Moonshine (2010)

by Johnson, Alaya

  Okay, I revise that bit about not being scared.

  The child at the bar leaned forward slightly. His eyes were a little brighter than the others’ and his threatening smile wavered oddly. I wondered how long it had taken him to recover his mind—whatever he had left of it. I wondered if the little boy I had plucked from the gutter ever would. It occurred to me that this child might be their leader.

  “Bank grade?” he said. His accent was a curious mixture of Italian and broad-voweled New York, and weirdly beautiful.

  I nodded. “Fresh, O-negative.”

  “You a dealer?”

  The bartender—not a vampire, but not human either, judging from the scales on his jaw—laughed and poured himself a shot of some liquor. “Not unless charity’s got a street price.”

  The boy gave him an amused glance. “You reckon I should know her. Should I?” he asked, turning toward me again.

  I sighed. Two days and I already hated this newly discovered reputation of mine. “I teach night school at Chrystie Elementary.”

  Light dawned in his eyes. Literally—I don’t recommend long conversations with vampires for suggestible stomachs. “The vampire suffragette! Boys, we got a live social activist. How about making her welcome.” He and the others laughed, their voices eerily high and in sync. I took a deep breath.

  “You afraid of us?” he asked, cutting abruptly into the laughter.

  I tossed him the first bag of blood and pulled out a second. “AB, for those of you who like it crunchy.”

  He turned the bag curiously in his tiny, graceful, vicious hands. In an impossibly swift move, he put the bag to his lips, broke the seal and drank half the blood. He tossed the remaining half to a vampire behind him and smiled. No blood stained him, but his cherubic ruby lips and flushed cheeks evoked a primal fear. Lord, I wanted to run away, but I knew they’d never let me out now.

  “Good,” he said, voice cracking as it dipped to a lower register. “So, we’re your little charity, or you want something.”

  “Think of it as a peace offering,” I said, tossing him the second bag.

  “You afraid of us?”

  “A little .”

  “Very good. Why don’t you tell the boys and me what Charity Do-good wants with a bunch of no-good criminals.”

  Good question. But I didn’t think “I want to help kill your boss” would go over very well.

  “Well . . .” I said, looking around the room. Did those watching eyes look just a little less predatory? Maybe wishful thinking, but I pulled out the last bag of blood and held it to my chest like a protective talisman. “I’ve been in need of some cash recently.”

  “Terrible pity.”

  “So . . . I was wondering if any of you fine boys needed a tutor.”

  Sweaty and covered in the spray of muddy water from a taxicab careening through a pothole, I staggered into the cocktail lounge of the Roosevelt Hotel ten minutes after one. I saw Lily almost immediately—she had taken a table in full view of the rest of the room and was busy laughing and entertaining some broad-shouldered blond male. Something about those shoulders struck me as familiar, but I was so exhausted and exhilarated that I ignored the tease of memory and walked toward her. I noticed a few of the older ladies looking at me surreptitiously behind their cups of tea with shocked and disapproving expressions. Well, they never liked me anyway; the extra mud just made it easier to reach conclusions. Lily was drinking coffee and nibbling on a plate of cucumber sandwiches. She stood up when she saw me and clapped her hands, unguardedly pleased for a moment.

  “I was growing afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  “I almost didn’t. You are now speaking to the offcial tutor of the notorious Turn Boys. Turns out their leader has seen the virtues of literacy.”

  Lily gasped, but I could tell she was suppressing more exuberant expressions of joy. “No! Did they toss you in the gutter first?”

  Trust Lily to not have missed my stained clothes.

  “She hasn’t gotten rid of that damned bicycle, of course.”

  Oh, how I wished I didn’t recognize that voice.

  He of the familiar broad shoulders and blond hair rose from his chair and turned to face us.

  “Troy,” I said. I suspect I might have sounded sullen.

  “Zephyr, dear.” He bowed gallantly and plucked my fingers for a kiss before I could snatch them back. “I know you hate putting on airs, but maybe you’ll consider changing your clothes the next time before you come to the Roosevelt? The maitre d’ is eyeing you like a blood-mad sucker.”

  From his rigidly parted and pomaded hair to the shine given his shoes by an underpaid Negro laborer each morning, Troy had escaped his humble roots and was punctiliously determined that no point of decorum should give them away. I knew I couldn’t be the only person who saw through this, but he was a handsome Defender, and high society tended to be forgiving on such grounds.

  Lily laughed nervously. “Then perhaps we should all sit down.”

  Troy pulled out the extra chair and I seated myself reluctantly between them. Lily was wearing a charming sea-green day frock of patterned silk with a ragged fringe and a knitted camisole. Even last night, in my best clothes, she would have outshone me. I twisted my mouth.

  “So, how do you know each other?” she asked, pushing the plate of tiny sandwiches toward me.

  “Oh, my daddy knows him—”

  Troy rushed to interrupt my gleefully revealing explanation. “Her father and I had some business dealings in the past.”

  Well, that’s one word for it. I would have supplied a sarcastic rejoinder, but it didn’t seem like Lily was very hungry and her sandwiches tasted better than they looked.

  “You’re one of Lily’s sources?” I asked, around a mouthful of cucumber.

  He nodded. “Among other things.”

  I turned to Lily. She was staring at his cornflower blue eyes. Well, I wished her happy of him.

  “What do you know about djinn?” I asked, taking another sandwich. If he had to be here, he could at least be useful.

  As usual, professional interests elicited actual emotion. “Genies?” he said, and I smiled to myself at how the careless slang revealed more about his background than a thousand shoe polishes. “There aren’t many of them, I know that much. I’ve never met one. Your dad never has, far as I know. They’re not one of the Others that hunters care about, anyway. They’re sort of . . . princes among the succubi and demons. They have awesome powers in their own dimension, but here they have to let a human bind them. They can only use power when the human makes wishes.”

  “Like Arabian Nights,” said Lily, who had retrieved a pen and notepad from somewhere. I thought it a shame that Amir couldn’t have turned out to live in an oil lamp.

  “Not very accurate, but sure. There’s all sorts of arcane rules governing the relationship between the genie and their vessel. Anyway, you don’t find many genies around here because they don’t like to bind themselves to humans. They’re immortal, but I guess they don’t much enjoy waiting around for one of us to die.”

  Lily tittered. “How grisly!”

  Troy leaned forward and patted her hand. In lieu of vomiting, I picked up Lily’s glass of ice water and took a long drink. Watching an independent woman pander to a man like that set my teeth on edge.

  “I’ve heard Ladies’ Home Journal has an opening in their textiles department,” I said, looking at her over the rim of the glass. She blushed faintly and leaned back in her chair.

  “Textiles, Zephyr? How shocking! And one would think you’d only ever heard of burlap and rayon.”

  “Well, burlap is excellent for keeping off the blood from an exsanguinated vampire. The blood burns, you know. And the gobbets . . . well, I’m sure Troy’s told you. And I suppose rayon does make a decent pair of hose, which are useful for suffocating skinwalkers back into their native form. But really,” I said, putting the glass down on the table with an audible thump. Lily jerked back. “I’m an old-fashion
ed girl. I prefer silk.”

  Lily and I stared at each other; our horns locked, unwilling to back down.

  “Would you like to see my sword?”

  Lily and I turned to him in unison. I imagine her expression of incredulity mirrored my own. Unperturbed, Troy held out a three-foot short sword in a nondescript black scabbard with a silver pommel.

  “Off to the Crusades?” Lily asked, one eyebrow delicately arched.

  “I think they killed off Saladin last millennia.”

  Troy eyed the two of us like an approaching army. “It was blessed in Mont Saint-Michel,” he said.

  I smiled indulgently at him. “And the Hudson is filled with holy water. So,” I said, turning to Lily while Troy blushed, “cucumber sandwiches are surprisingly delicious, but you must have had some other reason to ask me here.”

  Lily promptly forgot her demeanor of affected girlishness. “I’ve had a bit of luck. I can’t believe it, but you were right about Rinaldo—”

  “You mean it isn’t blessed?” Troy said, apparently in such a sulk that he wasn’t even aware of having interrupted us.

  I turned to him impatiently. “It’s as blessed as my bathtub, Troy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That woman behind you?” I gestured to a painfully skinny woman with cobweb-pale skin sitting with an older man. “She’s at least half fairie.”

  Troy frowned and not very surreptitiously moved his sword behind him so it was less than two feet away from the other table. She didn’t stop talking, let alone react to the presence of such a large blessed blade.

  “Oh, Jesus Bloody Christ,” he spat. “I’ll stake him.” He stood up abruptly and stalked out of the room, with only the stiffest of nods to the two of us.

  “Dear,” Lily said, a smile playing on her lips. “He seems terribly upset. Do you think he’ll do something rash?”

  “Don’t worry. Humans are the only creatures Troy doesn’t murder. Vampire mob bosses, on the other hand . . .”

  “Yes, how did you know that? It took me ages to get my source to confirm it.”

  I shrugged. “Someone I know.”

  “Getting cagey, Zephyr? I thought this was a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  “Of course. Why don’t you tell me what you have, first. And I’ll tell you all about the Turn Boys.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, like a child trying to contain excitement, and flipped through some scribbled-over pages in her notebook.

  “So, Rinaldo is a vampire. Not an old one, apparently, but rumor has it he never goes out in sunlight. Better at passing than most young vampires, though. Probably has some old ones around helping. My source seemed pretty sure he wasn’t a vampire when he first got in the business. Way before Prohibition. By the time he set up the current bootleg racketeering thing, he’d vanished from all the runners and soldiers. Only gives orders now through Dore, the second-in-command . . .” She looked at me speculatively. “And the Turn Boys. My source says he uses them like . . . ‘shock troops,’ somehow.”

  “Terrorizing the neighborhood, apparently.”

  “And you’re going to tutor them?”

  I grimaced. “I know. But they know who I am, and they didn’t kill me. Their leader is the youngest vampire I’ve ever seen—he wasn’t turned a day older than thirteen.”

  Lily looked shocked. “And the police don’t stake him on sight?”

  “He’s a Turn Boy. They call him Nicholas. He doesn’t seem like an old vampire, but . . .”

  “And this Nicholas wants you to tutor him? In what, efficient body disposal?”

  “He wants me to teach him to read.” I was still incredulous. Nicholas had been very determined about it.

  Lily laughed and clapped her hands in delight. “Well done! Improving literacy among the Turn Boys . . . talk about adding to your reputation. If you get yourself killed, though, you had better make sure I get the scoop.”

  “If I get myself killed, try to make sure no one stakes me.”

  She cocked her head. “Deal.”

  “So,” I said, curiously unaffected by discussion of my demise, “did you find out what Rinaldo is doing now? Anything different?”

  Lily flipped through her notebook again. “Oh, this is big. My source—he’s a human runner with a knack for eavesdropping charms—says there’s a lot of talk about diversifying. You know, Demon Alcohol is big business, but a fifth of the city can’t drink it without weeping blood. There’s rumors some dealer approached Rinaldo about a German biologist who’s developed some kind of drink made from pig’s blood and . . . this fungus called ergot.”

  “Pig’s blood? Sounds expensive.”

  “Well, that’s the strange thing. My source thinks that the German has found some way to brew it. I’ve looked this up a bit, and I suspect he might have discovered how to make red blood cells replicate. You would only need a few starter pigs, and . . .”

  “Cheap, intoxicating blood for our forgotten fifth.” I recalled the two vampires at Horace’s last night who had seemed inexplicably inebriated. Could this have already hit the streets? “My God, he’s going to control the city. What are they calling it?”

  “The German gave it some ludicrous little title . . . yes, ‘Circe’s Tears.’ But the dealer just uses his name instead.” She smiled. “Faust. This is a killer story, Zephyr. It goes all over the city already, and I’ve barely started. I think this could be it. My big scoop.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “If you’re right, every journalist in town will be all over this in a few days.”

  She waved her hand lazily. “Oh, sure, Bill Oliver might write about ‘mysterious disturbances,’ and maybe even ask Beau Jimmy a few questions, but no one’s going to do a whole investigative report. No one will trace the funding and the distribution and the supply line.” Her eyes narrowed in very pointed plea sure. “No one has my sources.”

  Her gaze shifted to just past my shoulder and her smile disappeared. An odd silence had descended in the lounge and I could faintly hear the sound of two voices raised in barely civil argument.

  Lily sucked in her lips, furious. “That stupid maitre d’. Let him in!”

  Confused, I turned around. My body jolted so badly my chair shook when I saw Amir. He wore an impeccably tailored day suit, which suited him far more than it ever would Troy. He looked every inch the prince he claimed to be, but the maitre d’ stood implacably in his path. That professional bigot, who had so narrowly allowed me entry into his sanctum, had apparently decided that Amir was beyond the pale.

  “I’m afraid we don’t allow Negroes,” said the maitre d’ with careful enunciation.

  I turned to Lily. She was gnawing on her bottom lip. I could do nothing to help Amir, but . . .

  “Oh, Lily, rescue him!”

  To my surprise, she obeyed. With determined grace she ran forward and kissed him on both cheeks like a long-lost friend. She gave a withering look to the baffled maitre d’ before leading Amir back to our table. I could tell that Lily amused him, but his posture was stiff with fury. An embarrassed blush rose, nonsensically, to my cheeks.

  “Amir—” I said, standing up and rushing into some incoherent apology.

  He shook his head. “Never mind. I take it you know my savior?”

  Lily looked between the two of us. “For someone who leaves the ghetto only on her bicycle, you sure know a lot of people, Zephyr.”

  I smiled. “The curious life of the vampire suffragette. Lily, Amir. Amir, Lily.”

  Lily’s gaze was rapt as she allowed him to take her hand. I could almost watch her internal struggle as she weighed his handsome looks and apparent wealth against his cultural defects.

  Beauty won. “Would you like to sit with us? Zephyr seems to have eaten all the food, but . . .”

  Amir shook his head. He had brushed his hair back, but a glossy lock had fallen above his temple. “Much as I’d love to, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve only stopped by to deliver a message to Miss Hollis.”


  “A message?” I said.

  His full, nonfiery gaze rested upon me and I wished I could be sitting down. “It’s the boy.”

  Lily paid the bill and walked with us into the lobby, practically radiating curiosity.

  “Is he human?” she whispered when we fell behind, but I knew Amir could hear her.

  “What do you think?”

  She put the tip of her pen to her red lips and sucked thoughtfully. “Those eyes . . . a demon?”

  “You can’t be interested. He’s a lot more scandalous than a suffragette meeting.”

  She gave a dramatic sigh. “But what a scandal!”

  We reached the revolving doors. Amir paused and looked at me impatiently.

  I took the hint. “Lily,” I said, “don’t you have somewhere to . . .”

  “Right. Your mysterious message. You’d better not let The Sun scoop me, what ever it is.” She collected her fur coat from the concierge and jammed a shallow-brimmed cloche over her daringly bobbed hair. “But I’ll see you soon, I hope?”

  I nodded. “As soon as I learn anything.”

  She and Amir exchanged a loaded (annoying) farewell and then she kissed me firmly on the cheeks, as though she had forgotten I looked like a stray the maid brought in. I waved back as she dashed outside.

  “She doesn’t have any taste,” I said.

  The subtle tension still hadn’t left Amir, and I wondered if it had more to do with what ever he had been through last night than the scuffle in the restaurant. He didn’t look tired, but I sensed it anyway.

  “No doubt. I am, as you pointed out, not a safe social decision.”

  I looked up at him, abruptly embarrassed by the ironic cast of his smile. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, she’s a silly girl. Smart, but silly.”

  “And beautiful.”

  Demon eyes, Lily had called them. Even their amusement was too powerful to ignore. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  He shrugged. “Very crudely. Will you come with me? I think you’ll want to see him.”

  I accepted the change in subject gratefully. “He’s recovered?”

  “He’s . . . strange, but not mad. He doesn’t remember much.”