by D. R. Perry
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 in 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 demands. 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 provoked 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 child 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 to be 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.
Chapter Eleven
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 Is and cross the Ts while minding my Ps and Qs 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, and 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 b
eans.
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?” King DeCampo’s eyebrow rises in a bold arch, like something out of a cathedral paneled in mahogany.
“Because, back before they changed their name, when they were busy escaping the Spanish Inquisition, I was one of them, 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.”
“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.
“It doesn’t. But I believe Valentino is right. The Stephanie working the other room is a copy. If it were really her, the Lazakhar would glow in her presence, so that means another vampire has a contract with the Pickerings’ monster friends.” Raven closes their eyes. I’ve only ever seen another vamp look this weary when Stephanie exhausted herself helping the king last month.
“And all we’ve got to do is figure out who, I guess. Right?” I feel like it’s my personal responsibility to bring some energy back to this room. It’s what we younger vampires are supposed to be good at, after all.
“No. That part of the mystery has a clear answer.” The king’s stare is focused on his attaché. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that. Not like he’s looking through you, but into you and at every secret in your mind and heart.
“It’s my brother. Whitby. But I can’t imagine why he’d do this. I always thought he liked Stephanie.”
“He killed her best friend, and you think he likes her?” I blink. Three whole times because that idea seems so beyond the pale. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I should have asked for permission to speak so freely on an unrelated topic.”
“I’m willing to entertain the idea that perhaps these matters have a connection, Mr. Crispo. And your police training gives you insight into how some minds work differently. Please continue, both of you.”
“Whitby’s a sociopath. By his logic, Tierney’s death means no competition. And somehow, I've got a hunch that Whitby's got a use for Stephanie or her special talent. Something only she can do.” I shake my head. “I can’t imagine anyone wishing ill on Steph. She’s like everyone’s favorite aunt or something.”
“I’m not getting into my brother’s proclivities here and now." Raven rests one hand on their chin. "But come to think of it, he always did gravitate toward the type of woman who valued chastity. We ought to bring the impostor in here before she does any more damage.”
“More?” I try not to take a step back in alarm.
“Yes." The king nods. "She’s been out and about, pushing whatever agenda the monsters have here.”
“Can they make contracts with vampires?” I direct this question at Raven.
“Yes, but only if said vampire was born into the family. The contracts are for life, but terms can be changed if both parties agree that circumstances have changed drastically enough.”
“So Whitby might be negotiating toward commanding an army of these things?”
“In theory. But they can’t exist for long outside of the water.”
And suddenly, it all makes sense.
“Your Majesty, I know you want to call Stephanie in here, but let me drink this first.” I point at the vial. “It’s going to be messy, but we might get vital information.”
“Proceed, Mr. Crispo.”
I uncork the vial, down its contents, and prepare for the worst, but it turns out not to be so horrible after all. Maybe the more I use this awful ability, the easier it gets. Or perhaps not. My stomach cramps like someone’s kicked me in it with seventeen steel-toed boots. The pointy kind. And just like that, I’m trying to avoid upchucking all over King DeCampo’s sensible wingtip shoes.
Remember Maya’s telepathy, achieved with close contact? Nice little special ability, pleasantly used. Mine’s the opposite. Blood from a dead person isn’t too nourishing, and the expired bags Hargrove gets from his hospital connection sometimes come from a person who’s also exceeded their “best by” date. For most vampires, all this means is it’s like junk food. They’ve got to have twice as much to sate their hunger.
But it makes me puke almost to the point of self-harm. Which would utterly suck if it didn’t have an extremely helpful side effect. I get to see through the eyes of the person that blood belonged to. Pretty spiffy for a private investigator who happens to be a vampire, huh?
I lose count after four heaves, which is the point where only ashes come up. By the time I stop puking, I’ve had the whole vision. And it’s a doozie. I can’t talk sensibly until I’ve had some proper nourishment, though. Raven hands me a blood bag. I open it, take a whiff to make sure it’s not some other poor dead sap’s blood, and drink it down. I can feel the lining of my stomach and throat knit back together. They hand me a second bag and after that, another.
“Sorry about the grotesque performance art, Your Majesty.” I look up from the floor as I try sweeping the ashes I’ve regurgitated into a pile with my bare hands. “I should start carrying a trash bag and a hand-broom.”
“I’ve seen others with similar abilities, Mr. Crispo.” He waves a hand at the mess. “I’ll have someone clean it up later. Now, what did you see?”
“That the real Stephanie’s being held prisoner.” I include details from my dream, which I understand now was some kind of psychic connection to my sire while she went through this. I get to my feet. “She got captured outside a moving house when Leora Kupala’s mother died, right before dawn. The kid’s a Lamb, working for Baba Yaga.” This explains why Esther didn’t take that tracking potion herself. She’s probably banned from interfering directly and couldn't even tell me. Magicians are weird.
“Lucky kid.” Raven smirks. “Baba’s Lambs get all the perks.”
“Like what?” I’m thinking about Sparky, how she said he was the most important thing ever. And I remember the kid-sized figure in the long black veil attending Larry Nelson’s funeral.
“No trauma. They run errands, travel the world, and get to meet all kinds of interesting creatures.” Raven shru
gs. “That’s all I know.”
“I think I’ve got all the information you need to detain Stephanie, Your Majesty. The main thing you want to make sure of is not to let her touch you or your allies. There's an attack they can use that messes just about anyone up.” I glance down at her Lazakhar, still dangling from its chain in his hand. “But I need to talk to the Pickerings if you want any more information about this invasion of the body-snatchers. And I need a way out of the building that's guaranteed to take me past Whitby without any trouble. He’ll try to stop me.”
“I’ll need you to do more than get information, Mr. Crispo.” King DeCampo’s eyes aren’t focused on anything in this room. It’s enough to make me wonder whether he’s got a vision-granting ability of his own.
“What?” I freeze because this time, blinking’s not enough.
“You’ll have to confront these monsters and rescue your sire.”
“Okay. But can I bring Hargrove and Shadow?”
“No. I’ll need them here.”
“Your Majesty, I will go with Valentino, with your permission, of course.”
“Granted.” The king tilts his head at his attaché. “May your efforts bear the fruit you need, Raven.”
“So, how are we getting out of here?”
Raven turns their head and smiles. “Through the front door. Together.”
And that’s exactly what we do. On the way out the door behind the throne, we pass Shadow and Hargrove, hands on Fake Stephanie’s arms, her clothes providing a barrier against skin-to-skin contact. She’s got a baleful gleam in her eye, which is pinned on me like a bug on a card. I flap my golf wave at her again.
Whispers and stares usher Raven and me through the room full of vampires. We must make a strange spectacle. The only one smiling is Maya. For the first time, it occurs to me that after a mere few months’ stay in Rhode Island under his belt, Whitby may have compromised or replaced more than just Stephanie. But the more reasonable explanation is, he only made himself look better than me. An easy enough feat.