by D. R. Perry
And even though his ravings are, unfortunately, nothing new to me, they still leave a hollow in my chest. Something like grief, but closer to desperation. Because according to Stephanie, we can still save him if we manage to get what he needs in time. Something that’s been missing from his blood supply since he lost his throne.
Unfortunately, none of them can tell me specifically what that is. Not even Raven, who has worked with DeCampo for a couple of centuries. The old vamps like their secrets. There’s just one thing that helps now—Maya’s psychic talent. But it only works if she can manage to touch him without losing her arms in the process.
For a few beats, I watch them. Stephanie and Raven flank the king, their movements at either side giving him pause every time he tries to turn and head for an exit. Maya attempts to make skin-on-skin contact with him. Her hand passes through the air, trying to grab at one of his. Once. Twice. De Campo evades her each time.
Maya is graceful, strong, and absolutely brutal in combat. But she’s too slow to catch the king.
I’m not.
I’m like the quick and the dead all wrapped up in one newbie vampiric package. And I’m also, by vamp standards, a hotheaded idiot. So, I do the job like only a speedy kid who mostly doesn’t know any better can.
I burn blood to dash down the hall, through the doorway and into the parlor, right behind DeCampo. And then it’s just one giant leap for vampkind up to his back. I hang on for dear unlife.
The king’s arms pinwheel, sawing through the air. And now he’s got those wicked claws out. I can’t do a damn thing to dodge out of the way, either. I close my eyes and repeat a mantra I’m not entirely sure is true. Vampires regenerate.
When DeCampo’s claws mangle my left arm, it hurts. Take me down to understatement city where the verbs don’t describe all the stuff that’s shitty. I’ll do better this time.
It’s like getting pinched by tongs straight out of the fireplace. I think because that’s never happened to me before. But almost as soon as the pain comes, it’s gone. I smell ashes. And I flop on the king’s back like a fish out of water because there’s nothing to anchor my left side to him anymore.
“Tino!” Maya’s eyes gleam, red-rimmed with impending tears.
I already know how much she cares, but the actual impact of her emotion even across the room hits me like a follow spot. It’s all I can do not to freeze at this crucial moment, but years of performance experience and conquering stage fright helps me now.
“Just get him!”
She nods and lunges, coming in under DeCampo’s arms. I’m not sure where or how she manages to get her hands on him, but she does it. The king slumps sideways, hitting the floor but luckily not with either of us under him.
Letting go with my right arm is easy. Standing up, not so much. I’m off-balance, of course, though it doesn’t hurt physically. Unimagined benefits of being undead, I guess. And it’s not bothering me much mentally, either. I’d be more pissed than an alley behind a bar on Saturday at three in the morning if anyone else had taken my arm off. I guess King DeCampo has a significant spot in my beatless heart, after all.
I pause, wondering why we’re all so loyal to this ancient ex-King. The logic-ruled detective part of my brain concludes that both Stephanie and Raven are older than Whitby, and their existence still gives us a chance to take back Providence without the slowly maddening DeCampo. But my big old heart cuts that analytical line off.
The king shocked me with his gravity when I first met him. I didn’t understand the weight of vampiric unlife and the vows we make back then. And sure, he just wounded me pretty badly. But DeCampo’s in worse shape than I am. Not physically, but sometimes, an invisible malady is just as debilitating as the ones everybody can see.
His eyes are closed, and I’d think he was asleep or knocked out, except he’s trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. A series of tones come from his throat, musical somehow, even though I recognize them for what they are. Whines; desperate and primal and frightened as a child’s in total darkness. All concerns about my missing arm fly like spooked sparrows.
Maybe this is one of his powers, the kind vamps accumulate with age. The power to endear.
I almost laugh because snark is my shield, and DeCampo’s noises remind me of an intro from a musical number I did years ago. One sideways glare from Raven and a headshake from Stephanie kill my nervous giggles. But music soothes the savage beast. Maybe that even applies to undead berserkers. When I open my mouth instead of laughter, the song comes out.
Raven and Stephanie blink, so much in tandem they could have been choreographed. Maya only smiles. Every musical number tells a tale, and Not While I’m Around from Sweeney Todd is no exception. As my song-spun words unwrap the story about a doomed boy promising to protect his sinister foster mother, the king’s terror calms.
My audience grows, too. Four sets of eyes peer at me from the doorway leading to the hall. The kiddos, down from upstairs, of course. I feel someone else watching at my back, and the tiny noise of sympathetic comprehension reveals his identity. Frankie Pickering, who got a similar form of help from me just a handful of months ago.
As I utter the song’s closing notes, Frankie is there, stooping over the pile of ashes that used to be most of my left arm. He’s sweeping them into a dustpan, though I can’t imagine why. He’s the closest thing to a good housekeeper this odd family has, but this is hardly the time to tidy up.
Raven and Stephanie move in, helping the owlishly blinking DeCampo to one of the wing-back chairs near the empty fireplace. He sinks back against the tufted upholstery and splays one hand maybe six inches in front of his face, palm out.
“I’m so sorry, Valentino.” His eyes tilt up toward mine but turn aside a moment before our gazes meet.
“Hey, it could have been worse.” I give him a sideways grin and shrug my now-tattered sports coat off to drape it on an ottoman. Thank goodness I didn’t like that old polyester rag anyway. “Vampire arms grow back, right?”
“It takes several weeks.” Raven shakes their head. Yeah, I used a pronoun many people think of as plural, but Raven is one person and nonbinary. They/Them is their preference, and I’m sticking to it. Even if they’re delivering me some pretty awful news.
“At least I’m not a southpaw, then.” My smile fades despite the optimistic phrase.
“We’ll need more blood than we currently have access to if you’re going to heal that at all, Valentino.” Stephanie’s at my side, pushing back the remains of my sleeve to examine the stump. “If you are deficient for too long, your missing limb might become a permanent issue.”
“Maybe I can get Danny Rand or Tony Stark to foot the bill for a prosthetic.” I chuckle because really, there’s nothing else I can think of to do in front of all these people. So do Frankie and the kids. The vamps don’t get it. Well, Maya does. We binged all the Defenders shows with Frankie a couple of weeks ago. But she’s not laughing, just trying to hide a grin.
“This is serious, Tino.” She shakes her head, then goes about the process of removing the blood bags from my now-ruined sports coat. “This means someone’s got to go to Providence and see if we can increase our allotment from the people in charge there.”
She doesn’t mention Whitby’s name. None of them do, even though that’s who we need to get around if we want more blood. Either that, or go another way with this.
“Look. We’re telling all the vamps in the city that DeCampo’s king of Warwick. There are hospitals outside Providence City limits, like Kent County. Doctor Maris said she has some extra dead blood she’ll let Stephanie have. Maybe if we offer her more favors, she can wrangle some of the good stuff too.” I hold the card out to Stephanie. “She said you could call her and have a chat.”
“It’s not that simple.” Stephanie takes the card and tucks it in a pocket. Then she leans against the king’s chair and glances down at him. “You can’t use anything from a dead person, Tino. You’ll get sick. The hospitals haven’t got a s
urplus of fresh blood. Hargrove was our procurer. He’s got connections locked down at Rhode Island Blood Center, which is the only living donor source in the state. That’s why Maris’s surplus will be mostly from the morgue.”
“Would it help if I got a job at, like, one of the Providence hospitals or something?” Frankie’s putting a twist tie on the bag he’s dumped my arm’s ashes into. He looks up at me. “Nobody in the vampire club up there knows who I am. I might be able to snag expired stuff from living donors on the sly.”
“Do it.” Raven’s quick answer takes me off the spot. Which is good because I’m the farthest thing from an authority compared to the other legally adult people in the house. “I’ll make sure you look good on paper when you apply.”
“Okay.” Frankie heads out the door with the bag of ashes before I can ask him what he intends to do with them. This is a guy who suffered unspeakable supernatural trauma at the beginning of the summer, and now he’s picking up my pieces. Literally.
“Thanks!” I project from my stomach, using stage techniques to make sure Frankie hears the belated expression of gratitude. My sharper-than-human ears pick up a faint acknowledgment from the kitchen. It’s good to have friends in the know.
“Even with this new plan, a visit to the Providence vampires is in order.” Stephanie looks up from her assessment of my arm. Or what used to be my arm.
“I’m not going.” Raven crosses their arms.
“No, you’re not. Neither is His Majesty.” Stephanie gives me a faint smile. “We are.”
“Ain’t no vampire got time for that.” I shake my head. “I’ve got to go find Esther. I kind of need her help. Let’s just say, she might be able to give me a hand with something.”
I shrug my armless shoulder, then waggle my eyebrows. Nobody laughs.
“Yes.” Stephanie nods. “I understand the importance of seeking a temporary replacement for that arm. But this visit takes priority, at least for now.”
“How about I go find Esther for you, Tino?” The voice in the hall doorway is unexpected enough to catch everyone’s attention.
“Thanks, Sparky, but that’s way above your pay grade, as well as past your curfew.”
“I’m a salamander in the employ of a teleporting witch. Who else is gonna be better at tracking down magicians?” The kid smiles. “And Baba never gave me no curfew. You’re legal guardian-ing Leora, not me.”
“Kid, you’ve got a funny way of saying stuff that makes sense.”
I try passing this buck by looking at the king, Raven, and Stephanie. None of them return my glances. Maya does them all one better when I try catching her eye, putting on the adviser hat.
“I think it’s not a bad idea, letting Sparky do his thing.” She nods at the almost-human kid. “I believe in him.”
“Thanks, Maya!” Sparky turns his blue baseball cap around on his head, accentuating his lack of eyebrows. “I’ll track her down, wherever she is.”
“If you’re really going around in public, you need to fix your face.” Everyone blinks at Sarah, the middle Pickering kid. Because she barely ever bothers actually talking to any of us.
Sarah Pickering’s sort of a mean girl. And her powers are nothing nice. As the last surviving member of her family to have actual magic, she’s also a little scary. It doesn’t help that none of her snark has an ounce of warmth in it. I can’t blame her, though. She’s a product of an elitist upbringing, after all. But Raven’s told me before that they intend to lead their descendants into a healthier dynamic even if it kills them. Maybe some of that effort is paying off already.
“What do you mean, fix my face?” Sparky’s turned around to stare her down. Maybe having the mercurial salamander around has helped counter Sarah’s snotty attitude.
“So what if you’re not born with it? We can use Maybelline. Come on upstairs, and I’ll get you looking more than halfway human.” She snorts, but I get the impression it’s meant ironically instead of with malice. Or maybe that’s my hopeful streak talking. The unlikely duo turns away from the door, and I hear their footsteps on the stairs moments later.
“Are you going to be all right, Tino?” Leora’s steps forward, her eyes on my stump. “Being around all those other vampires like that, I mean?”
“Piece of cake, kiddo.” I reach out with my right arm and ruffle her hair.
“Just come back, okay?”
“I will, I promise.” But Leora’s blue eyes stare out of a face pale with fear. I can hardly blame her. Maybe her mother said something like this the night she left Baba’s hut to meet her doom.
“He won’t be alone, child.” Stephanie drapes my opera cloak over my shoulders. At first, I wonder how she got it, then remember she was at my place earlier. Judging by the weight, she took some time loading its pockets up with the blood Maya got out of my now ruined sport coat. “Valentino is my responsibility as far as Whitby’s vampires are concerned, as you are his in the eyes of mortal authorities. I’ll keep him safe for my own reasons. And because I owe you quite the debt, Leora Kupala.”
Stephanie’s words ease the tension in Leora’s shoulders but do nothing to move her grave expression. Levi’s hand on her arm does that job instead. The kid just turned fourteen, but he’s got more emotional intelligence than some of the adults I know. Just like his big brother, Frankie.
“Come on, Lee.” He gives her forearm a gentle tug. “Let’s go watch my big sis put your bestie’s human cosplay on.”
“Okay, Lee.”
I catch the ghost of a smile settling in to haunt her face in the sliver of time before she turns and heads down the hall after her friends.
Kids are resilient. Let’s hope that goes for me too, because I’m basically the vampiric equivalent.
Chapter Eight
We stand outside as I watch Stephanie look for my car, which is at the shop since I just left it there this evening. I blink, totally confused myself. The Pickerings had a van once upon a time, but it got literally taken apart by Deep Ones. Steph, Raven, and DeCampo don’t drive, which means I’ve been like that friend people only keep around because he has a car.
Except, like I said before, I don’t right now.
“Need a lift?” Scott walks down the front steps.
“Yeah.”
“If it isn’t any trouble, young man.” Stephanie gives Scott a polite grin.
Well, at least I don’t have to drive with one arm. Scott takes back streets instead of the highway as I direct him through Pawtuxet Village, the South Side of Providence, and finally downtown. As I ride along in the crowded cab, I think about my sire, wondering what her agenda is tonight. The last time we visited Providence together, I got the impression we were only welcome on a quid pro quo basis. But that sort of thing never bothered Steph. Not at my apartment or even down in the Deep Ones’ domain under the city. She’s an equal-opportunity wheeler and dealer.
Stephanie has a habit of making herself welcome. She always looks both totally at home and completely out of place anywhere she happens to be. I’ve only been stupid enough to ask her true age once. Believe me, you wouldn’t dare do it at all if you met her yourself. But my point is, even though she works harder at keeping up with the times than any other really old undead person I know, my sire never quite passes as thoroughly modern.
It’s easy for me. I’m a product of the gap years between two centuries. I’ve got no idea how old Maya is, but she makes fitting in look effortless, probably because of her touch telepathy powers. Raven knows how to pick a counterculture, in their case Goth, and stick with it. Even DeCampo manages to avoid the issue, helped by some force of personality laced with wicked gravity.
Stephanie’s charming, don’t get me wrong. She’s got class but little in the way of style in modern terms. Her figure and the polish she puts on it with posh wardrobe choices would make any other woman appear to be either on the prowl for a partner or predatory in a corporate way. Steph comes across as neither.
It might be her stature. She’s fi
ve foot nothing, and I’ve lifted her before. She can’t be more than a hundred pounds. Combined with her round cheeks, wide eyes, and button nose, my sire is cute. Her dark, wavy hair and light-olive Mediterranean complexion fit right in here in the Ocean State, too. She could be any woman in a legitimate business, but I happen to know she’s nobody to cross if you don’t like being cut into ribbons. Yeah, I mean that literally. Steph’s an expert swordswoman.
If this makes her sound too perfect, don’t worry. She’s not. Stephanie’s overconfidence got her hoodwinked and captured by a body-snatcher. It also made her easy enough to imitate that I was the only one to realize she literally wasn’t herself when her doppelganger rubbed elbows with all of the other Providence vamps. Her arrogant and snide delivery of just about any piece of useful information has made her more enemies than the usual coterie of vampish frenemies. And like many overachievers, her apparent competence makes her an easy target for jealous assholes.
Scott drops us off in the parking lot behind the Arcade, which is closed now. We get out, thanking the werewolf again, and watch him drive away. Stephanie takes a couple of mincing steps toward the building we’re heading for, but I put my only arm out and stop her by taking her hand.
“How are we playing this?” I stare directly into her eyes, hoping it’s clear that I’m not cool with her making me wing it this time. And I’m right to do so. Last time, she pimped my abilities out to Whitby without so much as a wink in the way of warning.
“I’ll make a deal with Whitby this time. Alone.”
“Why am I here, then?”
“You’ll need make sure we get out of there once he’s finished.”
“This sounds, um, not good, Steph.”
“It isn’t.” She doesn’t break our eye contact. “But it’s the best I can do, and still less than DeCampo deserves.”
“Can you tell me what, exactly, you’re giving this guy?”