Chapter 17 #3
One of the raccoons perked up and approached the edge of the dumpster, a bruised banana peel adorning its head like a jester’s hat.
“We’re looking for some kids who like to spray-paint the buildings around here. It’s absolutely vital to the fate of the galaxy that we find them. Help us, raccoons; you’re our only hope.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “He means we need to find them to investigate an attempted murder. Brody Young was attacked earlier tonight.” He didn’t know why he bothered.
Sal was the one with the powers, limited though they were.
Sal promised him his own powers would awaken eventually, but it had been decades and Arthur wasn’t holding out hope.
He had the only power he needed anyway: the one that kept him undead and by Sal’s side.
The raccoon placed its paws on the rim of the dumpster and lowered its snoot to rest between them. Perhaps he was only projecting, but Arthur felt sure the raccoon was expressing some form of sympathy.
“Yes, it’s very sad,” Arthur said. “But we’re trying to help him. Do you know where his friends might have gone?”
To Arthur’s surprise, the raccoon lifted its paw and pointed down the road, in the direction of the edge of town.
“They’re that way?” Arthur pointed as well, not daring to tear his eyes from the raccoon’s.
The raccoon gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Excellent! Thank you.” Arthur gave the raccoon a half bow before he remembered himself and straightened up. “You can go about your business now, citizen.”
The raccoon returned to the dumpster, the banana peel falling off its head with an almighty flop.
“Well, I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase,” Arthur said, mounting the bike again. “Geese!” He snapped his fingers. “They don’t like vampires…although I suppose they don’t like anyone. Hateful birds.” He glanced toward Sal, waiting for his rebuttal, but it never came.
Instead, Sal watched him with wide eyes, mouth agape.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur searched the space around them for what might have shocked his husband so—an attacker lurking in the shadows or someone wearing white after Labor Day. “Sal?”
“You talked to them! You commanded creatures of the night!”
Arthur blinked. “I wouldn’t say I commanded them, exactly.
” Discomfort rippled along his arms, a chill he couldn’t quite place.
He’d never exhibited any prowess with vampiric powers before, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He was quite comfortable with Sal being the expert in that particular arena and he wasn’t sure what a change in that dynamic might mean for them.
“I’m sure they were responding to you, not me. You’re the one with powers, after all.”
“I don’t think so.” Salvatore floated up to the bike, taking a seat behind Arthur. “You did all the talking.”
“But I only—” Arthur stopped as he made eye contact with one of the raccoons behind them.
Perhaps he was seeing things, but he could’ve sworn it winked at him.
Winked! That was odd, certainly, but it wasn’t proof of any latent vampire powers awakening within him. “It was a coincidence. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Sal said without an ounce of humor. Blessedly, he let the matter drop as they pedaled in the direction the raccoon had indicated.
Arthur didn’t stop thinking about it, though.
He felt the same as he always did at night—stronger, faster, lighter on his feet, with sharper vision.
But he didn’t feel like he could summon a swarm of bats or order wolves around like he’d seen powerful vampires do.
He knew vampiric powers developed with age, an echo of one’s sire, but he’d begun to suspect maybe talent might skip a generation.
His own sire was formidable, but he himself, not so much.
He’d decided long ago he didn’t want to be powerful. He just wanted peace.
A light tapping on his shoulder followed by Sal’s voice saying his name interrupted his thoughts, and he squeezed the brakes.
“If you can extract your head from the clouds, I do believe we’ve arrived at our destination.” Sal gestured at the Trident Falls welcome sign, which had been in a constant state of mid-redesign since they’d moved there.
Two boys stood amid an impressive collection of spray paint.
Arthur immediately recognized them as the pair who’d hassled him at the coffee shop.
One of them, who had shaggy blond hair and a neon-pink hoodie, added finishing touches to the Falls part of the sign.
He’d changed the F to a B while keeping the font the same.
Sal snorted a laugh, but Arthur thought this wasn’t the time to be indulging in puerile jokes.
Their approach hadn’t been stealthy, what with the teal bicycle and Arthur’s hasty braking, so by the time they were in comfortable speaking range, both boys had put down their cans of spray paint and were waiting.
“Isn’t it past old people’s bedtimes?” said the ginger boy.
“Luke, they’re vampires, they stay up all night,” Pink Hoodie said to him.
“Oh, right.” Luke, the ginger, scowled and crossed his arms. “You better not have called the cops on us.”
“Feeling guilty about something?” Arthur adjusted his shoulders and stood as tall as he could to convey a sense of boldness. These two might have turned on Brody, but perhaps they’d think twice about attacking a vampire. Two, in fact.
“No.” Pink Hoodie laughed. “We made this sign better.”
“I’m not talking about the sign,” Arthur said. “I’m talking about attempted murder.”
This at last chased the mocking smiles from their faces.
“We didn’t have anything to do with that,” Pink Hoodie said, “and if you want to ask us questions, you need a warrant.”
“Sawyer, they’re not cops,” Luke said in a low voice.
“Shut up, I know that,” Sawyer shot back. “Don’t correct me in front of bloodsuckers.”
“You corrected me first!” Glaring at Arthur and Salvatore, Luke said, “My dad says vampires killed him, anyway. Why are you talking to us?”
Arthur’s heart sank. He hoped Brody was still alive, though they might have gotten news otherwise. “You’re his friends, or you were, before he changed his stance on the paranormal issue, I suppose.”
“What are you talking about?” Sawyer said. “There’s no way the mayor would change his mind about your type.”
“Oh my, I think there’s been a miscommunication.” Sal’s fingers danced gleefully before him. “And I’m not even responsible this time. How fun!”
“Look, we didn’t hurt the mayor, okay? We were doing something else when he was killed,” said Luke.
“Yeah that’s right! We have an alibi!” Sawyer puffed up his chest. “We were over at city hall taking back what his assistant stole from us.”
“Oh my god, Sawyer. Don’t just admit it.”
“They’re not cops, you said so!” Sawyer turned to face Arthur and Sal again, pointing an accusatory finger. “You have to tell us if you’re cops…right?”
Sal shuddered. “Ugh. To think you’d mistake us for one of them. This is worse than the time Anna Wintour thought my Versace sunglasses were knockoffs.”
“They were knockoffs. But we’re not cops.” Arthur cleared his throat and stepped forward, hoping to return the conversation to the matter at hand. “Out of curiosity, what…uh…did you take from city hall?”
“Only what was rightfully ours to begin with,” said Luke.
“Yeah, that lady took our paint cans!” Drops of spit flew from Sawyer’s mouth as he spoke. “Took Brody’s whole backpack. And you know what? I don’t think she was allowed.”
“Yeah, it’s not like she’s a cop. She didn’t have a warrant or anything. We know our rights!” Luke glared at Arthur.
“Just a reminder that we are also not cops,” Arthur said tentatively.
It wasn’t the answer he’d been seeking, but Luke and Sawyer were beginning to fill in some of the gaps.
At least now he knew who had broken into Quinn Clark’s office and why.
Perhaps it was all connected. “Do you know how Brody felt about his backpack being confiscated? He must have been angry if he broke into city hall to get it back.”
“Huh?” Luke scrunched his face. “He wasn’t even with us—”
Sawyer coughed loudly.
“I mean…if we were there, he wouldn’t have been with us. You know…hypothetically.”
“Yeah, hypothetically, Brody had to go home because of his curfew.” Sawyer shifted his weight back and forth, glancing around at nothing in particular. “Does that answer your questions? Or do you still think we had something to do with the mayor’s death?”
“You misunderstand.” Arthur shook his head. “We’re not here about what happened to the mayor. This is about what happened to Brody Young.”
The troublemakers’ demeanors changed almost immediately. Sawyer’s eyes went wide and Luke’s shoulders slumped.
“What do you mean what happened to Brody?” All the bluster had gone out of Luke’s voice, and he suddenly sounded as young as he was.
“He was attacked,” Arthur said slowly, watching them for any signs of guilt. “He was in critical condition the last we heard.”
Sawyer swore, then turned and began shoving paint into his bag. “We gotta go see him.”
“Will they let us in this late?” Luke asked as he helped his friend pack.
“I may not be a master of reductive reasoning,” Sal began in a low voice, and Arthur was so thrown by the boys’ reactions he didn’t bother to correct him, “but I don’t think they hurt Brody.”
Arthur nodded as the boys picked up their own bikes and began to pedal toward the hospital.
It was possible the boys were lying, but he’d seen genuine surprise and concern in their eyes upon learning of their friend’s condition.
It was a relief to rule them out, but it left Arthur with no obvious suspects.
Perhaps the graffiti had nothing at all to do with why someone had hurt Brody, or why Brody had killed the mayor.
“It sounds like they were the masterminds behind the break-in at city hall. At the very least, we may be able to lure Quinn into a conversation with that information.”
“Brilliant thinking, darling. She wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of brunch when I extended the invitation, but this ought to do the trick. We simply must text her and dangle this juicy carrot.”
“You extended the invitation? When did you have time for that?” Arthur asked as he extracted the cell phone from his pocket.
“When you were off snooping at the dentist’s, I made myself busy. Nora, and I suspect Quinn now, will be round the Iris Inn tomorrow at ten.”
Arthur handed the phone to Sal and watched as his husband typed out a message.
Hello, dear Quinn! Have you given any thought to our brunch invitation? We heard some delicious gossip about that break-in at your office we think you might be interested in. We’ll tell you everything over mimosas! Xoxo Sal
“Sal!” Arthur exclaimed, grappling the phone out of his hands as Sal hit send.
“What is it now? Do you not approve of my texting etiquette? I even included some hugs and kisses in case she took any of that the wrong way. Wouldn’t want her to expect an interrogation.”
Arthur clicked on Quinn’s contact card and flipped to the notebook page on which he’d written Brody’s mystery texter’s number. He held them up side by side and motioned for Sal to look.
The numbers matched.
Arthur smiled. “She may not expect an interrogation, but it’s exactly what she’ll get.”
“Oh, goodie!” Sal clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s talk menu. What says, ‘We’re oh so sorry to ask, but did you try to kill a teenager?’ Waffles or pancakes?”