is outside.”

  “Outside?” Frankie’s shoulders relax a bit. “Okay, so they’ve thought this through.”

  “Yeah, like I said they’re friends. Neighbors, actually. Grew up next door to them.”

  Frankie seems mollified by this new piece of information. He’s still making with the nervous tics, like picking at his thumbnails. But that’s understandable. I stash my notebook and then we head out. I grab Esther’s tracking powder out of my mailbox on the way.