Gregor Vasilescu, Vampire

Night was dark. Quiet. Cold. Good for a hunt.

My target had no idea he was being stalked.

Heavy footfalls crunched against icy pavement. I glided a standard fifteen feet behind, melting into the shadows of the South Philadelphian brick rowhomes. He marched forward, clueless, gym bag swung over one shoulder. Even in the dark, I could see the sweat beaded on his bald head turn to ice.

The thrill of the chase thrummed in my veins, urging me forward, fangs bared.

But this wasn't the old country. I'd been around the block a few hundred times. Knew better now than to just pounce a man twice my size on a public street.

I knew the satisfaction of a good hunt.

My target's pulse hummed. Steady. Relaxed. Oblivious.

He slowed as he approached a dingy brick façade. The house stood, crooked, in the shadows of a scaffolding covered soon-to-be modern apartment complex and the smokestacks of the energy plant only a block over. A shiny, new sinkhole was opening out front too. Right in the crosswalk.

Instead of ringing the bell, my target paused under the porch light, and made a call. Interesting.

Curtain moved aside from the upstairs window. A feminine silhouette appeared for only a moment in the illuminated pane, before vanishing.

Minute later, maybe less than, the door opened.

My time to strike.

I flipped my phone out from my jacket pocket, melting into the shadows under the buildings. The mammoth lens screwed into the phone camera blended seamlessly into its sleek, black case. At least it would to the casual nighttime observer, should they manage to spot me at all. Of course, the video would be absolute garbage in such low light. Capturing the number of the residence Mr. Cabroni slipped into, however, might be enough to satisfy the werewolf's jealous wife.

See, Mrs. Cabroni hired herself a private investigator (me) the moment her husband had come home smelling like "some other bitch." Her words, not mine.

I slumped a little more deeply against the wall, watching as Mr. Cabroni was pulled into the welcoming arms of his petite mistress. Yeah, domestic work was, well, bottom feeder-ish, but that was just unlife for private eye.

Porchlight went out.

An icy gust ripped down Gray's Ferry Ave, prickling my ears. They throbbed. My nose tingled. Throat was hoarse. Veins ached something fierce.

Golly gee, guess who'd gotten so absorbed in his work he'd forgotten to eat? Again.

Alright, fella, to hell with it.

Camera off. Cabroni wouldn't be exiting the rowhome anytime soon. He'd already told his missus he'd be spending the night at his ailing momma's while wifey stayed home with the pup. I was done.

Maybe I could dip out of this mostly human neighborhood and into Center City before sunup. Swing by The Raven Lounge. Hm, it'd probably be crawling with Tourists at this hour, but it was a vampire owned joint and there were always willing donors lurking about. Place had the proper Society permits for bloodletting on property too. Or at least mighty good fakes.

Except my wallet felt a bit slim in my pocket.

Eh. Maybe after Mrs. Cabroni's next check cleared.

I turned east toward home instead.

The ground rumbled from an approaching train, but beyond this, the streets were quiet. I scrolled through my phone as I walked, noting, and ignoring, both the text and voicemail from Phoebe, my secretary.

As the train buzzed past me and over the Schuylkill River, the shadow trailing me in my peripheral picked up its pace. Was the kind of shadow that extinguished lamplights as it drew near. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Ah hell. This ain't my night.

With a screech, the shadow attacked. It peeled from the wall in a hissing fury, unfurling into its true form, all leathery wings and razor fangs.

I secured my phone safe in my pocket. No point in retreating. It would snare me anyway. Best to just accept the inevitable.

The snarling creature slammed into me. Dang thing knocked the air out me. Which was impressive, since I didn't even need to breathe to begin with. For a moment, us two monsters were airborne. And when you're airborne, you expect to come down hard on cracked pavement. You brace yourself for the fractured ribs, busted elbow, probably some decent scrapes to the back and face. Would ruin my favorite leather jacket though. Pity.

Anyhow, my back collided with metal instead. Didn't hurt any less.

I was then dumped onto some heinously upholstered floor. It reeked of iron and artificial pine. I rubbed the stars out my eyes and heard the slide of a metal door closing, deducing that I'd been tossed in the back of a van.

The vehicle jerked forward.

I slid across the floor and into the door of the trunk. The seats had all been removed.

Across from me, encompassing most of the van, was the gigantic, bat-like creature that had attacked me.

Flat on my back and sighing, I said: "Dmitri, is this any way to greet an old friend?"

The creature's form changed, compacting in on itself until the wings dissolved away and the fangs retracted back to a tasteful half inch over the lip. The sickly gray complexion of its skin... well, didn't change much. It only grew more wrinkly as the ancient vampire returned to a human shape.

Vaguely human shape. Yeesh.

The creature spoke in a thick Hungarian accent that betrayed his over 150 years of living stateside. "Evening, Gregor, son of Vasel, blood son of—"

"Nice to see you too, pal," I interrupted, not particularly fond of that introduction. "Looking spiffy, is that a tan?"

The vampire snarled, eyes glowing a bloody red. Still, the effect had lost some of its once majestic terror, as a self-proclaimed lord of the damned was clearly in a state of decay. He stood, hunched over, barely a couple inches over five feet tall. His skin was the usual undead pallor but decorated with wrinkles and liver spots and a few open sores. Bags and crow's feet adored those red eyes. Drooping lips failed to hide Dmitri's yellowing, curved fangs. The claw-like nails on his hands were brittle. White hair—which I recalled being a rich chestnut last time I was intimidated—hung in a thinning, limp, mess around his shoulders. At least the old bat was still wearing his best suit, even if it was sagging off his frame and hadn't been dry cleaned since Andrew Jackson was president.

Gee. Dmitri had really let himself go.

"You may refer to him," said a voice from the driver's seat, "as 'My Liege, the Lord of Darkness and Terror,' as he is your master, as he is the master of all—"

"My liege, may remember that it's Greg now and I'm actually unincorporated so—son of a cow!"

Dmitri impaled my hand. My fanging hand! His yellowed talon had torn right through my flesh, anchoring me to the floor of the van. So the older vampire wasn't as fragile as he appeared. Who'd of thunk it?

"Dmitri. Please, I—" I groaned, not being immune to pain. "My hand. I like that hand. Need that hand. My trigger finger's on that hand."

"Yesss," the older vampire calmed, unstuck his decrepit finger from my flesh, and reached into my jacket. Withdrawing my trusty old revolver, Dmitri made a noise of discontentment in his throat. "I never understood your liking for these toys, Gregor."

He flicked the gun into the front seat.

I ignored that remark and cradled my injured hand. A measly trickle of blood leaked out. I was almost dry. It would take hours, perhaps a night or two, to heal without a decent meal. "Not that I don't love a social call, but I got to say I'm running on fumes. Why don't we pop off somewhere? What about you, you look like you could use a bite, eh?"

"How can I eat, Gregor?" Dmitri's voice was thick with melancholy. "Do you not know what it is to lose your truest love?"

Oh boy.

"Uh, 'fraid not."

Dmitri dug his claws into my chest, easily puncturing through my flimsy t-shirt to the cold flesh beneath. On instinct, I grabbed his wrist and held on tight. My eyes found the driver's in the rearview mirror, and I delivered a stare which I sure darn hoped would convey he's your master, get him off me already.

The driver returned his eyes to the road.

My luck.

"It is to have your heart-soul ripped from you!"

Before my unbeating heart could be ripped from me, the van stopped short. Dmitri's claws dislodged from my chest as I was flung forward, into his awaiting arms. He embraced me, a deafening, morose shriek escaping him. My spine cracked.

"What's this got to do with me?" I croaked.

"She is gone!" Dmitri wiped the blood from his eye on my sleeve. Yeah. It really was too bad about that jacket. "My dearest wife! She is my one true love, my shorty, my queen, my babygirl. Without her, I am less. I am unworthy. I am to waste to nothing!"

Dmitri sobbed into my shoulder. I patted the old coot gently on the head.

Got to say I was confused. Dmitri had a wife? Not one I knew of. Then again, I last saw Dmitri was in '25, and he always was, until this moment, particularly private about his personal unlife. To let himself go so far as to commit suicide by starvation over a woman... I figured that must be something special, though I certainly didn't envy the feeling.

"As your master, Gregor—"

I pushed away. "I ain't one of your pets, Dmitri."

"Er, yes, old habits," he cleared his throat. "I shall hire thee, Gregor! To, ah, do an old friend a solid, yes?"

Sigh.

As much as Dmitri's attitude flayed my already irritated nerves, the weight of my wallet in my pocket was just about imperceptible. Business proposition, albeit the goofy delivery, made more sense than a social call, at least.

I dug around my jacket for a little gem more useful than fangs or firearm. Licked my thumb and flipped my black pocket notebook to an empty page. Blood from my wound dribbled onto the paper.

"Yeah, I got you, break ups can be hell. She asking for the house in the divorce? Digging through the dirt's messy, but I'll get it done. You want to give me your attorney's number? Might sting less if I just take whatever I find directly there."

"We hath not fallen into divorce, ye fool! She has been stolen from me!"

My pen tore through the page.

"Hell, Dmitri, stolen? You get a ransom note, or something?"

I'm good at finding strays, sure. But there's a difference between run off with my business partner and please help my lady has been kidnapped.

"Nay, I have been left no note nor voicemail nor textual message."

"Alright, then, what about the Magistrate, you alert them?"

"The Magistrate does not care for my truest love! Lest not whilst she still possesses her pulse."

"Yeah, that tracks. Boys downtown don't give much of a hoot about human cases. How long you been married?"

"Our souls have been entwined for all eternity."

"Uh huh, and how long is that in human years?"

"The ceremony has not yet commenced. But the bloodletting will be ravenous and splendid. Was thinking roses for the floral arrangements, or is that too cliché?"

Oh nelly.

"Alright, you know what, just slip me a copy of her blood donor consent forms, I presume you've got a Claim on her too, I'll get her info from there."

Dmitri suddenly found a loose thread on his sleeve fascinating.

"You do have her Blood Donor Consent forms?"

"I had every intent."

"Dmitri!"

"The application process is so tedious!" He yanked the offending thread from his clothing, causing a chunk of the seam to unravel. "It takes weeks for the Society to simply approve a hunt alone! To approve a Donor to be adopted into our realm—" he made a very mature raspberry noise. "In the old country there was no governance to hunting. No capacity limits on harems and familiars and mortal blood slaves! No punishment for appearing in your most terrifying form to frighten the human children before slaughtering entire villages as blood sacrifices on All Hollow's Eve! None could rule us, Gregor, we are vampires."

"Welcome to twenty-first century secret society bureaucracy, my liege."

"And it is this Society which would disapprove of my endless love?"

I pinched my nose. "Dmitri, you ever hear of cold feet?"

The driver shot me a venomous look in the mirror.

"I am undead. My feet have been cold for centuries. I highly recommend Birkenstock slippers for the house."

"Not what I meant."

The van lurched again. Managed to keep my grip on my notebook, and unfortunately, Dmitri managed to re-secure his grip on me. He didn't give a flea's ass hair what I meant, either.

"I have vowed to scour the ends of the earth to reunite with my love. But the googly map, alas, has delivered quite unsatisfactory scouring results thus far," Dmitri just about salivated all over my jacket. "Nay, I shall never be satisfied. Not with blood nor any cappuccinos, until I will have her in my arms! Without her safe return, your master shall crumble to nothingness!"

"Yeah— Cappuccinos?"

Up front, the driver took a sip from his cardboard coffee cup. "His favorite barista wasn't at the twenty-four-hour diner tonight."

"My truest love, ye outspoken swine!" growled Dmitri. "Take the next right."

"Wait a minute, now! While I'm flattered you remember my specialty, ah, this woman is your favorite barista, you say?"

"Yes," Dmitri sniffled. "At the southernly road dining hall."

"The South Street Diner," said the driver, and the van made a hard right.

We toppled. Again. My own pen jabbed me right through the fancy new hole in my hand, dang it. Before Dmitri could crush me with his claws—and heavy case of melancholy—I flung myself off the floor and onto the ceiling of the van. Nice and out of reach.

"Uh huh. Perhaps your dame may've had the night off?"

"Fridays and Saturdays are her nights off from the dining hall!" Dmitri spat. "Tis every weeknight that I come to admire my sweet's radiant beauty. Yet I have not seen her since Thursday last! This be the seventh night we remain parted, and thus the darkest night of my pitiful existence. Ah, she is like staring into the sun! Without her, I see nothing but darkness."

I could see the cliff this horse was sprinting towards and didn't like it. "Do you... know her name?"

The van made another right.

"She is the reincarnation of my truest love!" Dmitri snapped, swiping at one of my feet. "She is my Rosemond's soul returned to me!"

"She told you this?"

"For a love like ours, words are unnecessary."

Somebody had to set the older vamp straight. Stalking your local barmaid was no longer in fashion. But you try telling that to one of these old bats. They struggle at grasping indoor plumbing and Wi-fi.

"Alright, Dmitri, I'm going to shoot straight with you on this, cause you've been a pal to me in the past. You ever think this gal you don't speak to, whose name you don't know, who has not signed any consent forms, might not want to be found by, per se, you?"

As the van made a left turn, Dmitri's arm shot up, hooked around my ankle, and yanked me hard onto the van floor. My brains rattled about in this thick skull of mine. He rolled atop me, withered skin flapping around bared fangs, eyes red, and claws pressed dangerously close to that sweet spot under a vamp's chin that'll pop a head clear off.

"E-easy," I gargled, pinned and victim to the old bastard's horrendous, decay-soaked breath. "I've, uh, already died once. Not keen on experiencing round two just yet."

The van came to a halt. I heard the driver put his flashers on and get out. Hoping for this to be a moment of distraction, I squirmed, testing the limits of Dmitri's hold and attention. Both were very, very focused, as it turned out.

"Find. Her."

Breaking into a too wide and too toothy smile, I faked a laugh. "Oh, well, gosh, why didn't you just say so. Of course. Be happy to. If you could just release me then I'll hop right on it."

Like a wild, skittish animal, Dmitri crept off me on all fours, teeth chattering.

"You will find her."

"You betcha. Say, you don't have to go through all this trouble with the van. Just come to my office. I'll leave a card, in case you don't have the address," the door slid open. "Oh. You have it, I see."

They'd come to halt just outside my place on 9th street. In the heart of the Italian Market, nestled between a butcher, several produce stands, and a spice store was my narrow home and office. The sidewalk was empty. It smelled of old meat and yesterday's fish, with a touch of clove. Just above the door, the faded G. Vasilescu, Private Detective plaque swung right above the heads of oblivious Tourists and grocery shoppers daily.

Dmitri's valet was a middle-aged Asian man in an ill-fitted suit. His black hair grayed a bit at the temples, and crow's feet had crinkled the corners of his eyes, but he stood tall and proud and looked ridiculous in a suit so baggy his pant legs were rolled up and the boxy shoulders of his khaki jacket hang limply to one side off him. He was pale for a human. Sickly so. Like the guy hardly ever spent anytime outdoors in the sunlight. He looped his hands under my arms and dragged me out onto the sidewalk.

"Buckle up, My Liege," he whispered into the van before sliding the door closed again.

I got to my feet, dusting off my jeans. The hole in my hand was, to put it mildly, gaping.

"Hey now, your master threw my gun—"

"We spoke with your secretary regarding your usual fee," said the driver.

He plopped my revolver into my uninjured hand.

Then he dug into his pockets and produced folded up check, which he neatly deposited through the hole in my other.

"Thanks."

"For the record," the driver lowered his voice. He must have been in service to Dmitri for some time. No scarring and no fear showed on that skinny neck. "I agree with you. Lily doesn't need to be found."

"Lily got a last name?"

Valet's lip twitched. "We'll check in soon. Happy hunting."

As the derelict van pulled away, thought I spied Dmitri pressing his gnarly fangs against the tinted rear window, but then the light at Christian Street turned green and it was gone.

I rubbed my throat with my thumb. A thin line of blackish blood came away.

Funny.

I don't recall saying anything about whether this barista needed to be found.

Speak Philadelphian: Schuylkill [SKOO-kel]. This northwest to southeast running river divides West Philadelphia from the Northeast, Center, and South parts of the city. The Philadelphia Museum of Art overlooks it, and the picturesque Boathouse Row sits along its banks. A popular spot for biking, kayaking, and disposing of evidence. Hike along the river trail during your next visit to Philly, and you might even witness a body pulled from these murky waters. Or several!