Body Count: SVS Book Two (Supernatural Vigilante Society 2)

by D. R. Perry

  It’s like Maya stopped the world, and I melted with her. I try sending that corny sentiment her way deliberately. It must work because in my mind’s eye I see her head shaking, tightly coiled curls a fascination of bouncing. I get the idea she needs me to focus on the important message here, one crucially dire piece of information. And just about the only thing in the universe that would make me willingly let our lips part at that moment.

  Stephanie is behind me. And she’s got the King’s Enforcers flanking her. And she’s fake.

  I know for sure she’s not the real thing. Because that amulet in my pocket would be glowing like the daystar if it really was, trying to get itself reunited with her. The Lazakhars are bonded to their vampires and are one of the few ways to know who’s truly who. But I don’t think the fake Stephanie knows this. Because her expression is one of smug superiority under a thin veneer of benevolence.

  She’s smiling gently at me in a perfect replication of that benign face she puts on when she wants something from me. Like the night she turned me and destroyed my life. Except this isn’t really my sire. It’s something else, a creature unknown to me. And if it’s here impersonating Steph, that means it wants to take a bite out of vampire society from the inside, like a worm in an apple.

  “Hi, Steph.” I flap my hand in a goofy wave. Don’t worry, this is my way of playing it cool at the vampire club. They all expect me to act like a spaz because I’m new. “Kind of busy right now, if you don’t mind.”

  “You ought to be in the main room, Val.” Ugh, that nickname. How does the body-snatcher know I hate it? Does this mean it has all the information Steph does or just some recent surface thoughts? If it’s the former, we’re all screwed.

  “Well, Maya and I are having a private—”

  “Necking session. Or at least that’s what I think you modern vampires call it.” She shakes her head and the bridge of her otherwise smooth as china nose wrinkles ever so slightly. “But part of full membership in our society is proper attendance at the Moots. You can’t call it mingling if you only see one person.”

  “Oh.” Playing dumb comes easily. And again, this is classic Stephanie. Everyone around will have no reason to suspect it isn’t actually her without concrete evidence.

  And yes, I know. The proof is in my pocket. But you don’t just trot out another vampire’s Lazakhar in people’s faces. Especially not King’s Enforcer type people. Because usually the only way for one vampire to get another’s is by murdering them. If I whip it out, Shadow and Hargrove will have every reason and right to stake and ash me right there in the hall. I can’t help but gulp like the guilty fish I am.

  “Come on, Tino.” Maya grabs my hand and brushes past the toughs and the fake Stephanie, dragging me in her wake. “I’ve got some people to introduce you to.”

  Her tactic of acting like she’s annoyed we got interrupted works. I’d never have thought of it because I was assuming the worst-case scenario about Fake Stephanie’s power and knowledge levels. It’s a testament to how much the unknown body-snatching foe scares me. But Maya’s never been afraid of anything the entire time I’ve known her. Which isn’t long, okay, but I like to think I’m a decent judge of character.

  I practically stumble after her into the main room where nobody notices because they’re all going about their own business. I was worried about it though. Life as a new vampire is a bit like being a teenager that way. The constant worry is that the bigger, cooler fish in the blood-drinking pond will notice you in a bad way.

  Maya stops us in front of a trio of vamps I haven’t seen since last month’s Blood Moot. They’re Maya’s people, the ones who showed up the same night she did. Well actually that’s not entirely correct. They’re Whitby’s people. Yeah, that includes the girl I just spent the last few minutes lip-locked with. Bummer.

  Whitby’s the tool who I suspect offed both Stephanie’s vampiric bestie and the guy he had permission from King DeCampo to turn. Which is one of the reasons I didn’t want to ask him about magician family drama. And now I’m definitely not going to. Because with Fake Stephanie running around and my gut telling me he’s mixed up in this somehow, that’s the opposite of a good idea.

  But these vamps Maya’s introducing to me might decide to flip on Whitby. I decide to play nice for now. All three of them are the sort of vampire that stands out in a mortal crowd like sore thumbs. I get it. Blood Moots are gatherings where we can be ourselves without any mundanes present. But some of the wardrobe choices here could have come from the closet of Captain Obvious’s cousin, Captain Conspicuous. I can only hope they don’t dress like this on the nightly.

  “Hey, guys.” Maya’s smiling and waving. “This is Tino.”

  “Oh, cool!” The guy in the tan trench who’s frequently seen leaning on nothing and talking to himself stands up straight and grabs my hand for a shake. I hadn’t been holding it out, either. “I’m Peligro, nice to meet you.”

  “Um, dude.” I let him shake my hand because the motion is too vigorous for me to even think about pulling away without accidentally smacking someone. “Your name means danger?” Yeah, I took High School Spanish.

  “You should hear his last name,” says the towering woman wearing a bullet packed bandoleer.

  “Um.” I finally get my hand back and stare at it like it’s been out past curfew. “Okay?”

  “Cabeza!” And just like that, Peligro Cabeza’s got my hand again, shaking like a leaf on the wind.

  “Help,” I mouth at Maya. But she’s chatting with the gunslinger gal and taking sneaky side-eyed glances across the room at the fourth member of her little cabal.

  This is a vampire I’ve at least heard of. Her name is Mrs. Kent, and she does some kind of record-keeping. She’s built like a linebacker but dressed like a librarian, complete with cat-eye glasses on her solid skull and a pink cardigan over her massive shoulders. But tonight, she’s missing the satchel of books she usually carries. And she’s practically glued to Whitby’s side when usually she's avoiding him.

  That sneaky white-suited bastard catches me looking at the two of them. He tips his hat like the world’s biggest asshole, showing off his long, blond, douchey ponytail. Yeah, I guess it’s pretty obvious I don’t like this guy. That’s okay, I’m in good company on that front.

  Raven is watching us and shooting sharp glares at Whitby. The Attaché is sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair in front of the dais that the King’s throne is on. And DeCampo’s there, too. In the shadows that cover most of his torso and his entire face, something silver gleams. I figure it’s the ring that all Vampire Kings supposedly wear. They give off light at times though I’m not sure exactly why yet.

  “And this is Annie.” Maya’s taking Peligro’s monopoly on my hand as a matter of course. But then, since they’re part of the same cabal, that must mean this is normal behavior for him.

  “Howdy.” The gunslinger smirks down at the longest handshake ever.

  I’m starting to feel like one of those lucky cats you see in Chinese restaurants. Except not lucky at all, at least with this mode of greeting. Why can't the guy exchange bows with me instead? I try pulling my hand away. At first, I think it works because his grip loosens. And then, Peligro smiles like a pageant contestant and pulls me into a bro hug.

  “Uh, yeah. Good to meet you too, pal.”

  Was I seriously worried about Whitby and his crew? Annie, Peligro, and Mrs. Kent seem like cartoonish walking stereotypes with fangs. But there’s got to be a reason he keeps them around despite that. Or maybe because of if he uses them as distractions. At least Maya’s normal. Well, besides the fact that she’s perfection on two legs with fangs.

  Pulling back from the hug is way easier than the manic handshaking. Peligro Cabeza’s gone back to a relaxed state. Well, sort of, for people who think leaning on and whispering to an imaginary friend is a good way to chill out.

  “Mr. Crispo, a moment of your time.” It’s not a request. Whitby’s practically in my face now, making de
mands. He’s got one hand out, pointed at a set of unoccupied wingback chairs in a corner.

  My eyes narrow and I feel something pricking the inside of my lips. Yeah, those are my fangs. And this is the beginning of an anger Rage. I take a deep breath I don’t need and let it out slowly, trying to stave it off. I’m pissed at Whitby pretty much all the time but that emotion got seconded by Peligro, who was clearly distracting me on purpose so his boss could get the drop on me.

  “Sure. Because I’ve got so much time to waste.”

  Whitby’s expression stays flat, as if my words are below his notice. Everything about him is lukewarm and average, from his tone to the apparent expense of his wardrobe. I’m not sure what that brand of mediocrity implies and I don’t really care. He’s clearly trying to take the lead over to the seats, as though it matters to him who sits first.

  I plunk my ass right in the nearest chair before he can and give him a grin I hope is snide enough. Yeah, I know I worry all the time about pissing off my elders and betters but as far as I’m concerned, Whitby’s only one of those things. Guess which.

  “What do you want?”

  “You truly are as uncouth as they say.”

  “Your moment’s almost up.”

  “Stephanie told me you were as direct as they come. Very well. I'm here to negotiate a price for the information you want about magicians.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll accept five major favors.”

  “No.”

  “Very well then, four.”

  “I’m not haggling.”

  “And I’m not supplying any infor—”

  “Don’t need it.” I cut him off because I’m well aware it’s the height of disrespect to an elder vamp.

  “Oh yes, you do.” His smile reminds me of a shark’s; wide, toothy, and eternally predatory. “I’m well informed about current events on the border between Cranston and Warwick police jurisdiction. And your personal connections to them.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what I need. I don’t let my sire boss me around why should I let you?”

  “Stephanie, your childe is a cocky little toe-rag.”

  I blink. “She’s behind me.”

  Whitby nods, that smile only widening and settling in for a nice stay on his bland face.

  “Shitballs.”

  “Valentino, I think you’d do well to bargain with Whitby for this information. You’re going to need it.” There’s no way in Hell this is the real Stephanie. She never tells me to give in like this.

  “No, I don’t. I already told him, and you’re not the boss of me. Not since I honored the Compass in my Trials last month.”

  “Don’t rely on what your little friends say, or you’ll end up a pile of dust and ash. You might have passed that Trial but you know less than you think you know.”

  I stand because I can’t abide what she’s saying or how she’s saying it. Because my real sire always believes in me, even when she’s got no good reason. Fake Stephanie is fake, and it’s got my blood boiling. Guilt skewers me, pushes me further.

  “You bitch.”

  You know how, when you’re in a room full of people off having their own little conversations, there’s always this sort of masking white-noise? Then you’ve also experienced the strange and sudden lulls that occur when the stars align just so. Well, that’s exactly what happened when I called this fake Steph an itch with a b in front. Bad luck, thy name is Tino.

  Every vampire in the room is staring at me. Some of them have hands on weapons under their coats or hold their fists up in postures conducive to combat. They’re right to react that way to my outburst. I’m as close to Raging as I was that night in Esther’s apartment when I actually bit a heinously scented werewolf. Except this time it’s not hunger getting my goat. It’s anger. How dare this bitch pretend at being my sire when Stephanie’s got more class in a toenail clipping? I’m ready to fight to the death and everybody knows it. I’m grossly outnumbered. I’m going to die, for good this time.

  My salvation comes in the form of a throat clearing.

  “King DeCampo demands a moment of your time, Valentino Crispo.”

  The formal tone is delivered in less than polished syllables. There’s an accent too, though faint, of some lyrical romance language I can’t readily identify. But I know the voice, its speaker. The last person I expect has stepped into this lion’s den, prepared to walk through slings and arrows to get me out of it.

  “Whatever you say, Raven.” I do my best to get the words out past my elongated fangs. When we Rage, they make an impressive display that hinders coherent speech. But the King’s Attaché understands.

  “Come along, Mr. Crispo.”

  And just like that, I rebel against the growing establishment and take the side of decency.

  I follow Raven up on the dais and past the now empty throne. There’s a door behind it, which I suppose plenty of the other vampires here must have known but of course they never told me. Why would they? Until I passed my Trial, for all they knew I’d be dead in weeks.

  The door leads to a cozy study, appointed with a few cushioned chairs and a table and floored in herringbone parquet. Everything is awash in shades of earthy brown, sepia like an old photograph. Even though it’s summer, there’s a small fire burning in a grate. That’s probably for intimidation factor. Even though all vampires fear fire, it’s far enough from the chairs and small enough not to be a bother unless the King wants to make it so. Overall, the main effect here is one of calm.

  This damps down my Rage, backing me away from the edge of irrevocable action in the midst of vampires decades or even millennia older than I am. I take the middle seat opposite the one King DeCampo occupies.

  “Majesty, you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Crispo.” He nods slowly, the coils of his twisted locks slithering against his suit lapels like ivy vines in winter. King DeCampo’s presence carries a breath of winter despite warm weather. This makes sense because great age for vampires is associated with that season.

  “May I ask what for?”

  “You may.” The corners of the King’s full lips tilt ever so slightly upward, accenting his wide nose.

  “So, Your Majesty, what can I do for you?” Indulging him in the formalities that go with his station comforts the part of me that wants to Rage. Either that or he reminds me of the real Stephanie.

  “There are pretenders in our midst.”

  “I know, your Majesty.”

  “You are in a better position to investigate with impunity than I am.”

  “I’m already taking advantage of that, sir.” I wince. “I mean, Majesty.”

  “Please, Mr. Crispo. For the sake of brevity, be frank for the duration of this meeting.”

  “Okay, sir.” I’m still going to watch my mouth, but knowing I don’t need to dot the I's and cross the T's while minding my P's and Q's is a relief.

  “What have you discovered so far?”

  I tell him about the crime scene in Warwick, the blood vial in my jacket pocket, Steph's Lazakhar. Taking them out, I even hand them over. King DeCampo holds them up, lets each catch the banked fire’s light. The sight of waning light reflecting off Stephanie’s amulet chills me to the bone. What if she’s met her final end? What will I do without her? I don’t like contemplating the possibility of vampiric orphanhood any more than the mortal version. And I know what I’m talking about here, since my dad was in Intensive Care just over a month ago.

  “There’s more though, Mr. Crispo.” The King knows what’s up. The least I can do is appreciate that by spilling almost all the beans.

  So I give him everything Maya told me about the Theophiles and include a names-redacted version of Frankie’s assault. And then, partly because the King’s authority demands it and also because I love me a good woolgathering session, I extrapolate.

  “So, I think the Theophiles just up and pick one kid from every generation to neglect or even abuse before throwing them to the figurative
wolves.” I hang my head, eyes reddening with imminent tears at the unfairness of it all. “And then, if they survive, the families act like they never existed.”

  “Not all Theophiles.”

  “That’s bullshit, Your Majesty, and you know it.” Raven’s strident tone startles me. They’ve never spoken like that before, hoarse and high-pitched at the same time. No, that’s not entirely true. It’s just that the last time the Attaché sounded like this, I mistook it for laughter at first.

  The King doesn’t even blink. He’s sitting still as a pond on a crisp autumn morning.

  “This is my MeToo moment, Your Majesty.” I don’t know whether Raven’s digging their grave here. But I’m going to let them speak. I’m even willing to object if the King tries to interrupt. A wave of something like relief washes over me. I’m not sure where it comes from because I’m not the one taking a huge leap of faith in an absolute Monarch and an untested neophyte in the same breaths. This is Raven’s moment. The fact that I’m letting them have it shouldn’t be as big a deal to me as it is to them.

  “Nobody talks about this. Not even the other two kinds of magicians. The Lambs are their dirty secret, a walking symbol of the evil they’re willing to do for power. The only reason some Theophile families don’t shun their Lambs has more to do with the terms on the magical creature’s side of the bargain. But the ones the Pickering family trucks with use us up and then throw us away.”

  “And how do you know this, Attaché?” Kind DeCampo’s eyebrow rises in a bold arch, like something out of a cathedral paneled in mahogany.

  “Because, back when they were busy escaping the Spanish Inquisition, I was one of them. And all because I wasn’t born with magic like my brother. Yes, my mortal roots are the same as Tino’s new client. We’re from the same family which operates no differently even after all this time.”

  “And what does this have to do with Miss McQueen?” There’s no way the King doesn’t already know. All he’s doing now is leading the relatively younger vampire down deduction’s thorny path.