Hell's Belle (9 page)

CHAPTER 12

Babe told me to stay in bed, but after wolfing down an amazing steak and egg breakfast, I felt like I could conquer the world. The protein infusion took the migraine away. Now I felt dangerously invincible, a bit more vampy than usual. I wonder if age was evolving my vamp nature. Or maybe I wasn't getting enough sleep.

Given my sudden invincibility, I decided it was time to collect a little
intel from the field, starting with the area around the Biltmore Hotel. If Marcello was lurking in the neighborhood, something had to be there.

I rolled the Triumph out of the hallway -- Frankie was going to clean up the damn skid marks on my beautiful hardwood floors--and into the blinding December sunlight. Strapping on my helmet, I noticed a dog skulking across the street. I straddled the bike and turned the ignition – kick-starters are definitely cool, but they aren't exactly foolproof when trying to escape from the baddies. The dog didn't flinch at the sound, but continued to sit and stare at me. She was a skinny thing for a Rottweiler.

I eased my bike onto the deserted street, turning in the direction of downtown Providence. It was below freezing, but I had my thick leather jacket and long underwear under my jeans. Plus the engine threw off a fair amount of heat.

While the ride would be shorter, highway driving would also be much colder. So, I opted to take the scenic route through Federal Hill, Providence's very little
Little Italy, and straight into Downcity, which is the fancy name the urban planners gave the downtown area in an attempt to revitalize it. Traffic was surprisingly light considering Christmas was only about two weeks away. Out of habit, I did the sign of the cross as I passed Holy Ghost Church, which stood like a religious centaur at one end of the Hill.

I came up to the stoplight where Dean Street crossed
Atwells Avenue, slipped the bike into neutral and planted my feet on the pavement. A short man with a goatee and a shock of white hair peeking out from under his hat stopped and stared at me. He was wearing a track suit that belied the fact that he was about as wide as he was tall. I am used to stares when I ride, particularly in subzero weather, but something was a bit unsettling about his gaze. It was too familiar. The light changed and I kicked the bike into gear. Engine roaring, I pulled away. The old man tipped his Borselino fedora at me and gave a small bow. Funny but weird.

A few frigid minutes later, I idled the engine in front of the Biltmore Hotel. The outdoor skating rink across the street was all but abandoned, save for a few drunks sliding around on the ice with their paper bag–covered bottles. A handful of sad-looking people pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel, while two frightened tourists came rushing out. Guess they had used the same old guidebook.

My creep-o-meter was running on high. I made a sharp right on the street that ran between City Hall and the hotel, and found an open space to park. Street parking felt safer than going into the Biltmore's parking garage. I backed into the spot, killed the engine, and hopped off the bike. I removed the helmet but tucked it under my arm. I headed up the block, and away from the hotel.

The neon from a
Quizno's sandwich shop brightened the shadows cast by the large, mostly vacant buildings that created a wind tunnel down the street. My nose twitched as I caught the scent of something decidedly not sandwich oriented. The cloyingly sweet smell of anise permeated the air.

Across the street was a line of abandoned storefronts. A lot of shops were boarded up, dusty "For Lease" signs hanging forlornly in the windows. One with a cluttered front window stood out. I quickly crossed the street, and the sound of my boots on the pavement echoed down the near-empty street. The smell of anise was getting stronger as I got closer to the cluttered store. I stopped in front of its old wooden door, black paint peeling away. There was no signage except for a weird, almost rune-looking symbol painted in red near the top. A table filled with animal skulls, feathered headdresses, three-foot plastic replicas of Saints and other paraphernalia was visible through the grimy window.

It was a botanica, a witchcraft store. Santeria, Voodoo, and Wicca were all represented in the crusty window. I shivered and stared at the relics. Could this be where Marcello was going when Frankie lost his trail last night? Too many supernatural shenanigans were happening in a very concentrated area. It could have easily thrown off Frankie’s ability to track Marcello. Get too much supernatural energy in one place, it becomes like radio interference.

Would Marcello come to a
botanica? Witches and vampires don't exactly hang out. There are centuries of turmoil between the two groups, from wars to political coups to plain old bad blood. That infamous feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys? That was a classic vamp versus witch war.

The
botanica's old wooden door creaked open. I ducked into the doorway of the empty store beside it, tripping over a junkie with a needle still stuck in his arm. He moaned and rolled over, splayed halfway onto the sidewalk. I pressed against the cold metal door and held my breath as heavy footsteps thudded down the sidewalk in my direction. A familiar shock of golden blond hair crossed in front of my line of sight. What the hell was Max doing here?

I shrank into the shadows as he negotiated his way around the body. Once he passed, I slid out of my hiding place and, keeping close to the doorways, followed him down the street. He turned into the parking garage attached to the Biltmore. I gritted my teeth and continued after him, just catching sight of him using the hotel's back entrance. I slinked to the doorway, pulled it open and looked into the hallway. I caught a fast glimpse of Max turning down the hallway. I paused at the threshold, an uneasy feeling growing in my belly. Pushing it aside, I continued to follow.

The once-empty hallway suddenly filled with all manner of spirits. And like a cavalry charge, they rushed straight for me. Instinctively, I crouched, knowing full well that the position would do no good against the ghosts. The cold slime of ghost plasma oozed along my body as the entities swarmed. Swatting them was useless. They began to slam into me, their combined force so great that I fell backward and sprawled on the floor.

Looking up, I saw more entities swirling above me. They looked almost like translucent people, but they were horrific. What used to be flesh was rotting off their bones. Coarse hair, sparse but wild, was floating around heads that were little more than skulls patched with skin that hadn't yet rotted out. Their sockets were dark voids. Looking into those eyes was like looking into a frightening abyss. I caught the foul stench of death as one of them exhaled too close to me.

Seven of them nose-dived right at me. I tried to roll to avoid impact, but these things were quick. They crashed into my chest and stomach, trying to find their way into my psyche but unable for some reason. Several bounced off, but three remained stuck like suction cups. I felt their ooze creep around my body as octopus-like tendrils wrapped themselves around my torso, binding my hands and plastering me to the floor.

The largest ghost hovered just above, his rank breath skimming my face. He unzipped my leather jacket and, finding exposed skin, he whipped a tendril down onto it, searing my skin. I yelped, a mix of surprise and agony. He was freezer-burning my skin! A second hit and I could feel blisters start to well up. Crap.

I kicked out at the poltergeists and, of course, hit nothing but air. I felt another slam of ice on my chest, my skin pulling away as he whipped the tendril off. Another ghost began to snake its ghostly appendages over my face. Its fingers felt like razor blades slicing into my skin. Blood began to drip down my face.

I had never encountered malevolent ghosts before. Hell, I had never actually seen a ghost manifested until Casper in the hospital. Now I was seeing them everywhere. I had no idea how I was going to get out of this mess. God I hated the Biltmore.

Just when I thought it could not get any worse, I felt another hit of cold plasma, and this time the ooze dropped right into my psyche. My nerves went into overdrive when I felt the sharp pain in my head. Then a familiar voice echoed in my ear.

Casper sounded a little panicked. "What the hell did you do this time?"

I never imagined I would ever feel such relief at the familiar migraine that exploded in my head. "Help me," I panted, forcing the words out. Between the poltergeists cutting and searing into me like prime beef, and my ghost-induced headache kicking in, I wasn't in the mood to explain myself.

"Trying!" Casper wheezed out. He handled possessing me about as well as I handled being possessed. God I hoped he could help.

Casper tried to push my eyes down. "Hey!" I protested.

"Trust me," he pushed again, and, sensing his exasperation, I grudgingly clamped my eyes closed.

Then, Casper took over my mind's eye, and I saw his brooding image clearly. His arms were moving in quick but elegant patterns. My arms, completely out of my control, followed his movements. Faintly, he muttered words I could not make out, the pace of our arms quickening. Energy swirled around him, and he raised his chiseled face towards it. His dark skin glowed and his black curls appeared taken by a breeze.

Casper's hands were moving so rapidly now they were just a blur. I sensed the ritual was reaching its peak when his commanding voice intoned, "
Stamus exitium praesenti. Eieci malum!"

Then nothing. And nothing was a good thing. The weight of the ghosts on my torso disappeared. The cuts on my face began to knit back together. My freezer-burned skin started healing. I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling, no hideous ghost faces blocking the view. Casper forced me to my feet. We stumbled down the hall and back into the parking garage.

“What the hell was that about?” I examined the areas of my body that were freezer-blackened by the ghost.

“They couldn’t get into your body.” I could sense him grinning through his exhaustion.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“’Cause I am a possessive little freak. Put a spell on you,” he boasted. “I am the only ghost getting into your pants.”

I snorted. The kid was funny. “Thanks, I guess. Why’d you do that?”

“I may be a ghost but I’m not a moron,” he deadpanned. “It’s protecting you. Promise.”

I frowned. “Why do I see them now?”

I rubbed at my temples. Now that the poltergeist assault was over, the pain of sharing my head with this kid was grating again.  

“Because we need you,
mi pequeña vampira.”

“Who needs me?” I asked sharply. “And how the hell do you know…?”

But Casper oozed out of my head before I could ask him how he knew I was a vampire. And why did he insist on hanging around?

Casper didn’t leave right away. I turned to where he hovered by me, ready to assault him with questions. The greenish cast of his face stopped me. He favored his left arm, a hand pressed over his bicep. 

"Show me." I motioned towards his arm.

He took his right hand away, and I gasped. I couldn't help myself. His flesh, turned a black and purple color like a bruise, dripped away from the bone. Like the poltergeists that attacked, his ephemeral body was rotting away.

I reached for him, and caught nothing but air. He disappeared.

"Thank you, I guess," I whispered into the air. A gentle gust of cold air brushed the back of my neck in acknowledgment. With my battered body on the mend, I staggered towards the street. I didn't care that I lost track of Max. I was so done with the Biltmore.

Stomping through the parking structure and muttering the string of Spanish curses learned from Babe, I walked straight into Max. Literally. After impact, I skidded away from him, nearly landing flat on my ass. Me falling on my ass was clearly becoming a thing where Max was concerned.

"Nina?" Max gripped my arm to steady me. "What are you doing here?"

"Shopping." I eyed him. "You?"

"This is where I am staying," he said with a smile.

"Here?" My eyes narrowed to slits.

He nodded. "Yep, the Biltmore."

Crap. That wasn't good. I suddenly felt a weight press down on my chest, and I knew that some bad juju was spilling out of the hotel again. I turned on my heel and began to walk quickly back to my bike, Max almost running to catch up.

"Wait! Where are you running off to?" He caught up and touched my shoulder. A jolt of electricity shot down my arm. I half-expected to see sparks shoot out of my fingers.

"Coffee!" It was the first thing I could think of.

"My treat?" Max smiled. "But you pick the place. And Dunkin Donuts is a little too played out around here."

I motioned to the Triumph. We crossed the street and I handed him my helmet. I straddled the bike and Max got on back and wrapped his arms around me. I felt relief as I tore down the street, away from the Biltmore and out of site of the
botanica. I headed south, back to Federal Hill. An espresso at Venda Ravioli sounded like a good idea. And I needed to find out what Max was doing in that botanica.

CHAPTER 13

Venda Ravioli is an old-school joint that is a mix between Italian bakery, butcher and corner deli. It serves up prepared foods like a deli, has some of the most sensational meats like a gourmet butcher, and has some of the best espresso and Italian pastries on the planet. We settled into a table and I inhaled the glorious cappuccino steam. I had a plate of ricotta cookies to nibble on, and a slab of ground beef wrapped up to take back to the stray dog that was lurking around the building this morning.

I bit into a cookie and tried not to think about the fact that Max went into a botanica in the middle of spook-ville. It wasn't working.

"So, Max," I began, determined to take it a little slow. "Do you go to
botanicas often?"

"Only when I am working cases." He looked at me curiously, sipping his cappuccino, which had a dusting of cinnamon on top. I watched his eyes light up on his first taste. "Oh you are right, this is amazing."

God, he had no clue. I nodded and smiled. "Well, it’s...kind of creepy, don't you think?"

Max let out a hearty guffaw. "Don't tell me you believe in all that hocus pocus stuff! That crap is all in your head."

My face went hot, and I pressed my cold hands on my cheeks to temper the redness before it set in. "What if it's not exactly hocus pocus?"

"Nina, people cannot ‘spell’ other people,” he said, using air quotes. “Kill them, yeah. Spell them, no." He shook his head.

"Yeah, weird people go to those places! Weird!" I gave a little extra force to that word. "And maybe dangerous. In the non-hocus pocus sort of way."

Max just nodded at me, eyebrows raised. This conversation was not going well.

"Nina, I am the go-to agent for gang murders. Botanicas are part of the job." He shook his head. "I am a little surprised they freak you out. You seem like the type that would have checked out a botanica or two in your teens. Try out a Ouija board, that sort of thing."

"They don't freak me out," I lied, picking up another cookie and biting down on it. "So, did the lead pan out?"

"Yeah, it did." He sipped at his coffee. "They had a replica of the knife left at the murder scene."

I choked on my cookie.

Max reached over and gave my back a few whacks. I coughed out cookie bits into a napkin.

"You okay?" The corners of his mouth twitched up.

I shot him a dirty look, which only made him smile more broadly. I slugged down more cappuccino, the hot liquid smoothing the rough edges on my abused throat.

The door swung open and a cold gust of wind caught our attention. In walked Ami Bertrand, the mogul gunning to be Mayor of Providence. He was in his late 50s, with a full head of thick dark hair, brushed away from his face, graying at the temples. He was much shorter than I imagined -- he had maybe an inch on me, making him 5' 2" at the most, and he walked with a limp. Even wearing a heavy, camel-colored coat, I could see that he had an athletic build. For an older dude, he looked muscular. He carried an expensive walking stick, the silver handle molded into a snakehead.  

Close on his heels was the white-haired, goateed gentleman that I had seen earlier this morning. Bertrand was walking straight towards us. He extended his hand when Max stood.

"Agent
Deveroux." Bertrand's voice was smooth and rich like chocolate ganache. "Good to see you enjoying the best cappuccinos in Providence! Be sure to tell your friends about it when you get back home. Are you enjoying your time here?" Bertrand eyed me and smiled. It made me squirmy.

"Mr. Bertrand." Max smiled back at him. "This is Nina Martinez. She co-owns..."

"Babe's on the Sunnyside," he finished Max's sentence. I found that annoying. "Of course, everyone knows Babe's."

"I don't believe I've seen you in there, Mr. Bertrand," I said as politely as I could. I didn't like him.

"No, I have not made it to your fine establishment yet, Ms. Martinez, but perhaps I will soon." He smiled and winked at me. Ew.

I nodded at his expensive looking coat and scarf, and his ridiculous walking stick. "Leave your cashmere at home. Our patrons are a bit more rough around the edges."

"Yes," the goateed man interrupted. He had a faint Italian accent. "I heard you had some trouble there the other night. Anything you would like us to look into?"

"Nope, no trouble." I smiled curtly. "Sometimes bad things happen in bars. Occupational hazard and all that."

"Indeed," Bertrand said. He smiled again. "Well, I want to make sure our small business owners are taken care of. They are the lifeblood of our city."

He drew out the word blood, lingering on the vowels a bit longer than necessary. On a creep scale of one to ten, this guy was off the charts.

"Thank you, Mr. Bertrand. I'll remember you said in the voting booth." I hoped he couldn't read that as a lie.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Ms. Martinez," he said as he elegantly removed the gloves from his hands. "But I am certain we will win, with or without your vote."

So he was a human lie detector. I smiled at him coolly.

"
Tavio," Bertrand turned to the goateed man. "Make a note to visit Ms. Martinez's alehouse, perhaps Friday night?"

Alehouse? What century was this?

My cheeks ached from the forced smile that was glued onto my face. Babe was going to kill me. She had no use for people like Bertrand, and didn't want our bar used as a campaign stop. I hoped Alfonso stayed home. If he had a few in him, things could get ugly.

Actually, thinking about it, it might liven things up a bit.

"Wonderful idea, Mr. Bertrand!" Tavio smiled and helped Bertrand off with his coat. "It's been a long time since I saw your aunt." He smiled at me, almost kindly. There was that familiar feeling again, but I couldn't place it.

Familiar or not, I didn't trust it. I picked up my helmet.

"Lovely to meet you," I said through my plastered smile. "But I gotta run. Alehouse and all.  Max, do you need a ride back Downcity, or did you want to stay and catch up with your friends?"

Max stood up, pulling on his coat. “I should get back to the station, too. It's an easy walk."

"How is the investigation going, Agent Deveroux?" Bertrand's voice was velvet. "Hard to believe that such a small city can have such big city problems. If I'm not voted in, I worry that we'll turn into Detroit."

"Gangs are everywhere, Mr. Bertrand," Max said matter-of-factly. "Urban areas, rural areas. Even wealthy suburbs are seeing gang symbols scribbled in the bathroom stalls at the high schools."

"Well, we're lucky to have such an esteemed federal agent helping our city in our time of need." Bertrand waved his hand, turned his back, and with that we were dismissed.

I could not get away from Bertrand fast enough, and almost took the door off its hinges in my rush to get out.

I turned on my heel and rounded on Max. "So you and Bertrand are chums?"

"Whoa!" He held up his hands. "Back off. He knows my boss, and called when the murders started getting out of hand. He's the reason I am here."

"But--" I huffed.

He dropped his voice. "I think the guy is creepy as hell. But he owns this town. Better to ride the waves, you know."

Much as I hated to admit it, he had a good point. 

"Be careful, okay, Max?" I gave him a faint smile and pulled on my helmet. "Things feel a little off right now. So watch your back."

"Wait a minute." Max touched my arm and I felt voltage. "Does this mean you give a shit?"

"It means I want that dinner you promised me tonight." I slid onto the bike and turned the ignition. The engine growled to life.