by D. R. Perry
The kid pressing his face against the window is the Mafia Prince, Sebastian Caprice. He's maybe fifteen and wearing clothes with that distressed look, which means they’re brand spanking new, are artificially weathered, and typically distress the contents of the wallet paying for them more than anything else.
The woman sitting beside him is his mother, Francesca. She looks like she just stepped out of a salon, the kind that believes everything should be straightened, buffed, and polished to a high gloss shine. I wonder what people in their income bracket are doing coming out of the Rhode Island Social Services building. I hope it’s court-ordered supervision.
Francesca flashes me a malicious little smile, her eyes filled with a competitive gleam I don't like. She’s not technically the Boss of the crime family she married into. But rumor has it the real power lurks behind the Caprice Family throne, a space she absolutely inhabits. Gina’s words about first-come, first-served return to me now, although I can’t fathom why. Stupid memory is stupid.
I try to forget about crime families and focus on making one, sans the felonious part. Pretty much alone. Because the only romantic prospect on my radar is another vampire who I haven't gotten around to expressing my affection for. Yeah, I ought to change that. But you know, we've been a bit busy, saving the world from body-snatching creatures and all.
When you're stopping hunters from assassinating your friends and family or fighting evil beings in the catacombs under Providence, there isn't much time for romance. So sue me. Nah, don’t bother. I’m broke. And I’m pretty sure Maya looks worse on paper than I do. She just got into town this year, and succeeding in Rhode Island is all about who you know.
I finally drive away, not bothering to stop by the building in Providence I always think of as the vampire club. Now that Whitby’s in charge instead of DeCampo, I don't respect the office of vampire king enough to bother with optional formalities. I passed my Trials, I do what I want. Full members of vampire society are still required to check in every time they visit the city, but I don’t care. Take that, Whitby, you usurping bastard!
As I approach the highway and take the on-ramp, I think again about who could help me fill out this paperwork. I'm going to need a wingman, but Detective Maury Weintraub is right out of the question. He knows nothing about the supernatural world, and I’m not allowed to tell him. That means even though he speaks fluent bureaucrat, I can't give him the information I need to be translated. Can't ask my parents for help either for the same reason. I'll tell them about my family expansion when it happens, though. They’re in the dark about vampirism and all the other things that go bump in the night too. Ma knows something’s different about me but assumes I’m in a more mundane sort of closet.
Maybe I can ask Old Man Fitzpatrick for help. That’s my good buddy Scott the werewolf’s grandpa. But the fellow is blind, and will need me to read everything on each paper to him. Potentially more than once. It’s my bad, not asking for a set of braille instructions. I'll never get this filled out in a reasonable timeframe unless I look elsewhere for help.
Maybe Raven could help. They're undead like me, nonbinary, and still consider themself DeCampo's right-hand vamp. I already owe them loads of favors, though. I suppose I could ask to cancel some of my debt, considering I helped Raven wrangle control of his magical yet mortal family away from his power-hungry brother. Then again, said brother is Whitby. Yeah, the guy who usurped DeCampo, which, as I mentioned, was partially my fault. Maybe Raven will decide I owe them my life over that mistake.
Stephanie might have some ideas about how to proceed with this. She's my vampire sire, which is sort of like saying she's my mom friend with fangs. Maybe she'll get a kick out of becoming a grandma friend on paper. And she'll want to help me honor my debt to Baba Yaga, because if anything happens to me, she might end up saddled with my debt. That's the way vampire favors go. No such thing as bankruptcy or forgiveness upon death.
I head back to my apartment because that's where Stephanie’s been staying for the last couple of nights. It's only been that long since we got back from stopping the Deep Ones from taking over the world. Seems like forever. I swallow reflexively, trying not to contemplate how long ago things will seem once I've had my centennial.
There's another thing to ask Stephanie about, some other night when I'm not saving the world from Whitby. Or even just one high school freshman from living in a group home. My sire and I have lots to discuss, so bringing home a stack of paperwork the width of my palm is probably acceptable. Maybe. I hope.
Chapter Two
“Hey, Stephanie, I'm home!” I do my best impression of Ricky from I Love Lucy, which is to say I sound pretty terrible.
Either she doesn’t get the reference or something’s wrong, because there’s no answer. Of course, my instincts go to the latter. It’s way too quiet in here. A vibe I don’t recognize sets my enhanced vampiric nerves humming. So even though I don’t technically need to, I reach for the wall plate and turn the lights on.
I’m a new-enough vampire to still take comfort in illumination. From what my elders tell me, that changes with time. Or maybe growing up mortal with sunless and fire-safe light sources has more to do with my feelings on the subject. I don’t know and for once, suspect they’re sailing along in the SS Ignorance with me. Flipping that switch negates my apprehensions. And then gives me a whole new set. Thanks for that, Tesla and Edison.
Stephanie’s sitting up on my bed, which is inside what used to be a closet until I took the doors off and replaced them with light-blocking curtains. This doesn’t bother me in and of itself. She’s slept here before to coach me through the changes that came with the business of getting turned. Also to recover from a harrowing night or two at the vampire club. But my problem isn’t with her directly. It’s that Stephanie’s not alone, and it's impossible to tell whether her companion is a friend or foe.
I can make out a humanoid figure in the bed behind her, but not that person’s identity. I know better than to assume the genders of unknown vampires. At least, I think it’s another vamp with Steph. I can’t hear a heartbeat, and all the supernatural people I know say zombies don’t exist. So, that’s the simplest explanation I can think of. But my first-hand experience of supernatural beings is still limited, so take my theory with a grain of salt.
“You’re early.” My sire’s deadpan response is probably designed to deflect my interest in the identity of her guest.
“Yeah. The nice lady gave me a huge pile of homework, and I need help with it, Mom.” I don’t wave the jam-packed folder in her general direction because a blizzard of Xerox would be mighty inconvenient right now. Instead, I just hold it up. “See? This paperwork could stop a bullet or even a stake.”
“That’s nice, Valentino.” She stretches her arms above her head, then out to either side like she’s just waking up.
“No, it’s not. This stuff’s an obligation. Part of my formal vow to you-know-who." I don't mention Baba because there's no way to tell if the other person here should be privy to the facts of my unlife. "It’s due yesterday, and won’t get done without help.”
“Raven’s the person for that sort of job.” She tilts her head and leans on one arm, a posture that blocks my attempts to peek behind her at whoever else is in my apartment. “Take those down to Warwick.”
“Well, it’s parental in nature, so I thought of you first.” I make with the puppy dog eyes that still work on my mortal mother. “Please, Stephanie.”
“On one condition.”
She has me here. Vampires don’t do anything for free. At least we shouldn’t, because our promises restrict us and last indefinitely unless we specifically state otherwise. There’s almost always a formal catch, and when there isn’t, unspoken quid pro quo lurks in the shadows of all our interactions. Like the other occupant of my bed.
“Okay, Steph. Whatever you want.”
“Go into the bathroom, close the door, and don’t come out until I open it for you.”
; “Is this where you do your disappearing guest trick?" Yeah, I snark off to her. She didn't make me agree to good manners, at least. "Because, just saying, the execution is as amateur as a five-year-old kid’s neighborhood magic show.”
The only responses that zinger gets are rolled eyes and a tapping foot. Stephanie’s conditions make the price for her help a bargain-basement deal, though. It could have been way worse, and we both know it. She didn’t say I couldn’t try investigating who she’s with later.
I realize now that my sire leaves these loopholes on purpose. She’s done it the entire time I’ve known her, so maybe she's actually fond of me or something. I try not to smile too visibly, then set the folder on the tiny breakfast table, head into the bathroom, and close the door.
I don’t run the water. It’s like a game of Simon Says, and Steph didn’t say I had to mask any sound. So I put a plastic cup against the wood and enhance my super-powered hearing. Yeah, I refer to my unholy blood fueled powers like it’s a spidey sense.
Vampires aren't generally thought of as superheroes but maybe I'll bust some stereotypes. Anything to cope with all the changes. And it makes unlife a Hell of a lot more positive to imagine myself juggling great power and responsibility instead of a vampiric curse.
I’m frustrated in my efforts at eavesdropping, though. Stephanie’s way older and exponentially wiser than I am. Neither she nor her guest say a word, but they can’t do jack or squat about the Belfry’s creaky floorboards. Thank God for old apartments and the landlords who rent them. The sounds aren’t much for human ears to write home about, but to my undead eardrums, there’s a music to the mysterious guest’s passage.
They’re bigger than Stephanie, which isn’t too unusual because she’s tiny. But the guest is well over twice her size judging by their tread, large enough that I’m glad my mattress is foam instead of breakable springs. I can also tell that said person isn’t wearing shoes. I didn’t see any by the door or the bed besides Stephanie's. What's more, a faint muffled tapping tells me they have calluses that’d give a podiatrist a coronary. So, whoever my sire’s been entertaining probably goes barefoot daily. Interesting.
I dig in my pockets, searching for something to jot all these details down with. It's not a problem at the moment for some reason, but I'm used to having a memory that sucks. I write everything in a notebook, but it's kept at my bedside, not by the toilet. Somenight I should run down to CVS and grab a pack of pocket notebooks. If I don’t forget to remind myself to do that, of course.
My nostrils flare, and I take a deep breath in order to let out a dramatic sigh in honor of my swiss-cheese brain. And what I smell reminds me vaguely of wet dog. Not fell-in-the-pool pooch, or even drenched-in-record-rainfall rover. More like doggie-in-a-light-drizzle.
Before you go second-guessing my senses, Stephanie’s guest isn’t a werewolf. They’re way stinkier than whoever’s currently walking out my front door and smell like both human and wolf, not wet hair. I’d have recognized that odor when I walked in the building and assumed my buddy Scott was over. I’ve never smelled this particular type of biped before. But whatever he is, it’s not human or canine.
Oh, yeah. That’s another clue my nose gives me. Testosterone. I can tell who’s got that as their majority hormone. Really alive people, anyway. Other vampires mostly smell genderless unless we take pains to artificially scent ourselves.
Somenight, I’ll try a frivolous perfume just for kicks. There’s a whole line of unusual cologne, everything from soup to old books. I smile, imagining the reactions I might get from the ancient vamps if I walk around smelling like a library. Maybe one or more of them will weep for Alexandria.
Anyway, I hear my sire’s guest exit before she shuts and locks the door behind him. I tap one finger for each clue I learned and repeat them under my breath in an effort to remember them long enough to jot everything down in my notebook.
When Stephanie opens the door to the bathroom, I dash out like a cat who heard a can-opener. Pouncing on my bed, I reach for my latest composition notebook and flip to the first empty page. I fumble the cap off my pen and scrawl the following: male, huge, barefoot, hairy, not a werewolf. Well, I write it in Latin like everything else of a sensitive nature, but I’m translating it here in the interest of clarity and sanity. Don’t say I never do anything for you, okay?
“Are you through?”
“Yeah, just about.” I sit up and smile.
But Steph isn’t smiling. She just shakes her head and sighs in the massive folder’s general direction. After that, my sire heads directly to the fridge, where she gets a bag of blood to warm up in the coffee maker I keep for that purpose. It’s a good idea. Since her attention's occupied, I’m able to snag my favorite mug before she does.
Stephanie has a way of making all the little things a touch more annoying than they have to be. Sort of like the opposite of my flesh-and-blood mother, who makes creature comforts a little better all the time. But Ma doesn't really come into this story. For now, it’s just Steph and me tackling something bigger than a compilation of every high school homework assignment I ever had to complete.
“It’s not as bad as it looks, you know.” Stephanie peers at me over the now open folder. “Many of these pages hold instructions for filling the others out.”
“Huh.” I lean my chin on one hand, reading the top sheet upside-down. “So, Gina Paolucci’s psyching me out.”
“How do you mean?”
“By making sure I’m nice and intimidated by this whole process.”
“As you should be.”
“But you just said the paperwork—”
“I’m talking about the witch’s avatar.” She turns her head, tawny hair cascading over one raw silk-clad shoulder. "Becoming the responsible party for another sentient being is a process which should give anyone pause."
“Um.” And Steph’s got me there. The mundane aspect of parenthood is scary enough. But Leora sometimes has Baba Yaga’s consciousness riding along in her body, even though most of the time, she’s just a normal human girl. It’s part of how she assists the witch. “Well, but Gina doesn’t know anything about Baba or the other supernatural stuff.”
“Really?”
“As far as I know.”
“So no, not—” she makes with the air quotes, “’really.’” She gazes at the papers, sighing. “Honestly, all these modern regulations are quite perplexing.”
“I don’t see what’s so mysterious about them.” I shrug. “I mean, there must have been formalities to follow in your time, too. Right?”
“They differed greatly in nature, Tino.” She lets out a motherly cluck. “A pity you can’t simply make a declaration on your honor, for instance.”
“But that’s what these are.” I flip past a handful of pages filled with instructions in three different languages. She’s right, of course. “Honor’s just something they want you to show in writing nowadays, is all.”
“Strange times.”
“Yeah, okay.” I let Steph have her get off my lawn moment and try not to judge. Who knows? In a handful of centuries, I might have the same attitude.
I sit down with my sire, and we begin reading all the paperwork. We get through about twenty-five pages before I hear the theme from Inspector Gadget.
The phone rings. Because of course, it does right when I’m already busier than a bee in summer. It's on the work line. The number has no name attached but looks familiar. So I answer it. What else can I do?
"Valentino?"
"Holy shit! Zack Milano!" I smack my face with my palm. "Dude, I'm so sorry. It’s just, haven't heard from you in how many years?"
"I know, I know." The voice on the other line sounds tired, maybe even a little strung out. And that's not typical at all for this old frenemy of mine.
"So, where have you been anyway?" Zack is something of a local celebrity. He loves being seen out and about doing things because of course, he does. I knew Zack Milano back during high school. He wasn't at Cra
nston West because his parents sent him to a fancy private school in Warwick. Instead, we ran into each other at Thespian District and State competitions every year. Where he trounced me soundly every time we entered in the same category.
Zack takes his time before answering. And that's another difference from what I remember of him. He's had a quick wit and been an insufferable chatterbox the entire time I've known him. I shut my eyes and rub my temples, cursing my shady memory. Something nags at the back of my mind, an extremely recent event. Something to do with Zack Milano. But I just can't place it. Worst PI ever, right?
I feel something cold and soft touch my forearm. When I open my eyes, I see Stephanie, her face a mask of concern. Do I somehow look like I've been mortally injured while trying to recover from a brain fart? If that's the case, I'm going to have to do some practicing in the mirror and fix it. No, wait. I can't do that, because vampires have no reflection. It sucks to be undead.
Finally, Zack speaks. "Sort of underground, I guess." He lets out an ironic little chuckle, something more high-pitched than his usual fare. So he's had problems. I grin, which makes me feel like a tool. Thank God he can’t see that.
And now I feel like a sorry sack of manure. Nobody's perfect. But Zack was the kind of guy who had everything in the world going for him. I mean, to some people, I might appear that way too. Or at least before I got turned, anyway. Still, I can't escape feeling a little vindicated by an old rival’s distress. I’m only human. Sort of. At least I can tell when I'm being a jerk and try to correct it.
Good old Zack Milano pulled crazy amounts of performance talent from seemingly nowhere in every competition. Because of that, I never placed higher than silver at state level, and, I never got to national. Not even with my best performance, courtesy of Maury and our scene from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.