Gabriel’s dark eyes flicked up from the page to stare at her. “All in due time, Ms. Pratt.”
She leaned back in her chair and tried not to sulk. She had that all-too-familiar feeling in her gut. She got it almost every time she worked a case with Arthur. There was a sense of unease when you were sitting across from a cop, even when you knew you’d done nothing wrong. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, the system wasn’t as fair as it claimed to be.
Gabriel turned his attention to Dean, who was scowling right back. “Your name?” Gabriel asked.
“Dean Chapman,” he ground out.
“Is that—”
“Yes, it’s my real name. And I’m twenty years old,” Dean snapped, rudely interrupting Gabriel.
Gabriel’s frown deepened. “Not your physical age, boy. How old are you?”
“Twenty,” Dean repeated. “I was turned when I was sixteen, four years ago. I’m twenty years old.”
Gabriel’s eyes flicked to Priscilla briefly. “And is Ms. Pratt your maker?”
“Of course she wasn’t,” Dean said indignantly. “If you’re trying to pin something on her, dig a little deeper, dude. Priscilla adopted me. It’s not like I can rent a house like this.”
Dean motioned to his young body with a look of disgust. Priscilla had seen Maddison make similar expressions when she listed some of the difficulties of being trapped eternally in the body of a teenager. Media glorified youth, freezing many protagonists in their teens forever. Maddison and Dean were proof that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. There was so much you couldn’t do when you looked that young.
Gabriel’s expression softened just a little at that, and Priscilla thought better of him. Most vampires empathized with the plight of young vampires. It was difficult, especially when your life was measured in centuries, if not millennia, to predict the changes that would happen from generation to generation. In Priscilla’s day, she would have been considered a woman at sixteen, and pushed to court and marry. Now a sixteen-year-old was still considered a child in the eyes of the law. She’d been fortunate to meet her sire later in life. At twenty-two, she could pass for an adult, albeit a young one.
Most vampires tried to turn adults. Children didn’t have the capacity to know what they were getting themselves into, generally. Their brains lagged far behind their limbic system, making every choice seem like life and death. An adult could usually reason well enough to know whether they could stand being trapped forever in an unchanging body.
Despite this, many sires still turned people on the younger side of the spectrum. It wasn’t often that Priscilla met a vampire who was physically older than thirty. It wasn’t conscious ageism, as far as she could tell. It was just that the motivations for turning someone usually cropped up younger in life. Most vampires only turned their mates, and never sired anyone else again. Companionship was one of the strongest drives that spawned new vampires. Most people tended to find their partners in the same age bracket. Thus, older vampires were not common.
Gabriel finished scribbling notes onto the page a few minutes later. Then he sat up straighter and gave them all solid eye contact.
“I’ll be frank,” he began. “I don’t like the goings on in this town, and I’m here to put a stop to them.”
“Cryptic much,” Dean muttered. “Can you speak plain English there, old boy, or do we need to drag the answer out of you?”
Priscilla pinched the bridge of her nose and tried not to groan. Goading Parliament’s investigator was not a good idea. This impulsive boy was going to get them all killed.
Gabriel’s full mouth curled into an unpleasant smile. “Be thankful you’ve arrived in Bellmare only recently, Mr. Chapman. You won’t make my short list of suspects.”
His dark eyes slid over to Priscilla, and she shivered in spite of herself. It didn’t matter how good-looking he was, that stare chilled her to the bone. She felt like a moth pinned to a board, under the scrutiny of something larger and more powerful than herself.
“You, however, are, as is Miss Baker.”
Maddison curled closer to the display freezer and shivered at the mention of her name. She hadn’t looked at anyone since Gabriel had finished interrogating her.
“On your short list for what?” Priscilla snapped. “What exactly are you accusing us of, Mr. Winthrop?”
Gabriel rifled through his stack of papers and withdrew a manila envelope. He shook the contents out so they could all see. Glossy photos fanned across the surface of the table, each labeled with a name and date.
“Our department was flagged recently when the homicide rate in Bellmare rose above three humans within a six-month period. Four citizens dead, within the space of a year, and vampires were implicated in two of those murders.”
Priscilla didn’t like where this was going.
“That number of premeditated murders in a town of just over three thousand is unprecedented, don’t you agree?”
“Hardly,” Maddison scoffed, speaking up finally. “Do you know what this town is famous for? Mysterious deaths have been going on in Bellmare for as long as it’s been a town.”
“Perhaps,” Gabriel mused. “But there weren’t five vampires living in the town at the time. That number is also unprecedented, in relation to the town’s size.”
“What are you accusing us of?” Dean demanded, echoing her question from earlier. “Because we haven’t done anything.”
“As I said, I don’t believe you are the one to blame for all of this, Mr. Chapman,” Gabriel said calmly.
“All right, let’s rephrase the question,” Priscilla said. “What exactly is it you are accusing me of?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” he answered, apparently unabashed at the triplicate glare he was receiving. “Kierra Cunningham died shortly after having a confrontation with you.”
“She was poisoned,” Priscilla said through clenched teeth. “I was cleared of all charges. We found the real killer.”
Gabriel pushed forward the next two pictures. They depicted a pair of blond teens, both with nice features and bright smiles. “Benedict and Clarissa Montgomery. You were hired by their mother, and the eldest twin turned up dead at an event you catered. I have been informed you had a minor spat with Nora before his death.”
“It was a breakfast in full sunlight. I was irritable and trying to explain why I needed to keep my sunglasses on indoors. It was hardly a blood feud. Besides, Benedict and Clarissa were shot. Their murderer is currently on trial facing twenty to life.”
“And finally, Aaron Burke,” Gabriel pushed the last photo forward. It was, thankfully, one of his professional photos, and not one from his LARP game Fangs, Fur, and Fury. The rather unorthodox game involved grown men and women dressing in costume to play at being vampires and werewolves who were at constant war with each other. Absurd. Aaron had been a member of the “vampire” coven before his untimely death.
“He was killed in this very shop, wasn’t he?” Gabriel continued.
“It was a crime of passion perpetrated by someone he trusted. It wasn’t my fault it took place in my shop. It could have just as easily have happened next door at Landry’s Grocery store.”
Gabriel continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “All of them have a connection to you. And you were instrumental in the capture of each alleged murderer.”
“Alleged?” Priscilla’s voice was creeping dangerously toward a shout. She needed to rein in her anger. “There’s no alleged about it, Mr. Winthrop. I helped the Bellmare PD bring in the murderers in each and every one of those cases. The families got the justice they deserved.”
“And to top it all off, we’ve also been informed that Bellmare has an unregistered werewolf running around inside its borders.”
Priscilla’s teeth ground audibly. How had anyone known about that? Someone at the hospital must have spilled the secret to a government agency. Five months ago, Garrett McKnight, a LARPer and rival to Aaron Burke, had saved Priscilla’s life from a rogue werewol
f who’d been attempting to rip her throat out. The cost had been his humanity.
Garrett had been transforming into a gigantic hairy werewolf every full moon since March. Priscilla had been growing wolfsbane in the planters outside her window, despite how much the smell bothered her. Her faerie godmother, Avalon, could brew a solution that allowed Garrett to keep his human mind during the shift. It was the least she could do for the man that had saved her life. That, and keeping her mouth shut about it. The vampire government had nearly wiped all werewolves out centuries ago, and their attitude toward them still wasn’t kind.
“And put him on your watch list so he could be hunted down like a dog? No, I didn’t tell anyone. There’s been enough killing.”
“That’s exactly Parliament’s sentiment, Ms. Pratt,” Gabriel said. “And to that end, I’m taking up residence in Bellmare for the time being. I will be watching all of you, and if any of you attempt to flee Parliament’s justice …”
He let the statement hang in the air. Priscilla didn’t need him to finish it. She knew exactly what he meant. If they fled Parliament’s justice, they’d be hunted in the truest sense of the word. They’d come with guns, stakes, and fire, and the end would not be pretty.
“Understood,” Priscilla ground out. “Now kindly leave my shop.”
Gabriel gathered his things and neatly stuffed his folders into an attaché case he’d stowed under her table. He looked for all the world like a private eye from an earlier century when he swept toward the door.
The tinkling of the bell above her door sounded too cheerful when he stepped out. Dean was the first to speak.
“What a crummy day,” he said, opening his comic book once more. “First the Sons of B—”
“Don’t be crude,” Maddison hissed. “That’s a terrible name. I wish everyone in town would stop calling them that.”
“It’s accurate, not crude,” Dean countered. “And now we’ve got this guy on our tails. I’m beginning to think that God might hate us after all.”
Priscilla wished she could find it in herself to disagree.
Chapter Three
“I really need to get a CCTV,” Priscilla muttered to herself, chipping away at the stubborn spray paint on her shop window with glass cleaner and a razor. It was a cleaning hack that Anna had taught her after the third time her shop had been tagged.
And this made the fourth.
She wasn’t sure when the Sons of Adonai were finding time to do this. When she’d gone to bed at three in the morning, closing the shop up early, there had been nothing there. By the time Becca Peckman had opened the store at six in the morning, the crude epithets had been there. Bloodsucker, leech, and parasite had been scrawled across the brick in the alleyway, while a much more explicit word had been painted on her window. Honestly, you would have thought people would get more original over the years. It made Priscilla wonder why the Sons didn’t adhere to a normal human sleep schedule. Or maybe this was revenge for showing up Absalom in the square.
“I agree,” Olivia said, leaning against the wall of the bakery, fanning herself. She and Olivia had been at this for an hour now. “The question is, can you afford it? Cameras are pricey, and it’s not the only big expense you have. I know firsthand that it takes quite a bit of money to keep a young vampire fed. Maddison’s appetite has slowed down, compared to what it was in the beginning. But I know that Dean is practically an infant, in vampire terms at least.”
“I know,” Priscilla sighed. “And I’m having just as much trouble communicating with him as I was when he first arrived. Do you have any pointers?” she asked hopefully.
Olivia shook her head. “I wish I did. But we’re on two completely different playing fields, Priscilla. I was never able to have children of my own, so I can’t tell you what’s normal at this stage.”
“But Maddison—”
“Is sixty something years old, Priscilla,” Olivia reminded her gently. “I know she tries to act younger to make me feel better. Sometimes it works. At the end of the day though, she’s older than I am. It’s hard to parent a woman who is literally old enough to be my own mother.”
Right. Of course. Maddison’s young exterior made it easy to forget that she was well over half a century old now. Priscilla set her razor aside with a frown. It was going to take forever to clean things up at this rate.
“What am I supposed to do then?”
“I’d recommend sitting him down and having a heart to heart,” Olivia said.
Priscilla sighed. “That won’t work. He’s sneaks off every day and I can’t seem to get him to stay put, even when I give him busy work. He completes it in record time and then, poof, he’s gone again.”
“Maybe he has a girlfriend,” Olivia suggested.
Priscilla hadn’t considered that. Oh crap. What did that mean for her? What role did a mother play in vetting the partner of her children these days? When Priscilla had been a girl, her mother hadn’t had much say in who she courted. She kept the house, tended Priscilla a little too overzealously, and made sure that things were simple for father. He’d been the one to approve or reject suitors for her hand. And in the end, Priscilla had flouted his wishes and eloped with a French fur trader that she’d barely known.
“This is a nightmare,” she groaned. “How do I do this, Olivia? I’m not cut out to be a parent.”
“None of us are, sweetie. But you bumble through it and hope you don’t make too many mistakes along the way.”
Truthfully, Priscilla had been entertaining thoughts of returning Dean to the foster care system. She felt like she was failing him on every possible level. She couldn’t figure out how to speak to him. He secluded himself and tended to ignore her when she tried to engage him in conversation. If things didn’t change soon—and drastically—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do it much longer.
The law could be tricky when it came to child vampires. She couldn’t occupy Dean’s days with school, because he’d already completed high school, and Massachusetts laws had been tweaked so that a vampire child didn’t have to undergo public schooling if they’d done it once before. Other states were different and required public school every ten to fifteen years. So, in addition to being unable to talk to him, Priscilla couldn’t keep track of him either. He left in the evening, when he woke up, and skulked into the house an hour before sunrise every day.
Only guilt and stubbornness kept her going. She’d made a commitment to this kid and he was a kid, in every sense that counted. Even if he was only a handful of years younger than Anna in age, he certainly hadn’t grown up to be a mature young person the way she had.
Olivia picked up the razor and Windex and began to chip away at the paint. “How is everything financially? An extra mouth to feed means more money out of your pocket. How are you handling it?”
Truthfully? She wasn’t. All the stores of blood she would have normally bought for herself were going directly to Dean. She hadn’t had a decent meal in over a month. By vampire standards, Priscilla was starving herself, which added to the irritability she had when dealing with him. Feeding a human child would have been within her budget. Feeding a vampire child—no, infant—wasn’t. Blood could easily cost thousands per month. She hadn’t been prepared for Dean’s appetite. It had been centuries since she’d been a young vampire, and she’d forgotten the ravenous hunger that came with it. And Dean hadn’t been raised with the Puritan ethic of abstinence and restraint in all things. He ate when he was hungry, and he was hungry often.
Her silence must have been answer enough, because Olivia paled. “... you have been eating, haven’t you?”
Priscilla shrugged. “I had a pint a few weeks ago. I’ll be fine. The older vampires get, the less blood we need to sustain ourselves.”
“Oh don’t give me that,” Olivia snapped. “You’re working on only what, one or two pints a month? You’re barely going to be able to function on that. No wonder this business is wearing you down. You’re not eating.”
�
��Olivia, it’s not a big deal.”
“Let me give you a pint, at least,” Olivia said.
“It isn’t necessary.”
“I have blood to spare,” Olivia argued. “Ever since Anna took Maddison to that LARP group, things have gotten much easier. Maddison has enough to eat, and it’s free. Well, mostly. I still have to buy her costumes and whatnot, but it’s a small price to pay. We wouldn’t have so much support if it weren’t for you and Anna. Just take it.”
“Later,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “First, I have to get this crap off of my shop and open for the night. I’m already late. And you don’t need to be helping me with this. You have your own restaurant to run.”
Still, Olivia stayed with her another hour, scrubbing off the window until the bakery logo could be seen.
“Promise me,” Olivia said, wagging a stained dish rag at Priscilla. “You’ll come over tonight for a drink. I don’t care if it’s in a bag or straight from the vein, but you need to eat.”
“I promise,” Priscilla said. “I’ll take an hour break around midnight and swing by.”
She watched her friend round the building with a mixture of warm gratitude and exasperation. It would be nice to feed properly, for once. After so many months of subpar feedings she’d begun to feel like a cranky echo of herself, and she couldn’t blame all of that irritability on Dean. It had been her choice to do this.
“Maybe I can get Dean into LARPing,” she mused as she headed back inside the shop. Or perhaps she should just bite the bullet herself and get into the silly games herself. Sure, it was corny in the extreme, but she could make a few friends and possibly meet someone who’d be willing to be a long-term donor.
It wasn’t ideal. Most of the participants in the game were significantly younger than she was, even just in the physical sense. The selection she’d seen were college-aged men and women, if not younger. She’d feel like some sort of predator if she asked one of the men to donate for her. And worse, what if he got attached? She wasn’t really looking to leap into the dating scene. She wasn’t sure if it was snobbery or just weariness that made her avoid pairing off with someone. Lord knew that some nights it would be easier to have a partner around to delegate tasks to.
Holy Crepes Page 3