by D. R. Perry
“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.
“That 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 legends. 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. 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 from 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 I’m 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 unnamable 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 bloodsuckers.”
“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. I also grab a duffel to stuff the evidence bags into. I snag my jacket too, 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 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 back 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 we head out. I grab Esther’s tracking powder out of my mailbox on the way.
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 since I’m not allowed to tell her the truth.
But it turns out the house is dark. I finally remember that this is Ma’s 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 there 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 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?
Chapter Eight
“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 not bound by anything you haven’t explicitly vowed to do, 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 fancy-pants 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 rul
es 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 my wolves and I 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 Pickerings’ 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. 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 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 to have to put you down when he’s in this seat decades down the line.”