Tainted Blood (Hell's Belle Book 2) Read online

  "You can't stay here," I warned. "I will have you exorcised."

  "Horse shit," he countered. "I suggest you add some bookshelves to the walls and make a small library back here. This place could use a touch of class."

  Was I getting decorating advice from a ghost?

  "You can't stay here," I repeated, adding more force behind the words.

  "Yes, I can," he insisted. "Please allow me to introduce myself. H.P. Lovecraft."

  My eyes went wide, and I think I gasped.

  His mouth tugged down even more at the ends. It was like a smile but in the totally wrong direction. It fit.

  "So you should be grateful that I like this place. And you must be Nina. Yes, I've heard about you," he said, as a knowing smirk spread across his face.

  "Yeah, from who?" I crossed my arms and glared at him. This ghost was getting my dander up, which was dangerous. Ghosts fed off of strong emotions. If I got pissed, he'd get stronger.

  "From Cruz." He sat down, stretching his legs out on the table. He removed his gloves, one finger at a time.

  "Cruz?" I shook the cobwebs out of my head. Cruz. That was Casper's real name. I started calling him Casper when I didn't know his name, and it sort of stuck. "Where did you see Cruz?"

  "The library," he said matter-of-factly.

  "The library," I snorted. "What library?"

  "The Rock. I would like a Gin Fizz please?"

  The Rockefeller Library at Brown University. Of course. Once we executed Marcello, the serial witch-killing vampire that turned Cruz, the man, into Casper, the ghost, I visited Casper's mom. Casper was a smart kid with a promising future. He was going to Brown on a full scholarship to study anthropology with a minor in religion. His family was from Veracruz, like my mom's, and he came from a long line of curanderos — white witches or shamans. His mother was steeped in the art of witchcraft, so it was an interesting afternoon. At first she was upset that his spirit was hanging on, but I let Casper hop in my body to talk to her. Weird as it was, I think it gave her some relief.

  So Casper was hanging out at the library with H.P. Lovecraft. When would my life stop shocking me?

  Lovecraft snapped his fingers at me, jarring me out of my thoughts.

  "No, I will not get you a Gin Fizz," I said, rolling my eyes.

  "This is a bar, isn't it?" he scoffed.

  "You can't drink. You're a ghost."

  "Cruz said you'd say that." He scowled at me. He was definitely a sour ghost. "Oh! Someone's coming! And you don't like him very much." A puff of air hit my face when Lovecraft disappeared into the wall.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention when I heard the door open. I didn't even have to turn around to know that it was Providence's very own demon mayor, Ami Bertrand, and his undead sidekick, my Uncle Tavio.

  "Nina!" Tavio's thick Italian accent made his voice mellifluous.

  "Oh crap! Here we go," Alfonso grumbled loudly from his stool at the bar with the shot of tequila he was sipping paused at his mouth. "This is no good."

  "Tavio. Mr. Mayor," I nodded a curt greeting at them, but my uncle had other ideas. He crossed the room towards me, arms extended. I ducked around him, leaving him to hug the air.

  "You look much better, Ms. Martinez." Bertrand's voice poured over me like silk, and I shivered. I saw him right after Frankie, Max and I took down Marcello. I looked like crap then, which was understandable since Marcello had nearly killed me.

  "Yes, I’ve healed," I said, as I shrugged and climbed back to the other side of the bar, grateful for the thick slab of wood in between us. "Are you ordering anything? Or are you just popping around to annoy me?"

  Alfonso guffawed loudly and swallowed his tequila. Bertrand brushed the seat of the bar stool off with a handkerchief before sitting. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, in a slate grey Burberry wool trench coat and soft leather gloves. With close cropped silvering hair and vivid dark eyes, he was striking. A huge part of Bertrand’s success was owed to his model-handsome looks. He was the perfect politician.

  I poured Al another shot and filled a second glass for myself. I was probably going to need it. "So what do you want, Tavio?"

  "Grappa, please," he said as he walked up and sat beside his boss.

  I sighed, reached for the Grappa and grumbled. "That's not what I meant."

  Alfonso was muttering under his breath. He'd better not throw a spell at them. The last time he tried, it backfired. It sounded like he was only swearing. A lot.

  I poured out the Grappa and slammed it down in front of my uncle. He patted my hand gently. I pulled it away like his fingers were on fire.

  "I think I'll take a Gin Fizz," Bertrand said with a sly smile. "Use Bombay Sapphire, please."

  Anger welled up in the pit of my belly. Lovecraft was one of his? Of course. Did good old H.P. sell his soul for his success? He trusted the wrong demon.

  I wore my best poker face and pulled down the Bombay Sapphire gin from one of the upper shelves. We kept the crappy stuff within easy reach. Babe's was primarily a college bar, so there wasn't much demand for the pricy booze.

  In a tense silence, I measured out the gin, soda water, simple syrup and a splash of lime. I dropped a maraschino cherry into the concoction and slid it over to Bertrand. He took a sip and sighed, looking content with the drink.

  "Are you here to check on my cocktail-making skills? Or are you going to tell me what this is about?"

  "We have someone coming into town, and we need you to keep a close eye on him." Bertrand savored the drink.

  "Yeah, well, I'm not a babysitter, so forget it," I said. I reached around and replaced the gin on the high shelf. As soon as I pulled my hand away, the bottle took off like a rocket across the room, smashing against the wall. I froze, staring at Bertrand. Good thing the bar was empty, save for Alfonso. He continued to sip his drink, only raising an eyebrow at the outburst.

  "This is not a request, Nina," he clarified. Fabulous.

  "I owe you nothing," I growled. "Consider your request denied. And you're paying for that bottle of gin. That was the expensive shit."

  "Sun is bright today, no?" Bertrand stirred the cherry in his glass by the stem. "I wonder where your vampire friend Frankie is this afternoon. Any ideas?"

  "Talk," I said through gritted teeth. Goddamn it. Frankie never asked for this daywalking ability, but that was the price he paid for getting a favor from Bertrand. Vampires may see it as a blessing to be able to walk in the sun, but this meant that Frankie's life was tied to Bertrand getting what he wanted. Double damn.

  "My son..." Tavio began, almost tearing up.

  "Wait, stop," I held up my hand. "You have a son?"

  He smiled very slightly, his fangs barely visible under his top lip. "Yes, I have a son."

  "Is he a vampire, like full-on?" I asked.

  Tavio gave a sad little nod. "Yes, for about two centuries now."

  "You probably know him. Or, I should say, know of him," Bertrand took over. "He is quite a famous musician. Have you heard of Killing Haley?"

  These guys had me knocking back shot number two, which I almost spit out when I heard the name of the band. "There's a rumor that the lead singer killed his girlfriend. That's how they got their name. There's truth to that?"

  Tavio just sighed and shook his head. "Matty couldn't have done it." He left it at that.

  I raised my eyebrows. "So he's a vampire. Why do you need me to babysit?"

  "We need you to keep an eye on the whole band. Things tend to get...out of hand when Killing Haley plays."

  Bertrand pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his coat and dropped it on the bar, pushing it at me. I shot him a dirty look, but picked it up and emptied the contents. Sifting through them, I saw it was filled with news clippings about the band. Post-show riots outside the concert venues, fans trampled during performances, suicides by venue employees and plenty of unsolved murders. Every clipping had a picture of Matteo Purefoy, his porcelain white skin in direct contrast t
o dark eyes rimmed with kohl liner and blue-black hair teased out like a British New Wave artist from the century prior. His hypnotic eyes almost invited fan mayhem.

  I tugged at my hair, considering Purefoy's Gothic good looks. Vampire. I'd have never guessed. Did he file his fangs? Of course, being an emo heartthrob meant he didn't smile much. Maybe that's why I never noticed.

  Darcy scurried in from the back room, finished wiring up the satellite radio. It was our attempt to bring Auntie Babe's bar into the 21st century. Her tools clattered to the floor when she saw Bertrand and Tavio calmly sipping their drinks at the bar.

  Collecting herself, she picked up her screwdriver, tucking it into her back pocket as she walked towards us.

  "Killing Haley. I love them! I didn't know you listened to them too," she said when she saw the photos. Then she smiled, almost shyly, and gently ran her fingers over Purefoy's headshot that sat on the bar.

  I pushed the papers back at Bertrand and my uncle. "I don't."

  "Don't we have an agreement?" Bertrand pushed the pile back to me. "This may be useful."

  "Please, Nina. Please." The desperation in Tavio's voice piqued my interest. His boy was a vampire, two centuries old. He could take care of himself.

  "I'd have to check with Dr. O," I grumbled. "I am not a freelancer and have responsibilities...."

  "I'll talk to Lachlan." An easy smile spread over Bertrand's face. "As you see from the news stories, this absolutely falls within your purview. You just aren't showing up after the fact. For once."

  He let that simmer for a second. "Think of it as being proactive rather than reactive."

  In one elegant motion, he dropped a $100 bill on the bar, pulled on a pair of soft leather gloves and stood. "That should cover the bottle."

  Tavio reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means..."

  I snatched my hand away from Tavio. Kicking my vampire speed into gear, I jumped over the bar and cut in front of the demon before he vanished out the door. "It means that Frankie won't fry. Right, Bertrand? If so, then we have a deal."

  The door to the bar opened so quickly it almost flew off its hinges, nearly taking Bertrand out in the process. A high-pitch voice squeaked out an enthusiastic, "Hi, it's Eva!"

  Eva, the fourth member of our pathetic coven, pushed her ample behind through the door first. Plastic bags hung from every inch of her arms and she dragged a folding card table in after her, crashing it against the door as she blundered through. I cringed at the abuse to our poor doorframe.

  "Hi, Eva. You're really early." I smiled at the hapless middle-aged woman huffing and puffing in front of me.

  "Oh, I know. The shop was dead today. And I wanted a little company. Thank you, handsome." She winked at Alfonso, who got off his stool and helped with her packages. He yelped when she pinched him on the ass in thanks.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her gray hair tumbled wildly over her shoulders. In her tie-dye caftan, she looked like a fortuneteller straight out of central casting. Eva ran a botanica in downtown Providence, right down the street from the Biltmore, the most haunted hotel since The Overlook captured our collective imaginations back in the 1970s. Eva was also a fraud, passing herself off as a witch and gypsy fortuneteller. She thought she had a good con going with her fake tarot skills, except that her skills weren't actually fraudulent. Eva did have "the gift," as my Auntie Babe called it. Eva just didn't know it.

  By the time we met her, she was Marcello's human slave, procuring magic items that only witches could handle that he then spelled so he could use them to gain the strength to kill me. Poor Eva was a mess by the time we found her.

  But Auntie Babe took her in, and Eva joined our motley witch’s coven: my aunt, a Haight-Ashbury throwback; Alfonso, a belligerent drunk; Eva, the fraudulent fortuneteller; and me, half-vampire and half-very reluctant witch. I suppose I could count Casper among our group as well. He usually hovered around and jumped into my body when I needed an assist. Honestly, I wouldn't be able to accomplish half the witch shit I attempted if Casper wasn't body surfing me.

  Eva doddered to the back end of the bar to set up her table. She came with all the accouterments — wild scarves, incense and pillar candles.

  I turned my attention back to Bertrand and Tavio. "When does the band get into town?"

  "Tonight."

  I nodded. "If you want me on this job, my team works with me. No problems, right?"

  "We'll be in touch." Bertrand touched the tips of two fingers to his forehead and gave me a slight nod before sweeping out of the bar.

  I slammed the door behind the two men, and then slumped against it.

  I looked at Darcy. "What the fuck did I just get us into?"

  She shrugged. "At least you have satellite radio?"

  "Yeah, and Babe's going to kick my ass for it when she gets back from Mexico." I stalked back to my station behind the bar. The sun was creeping down, and I had to get ready for the night crowd.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "I can't believe that you just allowed that demon and that vampire to dictate the terms of this arrangement," Frankie said. He was livid, but mostly because Bertrand was right. If anything happened while Killing Haley was in town, we would clean up the fallout anyway.

  "Come on, Frankie. Don't you think it may be cool to, you know, to actually prevent someone from getting ganked by some monster? We'd be ahead for once."

  We were sitting at Babe's colonial style antique kitchen table. I was dousing my various blades with Holy Water and then polishing them to a shine. Dog, my Hell Hound familiar, let out a huge sigh, crawled under the table, and flopped down on my foot.

  A familiar was a spirit animal matched to witches that assist in magic or simply keep watch over their masters. Dog was mine. She looked like an overgrown Rottweiler.

  Frankie spent the past half-hour parading around the apartment, showing off the shockingly overpriced jeans he bought. He didn't sit down until he forced me to admit that they made his butt look cute.

  I was housesitting while Babe was in Mexico visiting family. She said she needed a break from the cold. I missed my apartment, but I couldn't beat the commute to the bar, just down a flight of stairs. Darcy had taken over my loft, which was in an old factory building left to me by my parents. I had built Frankie a daylight free apartment in the basement, but now that he could daywalk, he spent a lot of time just crashing on the couch in Babe's living room. He claimed that it was because he didn't want to be around if Darcy, who was a banshee, started wailing. I didn't mind too much. The company was nice. And vampires don't snore.

  "Of course I can see the appeal," Frankie said with a sigh. "Stop. You are doing that wrong."

  He gingerly took the blade from my hand. "Since these are tucked up against your arms, only use the Holy Water on the outside part. Unless you enjoy chemical burns." His own fingers were quietly sizzling from handling the freshly coated metal.

  "Nope, I like my blades doused. It doesn't really hurt, anyway. It's more like an itch, like an allergic reaction." After the Marcello battle, I wanted my gear fully loaded. It was worth a little discomfort.

  "When you turn full vampire, you'll change your mind about that." He handed the blade back to me. "Did they blackmail you?"

  I shrugged. Yes, they did. But I didn't want to tell Frankie about it. As much as he was enjoying life in the sunshine, the threat of Bertrand taking it away — at any time — weighed heavily on him. Part of him would be happier still living in the dark. Hell, he was still up at 2 a.m. with me. It wasn't like he was waking up with the roosters.

  "You hear from Max today?" Frankie said, treading lightly. Max and I almost had a thing. But that was back when he was human and thought I was normal, too. When he learned the truth, he had almost forgiven me. But then Bertrand gave him the Berserker curse. Not my fault. I warned Max not to trade favors with a demon, and he did it anyway. It got him in the same predicament as Frankie.

  Men. They won't ask for
directions, but they'll ask a demon for a favor.

  "Nope. I think he's still mad about last night," I said. I closed the Holy Water bottle tightly and carefully wrapped my blades into their black silk cloth. It was blessed, too, just for good measure, so the silk was hot against my skin.

  "Sorry kiddo," Frankie said. He got up, rubbing me on my head as he walked past. "Are you sure my butt looks okay in these?"

  "Would you please shut up about your ass? God, Frankie! You spent a fortune on those things. Of course your ass looks hot!"

  A little self-satisfied smile crept around his lips. "You think I'm hot?"

  "Don't make me throw my blades at you." I tucked them into their leather pouch and snuck another look at his rear end. That's when I noticed. His butt may look good, but he looked a bit gaunt. "Frankie, when was the last time you ate?"

  He went very still. "Yesterday. I think."

  I groaned. "I swear this daywalking thing has you all screwed up! You are sleeping at night and forgetting to eat."

  And it was after 2 a.m. on a weekday. Rhode Island blue laws meant that the bars shut down at 1 a.m. Sunday through Thursday. Frankie's best window for feeding was between 11 p.m. and last call. He always found willing participants at the Goth-friendly club downtown, where humans played at vampirism. Some even sharpened their canines into fangs. Since Frankie knew how to control his feeding, and they were willing participants, there was nothing wrong with doing it. Of course, they had no idea they were doing it with a real vampire.

  I crossed my arms and gave him my best mother hen look. "Can you find someone this late?"

  He turned toward me and grinned, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Stop nagging at me, Nina. I know where to find food. I'll just go to the tunnel."

  I screwed up my face in disgust. The tunnel was where the Goth kids went after hours. It was an abandoned train tunnel that ran under College Hill. Years ago, the city cemented over the entrance, but time, weather and the determination of drunk youth had chipped a hole in the concrete large enough to crawl through. Inside contained broken up train tracks, coal soot and rats’ nests in pitch-black corners. Dirty water — runoff from the drain pipes – leaked from the ceiling. It was gross.