Supernatural Vigilante series Box Set

by D. R. Perry

  Chapter Ten

  Stephanie hands me two heavily insulated satchels and shoulders three of her own as we leave the building. Yeah, she's smaller than me, but stronger because she's older. She insists on stowing the bags in the trunk, which makes sense to me since I'm sure they’re full of blood. That's a challenge because the latch is jammed shut thanks to my fender bender with a cryptid. We're saved by the folding side of my back seat, however. That opens just fine, and we manage to get the blood inside.

  Transporting blood around town like this is tricky. Even though it's all official and labeled from the blood bank, any police officer worth his salt who sees this much donated blood inside a garden-variety passenger vehicle will want to investigate. If we're going to do this every month, I ought to hit Vistaprint for some courier magnets, or even apply for a bona fide Department of Motor Vehicles permit to drive human materials around. I can always say the courier thing is my side hustle.

  The headache involved in getting sustenance legally must be a doozie. I wonder how the older vamps do it. It's something I'll need to look into if I ever have time between crazy occurrences and cases. Hopefully, I’ll survive that long. I drive, careful to go the speed limit, as we make our way back to Warwick and the Pickering house.

  "What did you see, Valentino?" Stephanie examines her nails, which are flawlessly polished, of course. “In the blood vision, I mean.”

  "You too, Steph? Jeez, can't I get a break?"

  "Surely, you're aware I made this agreement so that we have access to a fraction of the information Whitby has in abundance."

  "Yeah, I get it. But I do have other tasks this evening if it's all the same to you. And now I'm a cold mess.” I pat my dusty jacket with one hand, kicking up a puff of ash. “I need to change clothes, wash up. Rhode Island Child and Family Services won't give me the time of day, let alone custody of a kid, if I walk in there to drop off paperwork looking like this, no matter how good my application is."

  "Oh, so you completed it?" She arches an eyebrow. For once, I don’t blame her. She knows how bad that paperwork was.

  "Yeah, with some help from Frankie Pickering." I clear my throat, unable to mention the full extent of that situation.

  "Good. I'm glad to see the two of you working together. You seem to get on famously." Steph's grin makes me think she already knows about the domestic partner thing. "But back to my original question. What did you see?"

  I make like I’m on the witness stand and tell Stephanie the whole truth and nothing but the truth. All of it, including the inappropriately unbuttoned blouse on Mrs. Caprice to Michael Angelone's too familiar address at the start of my vision. Stephanie is a social prodigy. She'll pick up on any subtext I might not have initially grasped. But that doesn't mean she'll tell me all about it until she needs to. She raises her eyebrow a few times and chuckles once. But Steph goes quiet after my description of smoke and fire and the sound of hooves. Either she finds that more compelling or more disturbing than the mafia-speak. After Whitby's reaction to my abbreviated account, Stephanie's silence is nothing short of a relief. We arrive at the Pickering house.

  "No need to come in, Tino." Stephanie steps out of the vehicle, then leans and pokes her head back in through the car's door. "I'll take the blood inside and sort through it. And I'll send Frankie out, too. Then you can head back and go about your other business. But return once that's through, would you?"

  "Sure thing Stephanie."

  I sit, waiting in the idling car as she removes all the satchels from the trunk through the backseat and heads into the house. A mortal woman her size might have struggled, but vampires are always stronger than we look. One thing the fangy life has taught me is to never judge anyone by their appearance. It’s something I struggled with during my career as a cop, which might be why I came up short and didn't make Detective.

  A few moments later, Frankie emerges from the front door. He's wearing a button-down shirt with a sport coat along with the darkest and neatest pair of jeans I've seen outside a Macy's Men’s department. He usually dresses scruffily, but it turns out he cleans up decently. He'd still never make the cover of GQ but probably Rolling Stone. Frankie's holding the folder full of paperwork, too. Which is a good thing because I would've forgotten it. I'm about to ask him to go back for my notebook, but he has that too.

  "Wow, Frankie. I ought to hire you as a secretary at the agency."

  "I've kinda got my hands full with my siblings and all, but it's good to know you think I've got useful skills. You know, for the future." He grins, but in a less manically bright way than the previous evening. Whatever cloud he was on that night, he's coming down from it. Which I suppose is for the best. Maybe I’m not the only one getting an education in assumptions just lately. Or maybe I had it wrong and Frankie felt just as awkward as me, and also wondered how to broach the topic of keeping things platonic. His chill level changed after Maya brought me here last night, after all.

  "Okay." I wave a hand at my ash-stained attire. "I've gotta change before I freak the mundanes, so if you don't mind, we’ll stop at The Belfry on the way to Providence."

  "Sounds good.” Frankie frowns at my grubby face and attire, but he doesn’t pry. With his history, he probably avoids asking too much on purpose. “You look a little pale. I'll put some blood on while you get cleaned up."

  I nod and point my car in the direction of Rolfe Square, where my apartment is. It only takes about five minutes, because in Rhode Island, everything is near everything else. Forty-five minutes and an iced coffee will get you from one border to another. It's one of the things I love about this quirky little state.

  On our way up the stairs, I hear creaking behind the second-floor door. My neighbor down there has always been a little too nosy for my tastes, but there's nothing I can do about that unless I somehow win the lottery and manage to rent the apartment out from under whoever lives there. Or maybe even buy the entire building. That's something to discuss with Stephanie in the future. Buying the building, I mean. I'd be able to move out of the attic, where fear of a broken window letting the sunshine in is always a concern.

  Once we're in the apartment, I shower and put on clean clothes. Decent ones, of course. I sigh at the suit I wore out earlier, realizing it'll have to go to the dry cleaner. Hopefully, they won't ask how it got covered with ashes. Frankie's bustling around the kitchen, pouring blood from the bags in my refrigerator into the coffee maker I use to warm it up. He knows the drill. Frankie was a Belfry houseguest for a couple of nights.

  I take extra time to apply greasepaint to my face, coloring over my features so I'll pass for an appearance-obsessed human in case I walk past a mirror. Maybe I'm a little too paranoid about that. Stephanie and the older vampires don't seem to worry or take any precautions like I do. But maybe it's simply because they’re from an earlier time when mirrors were less common.

  For a moment, I consider the Roaring Twenties and Art Deco. How vamps stayed secret through that is anyone’s guess. Maybe it has something to do with cocaine and morphine being in common medicines and beverages instead of locked inside a pharmacy. I ought to seriously consider encouraging them to at least put on a little bit of Maybelline because vampires aren't born with it in any way, shape, or form.

  I chuckle as I watch my face materialize in the mirror, remembering how in May I ran all over town with gray greasepaint covering my mug because I ran out of the tube that matches my skin tone. Events were so hectic I didn't have time to buy cold cream to take it off for four days and nights. Those were the days. Nights. Whatever, I got through it. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

  Finally, I'm done. I can't sit in front of a mirror for more than a few minutes and expect people to think I look strictly human, but if I have to walk by one, I'll pass muster. My eyes are empty, but I’d look almost as weird wearing sunglasses to cover that.

  I consider adding contact lenses to my ensemble, but that’d mean a trip to an eye doctor because I can’t remember where I
put them last time I took them off. Optometrist equipment uses mirrors, so that’s out of the question. I dyed my hair, so it’s also visible. Thank God that works, otherwise I’d have to wear a hat. I hate those.

  When I'm done, I head out into the main room, where my notebook and a pencil sit on the breakfast table beside my favorite mug. That’s full to the brim of blood from the coffee maker, still steaming. My opera cloak hangs off the back of my chair, which is good, although I can’t exactly remember why. I need it for something later. Not the application drop-off, maybe a meeting with Esther. I ought to set up Google calendar, but I'd need to enter everything in euphemisms and double-speak so I don't out the supernatural to an unwitting tech worker.

  Frankie sits in the seat across from me with a cup of chamomile tea, which I don’t have in my apartment. I only have Earl Gray because Stephanie brews it for the bergamot scent. I blink but then shrug my puzzlement off. He must have brought it over with him. Or maybe I did pick some up and then forgot about it. My memory's worse lately, and I might never find out why.

  "I figure you want to write everything down that happened over at Vampire Central." Frankie gestures at my phone, which is on the charger next to my comfy chair. "Do you need me to send any texts or make any calls? You know, to Scott or Esther?"

  "Yeah, hold on." I open my notebook and jot down a few details about Whitby's new decorations, Stephanie's agreement, and my dead-blood vision in Latin. Then I add a few lines about wanting to help Peligro. I read it out loud, translating into English as I go. I add one last bit at the end. "Francesca Caprice is making a supernatural power grab. Tell Scott about that and my vision, the whole thing including the stuff about the Irish hunters. Make sure you lay it right out that the Caprices are talking about the Killarneys. He’s not one for subtlety."

  "What about Esther?"

  "Just tell Esther that the crime Boss knows about the supernatural, and that they want Leora. Don't mention Kayleigh specifically to her, though. Esther hates her guts."

  "Sure thing, Tino." Frankie leans back in the chair, texting like a maniac.

  I finish drinking my blood and think about what sort of chance I'll have to get custody of Leora if my theory is correct. I saw the Caprices outside Rhode Island Social Services. Now I finally know why. They were there picking up the same application I've got sitting filled out on my table. I can only hope their reputation affects how they look on paper. I've got little to nothing to offer financially compared to them. Well, the Pickerings probably do consider how valuable their house is. But the name Caprice has a truck-ton of clout, even if it’s unsavory.

  This is Rhode Island. Everybody knows a guy, and they’ve all heard of the Caprice family. There's nothing official on the books against them specifically, but known associates of theirs have circulated around the criminal justice system like dollar bills around a greasy spoon’s waitstaff.

  Most of it’s white-collar crime like fraud, but a handful of their henchman have gone on trial for crimes as heinous as aggravated assault and murder. Surely that's got to count against them, right? Maybe not. In Rhode Island, guilt can’t run by association. If it did, more than two-thirds of the state’s population would be suspect. It’s a small world here, after all.

  "Hey, Tino?" Frankie's phone beeps and he studies the screen.

  "Yeah?" I'm betting either Scott wants to gossip about the vampire club details, or Esther wants me to fetch her something.

  "Esther says she expects us to be on time meeting at her lab tonight after we're done dropping the papers off."

  "Yippee." I wave my pointer finger in the air, a gesture meant to convey irony. Frankie chuckles, and I can't tell whether he actually thinks I'm funny or gets my real meaning.

  "Are you ready?"

  "Is anyone ever really ready to be a father?"

  "Been there, done that. Sort of. Okay, not really because I'll never have responsibility for any of those." Frankie stares into his mug of tea.

  "Oh, shit. Sorry about that, Frankie." Technically, Frankie's already a dad. Or, if not, he will be in the extremely near future. Biologically.

  Part of the Pickerings’ agreement with the Deep Ones includes reproduction, ensuring the continuation of that amphibious race. And before Raven's new negotiations with them, Frankie had to meet the terms in the most traumatic way you could imagine. Yeah, subterranean amphibious creatures don't know how to set up a sperm bank. Maybe they'll have the motivation to get with the times now that they're limited to consenting family members.

  "Don't be sorry." Frankie looks up, his eyes only slightly pink instead of red-rimmed at the painful memory. "If it wasn't for you and Raven, nothing would've changed. But now, no one else in my family has to go through what I did. I'm the last."

  "I get it, Frankie." And now I'm the one trying not to cry. I can't afford to do it now, at any rate. It'll smudge my greasepaint. "You know, you're one of the bravest people I've ever met. And remember, I was a law enforcement officer."

  "I don't know what to say, Tino.” Frankie's looking me in the eye, exactly as he did the first night I met him. But this time, instead of heartrending despair, there’s an equally touching emotion occupying the air between us. Maybe it’s hope, but that’s almost too soft a word. My mind refuses to name whatever it truly is, but my heart knows it's faith. We believe in each other. Implicitly.

  On that other night, we sat at this same table across from each other, our positions reversed. He held my arm while I told him he could have a future, promised I would help. And he showed me the scars, attempted escapes from the life and expected fate that was his by accident of birth.

  And I guess he's right. Maybe I did good, the right thing by him and his family for generations to come. Probably I tend to go too big on heroism. Maybe it's because I can't truly go home. My parents aren’t in the know, and if I can help it, they never will be.

  "Well, my ears are always open. I'll be around when you've finally got something to say. Even if it takes forever." I jerk one thumb at my chest. "Vampire. Immortal. Forever. Get it?"

  "Oh, man, Tino." He shakes his head, giving me a lopsided grin. "We haven't even submitted this stack of paper, and already you're making the daddiest dad jokes to ever come out of a dad."

  We say no more, only stand and hope we’re prepared to deliver the completed application.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Well, Mr. Crispo, Mr. Pickering. Everything seems to be in order." Gina Paolucci smiles across the desk at us. "I do have one question, though."

  "Oh?" I raise an eyebrow.

  "Yes. This address in Rolfe Square, this isn't your primary residence, is it?"

  "Oh, no." I shake my head. "It's just, I signed a multiyear lease. So, since I’m stuck with the apartment, I'm using that address for my private investigation business."

  I'm not lying under pressure. That's all premeditated. I didn't put the address down for my studio space where my office actually is mostly because it's under the table but also happens to be in a Caprice-owned building. Anyway, I knew I'd need to explain the address I have a real lease for. So, when Frankie and I filled out the paperwork, we decided to designate The Belfry as a business address.

  "We’ll be housing Leora at my house on Ocean Avenue." Frankie smiles. "She's the same age as my brother and just a year younger than my sister, so she won't be lonely there. And I'll be able to enroll her at their school."

  "Oh." Gina's eyebrows lift, forming pleasantly surprised arches above glittering brown eyes. "Private school? That sounds lovely."

  "It is." Frankie grins. "I graduated from there myself, and it's a great school."

  "I see your income is listed as a trust fund, Mr. Pickering. But it’s in your siblings’ names."

  "Yes. It's money my grandparents put aside for them.” Frankie says nothing about why there’s no fund for him, and he doesn’t give Gina time to ask. “But Tino’s managed to get his PI firm off the ground at a profit instead of a loss. The school has a sibling discount,
so he'll have no trouble affording school for Leora if everything goes through."

  "I'd like to set an appointment for a home visit next week.” Gina smiles like she thinks we’re a couple of saints. I feel okay about that. Our intentions are definitely good, which is more than I can say for Mrs. Caprice’s. Despite the thoroughly awful vision, those are unknown to me.

  "My schedule is flexible." It isn't. I'm a vampire, for crying out loud. I can only meet her at night, of course, but with the listed profession and income information, there's really nothing else I can say.

  "Since I'm on the evening staff, I'd like to make my appointment with you at dinner time. When is that in your house?"

  "Seven-thirty." Frankie gets out his phone and opens his calendar app. "We do chores and some reading first, and Sarah likes to practice her vocal exercises after that. Yeah, I know it's summer, but my parents stuck to a routine. I'm continuing that because it's what mom and dad would have wanted."

  "Would Monday work for you?"

  "Sounds great." I grin because I don't dare give her a full smile. Fangs suck most of the time.

  "I'll see you then." Gina smiles, then stands and holds out her hand in Frankie's direction first. Frankie stands, and they shake on it.

  "Thanks so much, Miss Paolucci." I get up, and then it's my turn to shake hands. Thank goodness it’s warm, so my room-temperature hands don’t shock her.

  As we’re leaving, we elbow each other, nodding and smiling but saying nothing as we navigate the crowded hallway. Emerging from the office across the hall are Francesca Caprice and her teenage son, Sebastian. The lady in the office they’re emerging from looks just as smiley as Gina, so I guess their application for Leora's custody looks at least as good as ours. Or maybe smiling like that is office policy. The voice of the other caseworker calls out from inside the office.

  "Your appointment's with Gina on Sunday night, nine o’clock sharp, Mrs. Caprice."