by D. R. Perry
It takes less than ten minutes to get from my side of Cranston to the neighborhood to the west where my parents and the Fitzpatrick family live. Rhode Island is small in a geographical sense. This means it doesn’t take more than forty-five minutes to get anywhere unless the traffic sucks. It also means you can tell who grew up here by what they consider a long trip to be.
Anyway, before we know it, we’re there. I park around the corner, though, because I don’t want my folks to see my car and think I’m avoiding them. Sunday dinner still happens but aside from that, I haven’t been over here since Ma mistakenly decided that all my weird behavior since getting turned is because I’m gay, not a vampire. Bringing Frankie by will only reinforce that idea because I’m not allowed to tell her the truth.
But it turns out the house is dark. I finally remember that this is Ma and Dad’s date night, which means my folks are up at what Ma calls “Stinkin’ Lincoln” casino. They’ll be out until well after midnight. I could have parked here after all.
We’re walking up the side of the Fitzpatrick house, which is one of those ranches built into a hill. The basement is covered up in the front but exposed at the back of the building which is where we go. A wooden gate, one I can all too easily imagine falling and staking myself on, probably deters most vampires from visiting. Well, that and the odor.
Werewolves smell like a High School locker room to vampires. Whether it’s because of the speedy healing they can do or some sort of weird wolfy hormone, I’m not sure. But they’re probably the last creatures any vamp wants to put the bite on unless we’re in a hunger rage. Which happened to me once in the not too distant past but that’s a whole other story.
Inside the fenced enclosure, there’s a gazebo all strung up with little white Christmas lights. It’s got a hand-cobbled path leading from the steel back door of the basement to the screen and wood one on the gazebo. I remember looking down from my bedroom window as a kid, imagining myself walking up to it, discovering a magical creature inside. And now, here I am facing that gazebo. But I’m not alone and I know that the seated figure at the center isn’t magical, not exactly.
Werewolves and vampires are hybrids. They were all human at one point in their lives and then changed, either by their DNA in the case of the wolves or by somebody’s deliberate choice for vamps. Because it’s just the way my brain works, my thoughts jump to a question. Can a vampire turn a magician? I already know they can’t turn werewolves because Stephanie told me. It doesn’t work and only results in one seriously pissed off wolf. Next time I see her, I’ll ask.
I’m standing on the path just steps from the gazebo because I literally stopped to think. I’m not even sure whether I should bring Frankie in with me or ask him to stay outside. I see a silhouette inside, seated. So he’s in there but do I knock or what? And then, a voice from behind the screen tells me exactly what to do.
“Enter, Valentino Crispo and Frankie Pickering.”
We both step forward because with an order like that from the oldest and wisest werewolf in this territory, what else is there to do?
“I never thought I’d see the day.” Grandpa Fitzpatrick chuckles and winks one cataract-marbled eye. “And come to think of it, I didn’t.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t sir me, sonny boy. I’ve known you from diapers to Dracula and you’re still not done growing up. It’s Fergus like always and if you call me sir again this meeting is over.”
“It’s your house, Fergus.”
“From the mouth of babes.” Fergus nods. “Now, you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.”
“Yes. Especially Frankie. From what he tells me, people like him are eternally shunned.”
“Nothing about the boy is eternal unless he gets turned.” Fergus leans forward, putting some of his weight on the shillelagh he’s holding between his knees. “And as you’re demonstrating now, the magician tradition’s not totally universal.”
“That’s just because I don’t know any better.”
“You’ve got that dead wrong.” Fergus gives us a doggy grin. Dad jokes aren’t good enough for him, he’s got to make Grandpa puns. “As a vampire, you’re unbound by anything you haven’t explicitly vowed to follow, Valentino. No one will censure you for helping. Or for having a great big heart.”
I can practically hear Frankie’s jaw drop.
“So it’s not some kind of supernatural effect that’s turning everyone off?” I ask while looking into Frankie’s misty eyes. “Just a set of rules?”
“There’s no just when it comes to binding supernatural rules, boyo. Except for the true mundanes and your kind.”
“Yeah, that seems to be an unfortunate pattern.”
“Mark my words, Tino. Magic needs patterns. Even the limited amount we wolves get from our ties to the moon has its regulations.”
“You remember how I was on the force.” I snort. “All those do is trip me up.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Frankie finally gets himself together enough to speak. But he slaps his hand over his mouth immediately. I try not to imagine the kind of punishment he got for speaking out of turn while growing up.
“You can speak here, Frankie Pickering. But only while we’re still in this fancypants gazebo of mine. It’s neutral ground.”
“Oh.” Frankie lets out a sigh bigger than most yawns. “That’s a relief.”
“You were saying?” The old man turns his finger in the air, a sign for Frankie to continue his line of thought.
“My family’s rules are brutal. The Lambs have no say in them like some other families. Deep Ones want to know who they’re getting the second we’re tested for magic. I was doomed before I was weaned and raised knowing it. We’re literal scapegoats over at the Pickering house. Tino and his great big heart? It’s all a big fat mistake. You called us here to stop him from helping me, didn't you?”
“I did no such thing.”
“Wait, what?” Frankie takes the words right out of my mouth.
“You’re here to get the official and unfortunate news that me and my wolves must stay out of this. My clan can’t help you this time, Valentino. Not even young Scott.”
“Well, thanks anyway, Fergus.” There goes my idea about giving Frankie’s phone to Scott.
“Don’t thank me yet, boyo.” He clears his throat. “You’re also here so I can say we’re staying out of your way.
“What does that mean?” Frankie scratches his head.
“That means if we see you, Tino, or any other allies you might gather toward the goal of breaking the Pickering’s rules, we look the other way and mum’s the word. If they ask us directly, we claim ignorance. All of my people are on board with me about this.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Wow, Fergus. Thank you.” I know what refusing to talk can mean for vampires and it ain’t easy because I’ve tried it. It might be different for werewolves but probably not much. And magicians are powerful, too, which is clear even though exactly what they can do remains murky.
“Don’t mention it.” He winks. “Get it?” There’s no chuckle this time, just a full-on guffaw. And now I see why he leans on the shillelagh. It keeps him from toppling right out of the chair.
“So, is that it?”
“Almost.”
“Okay, let me have it.”
And he does. With both barrels.
“You can’t go on like this with your faith and your folks. Something’s got to give, Valentino. And if you’re not prepared for trouble on those fronts, it’ll break you in the long run. I might not live to see that happen but I definitely do not want Scott needing to put you down when he’s in this seat decades down the line.”
“Um.” I’m not blinking from surprise. My eyelids are trying to hold back a bloody deluge. Grandpa Fitzpatrick might be blind but his insight’s keen as a razor. And he cut right to the heart of my matter. I walk around every night with a vague sense of moral danger, like a brushfire off in
the distance. Fergus just pointed out something I should have known already. Even slow burns consume when left unchecked too long.
“Si— Uh, Fergus.” Frankie steps forward. “Tino’s not alone. He’ll have help with his family and everything else besides.”
“Vampire debt won’t do a thing on these fronts, Frankie. They’re matters of the heart, not something to resolve with the payback for a vampire’s favors.”
“No. I’m telling you that I’ll help him with it. Not because I owe him, there's no debt. Because he’s my friend. You have my word, for whatever that’s worth.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You. You will?” Frankie blinks. “My family says my word means nothing.”
“Your family isn’t typical for Theophiles. And you’re not the first to rise above the Pickering family this way, either, though according to our tales it was ages ago. But that’s another matter I’ve promised not to mention outside my clan. You’ll have to stumble across it on your own.”
“That’s fine by me.” Frankie actually grins. “I’m actually pretty good at stumbling.”
“Now this meeting’s over. Shoo. Scram. Get outta here!” Fergus brandishes the stout wooden walking stick in a fit of sham menace.
I head through the gazebo’s door, Frankie in tow. The sensation of being watched, even listened to, persists the entire way through the yard, out the gate, and down the path to the street. We go back to my car so I can move it and get the stuff we need to give to Maury because Esther’s tracking powder is practically useless. Scott’s banned from helping me until we fix Frankie’s problem. And that’s when I get a bright idea.
“Hey Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you feel about Alchemy?”
“Esther used to let me help her with all her gear after she got home to recover from the Gulf War. I’m cool with it.”
“She gave me this stuff.” I shake the envelope. “It’s to track someone down, maybe a missing kid. But magicians and vampires can’t use it and Fergus said Scott—”
“I know what you’re going to ask. And I’ll help you, but only if I’m not going to have to fight anything. I suck at that.”
“There shouldn’t be any fighting, no. Just the tracking is enough. If it comes to blows and you want to bug out, I don’t mind.”
“Cool.”
Once we get out of the car, I get the side door open and we head into my mom’s kitchen. The only light comes from the fixture over the stoop. So once we're inside, I flip the light switch.
It’s never Better Homes and Gardens in Ma’s kitchen. She’s got one side of the sink piled with a pair of plates, forks, knives, and glasses. The dishwasher magnet is set to empty. A box of pastry from Solitro’s Bakery sits on the counter, red and white strings slack and untied, a dusting of powdered sugar beside it. God, I miss their bismarcks. Best in Cranston. Have one sometime and think of me while you do.
I move the box away from the sink, setting it in front of Frankie who eats everything left inside it. Can’t blame the kid for being hungry. And I get to smell the pastries, which is what I’ve always imagined as heaven’s fragrance. My parents will notice they’re missing but they’ll think I deserved them in exchange for tidying while I dropped by.
I brush the sugar away from the formica surface, then start rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. I want the sink clear so I can mix up the tracking powder for Frankie. It’s quick work, washing up after a meal for two people with vamp speed. I also realize it’s truly an endless chore, like laundry. Vampires still drink and wear clothes after all.
The envelope has instructions written right on it. Fortunately, I know where Ma keeps the measuring cups and there’s plenty of water. I get a glass down and set a spoon beside it. Once the red and green granules are sitting at the bottom, I stuff the envelope in my pocket because the last thing I want to do is leave supernatural info in plain sight on Ma’s counter.
I measure out exactly seven ounces of water like the instructions say and then stir until the concoction looks exactly like the iced tea Maury and I used to make from a Lipton can and drink at our sleepovers.
I’m about halfway back to the table where Frankie sits, ready to bring him the magic beverage when there’s a knock at the door. I can already tell it’s Maury by how he smells, which is of illness and chemicals. He doesn’t wait, just walks in. Decades of long familiarity will do that.
“Tino! You’re a mensch! How did you know I’d be thirsty?”
Before I can speak up, Maury Weintraub chugs every last drop of the beverage which is definitely not iced tea. That's right. He accidentally drinks the tracking potion it took Esther all day to make. Because of course he does.
When he’s done, he sets the glass on the table and heads straight for the evidence bags on the kitchen table. He pauses, one hand over them, and lets out a long, gurgling belch.
“Excuse me.” Maury grins benignly at Frankie. “Hi, I’m Detective Weintraub. Tino might have told you that I’m his PD contact. You remind me of someone. Do you have a cousin who’s an Enby, by any chance?”
It’s like watching a train wreck. I can’t look away or even move. But my brain’s not frozen. The Enby Maury mentions is Raven, who apparently had a connection to Larry Nelson, the dead partner whose funeral Maury and I attended last month. Along with Scott. And a mystery person in a long, black veil. Who was kid-sized. Oh shit. Could it have been Leora? Is that why she decided to hire me? But I’ve got no time to skip down that mental path.
“Uh—” Frankie’s watching Maury like a hawk. I don’t blame him because that’s what I’m doing. We’re both waiting for the tracking potion to have some kind of visible effect.
I flare my nostrils, a sense of foreboding setting in. Maury must have been at a chemotherapy appointment earlier that day. He’s got lung cancer, and he’s fighting it, and he had better beat it or I’ll kill him. But if the chemo drugs in his system cancel out or otherwise alter that tracking powder, Leora might end up suffering for it.
And the worst part is, I can’t say word one on the subject. Maury’s not in the know and I pledged to King DeCampo at my Trial that I wouldn’t tell humans about the supernatural. But my best friend Maury has serious investigative instincts and our staring at him has that going off like five alarms.
“What?” He puts his hands on his hips and gives me the same glare he used in our High School Musical Review Les Mis number when he sang Javert to my Valjean.
He’s all hollowed out now, but it’s still the same. I’ll never forget it even if he dies. No. Not if, when.
Because he will. And I won’t. And that’s what Fergus meant about coming to terms about my folks. I close my eyes, stricken with preemptive grief, unable to answer. If I open my mouth, all of it might come pouring out like Valjean’s eventual admission of guilt.
“It’s just, um, Mr. Weintraub?” And it’s Frankie for the Hail Mary.
“Yeah, kid?”
“That wasn’t just tea in there.”
“No?”
“No, it’s also medicine. That drink was for me. See, Mr. Crispo was helping me out. I haven’t been eating right after everything that happened, not enough fluids. I’m blocked up.”
“Oh. Well shit.”
“Um.” I open my eyes. “Yeah. You might feel like, maybe a sense of urgency. Like you’ve got to be somewhere else. It’s a side-effect.”
“That doesn’t sound like ex-lax.”
“It’s not. It’s a prescription from the kid’s doctor, has some of his other meds in it too. Right Frankie?”
“Right!”
“Oy vay. Well, before it kicks in, tell me about this evidence.”
I explain that one bag contains the clothes Frankie wore during the assault. The other one has my shirt because I think evidence got on it, maybe. That’s good enough for Maury. He scoops up the bags and heads out the still open door. We follow and I burn some blood to lock up quickly while my old friend’s bac
k is turned.
Once Maury puts the evidence in his car, he gets into the driver’s seat. I can see something else on the passenger side, another evidence sample sitting inside an unzipped cooler. It’s blood and I can read the name Kupala on the label.
I open the passenger side, start getting in. It’s the natural thing to do, what with Maury unwittingly tracking Leora’s mysterious guardian while under the influence of an alchemist’s potion. And also, I want a taste of that blood. Sure I’ll puke my guts out but maybe a couple of my zillion questions will finally have an answer.
But Maury’s having none of it. “Tino, what the hell are you doing?”
“Uh, bringing Frankie down to—”
“No. What you’re doing is getting the Hell out of my car. I’ll call you when I hear something, like usual. For now, I’ve got the feeling I have to be somewhere. Like, yesterday. Thanks for that, by the way.” He rolls his eyes.
And just like that, I have to let him go. trying to get in was a gamble but if I push the issue, Maury will start poking his nose into supernatural business I’ll only have to stop him from getting involved in. I don’t even wait for Maury to get out of the driveway before dashing toward my own car, dragging Frankie along with me. We get in.
“Follow that car!”
“You’re the one driving!”
“Yeah. Okay. I knew that.” I crank the ignition and throw it in reverse.
My nervous excitement at the prospect of a high-speed chase vanishes when I realize Maury’s driving like Grandma Moses. Which makes sense because if he’s on a tracking potion, he doesn’t exactly know the way as much as he has to sense it. At least, that’s what Esther’s instructions said.
I’ll have to trust them for now and take it on faith that the stuff actually worked.
In the car, my phone rings. Like an idiot, I never set the Bluetooth up when I got in. And Rhode Island’s hands-free driving law just went into effect last month. Well, I was in an unmerited rush, okay? I don’t dare pick it up because then Maury can just pull me over, chew me out, and write me a ticket. The potion in his system might stop him from doing that though I don’t want to take any chances.