Counting Costs Page 2

  I don’t run the water. It’s like a game of Simon Says and Steph didn’t say I had to mask any sound. So I put a plastic cup against the wood and enhance my super-powered hearing. Yeah, I refer to my unholy blood fueled powers like it’s spidey sense.

  Vampires aren't generally thought of as superheroes but maybe I'll bust some stereotypes. Anything to cope with all the changes. And it makes unlife a Hell of a lot more positive to imagine myself juggling great power and responsibility instead of a vampiric curse.

  I’m frustrated in my efforts at eavesdropping, though. Stephanie’s way older and exponentially wiser than I am. Neither she nor her guest say a word. But they can’t do jack or squat about the Belfry’s creaky floorboards. Thank God for old apartments and the landlords who rent them. The sounds aren’t much for human ears to write home about but to my undead eardrums, there’s a music to the mysterious guest’s passage.

  They’re bigger than Stephanie, which isn’t too unusual because she’s tiny. But the guest is well over twice her size judging by their tread, large enough that I’m glad my mattress is foam instead of breakable springs. I can also tell that said person isn’t wearing shoes. I didn’t see any by the door or the bed besides Stephanie's. What's more, a faint muffled tapping tells me they have calluses that’d give a podiatrist a coronary. So, whoever my sire’s been entertaining probably goes barefoot daily. Interesting.

  I dig in my pockets, searching for something to jot all these details down with. It's not a problem at the moment for some reason, but I'm used to having a memory that sucks. I write everything in a notebook but it's kept at my bedside not by the toilet. Somenight I should run down to CVS and grab a pack of pocket notebooks. If I don’t forget to remind myself to do that, of course.

  My nostrils flare and I take a deep breath in order to let out a dramatic sigh in honor of my swiss-cheese brain. And what I smell reminds me vaguely of wet dog. Not fell-in-the-pool pooch, or even drenched-in-record-rainfall rover. More like doggie-in-a-light-drizzle.

  Before you go second-guessing my senses, Stephanie’s guest isn’t a werewolf. They’re way stinkier than whoever’s currently walking out my front door and smell like both human and wolf, not wet hair. I’d have recognized that odor when I walked in the building and assumed my buddy Scott was over. I’ve never smelled this particular type of biped before. But whatever he is, it’s not human or canine.

  Oh yeah. That’s another clue my nose gives me. Testosterone. I can tell who’s got that as their majority hormone. Really alive people, anyway. Other vampires mostly smell genderless unless we take pains to artificially scent ourselves.

  Somenight, I’ll try a frivolous perfume just for kicks. There’s a whole line of unusual cologne, everything from soup to old books. I smile, imagining the reactions I might get from the ancient vamps if I walk around smelling like a library. Maybe one or more of them will weep for Alexandria.

  Anyway, I hear my sire’s guest exit before she shuts and locks the door behind him. I tap one finger for each clue I learned and repeat them under my breath in an effort to remember them long enough to jot everything down in my notebook.

  When Stephanie opens the door to the bathroom, I dash out like a cat who heard a can opener. Pouncing on my bed, I reach for my latest composition notebook and flip to the first empty page. I fumble the cap off my pen and scrawl out the following: male, huge, barefoot, hairy, not a werewolf. Well, I write it in Latin like everything else of a sensitive nature but I’m translating it here in the interest of clarity and sanity. Don’t say I never do anything for you, okay?

  “Are you through?”

  “Yeah, just about.” I sit up and smile.

  But Steph isn’t smiling. She just shakes her head and sighs in the massive folder’s general direction. After that, my sire heads directly to the fridge where she gets a bag of blood to warm up in the coffee maker I keep for that purpose. It’s a good idea. Since her attention's occupied, I’m able to snag my favorite mug before she does.

  Stephanie has a way of making all the little things a touch more annoying than they have to be. Sort of like the opposite of my flesh-and-blood mother, who makes creature comforts a little better all the time. But Ma doesn't really come into this story. For now, it’s just me and Steph, tackling something bigger than a compilation of every High School homework assignment I ever had to complete.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, you know.” Stephanie peers at me over the now open folder. “Many of these pages hold instructions for filling the others out.”

  “Huh.” I lean my chin on one hand, reading the top sheet upside-down. “So, Gina Paolucci’s psyching me out.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “By making sure I’m nice and intimidated by this whole process.”

  “As you should be.”

  “But you just said the paperwork—”

  “I’m talking about the witch’s avatar.” She turns her head, tawny hair cascading over one raw silk-clad shoulder. "Becoming the responsible party for another sentient being is a process which should give anyone pause."

  “Um.” And Steph’s got me there. The mundane aspect of parenthood is scary enough. But Leora sometimes has Baba Yaga’s consciousness riding along in her body, even though most of the time she’s just a normal human girl. It’s part of how she assists the witch. “Well, but Gina doesn’t know anything about Baba or the other supernatural stuff.”

  “Really?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “So no, not—” she makes with the air quotes, “really.” She gazes at the papers, sighing. “Honestly, all these modern regulations are quite perplexing.”

  “I don’t see what’s so mysterious about them.” I shrug. “I mean, there must have been formalities to follow in your time, too. Right?”

  “They differed greatly in nature, Tino.” She lets out a motherly cluck. “A pity you can’t simply make a declaration on your honor, for instance.”

  “But that’s what these are.” I flip past a handful of pages filled with instructions in three different languages. She’s right, of course. “Honor’s just something they want you to show in writing nowadays, is all.”

  “Strange times.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I let Steph have her get off my lawn moment and try not to judge. Who knows? In a handful of centuries, I might have the same attitude.

  I sit down with my sire and we begin reading all the paperwork. We get through about twenty-five pages before I hear the theme from Inspector Gadget.

  The phone rings. Because of course it does right when I’m already busier than a bee in summer. It's on the work line. The number has no name attached but looks familiar. So I answer it. What else can I do?

  ***

  "Valentino?"

  "Holy shit! Zack Milano!" I smack my face with my palm. "Dude I'm so sorry. I just haven't heard from you in how many years?"

  "I know, I know." The voice on the other line sounds tired, maybe even a little strung out. And that's not typical at all for this old frenemy of mine.

  "So where have you been anyway?" Zack is something of a local celebrity. He loves being seen out and about doing things because of course he does. I knew Zack Milano back during high school. He wasn't at Cranston West because his parents sent him to a fancy private school in Warwick. Instead, we ran into each other at Thespian District and State competitions every year. Where he trounced me soundly every time we entered in the same category.

  Zack takes his time before answering. And that's another difference from what I remember of him. He's had a quick wit and been an insufferable chatterbox the entire time I've known him. I shut my eyes and rub my temples, cursing my shady memory. Something nags at the back of my mind, an extremely recent event. Something to do with Zack Milano. But I just can't place it. Worst PI ever, right?

  I feel something cold and soft touch my forearm. When I open my eyes I see Stephanie, her face a mask of concern. Do I somehow look like I've been mortally injured while tryi
ng to recover from a brain fart? If that's the case I'm going to have to do some practicing in the mirror and fix it. No wait. I can't do that, because vampires have no reflection. It sucks to be undead.

  Finally, Zack speaks. "Sort of underground I guess." He lets out an ironic little chuckle, something more high-pitched than his usual fare. So he's had problems. I grin, which makes me feel like a tool. Thank God he can’t see that.

  And now I feel like a sorry sack of manure. Nobody's perfect. But Zack was the kind of guy who had everything in the world going for him. I mean, to some people, I might appear that way too. Or at least before I got turned, anyway. Still, I can't escape feeling a little vindicated by an old rival’s distress. I’m only human. Sort of. At least I can tell when I'm being a jerk and try to correct for it.

  Good old Zack Milano pulled crazy amounts of performance talent from seemingly nowhere in every competition. Because of that, I never placed higher than silver at State level. And, I never got to National. Not even with my best performance, courtesy of Maury and our scene from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

  "So what can I do for you?" I'm dying to know, or I would be if I wasn't already sort of dead.

  "I hear you're in the PI business." So that's how it's going to be. I’m a contact, the “guy” this locally famous Rhode Islander knows. Zack Milano's one of the last people I want to help at this point in time, but his money’s still green and I’m trying to become a dad. Maybe working on his case will reveal whatever memory landmine lies buried in my subconscious. And it won't hurt my foster application to have more in the bank account than I expected.

  "You heard right. I'm in the investigation business. And I've got time if you've got something for me to do."

  "Boy do I ever." Zack sighs. It's heavy, like somehow the air coming from his lungs is radioactive, Chernobyl style.

  "Well then lay it on me, man."

  Before Zack speaks again Stephanie is shaking her head, pointing at my bookshelf. I turn, trying to see which book she's indicating. Stephanie's literary choices always mean trouble for me later. Or maybe she knows bad news is coming, and that's why she gives me reading assignments. I can't figure out which. Hopefully I won’t take a hundred years to suss her true motivations out. But anyway, it’s clear my sire thinks Zack's little job means big trouble.

  "This problem of mine might be a little close to home for you Tino." I hear him swallow something on the other end of the line. "I'm missing about a week's worth of time with no idea of what I was doing. Except there's proof. I was on the air." Zack's an anchor on Channel forty-two news. "You get how hard that is, right?" There’s a strain in his tone. Desperation. Stephanie’s probably right, dammit.

  "Yeah, I understand." No I don't. As far as I'm aware, I know nothing about missing an entire week from my own memory. But then again, my recall is so bad maybe Zack knows something I don't.

  "So I need you to help me figure out what really happened. Do you think you can do that?"

  "Well, tell me where to start and I'll see what I can find out for you." Stephanie pulls her wallet out of her handbag, points at it, then points at the phone. Her intention is abundantly clear. She's helping me remember to ask for payment. "I get half my fee upfront."

  "Okay. Do you take PayPal?"

  "Yeah, I'll text you an invoice." I’m going to charge him top industry rates, of course. News anchors are well-paid in Rhode Island.

  "And I'll text your starting point. Thanks. I really appreciate this, Valentino."

  "It's what I do man."

  "Who'da thought, huh?"

  "Dunno.” I chuckle. “Probably Maury. The man knows everything."

  Zack laughs with me. There's something in his voice this time that I don't like. That chuckle comes with a compulsion, something that makes me want to head out of my apartment and start right away on his case instead of waiting for payment to post. What’s worse, it reminds me of something. But once again, I can't put my finger on what it might be. I just agreed to take this job, and unless Rhode Island's most popular news anchor somehow lacks the funds to pay me, I'm on his hook. We say our goodbyes and he hangs up first. Because of course he does.

  "What a cocky son of a bitch." I shake my head.

  "If that's how you feel then why are you working for him?" Stephanie’s eyebrow is as arched as her tone.

  "Well I'd say I gotta eat, but you and I both know that's impossible. I've got rent to pay on two places, so I guess that counts. And Leora needs food."

  “I don’t like the sound of that goose chase he’s got you on.” She lowers her eyebrow. “Still, he doesn't sound like an utterly horrible person."

  "He never does at first."

  "Interesting."

  I swallow even though I don't have to. It's reflex, part and parcel with hearing what sounds like bad news. Stephanie's idea of interesting is usually pretty scary. She looks harmless enough, but the kind of trouble she chases is definitely not. At least I'm fairly confident I won't have to rescue her from body snatching Lovecraftian horrors this time.

  "So should we get back to this?" I tap the remaining stack of paper with one finger.

  "I believe we are stuck at this part." She indicates a line labeled home address.

  "I mean, why can't I just put down the one for here?" I know the answer to this, of course. I just don’t like it.

  "Because these instructions say they will ensure your living space is suitable.” She waves a hand around her head. "The mortal authorities won’t condone this one-room apartment for a fourteen-year-old girl and her completely unrelated single male guardian."

  "Yeah." I shake my head. "And they won't like my studio space, either. I think I’ve got competition for custody, too." I tell Stephanie all about the Caprices.

  My sire sits back in the chair, listening as she drinks warmed blood from my second-favorite mug. Her eyes narrow at my account of the near-miss accident outside Rhode Island Social Services, too. Once I finish my tale, she’s drained her mug. I refill it and hand it back before she answers. With a question, of course, because she’s Stephanie McQueen.

  “That does complicate matters. I don't suppose your income is at a level where you can afford a third residence?"

  "It's not. Not even if Milano pays me five times the industry maximum."

  Stephanie is flipping through the papers at the back of the stack, flipping through some recommended guidelines. She holds one up.

  "It says here they favor environments in which the child has their own room, and access to the company of other children near their own age."

  "What are you a speed reader or something?" I blink. There’s still a lot I don’t know about Stephanie.

  "As a matter fact I am. However, I am no expert on good environments for children in this day and age." I don’t dare ask about other days or ages. If I do, we’ll be here all night.

  "So what do you think I should do?"

  "I just said I'm no expert."

  "Well you're the best I've got."

  "I'd suggest calling your mortal and modern associates and asking what they know about foster care."

  Stephanie has a point. Scott’s a werewolf who also happens to be a teenager. Maybe he knows some foster kids from school. And if he doesn't, I could ask Frankie. He’s not supernatural himself, but he belongs to a magical family, somewhat literally. In fact, he and his siblings were orphaned just days after Leora's mother died.

  Wait a minute. Frankie is legally an adult. Maybe he’s dealing with a similar situation right this minute. We could help each other. I watch my sire’s lips slowly pull up, just enough to dimple her left cheek. And she’s practically glowing. It’s like she’s been watching my entire thought process somehow. But as far as I know, she’s not telepathic.

  "Stephanie, I'm so sorry."

  "Yes, generally you are." She breaks into a full grin which I've come to learn means she’s waxing sarcastic and not intentionally being a megabitch. "So you finally realized that you have more
knowledgeable connections than little old me."

  "Yup." I stand. "Thanks for all your help so far, and the moral support while I was talking to Zack Milano." I wrinkle my nose.

  "Don't mention it." Stephanie stands too. I wonder whether she means to say you're welcome or if I should take that statement literally and not mention that she was helping me with paperwork. I figure it probably doesn't matter in the long run. “By the way, I highly recommend having a look through The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot. It’s dense but a valuable read.”

  I open the door for Stephanie and she walks toward it. She's just the sort of person you feel the need to do that for. It's something like a vibe she has, maybe part and parcel with her age and experience. But it’s possible she's always been like this, even back in her mortal days. Whenever that was.

  “Hey Stephanie?”

  “Yes?” She’s stopped and turned, her heart-shaped face tilted up.

  “You don’t have to answer but I always wondered. How old are you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal that detail.” She touches two fingers to her breastbone, which is completely covered by her blouse. “But I can tell you I spent my mortal days in mysterium. My vows after my last sunset prohibit me from saying more than I already have. All else you must discover elsewhere.”

  “Thanks.” It’s all I can do to keep from diving for my notebook. But I suppress that urge and wait until she’s out the door.

  After she leaves, I grab a pencil and jot that down. I pick up my phone to google mysterium and realize I've forgotten to send my PayPal information to Zack. I rectify that and shortly afterward he gives me an address, a date, and a time. I should start working on his case, but first I do the search.

  Wikipedia says it’s a term used by ancient Greco-Roman mystery cults. Awesome. So my sire’s an ex-priestess of something. But what? I jot down another note, realizing the second question doesn’t bug me as much as the first.

  With that inquisitive itch mostly scratched, I need to make more progress with Leora's application. So I text Frankie. He tells me to go ahead and bring the paperwork down to my office so he can meet me there.