Steele City Blues: The Third Book in the Hell’s Belle Series (Hell's Belle 3)

by Karen Greco

  Casper broke the silence. "The old dude is no joke, Nina."

  "I hear you, Spirit, but I don’t see your form," my grandfather said while his eyes darted around the room, coming to rest on me. "Is he in your body?"

  Casper gasped, but I sat stone-faced.

  "Impressive," he said, and his expression told me that he wasn't lying. "Makes me think you aren't such a lost cause after all. If you can handle a spirit in your body, even with the undead part living in you, you are stronger than I thought."

  "What are you talking about?" I broke my silence.

  "The ghost. He enters and exits at will?" Gramps barely waited for me to nod. "Vampires aren't living. The dead can't inhabit the dead."

  "I'm not dead yet," I pointed out.

  "Not yet, no," he said in a way that gave me chills. "But even alive you shouldn't be able to tolerate him in your body. Not like this. But you do. That's the witch. And that witch is strong."

  I shrugged. I knew it was the witch. But that tolerance thing? Some days I had zero tolerance for Casper. He was a right pain in the ass sometimes.

  My grandfather changed gears. "Figured out how you're getting in the prison yet?" His question was met with silence. "Seems to me you could use a witch to get you in there."

  "We'll use the linen service," I said, my voice flat.

  "So you use the linen service and you get inside, and then what?" he asked. "Do you know where you’re going once you get in there? Do you even know what your mother is up to?"

  "He has a good point," Al said.

  I pressed my hands against my temples and rubbed, my head aching. "Okay, I'll bite. Do you have any idea what she's up to?"

  "I think I do," Casper said. His voice caused the pain in my head to turn into a full on throb.

  I focused my breathing and ignored the incessant thump at my temples. "What do you think she's doing?"

  "According to the coven network—"

  I cut him off. "The coven network?"

  "I went to my mom's sabbat," he said. "So sue me."

  I shook my head, augmenting the pounding. "Next time, let me go with you. You step into an exorcism and that'll be the end of you."

  "Tell him about the amateur exorcisms," Al piped up while he dropped paper towels onto the puddle on the floor. "We saw one the other day, remember, Eva?"

  Eva nodded. "It was terrible."

  "You were busy and I had to keep an eye on her," Casper said. "Make sure she wasn't in any danger."

  "Don't do it again," I said, my voice sharp to cover up the pang of guilt that slammed into my gut. I should have thought to check in on his mother, to warn her. Covens really shouldn't be drawing down the moon right now.

  "When I was there, I heard them say that some of the witches were released. And they were sick, real sick."

  I conveyed this to the room.

  "Sick like how?" I asked.

  "Like drained," he said. "One of the crones said it reminded her of when her husband had cancer, and he had chemotherapy. They can't eat, can't walk on their own, can barely stay awake. They aren't themselves."

  I conveyed this to the room as well.

  "What about magic, do they have magic?" Gramps barked.

  I repeated Casper’s words as they echoed through me. "No. Their magic is gone."

  "That's what I thought," the old man said, sitting back in a chair with a sigh. His weathered face looked ancient.

  "Would you like to elaborate?" Frankie asked.

  "Experiments," Gramps said. "She's draining their magic for experiments."

  Darcy's face clouded over. "What do you mean experiments?"

  "I mean experiments," the old man snapped. "She wants to build a better beast."

  "Better than what?" I asked.

  My grandfather's eyes sliced into me. "Better than you."

  7

  I was running on pure rage, so for the first time in the history of our partnership, Frankie rushed to keep up with me. He trailed me through the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. Once the shining jewel in the crown of the city of Providence, the Biltmore had fallen into a state of disrepair and disrepute. I stepped over a drugged out hooker and pushed through the plasma goo of a poltergeist. The spelled medallion that protected me from body-jumping spirits was clutched in my left fist. I could walk through them but they couldn't possess me.

  "Slow down," Frankie huffed from behind. "Let's talk about this."

  "There's nothing to talk about," I said.

  "You don't know what the old git meant by that."

  "Frankie, he called me a beast. What could I possibly misunderstand?"

  "So he hurt your feelings," he scoffed.

  "No, he didn't hurt my feelings," I said, not quite telling the truth. I mean, who likes being called a beast if you aren't at the gym? "The point is I am not witch or vampire or hybrid. To him, I am beast."

  Frankie grabbed my arm and turned me towards him. "I fail to see your point."

  "My point," I said as I wrenched my arm from his grip, "is that it sounds like I was made, not born."

  "Your being bloody ridiculous," Frankie said, chasing after me again. "Of course you were born. Leila was pregnant, nine months later you popped out. I was there, remember?"

  I paused and looked up the sweeping staircase, its former grandeur supplanted by threadbare carpeting and a broken mahogany banister. "Yes, you were there, but Bertrand was there too."

  "Nina, please," Frankie pleaded, grabbing my arm. "I'd know—"

  "You know nothing!" I said, shaking out of his grip. "You're just pissed that my dad kept this from you. So much for best friend."

  Frankie looked like I’d just slapped him. I hesitated for a moment, my harsh words hanging in the air around us. I pressed my lips closed instead of apologizing and stalked up the stairs. Bertrand had some explaining to do.

  The staircase was the worst part of the journey through the hotel to get to Bertrand's lair, drawing all manner of ghosts and poltergeists. Some pleaded with me to release them from purgatory. Most were angry and picked fights. I ignored all of them, save for the bellboy who sported the remnants of a shotgun blast to the back of the head.

  "Is he in?" I asked him, sensing Frankie a few steps behind me.

  The boy curled his lip. "What business do you have with the mayor?"

  I squeezed the medallion, its ridged pattern cutting into my skin, and braced myself to push through him. There was a loud thwack sound as my body moved through his plasma ooze.

  The ghost reversed direction and pushed through me as well. I felt his body try to anchor onto mine and snickered when he gave up in disgust. His translucent figure popped out of my chest and loomed in front of me once again.

  "I need to announce your business," he tried again.

  "Bertrand knows what business would bring me here, kid."

  "Another bloody ghost," Frankie muttered, matching my strides up the stairs. I glanced at him and saw his eyes glowing just a bit. He wasn't at vamp-out level, but the ghosts were getting to him. That was the thing with poltergeists. Even if you can't see them or consciously feel them, they put everyone in a crappy mood.

  Hauntings were dangerous not necessarily because ghosts were dangerous, even malevolent ones. Unhappy spirits that roamed places could weigh heavy on the psyche, causing all sorts of mayhem on the people who spent a lot of time in haunted spots, manifesting in deep depression or fits of rage. The number of ghosts and poltergeists that hung around the Biltmore left an undercurrent of simmering angst through the entire property. That's why there were plenty of bar fights, stabbings and shootings in the hotel and the surrounding blocks.

  The Biltmore's ghosts weighed heavy on Frankie's psyche. And for them to do that to the undead, well...they were especially potent.

  I switched the medallion to my right hand and took his hand in mine, pressing his palm into the other half of the token. The shared medallion helped ward off whatever psychic tricks the ghosts were playing with him, although I risked
being less immune to possession. Nothing was foolproof.

  I caught sight of my bellboy friend scurrying towards Bertrand's wing of the hotel. He slammed into the door at considerable force and staggered around the top of the stairs, stunned.

  "Interesting," I whispered.

  "What is?" Frankie asked. The vamp-out glow in his eyes was fading, the spelled object doing its job.

  "I think Bertrand locked the spirits out," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The bellboy, he can't get in."

  "What bellboy?"

  "Of course, you don't see the ghosts," I muttered, squeezing Frankie's hand in frustration. "One of the ghosts is a bellboy and he usually flits in and out of Bertrand's wing. But he can't seem to get in there now."

  Frankie shuddered. "I always feel the ghost presence lift when we get out of this creepy lobby."

  "Yeah, but Bertrand's hallway allowed some ghosts in. Bellboy was one of them. He announces his visitors."

  "Maybe they’re finally fraying his nerves," Frankie grumbled.

  "A ghost besting a demon like Bertrand? Come on," I said.

  "Casper gets you riled up," he pointed out.

  "You try living with an 18-year-old in your brain and see how you like it," I said. "And I am not a demon. If a ghost is rattling a demon, he's not very good at being demonic."

  We stopped at the door leading to Bertrand's wing. I brushed my hand over the oiled wood and a series of sparks followed. "This thing is seriously warded."

  Frankie pressed his own hand against the door. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "It's like he put out a vampire welcome mat."

  I glared at him. "Can you push it open, please?"

  "You think you can get through it open?" he asked. His face had skeptical written all over it.

  "What's the worst that can happen?"

  Frankie raised an eyebrow but pushed open the door and gave me a little shove into the threshold. I lamented the bravado of those six words as I stepped into a giant, walk-through Taser. My entire body stiffened. I tried to yell, but only a gurgling noise escaped. This time, Frankie gave me a hard shove and I sprawled onto the floor on the other side of the door.

  "What the hell was that?" I barked, pushing myself up and leaning against the wall.

  As I caught my breath, Frankie strolled right through like it was nothing. "You want a brush or something?" He grinned at me.

  I glared at him. "What?"

  "Your hair," Frankie said, motioning with his hand above his head. "It's sticking up all over the place."

  Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up to standing, and smoothed my hair down. Static electricity sparked along my fingers. "Son of a bitch has this place warded to keep out witches and ghosts."

  "How'd you make it through then?"

  "Not a full witch," I reminded him.

  "Neither's your mum," he pointed out.

  "My mum also doesn't have a vampire partner to shove her through warded doors," I said, sweeping past him and tucking the medallion safely into my pocket. "Let's move."

  My pride was still smarting from the shove and Frankie knew enough not to razz me further. Not now, anyway. He'd be relentless in a day or two.

  My step into the anteroom of Bertrand's suite was a cautious one, just in case he had that threshold spelled too. I expected to be met by his usual muscled up vamp bodyguards, but no one was standing sentry in front of Bertrand's office door. In fact, it was wide open, and Bertrand's butter-smooth voice was met by a recognizable gruff one.

  "Your wards are shit, Bertrand," Gramps’ voice bellowed from inside the office.

  My arm sprang out fast in front of Frankie's chest to keep him from walking into the room. Instead, I peered around the doorway. Gramps stood in front of Bertrand’s expensive mahogany desk. A half-sneer, half-grin stretched across his wrinkled face. Bertrand's missing goons tripped over each other on their way towards him, only to be thwarted by a simple wrist flick that dropped them to the floor. I stared at their crumpled bodies, awestruck at the power the skinny old man commanded at will.

  "Teddy Martinez..." Bertrand's FM radio-smooth voice took the edge off. His dark hair, greying at the temples, set off steely eyes, while his impeccably tailored suit showed off an athletic build. It was no surprise he won the female vote by a landslide. "How did you manage to get out of Mexico?"

  My Uncle Tavio's voice came from behind the door. "I'll take care of him, Ami." My dead vampire dad had an undead vampire brother, who was also Bertrand's lackey. I only just found out about him when my life was upended by Leila's psycho boyfriend and his literally infernal knife.

  Bertrand stilled my uncle with the wave of a hand. "No need, Tavio."

  "Tavio, I haven't seen you since the wedding. You're looking quite undead these days." My grandfather's cold grin told me that he enjoyed egging the old vampire on.

  "It would be my pleasure, sir," Tavio said to Bertrand, stepping out from behind the door. His vamped out face carried a profound hatred. His fangs were extended and his brown eyes were like glowing orbs. I'd never seen my uncle in full-on vampire mode, and the danger he radiated caught me off-guard. He was a short, stocky man with silver hair who had Matty, a Beta-Vamp, for a son. Vampire was pretty much where his family resemblance with my dad ended. Until now. Uncle Tavio looked fierce. My face took on a similar expression when I was pissed.

  So Tavio didn't like Gramps. And, by all appearances, the feeling was mutual. My eyebrows raised as I soaked in the rising animosity flowing between them. My parents must have had a hell of an eventful wedding.

  "Please, Tavio." Bertrand stilled my uncle with the wave of his hand. "You'll get your chance at him. I am interested to learn how this clever witch charmed his way around one of my curses."

  "Give a witch a few decades, Bertrand, and a smart one can find his way around curses. Even demonic ones."

  "You have even more talent than I realized," Bertrand said, as delight in the game he played with Gramps danced on his face. "You always made me proud, although your impatience proved your downfall time and again."

  "What are you doing here?" Tavio asked, his own patience waning.

  "I came here to say I told you so," Gramps sneered. "I told you I would break that spell and get out of Mexico and here we are."

  My eye twitched at that and I stepped in from the doorway. "What does a demonic spell have to do with you in Mexico?"

  Even though Bertrand flashed a smile, his handsome face remained cold. "Nina, so good of you to join us. Your grandfather and I were just catching up. We were once..."

  "We weren't anything," Gramps interjected. "You set a spell to keep me trapped in Catemaco. I broke your spell. End of story."

  Frankie followed behind me and gave a low whistle. "I've not heard of anyone breaking a demon curse. Certainly not a witch."

  Bertrand's easy demeanor cracked for a split second and his eyes flashed red. "Teddy Martinez is a very talented witch. But let's not kid ourselves. That particular curse weakens over time, and I never felt the need to reset it. That's why you were able to crack it."

  My grandfather reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Faros, a brand of Mexican cigarettes. "Don't rewrite history, Bertrand. I broke your curse." He took one out, placed it in his mouth, and lit the end with just a snap of his fingers, ignoring the fact that Bertrand was seething under the faux-placid expression that he maintained. "And it was as strong as the day you cast it."

  "So you were trapped in Mexico?" I asked.

  "Thirty-odd years. Sound about right?" he asked.

  “And you broke the spell? A demon curse?” I pressed him.

  Gramps simply grinned and blew a smoke ring in Bertrand’s direction, the circle enlarging as it traveled and then broke apart.

  “Was that why Babe was in Mexico?” I asked. “To help you break the curse?”

  Before Babe was slaughtered by Leila, she was in Mexico for what I thought was a family visit and a little R&R, not to break s
ome demon curse. I remembered Skyping with her and seeing some strange looking men hanging around the internet café. They didn’t look shady exactly, but they stood out as odd. Did Bertrand have her followed?

  Gramps narrowed his eyes at me but said nothing.

  Bertrand simply looked between the two of us. Then he pursed his lips and exhaled his own smoke ring, no cigarette required. It floated across the room and lingered over Gramps’ head. Then it dropped down and wrapped around Gramps’ neck like a noose. His face turned beet red as the smoke circle squeezed, cutting off his air.

  He held up his hands in surrender, but Bertrand didn't make any motion to release the pressure. My grandfather's eyes bulged, like they were ready to pop out of his head. His cigarette fell from his hands and smoldered on the carpet. Watery sounds came from the back of his throat as he ripped unsuccessfully at the smoke circled around his neck.

  "Bertrand, stop," I said. I stepped between them to do...I didn't know what. "You two clearly have some sort of beef, I get it. But I think we need him."

  "Need him, Ms. Martinez?" Bertrand asked above the awful noises coming from Gramps’ throat as the smoke crushed his trachea. "You barely know him. And need I remind you that he tried to kill you when you were a baby? I know your aunt shared that bit of history with you."

  "The entire town tried to kill me when I was a baby. They thought I was a vampire."

  "You are a vampire," he said.

  "No. When I am dead, I'll be a vampire," I pointed out. "Alive, I just have interesting abilities."

  Frankie laughed. "That's one way to put it."

  I silenced him with a look. "If I have to take down Leila, I have to learn to be a witch. And he needs to teach me."

  "So you are ready to embrace your magic?" Bertrand asked, his eyes glinting with amusement.

  I shifted my feet. "If that's what you want to call it."

  The smoke around my grandfather's throat dissipated. Gramps slumped into his chair, rubbing the rope-like abrasions left on his neck. His eyes were narrow slits, staring at Bertrand in silence. I wondered what he was plotting.