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I feel how he looks, so I’m not sure how to answer. Old Man Fitzpatrick’s always been a good neighbor even if he's the world's biggest gossip. I used to look up to Riley, Scott’s dad, back when I was a tiny tot. But I’m not sure I can tell the man’s grandson about the sniper or how I got on the roof to confront a lone gunman in the first place. As I try to decide, a sharp new scent rises up over hormonal teen. This one’s coffee and cigarettes, and it's at the door the EMTs left open behind them. I turn.

  “Hey.” A mop of curly hair tops a thin face with a hawkish nose in the middle.

  “Weintraub.” I nod at my oldest friend. We survived everything together, from toddling around the playground to the theater department back at Cranston West. And he used to be my partner back when we were beat cops, too.

  “Crispo.” Detective Maury Weintraub grins. He’s way more intimidating than he used to be back before he got the promotion I didn’t.

  “Uh, I gotta—” Scott mumbles something about a curfew.

  “No.” Maury shakes his head. “This is my case, and you’re not leaving. Not until you both answer a few questions.”

  Chapter Two

  I’m standing there with Scott Fitzpatrick, trying not to gag on a stench coming off him that only I can smell. I hope, because it looks like the kid's in aromatic distress himself. I’m worried he’s about to toss his cookies all over the detective on the scene who just happens to be my oldest and best friend in the world. What do you want? It’s Rhode Island. The state motto here should be, “I know a guy.”

  “Okay, questions.” I nod, trying to look like I don't know what I’m talking about even though my old buddy knows better.

  “Fine. I’ll start with this.” Maury pulls one of those blister packs out of his coat pocket. I know it’s Nicorette before I even see the printing on the silver side he pushes the gum through. He pops one chicklet in his mouth and chews away. Nicotine gum is maybe half as pungent as Scott. “Why did you leave the house, Tino?”

  “Saw the broken glass in there.” I jerk my chin in the general direction of the bathroom door. “Thought maybe I could catch whoever hurt Dad.” I play dumb because it’s easy, and Maury always buys that. “What was it that hit him, a rock?”

  “A bullet. Shot.” Maury stops chewing. “Someone shot your dad, Tino. And you mean to tell me you went out there and then bring the first guy you see inside like you don’t suspect him?” He snorts. “No wonder you didn’t make detective.”

  “Um.” I turn and notice a uniformed officer behind Scott. “This is just Scott Fitzpatrick. He’s the neighbor’s grandkid. And look at him, Maury.” I jerk a thumb at the kid’s face. “Green around the gills like this, and you think he’s the attacker?”

  “If it were my dad, I would have popped the first person I saw outside in the mouth, green kid with tummy troubles or not.” Maury sticks another piece of gum in his mouth and goes back to chomping away, unaware that by saving his lungs, he might be damning his heart. I hear it racing. Or maybe he’s just nervous while on a case with people he knows. Or excited. I’ll take Things I Never Wanted to Know About Maury Weintraub for two-hundred, Alex.

  “Well, maybe my temper is better than yours.” I shrug.

  “Except I know that’s not true, Tino.” Maury stands with his hands to either side of his hips. Next to, not on. Like he thinks he’s some kind of gunslinger. And he’s right on both counts.

  “Well, okay. So when I got outside I hollered a blue streak.”

  “Um, yeah.” Scott nods, then puts one hand over his mouth and glances at the sink for a moment. I can’t believe he’s backing me up without any clue of why I’m acting so dodgy. “Yeah, I heard Valentino yelling and came to see what was going on.”

  “And you don’t have a busted schnoz because?”

  “I hollered right back.” Scott cracks his knuckles but thinks better of it and rubs what passes for his gut instead. Kid should be in Planet Fitness ads. If I sound jealous, it’s because I am. “And I’m a big guy. Scary, don’t you know?” Scott waggles his eyebrows.

  We look at each other. I can tell Maury’s trying not to bust his gut laughing out of respect for Dad. I nod and let the moment pass. Everyone’s back to serious business for now.

  “So, did you see anything?” Maury’s eyebrow goes up, peeking above the rim of his wireframe glasses.

  “Just Tino.” Scott’s voice carries a little lilt that reminds me of his grandpa. “And the ambulance after that.”

  “And how about you, Tino?” Maury turns and leans in the doorway sideways, just like he used to while on the lookout for teachers when we prepped pranks back in High School. I wonder what he’s watching out for this time. Then I realize what’s missing from this picture. Maury’s here alone, without a partner.

  “It’s Sunday, so I came over for dinner with the folks.” I sigh, running a hand across the back of my neck. “It all starts like any other Sunday since I moved out, too. Except that I hear something after Dad went to the can.” I explain everything. In human terms, of course.

  “Hmm.” I don’t like the conniving look on Maury’s mug one bit. “And you say your mom called Emergency services after you figured out your dad got shot?”

  “No, Maury.” I roll my eyes because I know this repeat-the-question trick. “You heard me the first time. I said I thought some punk threw a rock through the window. Ma thought he had a heart attack because she rushed off so fast she missed the glass and blood.”

  “So, how did you know what she said all the way out here?” His smile reminds me of a shark’s. Maury’s looking at the phone. Yeah, my parents still use a land-line, and it’s on the kitchen wall farthest from the hall with the bathroom.

  “Huh?” I blink. There’s nothing in my eye. Maury must wonder how I heard Ma on the phone from outside at the curb. There’s no explanation I can give him without revealing what I am, either. Maybe he'll think I'm secretly from Krypton.

  “Weird.” Maury shakes his head, dropping the predatory act. “Something doesn’t add up about the timing of events here, but I don't see how it's possible for you to be the cog in this machine.”

  “How do you figure?” Scott turns his head, giving Maury the fisheye.

  “I know all of Tino’s tells.” My detective friend chuckles. “We don’t just go back. We go all the way back.”

  “Really?” Scott’s still rubbing his tummy, but he grins, anyway. The kid’s as much of a gossip hound as his grandpa. He knows Maury and me were tight but not for how long.

  “Yeah.” I nod, wishing the chuckle over fond memories could shake itself loose from my throat. “Our moms were in the same Lamaze class. We were born three days apart.”

  “The joke is, Tino’s mom tagged mine into the maternity ward on her way out.” Maury sighs and deflates like he’s been running on half the sleep he needs. He looks pretty bad now that I see him without all the investigative posturing. “Whoever did this to your dad, Tino, we’ll catch him.”

  I nod, choke out a thanks, and doubt him. Maury Weintraub is only human, after all. And he doesn't even guess that the perp's a woman. I listen to him breathe, hear the crackle of imminent pneumonia or something worse in his lungs. His skin’s dull, too; yellower than it was last time I saw him. But I don’t smell any drink on him, not even the sick-sweet Kosher wine we always used to sneak from his parents’ sideboard. Instead, Maury smells dry, like something out of a museum. And I don’t like it, not one bit despite my jealousy about the promotion, but I can’t place it. I file the information away in my brain for now.

  I look at Scott again. Kid stinks to high heaven like a bucket of locker room towels but looks healthy as a horse. And I’m standing between the two of them, undead. It starts feeling too much like the start of a really bad Dad joke, the kind where you know the punch line will be one of the worst puns you’ve ever heard, but you just can’t stop your buddy from delivering it. And then it all adds up, so I ask the million-dollar question.

  “Hey, Maur?” Not that. />
  “Yeah?”

  Here it is. “Don’t you got a partner since making detective?”

  Maury sighs and turns his head. In profile, his face looks even more pinched, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. His head bows like someone settled a barbell on his shoulders.

  “Larry’s dead, Tino.” Maury tucks the pencil into the wire spiral and then sticks his unused notepad back in his pocket. “Found in his unmarked car in a parking lot downtown early this morning.”

  “I’m sorry.” I reach out with one hand before realizing it’ll feel too cold and Maury will notice. But he doesn’t take it.

  “You couldn’t have known.” My pal peels himself out of the doorway, then heads past Scott and me without an upward glance. “Anyway, call me if you see or think of anything else.”

  And just like that, Maury Weintraub has left the building. I remember Detective Larry Tierney from the Precinct, too. He was pretty sharp and well-connected, but always had time to make nice with the beat cops like me. If they’re having a wake, I realize I want to be there. But then I hang my head, remembering how Larry had no family. I wonder who’s going to make the arrangements or if he’ll just go in a pauper’s grave alone.

  “Woah,” says Scott. “Heavy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” I sigh and lean against the counter. After making sure I’m not too close to the oven. Thing’s still on and you know, vampire. Flammable. Ugh. I reach out and shut it off.

  “So, why aren’t you calling your friend back then?” Scott’s still there, and I suddenly wish he wasn’t.

  “Just get out of here, Scott.” I wave a hand, not even looking at him because I hope that’ll seem more dismissive. I push people away when stuff upsets me.

  “Look, I know there’s something you’re not telling him.”

  “You don’t know nothing, kid.” I stand up straight, put my hands on my hips. If dismissive isn't working, then my defense mechanism decides it’s time for aggressive. “Except the way back to your house.”

  “Sorry.” Scott turns, heads for the door he came in by. For whatever reason, I think of a kicked dog, tail between its legs and all.

  When the door shuts behind him, I realize I’m alone in my parents’ house. I don’t live there anymore, and the one thing I've got to have isn't here. And that’s important because I need blood. Badly.

  The only blood at the Cranston house is on the floor in the john. My father’s blood, and I made myself a promise never to sample that vintage if you know what I mean. And even if I hadn’t that’s tampering with a crime scene. Hell to the no to the way.

  I leave, thumbing the lock on the doorknob before closing the side entrance behind me. I think my old two-seater beater will be a haven from the smell of the only thing that does my body good anymore. But you probably know by now that I’m a big fangy idiot with sucky luck.

  Some of the blood got on my shoe somehow. I spend the entire drive trying not to put my foot in my mouth. Literally. The fact that it has to be on the pedal helps like a band-aid on a sucking chest wound. Which my father might have for all I know.

  The streetlamp outside the triple-decker I rent in Rolfe Square is one of the old sodium deals. It’s a “retro neighborhood” or “revival” or something. But whatever they call it, the vintage lighting makes everything look orange. I hate that color. My pale skin looks spray-tanned under it, and that makes me bitter. I used to turn a golden olive color at the beach in summer, and now I’m facing down my very first one allergic to the sun. Happy undeath day to me, I guess?

  I go up the stoop, open the door and head down the building’s shared hall. A set of narrow stairs leads up, and I take both flights. My apartment’s the whole third floor, which isn’t saying much. There’s not a lot of usable square footage with all the slanted ceilings and dormer windows. I call it “the Belfry,” because vampire, bats, belfries. It's a good name for an inconvenient space. I got a good deal on the rent, though.

  I get away with foil over the windows to keep things sun-safe and hope no kid ever chucks a rock or bats a thousand through one of them at high noon. It’s unlikely for kids to play ball on a street this busy during the day, at least.

  I’d find a basement apartment and move, but breaking the lease makes me lose my deposit, and the rents skyrocketed last week. If only the fangs and thirst for blood came with millions of dollars like it always seems to in the movies. I'd buy the building and get steel shades put up inside all the windows. Maybe in five years I’ll have saved up enough to find a more sun-proof place.

  I toss all of my clothes and the shoes into the bathtub and run the cold water over them. My sneakers might be ruined, but whatever. At least I’m not in danger of eating them now, which would also wreck them. I have no idea what else got blood on it besides that one shoe, so it’s better to be safe than sorry. My pajamas are a cozy change from the Sunday dinner polo and khaki wardrobe. And what's wrong with that, anyway? It’s okay for a vampire to like wearing flannel and fluffy bunny slippers.

  A bag of blood from the fridge tides me over, but I take another one out and warm it up on the burner in the coffee maker I bought for that purpose. Random acts of parkour make vampires hungry. Who knew?

  I think about how much of a wreck Maury is, wonder if I should call him up, say something comforting. Maybe even tell him to get to a doctor. But I can’t think of a way to say any of that without giving my new unlife away. I mean, what am I going to do, call him up and say, “Maur, you smell like death and your ticker sounds out of whack?” He’s got no idea I’m a vampire. No one is supposed to find out, either.

  The world doesn’t know, and the old vamps will kill to keep it that way. Sure, random people find out by accident on occasion, but those get branded as crazies. There are rumors about new vampires vanishing, too. Folks like me, who are new to all of this and can’t keep their mouths shut. Their human families, also, sometimes.

  I go my whole life staying out of trouble, keeping my nose clean, avoiding the life of crime my impeccably Italian background could have let me in on. I get experience as a cop, quit when they shun me out of detective, go about planning for my own PI business. And then some random chick at a bar puts the bite on me and I’m inducted into something even more secret and harder to get out of than Organized Crime. And potentially as deadly, too.

  I’m not sure what to do with myself for more than the short term, either. It’s only been about a month, just long enough for me to get the instruction manual basics and meet the vampire King and his big-wigs once. And I can't go forward with officially hanging out a shingle as a PI until I clear it with the vampire authorities, either. I haven’t felt this clueless since starting Middle School.

  I’d do what I did then, stand in the bathroom and ask myself a bunch of questions. But that’s impossible. Vampires can’t look at themselves in the mirror. All I can see are my clothes, hanging in mid-air like they’re on an invisible mannequin. Or the Invisible Man. Can’t see other vamps in the mirror, either. Maybe it’s supposed to be a way for us to recognize each other. And it's definitely the reason so many vampires wear hats. Those make it easier to get past a mirror without people noticing if you walk fast enough. On the other hand, we can hear heartbeats or the lack thereof as a way of identifying each other. The mirror thing is just plain stupid.

  I go over to the bathroom, mostly a waste of space for me now except the whole washing off blood exercise I performed earlier. Then I turn to look at the john, flushing it so the water doesn’t go moldy and start to reek. I contemplate filling it with potting soil and transplanting my Christmas Cactus into it. It’d save space out in the big room that makes up the rest of the apartment, so I decide it might actually be a practical idea.

  “Hullo, Valentino.”

  I jump nearly out of my skin at the voice, husky and low. Its owner got the drop on me partly because the flushing sound hid every move she made, but mostly because she’s undead like me.

  “Stephanie, what th
e Hell!”

  Chapter Three

  The vampire who turned me stands in my apartment, uninvited. Which is perfectly within the rules for our kind since that whole invitation thing is fake news anyway? I would bounce her out the door if it was in my power to do so. Not because she poses me any danger but because she is and always will be a giant pain in my neck seven ways from Sunday.

  “That’s a nice way to greet a friend, Val.” Steph tosses a lock of wavy brown hair over one shoulder.

  “Don’t call me that, Stephanie. I told you, it’s Tino.”

  “Very well, Tino." She saunters to the one comfy chair in the apartment and drapes herself on its arm. She manages to do this with class, like practically everything else. But somehow she’s like this without being even a tiny bit sexy. Go figure. Stephanie’s a special kind of high-brow.

  "I’m here to offer my support.”

  “Huh?”

  “About your father." Stephanie studies her fingernails, which are glossy with silvery polish. "Shot, wasn’t he?”

  “Like it’s any of your business.” I don't bother asking how she knows because she won't tell me until she feels like it. All the same, I take a whiff of the air. No Anais Anais perfume, plus Steph is more, um, angular than the assassin in a couple of places.

  “You’re my business.” She keeps her head down, looks up at me through her eyelashes. Stephanie seems wholesome and innocent, even though I happen to know those impressions are completely fake. I get the idea that nobody knows the real Stephanie McQueen, and she likes it that way.

  “Yeah, I know.” I reach into a cabinet to get down a mug for the blood in the coffee maker. “Your responsibility, all that Vampire Court compass respect bullshit.”

  “Language, please, Tino." A matronly clucking sound comes from her pouty, youthful mouth. "You weren’t this uncouth when I turned you.”

  “Well, yeah. Might have helped with my attitude later on if you’d told me that’s what you were doing at the time.”