by D. R. Perry
When she stands, the cozy throw drops to the floor. She picks up my favorite coffee mug, drinks the rest of the blood in it, and sets it in the sink. After that, Stephanie raises an eyebrow at me. I put the investigation bag on the counter, open it. She shakes her head and sighs.
“I told you, you will need a disguise.”
“I know. But really, I blended in better downtown wearing my regular clothes.”
“So you did go to Providence, then?” She leans against the sink, taps her foot. “You paid your respects?”
I blink at first because the whole way over, I’m thinking about Larry Tierney and how my own father almost ended up like him. I’ve got to find out when and if he’s got a wake because that’s a totally different and just as important type of respect I’ve got to pay. Maybe someone at the PD will make the funeral arrangements. But I can’t call the precinct in the middle of the night for something like that. I put my mind back on vampire problems, and that makes me cranky.
“Yeah, had a nice little chat with King Decapitate.” My inside voice escaped. Oops.
“Valentino Crispo, watch what you say!”
“What? I mean, it’s what he does to the bad guys.” And supposedly the good ones who make mistakes but I don’t say that. I roll my shoulders, glad my head’s still attached to them.
“You never know who’s listening.” Stephanie tilts her head at the window over the sink. “You can’t afford to let anyone hear you refer to King DeCampo that way. He commands respect for a reason.”
“Okay.” I fiddle with a box of blue gloves. “Speaking of affording things, his Majesty might have given me a tip about the Cranston PD.”
“He gives nothing for free.” Stephanie saunters toward the front door, then leans against the wall next to it. “So what do you owe him?”
“It’s more about what he doesn’t owe you anymore.”
“Tino.” She shakes her head, then hangs it. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped. Some of our future tasks will be more difficult, but I'll simply have to handle the extra work. Your investigation led you into his personal territory, and you are still my responsibility until you can prove to the king that you’ve learned enough to be a full member of vampire society.”
“How about I try to do that tomorrow night?” I bend over and pick up the throw she left on the floor. “There’s a Blood Moot, you know.” I’m surprised to have actually remembered that. But Stephanie speaks again before I can head toward the kitchen and mark it down on the dry-erase calendar I keep on the fridge.
“I’m not sure you’ll be ready by then.” She puts her hands on her hips.
“I’m ready now.” I fold the cozy square of fabric, lay it over the back of the comfy chair.
“Prove it.” Her foot’s tapping behind me.
“Uh.” She has me there, and she knows it. I turn around to find Stephanie hanging her head again. I feel almost as bad as I would if I’d kicked a dog. Not that I’d ever do something like that.
“Well, it can’t be helped for now.” She straightens almost like a marionette when the puppeteer lifts its strings. “Not with your father’s situation. But you’ll attend tomorrow night, then?”
“Yeah, I already told Raven I’d show.” The gravity dropping in my stomach is familiar. Guilt. It turns out it affects me the same way whether I'm disappointing my Ma or the undead equivalent. Who knew?
“I suppose that’s a bit of good news. Shall I meet you here before you head over?”
“No, how about we just meet there?” I’m not sure where the investigating I’m hoping to finish in the earlier part of the evening will take me, and I don’t like the idea of Stephanie hanging around here without me. Vampire rules give her that right, but my lease says one tenant only. She knows this, but my creator’s nosy. Or maybe clingy. I’m not sure which.
Stephanie steps back over to the comfy chair. She stares at the now neatly folded throw like she’s considering bringing it with her. Instead, she shrugs. At least now I know what to get her for Christmas. Then she slips on her shoes and picks something up from the side table. On her way toward the door, she sets it on the counter next to my box of gloves. I stare at it.
“See you at midnight tomorrow, Valentino.”
She closes the door behind her and on my thoughts. The Scarlet Pimpernel sits there like an unspoken reprimand. Even the man on the cover glares at me, half his face hidden by a leather-clad hand. The square-cut ruby in his ring reminds me of the brooch Maury wore in Cranston West’s production of Dracula. He’d played the leading role while I stalked him as Van Helsing. I chuckle at the irony.
Even if DeCampo and company aren’t testing me tomorrow, I ought to brush up on the rules of unlife, according to King Decapitate. So I leave The Scarlet Pimpernel on the counter and head for the little alcove where my bed is. The last tenant used the space for a closet, but the fact that there wasn’t a window in there sold me on repurposing it. Yeah, that’s right. I sleep in the closet. The double layers of light-blocking curtain hanging across the double-door threshold are my last line of defense against the sun if a window breaks during the day.
I keep a notebook full of observations about being a vampire under my mattress, along with the little handwritten booklet of Society notes Stephanie gave me to study on my second night. Both of those are in Latin so the average person can’t read them without extra time and a computer. Thanks, Google Translate.
There are only four rules, and following them is called “Honoring the Compass.” But they’re confusing and hard to remember because directions don’t have the same kind of connotations now that they used to back in the day. And they’ll never change over to a new system. Because old vampires are crusty and hidebound.
The first and most important rule is to Honor the North. They expect everyone to understand that North means oldest. The king over any territory is always whoever’s the most ancient creature with fangs. All the other vamps have to report to them and do whatever they say, no matter how crazy. King DeCampo supposedly has his living origins back in the golden days of Greece.
I guess the idea is that if a vampire lives that long, they must know what they’re doing. The flaw in that logic is that times always change. King DeCampo of Providence might be ancient, but he doesn’t even know what a smartphone is. His age gives him the right to tell me exactly what I can do with mine. But because of the rule I can’t say that his ignorance on technology means that half the time I’m in his presence I want to shove my iPhone up his ass. Sideways. At least I can be sure he knows how to follow the second rule.
Honor the South is easy because it makes total and complete sense. All that means is to be secret about vampires. We can’t use powers in front of regular people. Vampires should avoid making a spectacle out of ourselves by doing things like catching fire out in public at high noon. Because the king is old-school, he thinks killing humans who find out is the best idea in the world. Like I said, he’s behind the times. Fortunately, Stephanie’s teaching me a bunch of better track-covering techniques.
The last two get trickier, and I always mix them up. East and West have to do with making new vampires and keeping promises made to vampires or others in the supernatural community. I try to remember which is which without looking in my notebook. But I can’t. So I try flipping a coin. But when I check the notebook against my guess, I’m wrong. Even the odds can’t give me a break tonight, apparently.
East is about keeping promises. Between vampires, money doesn’t mean much. We need way less cash than living people, so we end up with decent chunks of change in relatively short amounts of time. Our word has value instead, so favors are the only currency that counts. That’s why I’d better make it to the Blood Moot. Which is important in part because of the fourth rule.
West is all about making new vampires. You can’t get turned and then go inviting your family and all your besties into the vampire club. Half the world would have fangs, and the other half would be running for their lives n
ightly if it worked that way. Instead, a vamp’s got to get permission at a Blood Moot or similar gathering. I bet you can guess who gets authority over that kind of hefty decision. Bingo. The same guy who doesn't know how to use a phone.
I drop the notebook. It occurs to me that I can’t think of a single reason Stephanie would have asked for permission to turn me specifically. I’d never met her until the night it happened. But if she hadn’t asked, I would still appear in mirrors and churches all over Rhode Island. She’d gotten the go-ahead from DeCampo himself, somehow.
Even more mysterious is why the king allowed an unknown guy like me to get turned. I get off my bed and pace because that helps me think. It feels like I’m wringing everything I know about vampires out of my brain, and still I come up empty. There’s nothing, no good reason I can imagine.
But finally, there’s one tiny idea. A bad reason, from my perspective, at least. I stop in the middle of my apartment and blink. It’s all wrapped up in what King DeCampo told me about Cranston.
I’m a replacement for whoever used to be the big vamp on campus in my town.
Maybe whatever matter I’m investigating now killed the vampire DeCampo mentioned. If an older and wiser vamp couldn’t get through it, my chances are at a snowball in Hell levels. I give up trying to figure out why Stephanie specifically got to do the honors. The only reason I can think of for that is, since the king just got out of debt with her tonight, maybe he owed her even bigger favors before he let her turn me.
It’s getting late. No, it’s getting early. Whatever. I’m a month-old vampire, don’t expect me to have all this straight, police training or not. This is like a whole different world to learn. I hang my head, tired of being what I am and wishing it could all go back to the way it was before my severe sun and garlic tandem allergies. But that’s not happening unless Djinni are real and I somehow find a lamp. Fat chance.
I face the foiled-over window on the east side of the building in defiance of the flaming death-orb that’s getting ready to hang out in the sky for over twelve hours. And I recite all four of the rules without looking back at the notebook on my bed. When I check, I find I did it right.
“Take that, King Decapitate.”
It doesn’t matter one bit that Stephanie warned me not to say that out loud if I could help it. DeCampo’s just a vampire, not Lord Voldemort. Anyway, this is my apartment, and I’m the oldest vampire in it. Technically I’m the king in here. And who knows? Maybe DeCampo might surprise everyone some night and reveal an actual sense of humor.
“Respect that, bitches.”
I go into the bathroom and splash some water on my face. After that, I change into my pajamas again, finally. It’s a habit but also a precaution in case anyone breaks in here and sees me. If I’m lying in bed with all my street clothes on, it’ll look weird. And before you ask, I should worry about what a potential robber thinks, thank you very much. I’m Respecting the South by sleeping in pajamas. All they’d think is that I work the graveyard shift, not that I’m an undead blood-drinking creature of the night. Most human people want to keep it simple, which makes it easier for non-human people like me to keep on going bump in the night.
Staring at the ceiling while trying to fall asleep is nothing new to me. I had insomnia while fully alive, too. According to Stephanie, it gets easier to zonk out at daybreak the older you get. I’ll believe that when I experience it. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but I’m just starting to drop off to sleep when I remember the thing I forgot to back up: a reminder for the Blood Moot tomorrow.
“Siri, set an alarm for—”
I fall asleep before I hear the computerized chick say okay. This does not bode well.
Chapter Five
The phone wakes me up at ten in the morning. That’s like two in the morning for a vampire. I’m out of it when I answer but perk right up when I identify the voice at the other end.
“Dad!”
“Tino.” He lowers his voice. “They’ve got me in the hospital with a policeman at the door.”
“That’s good.” I sit up in bed. My right eye is refusing to open because I slept on it funny.
“No. That’s bad,” he whispers.
“Why?” I put the phone in my lap and switch to speaker so I can rub my eye.
“They think it was a hitman that shot me.”
“Um.” I happen to know the police misgendered the shooter, but don’t say so. “Wow. So how’s it a bad thing to have a police detail protecting you?”
“Because the doctor says it was a sniper rifle that hit me. What if it’s the Caprices who ordered it?” Leave it to my old Dad to worry about Cranston’s own crime family.
“Geez, Dad.” I try not to yawn, and tell myself it’s just a bad habit because vamps don’t need air. “Maybe you shouldn’t say this on the hospital phone.”
“I’m not. Your mother got me one of those Go phones.” His admission tells me he’s developed a case of paranoia severe enough for Ma to humor it. I can’t decide whether it’s unhealthy or not.
“Oh. Okay. But the Caprices? Really?” I open and shut my right eye, which is fine now. Then, I scratch my head because I don’t get it. “You’re just a florist. Why those guys, and why now?”
“I don’t know.” Dad’s sigh reminds me of the only time I brought home an F. “I supplied a funeral a month and a half ago and saw some of them there. They weren’t too happy with the wreath. I was hoping you could find out.”
I stop, head spinning. My dad’s got Maury Weintraub working his case, and he wants his non-detective-making son snooping around instead? It makes no sense to me because Dad trusts Maury as much as I do. Maybe more since my father doesn’t have to hide any vampirism from friends and family. But probably he wants me on the case because I’m his kid. Guess that means he’s proud of me. My face gets all fuzzy and tingly because I haven’t been able to blush since I got turned.
“Tino? You there?”
“Yeah, Dad.” I rub my cheeks, wondering whether unlife will ever feel normal.
“Look, I think you might be able to find stuff the police will miss.”
“Huh?” I freeze. The only reason my guts don’t follow suit is that I’m not really alive anymore. Does he know what I am? Besides a PI, of course. I don’t dare ask. And I was thinking Dad was paranoid.
“Those Caprices can smell cops from a mile away. And everybody knows you up and quit the force.” Now I get what he’s implying. He thinks I can pull off an undercover job.
“But I’m your son.” Dad’s logic has a serious hole in it. “They didn’t get you. And they might decide to use me for leverage.”
“No, they won’t.” I hear my father swallow over the line. It’s one of his tells. He’s feeling big-time guilty.
“Dad, what are you not saying here?” I say a silent prayer that he’ll get himself to a Priest as soon as he can. Maybe prayers on my own behalf won’t work, but it can’t hurt if I do it for someone else, right?
“Son, I’ve wronged you.” The silence on the other end is broken by a monitor beeping. “I complained where everyone can hear about how you haven’t been to church, not even on Easter.”
“Oh.” This makes more sense now. The Caprices had a huge falling-out with the new Father at Saint Mary's Church, and they all stopped going. For all I know, they might think I’m angrier at Dad than the Cranston PD. My father’s smarter than I give him credit for. Probably most grown-up kids realize that at some point.
“So, can you forgive me?” His voice has a strange pitch to it, higher, like something hurts. I realize I left him hanging like a jerk.
“Yeah. I forgive you, Dad. I’ll go and check on the Caprices for you.”
“Thanks, Tino.”
I open my mouth and let my feelings out before he can hang up. It’s way easier to do with my dad in the hospital than at Sunday dinner. Holding back the feels isn’t optional when someone you care about almost dies.
“I love you, Dad.”
“Love you too.” The feeling is mutual then. I’m glad I said it and got to hear it back. Even with armed guards, the hitwoman might try again.
Dad hangs up after that. I can’t help but feel like the world’s biggest shithead for not being able to set foot in a church. It’s not easy. Guilt’s part of being Roman Catholic like drinking blood’s part of being a vampire. So maybe you see now why it sucks extra for me in particular. I got to deal with both.
I lay down and try to go back to sleep. All I get for my trouble is a pack of daymares featuring a horrible smell, a creepy doll, and the itchiest rug in the universe. When I wake up, I pull a composition book off my daystand and scrawl everything I can remember about my dreams. After that, I close the cover and set it aside.
It’s almost seven in the evening. I check the app on my phone that's linked to the camera. I hung it under the eave outside one of the Belfry’s dormered windows when I moved in. It gives me a view of the front stoop and the skyline. And fortunately, vampires can tolerate looking at sunlight over a video feed. The sun’s making the sky pink and orange all the way down to the west, which reminds me of a creamsicle. I miss those. I know that overhead it’ll be that cobalt blue that means it’s almost safe for me to go outside.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face more out of habit than anything else but also to wash away all the bad dreams. The call from Dad means I have something to do besides moon around. There’s a place I can check out, a location the police couldn’t investigate without a warrant. I wonder whether Stephanie’s right and I actually do need a disguise. I trust Dad, but he’s got to be on meds after a gunshot wound. Probably he's not thinking straight enough to be completely reliable.
I don’t go to the hospital. Instead, I head to my parents’ house and let myself in by the door out back, the one that goes into the partially exposed cellar. In the basement, I turn on the light and rummage through all the old boxes and bags I left behind the night before, unearthing the spirits of Halloweens and theater productions past. Any box or bag I think might be what I’m looking for goes into a pile. I don’t care how big a heap I end up with because vampires can lift a ton. Literally.