by D. R. Perry
Asking her for more information is a moot point. Steph has made so many vows, she probably can’t say. Time feels shorter than it should, like something’s cut off all its split ends. If the three Fates are as real as Mnemosyne, Baba Yaga, and all the rest, then maybe Atropos picked up some extra hours somewhere.
But that’s all beside the point. I can cross the real King of Providence off my list of suspects. He’s not competent enough to pull something like those assaults off.
But more importantly, I have new information that can help him and Stephanie. Knowledge is power, and having more of it at any meeting between DeCampo and Whitby increases our chances of winning the city back.
“We need the whammy question answered before going in, huh?”
“That would be a boon, certainly.”
“Awesome. I’ve got a theory.”
“I hope it’s a miraculous one.”
“Listen to what I’ve got, and we’ll see.”
I go into my room and grab Maury’s file and my most recent composition book, then set them on the table with my notepad. After that, I spend some time with my sire, going over all the information on it and discussing my conclusions. I add Eunice to the list, and give Stephanie the known supernatural ties and abilities of each victim besides.
Turns out Esther’s mother is the first victim in the file.
Her name’s Gertrude Weiss. I use my phone to do a quick search and find that her husband Bradley owns an enormous mansion in Newport as well as a large estate on the East Side of Providence. Also, good old Brad is in his late nineties.
Bet you can guess why she married this guy.
“So you think this Gertrude woman helped Whitby by using her necromantic alchemy?”
“I’m almost totally sure.” I scratch my head. “But there’s one thing bothering me.”
“Which is?” Steph is leaning back against the sofa, hands folded over her stomach. She looks like a doll. Which puts the last piece into place.
“Esther’s related to Frankie. But indirectly.”
“Is she now?” Stephanie blinks almost sleepily.
“Yeah. Both of them mentioned it. He’s her uncle, even though he’s younger than she is.”
“And this concerns Whitby, how?”
“Gertrude’s even more predatory than us vampires. But she’s not highbrow and isn’t exactly trophy wife material. Who do you think introduced her to this particular nearly-dead rich old man? And what does the name Weiss mean, translated?”
“White. As in Whitby.” Stephanie’s eyes twinkle, and she sits up. “So, Esther’s mother married herself and her children into the power behind the Pickering family. Which indebted her to an old vampire.”
“And puts all of us in huge amounts of danger.”
“Tell me how.” Steph says this in a way that makes me think she already knows what I’m going to say.
“The kids’ money, the stuff in the trust funds. Frankie only handles the dividends until he’s twenty-five. Who’s managing those funds?”
I pace toward a file cabinet tucked away in the corner, opposite the washer and dryer. Inside, I find the file full of paperwork from mine and Frankie’s foster agreement and flip through to the financials.
“Weiss Associates, LLC.” I hold the paper up for Stephanie to see.
“Whitby’s biding his time, then.” She stands, slipping her shoes on. “Waiting for the moment he can pull the rug out from under us all.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“So, what’s all this got to do with whoever’s assaulted the women, including this Gertrude person?”
“That’s the part I’m still not totally sure about.”
“Do you think we can still confront Whitby without that part?”
“Probably? Maybe?” I shake my head. “I’m not too sure.”
“Not sure about what?” That warm voice is exactly the one I most want and need to hear.
“Maya.” I turn, smiling as she emerges from her room and then the hall. “Come and have a look at all this, please?”
“Sure.” She ambles toward the sofa and sits down. “This is Maury’s case. But who’d dare attack that woman?” Maya’s finger trembles as it points at Gertrude’s dossier.
“You know her?” Stephanie arches an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen her a couple of times.” She averts her gaze. “Before we even came to Rhode Island.”
“What was she doing?”
“Talking to Whitby. Something about her paying back an enormous favor he did her years back. We were all at Foxwoods Casino, down in Connecticut. Whitby asked for a demonstration, and she did something to Peligro. He hasn’t been the same since.”
A lump forms in my throat.
“Shitballs.”
I tell the two most badass women I know about how my arm attachment went down. They both look shaken, like they think I’m in enormous heaps of trouble. I flip the pages of my notepad, ruffling them just so I can have something to do with my hands besides wring them.
And a paper falls out.
“What’s this?” Maya plucks it out of the air.
Her eyes go wide. She flails with her free hand, so I take it in one of mine. The real one. Stephanie adds hers, like we’re a team about to make a big play on some sort of sports ballfield.
Finally, I get the hidden message the vampire calling himself Hargrove wants me to see.
DeCampo’s old enforcer Shadow is outside a triple-decker house on the edge of Cranston, not far from where my Belfry is. It’s got to be at least four in the morning, judging by the street lights and the stars.
Gertrude Weiss steps in front of him and hits him with black powder from one of her rings. And then, right there in the street, Shadow’s body begins to morph. He gets shorter, stockier, darker-skinned. Silver-tipped dreadlocks sprout from his buzzcut head, too. In moments, he looks exactly like King DeCampo.
Gertrude whispers a few words. Either Maya’s touch telepathy only gets images clearly, or Shadow didn’t need to make out the commands in order to be compelled. Regardless, the enforcer snarls while wearing his king’s face, and his hands turn into claws.
Seconds later, he’s rampaging up the steps and tearing his way through the door. All this while, Gertrude takes out her phone and makes a video. The same one that gave Whitby grounds to meet privately with DeCampo in the first place.
After all that, the scene changes. Shadow is in the round room where Stephanie’s doppelganger let in the Deep Ones who kidnapped DeCampo. Gertrude is with them, too. She spreads ashes all over Hargrove, who dies while under necromantic compulsion, restraining the king.
And after I saw him in there, Shadow turns himself into his old comrade, an impersonation his unlife literally depends on. He came to me for help because I’m the only person who could have figured out his secret. The Deep Ones who saw Hargrove turn to ash died later that night, and as far as Gertrude is concerned, vampires are all the same.
“Shit. Balls.” The words come out of my mouth as we exit the scene.
“I know, right?” Maya squeezes my hand.
“It’s never simple, is it?” Stephanie shakes her head.
“We’re vampires.” I shrug. “Complex is kind of what we do when dealing with each other.”
“Especially when it comes to Whitby the Drama King.” Maya rolls her eyes.
“From the mouths of babes.” Stephanie’s smile is too bright, which means she’s running out of patience. But something else catches my attention.
“I thought you were ancient, Maya.” I chuckle. “Didn’t Baba call you Maya of Macedon?”
“Macedon, New York.” She grins. “The old witch likes giving people titles.”
“So, you’re not much older than I am?”
“Oh, I’m older. Just not by much compared to everyone else. My father worked on the Erie Canal.”
“Oh.”
Stephanie clears her throat.
“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if
Valentino could solidify his theories into something we can work with.” She’s crossed her arms over her chest, too. Serious business. “And find out if we need to worry about whoever’s assaulting ladies of power. Immediately.”
“It’s morning already.”
She taps her foot, frowning. Even though the long hair framing her face makes my sire look Sarah Pickering’s age, she’s twice as intimidating. Which is saying a lot because Sarah put dozens of Deep Ones on her summer vacation. Literally.
“But I can set something up for tonight.” I reach for my phone. “Let me send some texts and make some calls.”
“Very well.” Stephanie turns her back, then heads toward her room down here. After she closes the door, I hear her storing the blood from her cooler in the mini-fridge she keeps in there.
“Can I help?” Maya sits beside me on the sofa.
“Thanks, Maya.”
We spend the day together, arranging everything.
Chapter Sixteen
Once everything’s set up for neutral ground, my phone chimes. It’s a reminder about my appointment with Doctor Young, far too soon after sunset for someone who stayed up this far past sunrise.
I escort Maya to the room she uses here in the basement, right next door to mine. We kiss goodday, and through that simple gesture, I sense she’s just as tired as I am.
When my head hits the pillow far too late in the afternoon, I fall asleep immediately. And then I dream about being somebody else.
My heart’s in my throat. Maybe that’s why I push the door that’s clearly marked Pull. Or that’s just the way I get around Francis Pickering. Nothing like how I’ve been with the rest of the people who come and go from my life. Which, I suppose, is the reason he makes me want to change everything.
He’s already there, sitting in the comfy chair near the fireplace even though it’s warm for an early autumn day. He leans forward, back toward me and the door, watching the gas flames rising above the faux wood behind the glass.
As I turn past the counter, I tip the brim of my hat down and turn my face away. It’s automatic; not a new habit, but one I still need. When I go out in public, people recognize me, and I’m obligated to act the way they expect me to.
That’s not on today’s agenda.
Francis knows this, too. It’s the reason he greets me with a smile instead of calling my name in the sparsely populated Starbucks. Our eyes lock, the center of our universe as my orbit around the coffee shop decays in his direction. Only instead of our bodies colliding the way I want, I take the seat across from him.
“Hi, Z.” It’s what he calls me. Only him.
“Hi, yourself.”
“Don’t you want your Americano?”
I blink, long and slow. It’s not an expression of surprise, just the predecessor to my exhale. If you’ve ever been around someone like Francis, you understand what I mean, and how this feels. There are some people whose presence is like sitting in a pool of afternoon sunlight in the middle of January.
“Yes. And thank you for getting it for me.”
“No problem.” The corners of his mouth curl upward.
“This,” I wave a hand at our generic and all-too-public surroundings, “is different.”
“Yeah.” He picks his cup up and blows on the surface of the liquid inside. It’s tea, something with mint. “Not our usual sort of meeting place.”
Usual for us is either my place or the Biltmore, always when the sun’s up. Usually the latter because we both have money, and I’ve got a disapproving father to avoid, as well as our mutual vampire acquaintances.
“Any reason for that?”
“That’s fast, Z.”
“Well, I thought you like it when I get direct.”
“This isn’t like any of that. It’s different.”
“I can handle that.” I lean back, hands curled around the papery cup of coffee and water. “Take your time.”
“Thanks.”
Francis sips his tea, then gazes into it. If he weren’t completely mundane, I’d think he’s scrying the future. But I know he must simply be collecting his thoughts. He’s got the time and space for that, a luxury.
I turn the cup round and round, trying not to drink too much more of the caffeinated beverage. The last thing I want to do at this point is get impatient with him. Which is a challenge for me because the Milano family motto might as well be Think Fast, Act Faster.
The musical selection here is too sophisticated, even for me. Avant-garde tunes on wind instruments don’t exactly annoy me, it’s just that they’ve got no story to tell that I can get my brain around. I’m like many other Rhode Islanders. Simple things like coffee need simple trappings. But I suppose I should be grateful they’re not playing talk radio. Ugh.
“Went to Doctor Young’s three times this week.”
“The shrink?” I raise my cup to hide my sneer. Another reflex, courtesy of the patented Milano Family upbringing.
“Yes. I mean, therapy is something I need right now.”
“Go on.” It’s hard to accept a statement like that, especially when we’ve been meeting so frequently and clandestinely. His history’s a horror show, but he swore he was ready to take a chance at happiness with me. It takes an insane amount of effort not to ask if I did something to hurt him.
“Z, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“About?”
“About being ready.”
Everything that felt atmospheric, stellar, or heady between us drops. Including my heart. Into the pit of my stomach. It’s like being on a plane in a thunderstorm, losing pressure and altitude.
“Doctor Young told you this?”
“No.” He sets the tea down, leaning toward me as he does. On any other day, I’d take it as an invitation.
“So then, what happened?”
“I need you to support me in this, Z. In going to therapy and doing the work to be healthy again.” He taps his temple. “Up here,” then his chest, “and in here.”
“I can get behind that.”
“It’s got to be bigger, though. Z, I need you to come in and do this kind of work too. For yourself.”
“Are you saying you think I’m not okay?”
“I know you aren’t.” His gaze connects with mine like a slap. “You scream in your sleep, yet you never talk about your dreams.”
“I don’t remember any of them, Francis.” I speak his name like a caress. My words carry literal power since I’m a spell-singing magician. While I’ll never use my magic to coerce him, it does add a more tangible dimension to our conversations. Among other things.
“Doctor Young can help you. And he said he’d make room in his schedule.”
“Why would he do something like that for a Milano of all people?”
Francis blinks. He forgets sometimes that my father’s fortune and my own fame have not made me popular in the supernatural community. They tend to think I’m risking our secret existence just so I can be a news anchor.
Utter nonsense, but public opinion can be that way. Nobody knows that my entire career plus my life leading up to it was orchestrated by my father. But I conducted it, so it’s me who gets the shame and blame that goes with it all.
“Because of this.” Francis places his hand flat on the table between us. “Because of us.”
“You’re in there, defending me?” My voice cracks on that word, breaking on the pinnacle of Francis’s misplaced faith in me.
“Always.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you really knew me. The things I’ve done.”
“That’s not important. Somebody told me it’s more important what we do going forward than what’s happened to us in the past.”
I’m not sure whether to correct him or not. Part of me wants to make a list of all my sins and see what he thinks of what’s behind the glossy veneer he’s seen so far. But a Starbucks, even this relatively deserted one, isn’t a place to speak frankly about dirty deeds of the supernatural
variety.
And there’s something else stopping me too. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that “somebody” he mentioned is Crispo. That dude has been the clearest and most present barrier to every task my demanding old dad has set me on. I’ve come up against him over and over, and each time he walks away intact. Even that time Dad hired the Caprices’ pet Lethian and put him in the hospital.
Helping kill that time-stealing son of a bitch was one of the most gratifying things I’d done. It was also the night Francis first noticed me as more than a friend. So maybe I’ve got to forgive Crispo a little bit for all of his meddling.
“Z?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Is it over? Between us?” My voice is flatter than pancakes.
“Oh, God, no, Z. I just want you to get help.”
“I’m not so sure I need it.” I shake my head, hanging it in the process. “I lied about that. I do need help. But I’m not sure I can have it.”
“Why?” Francis studies my face like we’re having a life or death conversation instead of talking about seeing a shrink.
“It’s dangerous.”
“My experience with it says the opposite so far.”
“You aren’t a local celebrity.”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that. The stigma, I mean. But maybe Doctor Young can work something out, keep the fact that you’re going a secret.”
And he’s got me pegged in an entirely different way than usual. Maybe Francis Pickering does actually know me better than I could have imagined. I find myself loving him even more for it. At that moment, I want to do this—get myself help, for his sake.
I already decided on our first date to do literally anything for him.
But I won’t need to see this doctor if I can only finish my work. Neither of us will. I can’t tell him about it or ask for his help. All I can do is keep him busy.
“Do you think he can take steps to hide my visits from a family of magicians?”
His eyes widen, and his lips part. Francis always looks shocked when he’s thinking, a childlike quality that melts my heart.