Counting Costs

  Counting Costs

  Supernatural Vigilante Society

  Book Three

  By D.R. Perry

  Copyright © 2018 by D.R. Perry

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction with frequent puns, bad jokes, and pop culture references. All characters depicted are my own creations even when they break the fourth wall or cuss like an amalgamation made from truckers and drunken sailors. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Don’t try any of Esther’s recipes at home. Mrs. Crispo’s are much tastier anyway.

  Cover Design by: James Ruggiero

  First Edition

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  There’s no fortune in favors owed.

  After saving a king but losing a kingdom, Tino’s up to his fangs in debt. But he doesn’t owe money. A vampire’s word is his bond. When a rival, a witch, and a hunter all call in their markers at the same time, Tino’s suddenly got a metric ton promises to keep.

  To keep his vows, Providence’s newest vampire must find missing memories, adopt an orphan, and cure a comatose fiance. Sounds easy, right? Wrong. The Mafia’s standing in his way at every turn. And the holes in his own recall are a total roadblock.

  Meeting obligations is impossible if they’re forgotten. Can Tino pay his debts without cashing in his unlife?

  I owe Baba Yaga, big time.

  All I wanted to do with her borrowed power was rescue some friends. Instead, I helped foil a world-domination plot. And I lost a kingdom in the process. At least that last part wasn’t completely my fault.

  No, I’m not the protagonist in some Eurocentric epic fantasy novel. I’m Valentino Crispo, Private Investigator. Also, I’m a vampire. Which kind of sucks, but I’m getting used to it. The kingdom I mentioned before is a secret vampiric one and yeah, there’s a King. Was, because he’s deposed now and the new guy is a nasty piece of work. But brooding about my unlife is a bad idea now. Sitting in this office is like being on display. And it’s all part of paying back that favor I mentioned earlier.

  I’m applying as a foster parent for Baba’s servant Leora Kupala, who also happens to be an orphaned minor. Yeah, I’m trying to convince a Rhode Island Social Services caseworker that I’m dad material. Good thing they know nothing about my so-called undead life.

  So I’m sitting across from the nice lady in the drab beige office, listening to her list all the paperwork in my immediate future. It’s a fairly straightforward process. But from what she's telling me, I’ll have to submit something the size of an Epic Fantasy manuscript in order to pay off my debt to the notorious witch. Keeping vows is part of being a vampire. We can’t go back on our word without serious consequences.

  All in all, it's not too atypical that I owe Baba Yaga a favor. Last time I made a deal like this with a non-vampire, the homework was helping formulate a cure for a comatose hunter with a werewolf and an alchemist. That’s only almost done, though. Yeah, my life is pretty strange. Or unlife. Whatever you want to call it.

  Here at Rhode Island Services, it comes as little surprise that this process is just one huge knot of tangled red tape to cut through. Since I’m an ex-police officer, following procedure shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s the tower of forms she’s putting in the expandable folder that makes me nervous. For some reason, it reminds me of fire, which no vamp in their right mind likes. How flammable is all that wood pulp, anyway? Something she says catches my ear.

  "Excuse me? Could you repeat that please?"

  "I said, you'll need to schedule a home visit so your caseworker, that's me by the way," she drops me a wink, "can ensure your living space is an adequate and nurturing environment for a young teenage girl like Leora. We always do this when someone applies as a long-term foster parent."

  Shitballs. Fortunately I don't say that out loud. I close my mouth though because it's hanging open. Don’t worry, my fangs aren’t noticeable unless I’m angry or hungry. Which I’m not because it’s the opposite of smart to go meet with the living on an empty stomach.

  "Oh. Yeah. Of course. Can do." No I can't, but this nice lady doesn't need to know that. I will need super-sized help in an itty-bitty time span in order to find anything resembling an “acceptable environment.” I can't think about failing either because I'm not going to like Baba Yaga when she's angry. I also can’t abide the idea of a girl like Leora living out of a trash bag in a group home with non-magical kids. Yeah, the state makes them carry around all their possessions like garbage.

  "That's great Mr. Crispo." The lady smiles, stands, and holds out her deep olive-complected hand.

  I get up too, extending my much paler one, expecting a handshake. But that's not what's going on here. Instead she's got a business card which I didn't notice because my brain craps out on me sometimes. I glanced down and pinch the edge between my thumb and first finger. The name on it is way too familiar. Gina Paolucci. Yeah, that's right. The caseworker for this foster application is the kid sister of the best CSI at Cranston PD. Did I send him something sensitive to analyze just recently? Yes, I did. So I just might owe him, too.

  Finally my memory jogs. I've met Gina before, at one of those police charity mixers. Even danced with her there. How did I not recognize her? Oh yeah. That lousy memory of mine. For whatever reason, my brain is like a sieve. Has been for as long as I can remember. Anyway, maybe she forgot me, too. She hasn't done the typical Rhode Island name drop that usually comes with prior acquaintance in this quirky little state.

  "Thank you so much, Gina, for all your advice, help, and this." I nod, smile, and pick up the overstuffed folder she’s finally finished filling. "I'll make sure to have this back to you in the next week."

  "Make sure and get some help with that. If you need it, I mean. From what Raph always tells me, it was Maury's name on all your paperwork during your days at the precinct."

  "Yeah, Maury sure liked putting his John Hancock all over everything." I try to stifle the nervous giggle aching to escape my throat. I fail. Yeah, she remembers me. Maybe leaving off the name-drop was some sort of test.

  "Just make sure you get it in as soon as possible, Mr. Crispo." Gina's emphasis on using a formal address instead of my given name tells me all I need to know about how seriously she takes her profession. She won't make any exceptions just because her brother worked with me for a few years. If she thinks I'm not a good guardian for Leora Kupala, she'll deny my bid for custody.

  Good for her. Government agencies need more people like Gina, inconvenience for yours truly notwithstanding. I'll just have to do everything I can to make sure I pass her standards.

  "Will do, Miss Paolucci."

  “I mean it. We process first-come, first-served.” I don’t like the way she raises her eyebrows and looks over my shoulder. But I don’t turn my head and look through the glass pane in her office door. “Don’t wait around on this.”

  As I head out I rack my brain trying to think of where Leora can stay if I get custody. I call my studio apartment the Belfry. It’s pretty much one room with a bathroom. I sleep inside a closet with the doors removed. Gina might not hate my place but she won't consider it nurturing. And I can't show her around Baba Yaga’s hut with all the bones in the corner and the salamander living in her fireplace.

  There’s a reason the witch enlisted a vampire to navigate state bureaucracy on her behalf. We’re supposed to be the experts at this kind of thing, blending in, while witches are the rebels of the supernatural world. I suspect Baba’s at least a couple of centuries behind on the mortal times and seems to suffer from a form of supernatural social anxiety. And potentially agoraphobia.

  I take the elevator to the ground floor. It's dark out, so I don't have to worry about going up in flames by walking outside. Luckily, this office has night hours, like the Family Court. The fact that modern-day employers have flexible schedules at all hours sucks hardcore, but it means government services have expanded to keep up.

  I get in my car and set the stack of paper in the passenger seat. As I pull out of the parking spot, a horn blasts. After turning my head hard enough for a mortal to get whiplash, my vampire reflexes manage to avert the impending accident.

  Slamming on the brakes I see the car come up behind me and swerve to one side, rubber streaking the asphalt and stinging my nose. The driver blasts his horn again and waves a fist, his mouth an angry rictus, spouting off profanities in Italian that I only recognize from my late grandfather’s repertoire. I know this guy. He's usually acting as the slumlord in the converted mill building where I rent office space. But tonight, he's a driver. For someone important.

  I recognize the people riding in the back of the black sedan. Caprices. Not the car, the crime family, which is Rhode Island's biggest and best. Supposedly, they've gone mostly white-collar this decade. But that hasn't stopped them from ordering hits on people in the supernatural community very recently, myself included. Big mistake. On their part or mine, it's too early to tell.

  The kid pressing his face against the window is the Mafia Prince, Sebastian Caprice. He's maybe fifteen and wearing clothes with that distressed look, which means they’re brand spanking new, are artificially weathered, and typically distress the contents of the wallet paying for them more than anything else.

  The woman sitting beside him is his mother, Francesca. She looks like she just stepped out of a salon, the kind that believes everything should be straightened, buffed, and polished t
o a high gloss shine. I wonder what people in their income bracket are doing coming out of the Rhode Island Social Services building. I hope it’s court-ordered supervision.

  Francesca flashes me a malicious little smile, her eyes filled with a competitive gleam I don't like. She’s not technically the Boss of the crime family she married into. But rumor has it the real power lurks behind the Caprice Family throne, a space she absolutely inhabits. Gina’s words about first-come first-serve return to me now, though I can’t fathom why. Stupid memory is stupid.

  I try to forget about crime families and focus on making one, sans the felonious part. Pretty much alone. Because the only romantic prospect on my radar is another vampire who I haven't gotten around to expressing my affection for. Yeah, I ought to change that. But you know, we've been a bit busy, saving the world from body-snatching creatures and all.

  When you're stopping hunters from assassinating your friends and family or fighting evil beings in the catacombs under Providence, there isn't much time for romance. So sue me. Nah, don’t bother. I’m broke. And I’m pretty sure Maya looks worse on paper than I do. She just got into town this year and succeeding in Rhode Island is all about who you know.

  I finally drive away, not bothering to stop by the building in Providence I always think of as the vampire club. Now that Whitby’s in charge instead of DeCampo, I don't respect the office of vampire King enough to bother with optional formalities. I passed my Trials, I do what I want. Full members of vampire society are not required to check in every time they visit the city. Take that, Whitby, you usurping bastard!

  As I approach the highway and take the on ramp, I think again about who could help me fill out this paperwork. I'm going to need a wing man but Detective Maury Weintraub is right out of the question. He knows nothing about the supernatural world and I’m not allowed to tell him. That means even though he speaks fluent bureaucrat, I can't give him the information I need translated. Can't ask my own parents for help either, for the same reason. I'll tell them about my family expansion when it happens, though. They’re in the dark about vampirism and all the other things that go bump in the night too. Ma knows something’s different about me but assumes I’m in a more mundane sort of closet.

  Maybe I can ask old man Fitzpatrick for help. That’s my good buddy Scott the werewolf’s grandpa. But the fellow is blind and will need me to read everything on each paper to him. Potentially more than once. It’s my bad, not asking for a set of braille instructions. I'll never get this filled out in a reasonable time frame unless I look elsewhere for help.

  Maybe Raven could help. They're undead like me, nonbinary, and still consider themself DeCampo's right-hand vamp. I already owe them loads of favors though. I suppose I could ask to cancel some of my debt out, considering I helped Raven wrangle control of his magical yet mortal family away from his power-hungry brother. Then again said brother is Whitby. Yeah, the guy who usurped DeCampo which I mentioned is partially my fault. Maybe Raven will decide I owe them my life over that mistake.

  Stephanie might have some ideas about how to proceed with this. She's my vampire sire, which is sort of like saying she's my second mom with fangs. Maybe she'll get a kick out of becoming a grandma on paper. And she'll want to help me honor my debt to Baba Yaga, because if anything happens to me she might end up saddled with my debt. That's just the way vampire favors go. No such thing as bankruptcy or forgiveness upon death.

  I head back to my apartment because that's where Stephanie’s been staying for the last couple of nights. It's only been that long since we got back from stopping the Deep Ones from taking over the world. Seems like forever. I swallow reflexively, trying not to contemplate how long ago things will seem once I've had my centennial.

  There's another thing to ask Stephanie about, some other night when I'm not saving the world from Whitby. Or even just one High School freshman from living in a group home. My sire and I have lots to discuss, so bringing home a stack of paperwork the width of my palm is probably acceptable. Maybe. I hope.

  “Hey Stephanie, I'm home!” I do my best impression of Ricky from I Love Lucy. Which is to say I sound pretty terrible.

  Either she doesn’t get the reference or something’s wrong because there’s no answer. Of course, my instincts go to the latter. It’s way too quiet in here. A vibe I don’t recognize sets my enhanced vampiric nerves humming. So even though I don’t technically need to, I reach for the wall plate and turn the lights on.

  I’m a new enough vampire to still take comfort in illumination. From what my elders tell me that changes with time. Or maybe growing up mortal with sunless and fire-safe light sources has more to do with my feelings on the subject. I don’t know and for once, suspect they’re sailing along in the S.S. Ignorance with me. Flipping that switch negates my apprehensions. And then gives me a whole new set. Thanks for that, Tesla and Edison.

  Stephanie’s sitting up on my bed, which is inside what used to be a closet until I took the doors off and replaced them with light-blocking curtains. This doesn’t bother me in and of itself. She’s slept here before to coach me through the changes that came with the business of getting turned. Also to recover from a harrowing night or two at the vampire club. But my problem isn’t with her directly. It’s that Stephanie’s not alone, and it's impossible to tell whether her companion is a friend or foe.

  I can make out a humanoid figure in the bed behind her but not that person’s identity. I know better than to assume the genders of unknown vampires. At least I think it’s another vamp with Steph. I can’t hear a heartbeat and all the supernatural people I know say zombies don’t exist. So, that’s the simplest explanation I can think of. But my first-hand experience of supernatural beings is still limited, so take my theory with a grain of salt.

  “You’re early.” My sire’s deadpan response is probably designed to deflect my interest in the identity of her guest.

  “Yeah. The nice lady gave me a huge pile of homework and I need help with it, Mom.” I don’t wave the jam-packed folder in her general direction because a blizzard of xerox would be mighty inconvenient right now. Instead, I just hold it up. “See? This paperwork could stop a bullet or even a stake.”

  “That’s nice, Valentino.” She stretches her arms above her head, then out to either side like she’s just waking up.

  “No it’s not. This stuff’s an obligation. Part of my formal vow to you know who." I don't mention Baba because there's no way to tell if the other person here should be privy to the facts of my unlife. "It’s due yesterday and won’t get done without help.”

  “Raven’s the person for that sort of job.” She tilts her head and leans on one arm, a posture that blocks my attempts to peek behind her at whoever else is in my apartment. “Take those down to Warwick.”

  “Well, it’s parental in nature so I thought of you first.” I make with the puppy dog eyes that still work on my mortal mother. “Please, Stephanie.”

  “On one condition.”

  She has me here. Vampires don’t do anything for free. At least we shouldn’t, because our promises restrict us and last indefinitely unless we specifically state otherwise. There’s almost always a formal catch and when there isn’t, unspoken quid pro quo lurks in the shadows of all our interactions. Like the other occupant of my bed.

  “Okay, Steph. Whatever you want.”

  “Go into the bathroom, close the door, and don’t come out until I open it for you.”

  “Is this where you do your disappearing guest trick?" Yeah, I snark off to her. She didn't make me agree to good manners, at least. "Because, just saying, the execution is as amateur as a five-year-old kid’s neighborhood magic show.”

  The only responses that zinger gets are rolled eyes and a tapping foot. Stephanie’s conditions make the price for her help a bargain-basement deal, though. It could have been way worse and we both know it. She didn’t say I couldn’t try investigating who she’s with later.

  I realize now that my sire leaves these loopholes on purpose. She’s done it the entire time I’ve known her, so maybe she's actually fond of me or something. I try not to smile too visibly, then set the folder on the tiny breakfast table, head into the bathroom, and close the door.