when she was caught and killed by graffiti.”
“That’s even before Revenance,” I said. “Maybe the first vamp taken.”
“And just before Josephine,” Calaphase said. “And get this, same night-”
“A homeless man was set on fire,” I said. “I’ve been reading the crime blotter too.”
“Sounded awfully suspicious,” Calaphase said. “We should compare notes.”
“Sure,” I said. “Hey, what happened to the human servant? Sounds like Scara treated him like a suspect, but since he’s not involved, I’ll want to hear that he was released unharmed.”
“Would you now?” Calaphase laughed, a bit nervously. “I’ll, uh, pass that along if I ever see the Lady Scara, not that I ever hope to.”
“Speaking of hope,” I said. “What about Demophage… ”
Calaphase fell silent. “Dakota… the vamp he was looking for. .. the weres found his body, not two days ago. Burned to death, just like Revenance, about four miles from the werehouse-near some very familiar looking graffiti.”
“Please don’t tell me-”
“They’d painted it over before they even talked to me,” Calaphase said, and my heart sank. “The weres that weren’t caught are really pissed, and Krishna still hasn’t made bail. But… they did listen to me, and took pictures. Just got them today.”
“Great!” I said. Pictures wouldn’t be as good as a live tag, but if they were good enough maybe we had a shot of tying the design to the behavior. “I mean, not that I’m happy he died or anything, but, maybe, finally, maybe we’ll be able to make some progress-”
“ And,” Calaphase said, “if that sounds good, I’ve got an entirely new batch of pictures of suspected master tags taken by the Van Helsings, Darkrose Enterprises, and even some from Tully, all printed out in a folder ready for you to take a look at.”
I was speechless for a moment. “Oh, I love you.”
“Easiest way down a tattooist’s pants is to show her some flash,” Calaphase laughed.
“I’m not that easy,” I said.
“I didn’t say you were. Still, Darkrose wanted a report to give to Saffron,” Calaphase said. “Can I bring these by and get your official opinion? Darkrose isn’t a daywalker, so I need to tell her tonight. Otherwise I have to pass the message to Saffron herself, and she’ll-”
“I know, I know,” I said, looking around me and tossing the rest of the pile around me into a box. “But can it wait a few hours? I’m not done moving out, and I promised Mrs. Bitch downstairs that I’d be out of here by midnight tonight.”
“Need a hand?” Calaphase said.
“I-thanks, but no thanks. I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said. “Mrs. B-Mrs. Olsen is on a hair trigger. She wanted to call the police on me over Cinnamon.”
“I’m just, ” Calaphase said, “a cleancut young man come by to help a friend move.”
“Oh, damnit,” I said finally. What could it hurt? “Sure.”
A Friend Helps You Move
Twenty minutes to midnight. No time, no help-and no more boxes. I had only one left, which was rapidly filling as I found bric-a-brac and knick-knacks and odds-and-ends in every nook and cranny of the apartment. I swear, the things were breeding.
And then there was a knock at the door, and I looked up to see Calaphase, holding a box of Krispy Kreme donuts which he opened with a flourish, row upon row of glazed delight.
“Oh, I love you,” I said, hopping off the floor and snatching up an original style. It was hot and soft in my hands and seemed to dissolve in my mouth with a grand flash behind my eyes. “Oh. Oh. These are better than sex. Not really, but they’re better than sex.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, laughing.
“Mmm. Mmmmm. Wht?” I said, munching, scanning the box. There were already four missing out of the dozen. “Didn’t you have some?”
“No, I gave three to Mrs. Olsen,” he said. At my shocked look, he laughed again, a warm sound that left me as tingly as the donuts. “Call it a peace offering. I explained that I was supposed to help you, but was late. You’ll have all the time you need.”
“Thank you, Calaphase,” I said, taking another donut. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Finish up,” he said, handing me the box. “I’ll take loads to your car. Can you beep it?”
With a vampire carting boxes and me cleaning up, we finished up quick. I filled the last box, taped it up, and then helped carry down the final load. So many boxes. Even with the seats folded down in the back, they barely fit in the Prius, and I couldn’t see out my rearview mirror. Thank God for the backup monitor-and thank God I didn’t need to make a second trip.
After the car was packed, I took one last trip up the stairs to the place I’d called home for… hell, at least five years. As I climbed the steps, I saw Mrs. Olsen’s light was now on, no doubt from Calaphase’s visit, but I tried to ignore it. This was hard enough already.
At the door, I sighed. My mat, my curtains, the little stand beside the door were all gone; it already felt like a completely different place. I went in, finding empty rooms, feeling the place even more empty than when I’d moved in. Then, it held promise: now, it held nothing.
The storage unit closed at seven, so we dropped off the load at my hotel. Hands full, I slipped the little card in the slot, saw green, and kicked the door open, dumping the boxes next to the air conditioner. Calaphase, with three boxes in his arms, stopped at the door.
At first I thought he was staring with amusement at my Vespa, parked in front of the hotel window at the management’s request to free up a space in their tiny lot. Then he seemed to gather himself, cleared his throat, and looked straight at me. “May I come in?”
I hesitated-just a second-wondering if that pause was a vampire thing or simple courtesy. “Sure,” I said, moving a chair out of the way to make more room.
He waltzed around me silently, murmuring, “Wouldn’t want to wake-oh.” He stood there, holding the column, staring at the two, tiny, made beds. “Where’s Cinnamon? Out running with the werekin, or dare I hope, a sleepover with new friends from school?”
“She’s not here,” I said sharply, heading back to the car.
We got the rest of it unloaded, and then I came in and sat down on the bed. My hands were shaking. I could feel my face, hot, could see Calaphase standing by the door, feel the concern in his gaze, even though I couldn’t see his eyes.
After a moment, I explained the situation to him, as briefly as I could without pissing myself off again. Of course, that didn’t work so well. Just as I was getting really wound up, Calaphase made a motion, and I looked up to see him gesturing to the door.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“Why?”
“You need one, and… I’m a vampire,” Calaphase said. “I don’t want to be alone with you, especially not for drinks. Let me take you to a nice place, frequented by many humans.”
I glared at him, face still hot. “Don’t you know I trust you?”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what? Don’t you trust yourself? ”
He shrugged. “Don’t trust the situation.”
I was still glaring, but I felt it soften. “Fine,” I said. “No, really, fine.”
Calaphase directed me down North Avenue to Peachtree Road, then towards Buckhead. Long before we got there, we approached R Thomas, a New-Agey 24 hour joint that made the only vegetarian burgers that Cinnamon could stomach. I was about to suggest it when Calaphase pointed to a car coming out of a parking space, right in front of a set of small shops on the opposite side of the street. “There,” he said. “Someone’s smiling on us tonight.”
So we parked the Prius and hopped out into a row of shops that felt like a snippet of a walking neighborhood, like a micro-Virginia Highland on the other side of the road from R Thomas. We passed a Chinese restaurant and an art gallery before walking up onto a chic crowd of Buckheadites, milling around the front of Cafe Intermezzo.
