The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

8

Gregorio, Trying Not to Think of Stakeout Puns

Yeah, alright, I botched that big time. You can say it. I was way out of practice on interrogation methods. Margarita was attract—a tricky one.

I sought refuge from the smoke cloud of her apartment in the bar across the street, wanting to keep an eye on her a bit longer. Nobody hardly noticed the vampire brooding or abstaining from his cheap beer at a two-top by the window. The Bean & Brew went on as normal. As the crowd shifted from caffeinated to intoxicated, that young and overworked barista eventually elected to clean tables.

On the third floor, Madame Margarita extinguished her neon and peeked out her dark curtains. Again.

That woman was... weird. And, officially, the number one person of interest in this case. I needed to know more about that dang finger. Whatever else she was hiding, too.

My legs were still stiff from my sudden exit. I could smell the incense clinging to my jacket, along with the hints of her cigarette breath and shampoo (mint and orange) and decay. She didn't smell like any other creature I'd encountered before. That's, I believe, because she isn't one of us. She was a human playing pretend. It's a lame act really. Just look at all the useless trinkets and spooky charms scattered throughout her place. No self-respecting psychically inclined witch would ever be so tacky.

Plus, she just about announced her supposed powers to a stranger who waltzed on in. Any witch or medium worth their circling salt would know that's Society rule numero uno: no irrefutable evidence of magic shall be revealed to humans.

Darling. I've been called a lot of things in this pitiful existence. But not that. Bet she used that line often. Softens high paying clients.

And what clients would they be, precisely? Certainly, no witches would be caught upside down on their brooms in the home of that charlatan. Werewolves? Fae? Goblins, trolls, shapeshifters, mermaids, banshees? Other vampires? High paying undead itching for a glimpse of next year's Eagles projections and the 'chance' to speak with the lovers they've murdered?

Would explain how she knew too much, for a human.

She couldn't be one of us. There wasn't a chance. So called psychics and mediums almost never were. This wasn't a surprise. She was as phony as her platinum hair.

And with Philadelphia absolutely infested with creepy crawlies the council was strict with enforcing that no exposing magic rule. So protecting those higher end clients obviously marked high on her agenda tonight.

Wonder if Dmitri was the one who turned Lily onto the Madame. I should have asked—

Ah, but wait old boy. Lily worked right below that two-bit parlor. Wouldn't it have just been more likely she sought out the first psychic she could find?

Why in sweet hell would the girl even leave work only to come back to the psychic parlor that night? What happened between then? What did Lily want to know?

How the bloody fangs did she walk out of there short one finger?

I put down the pencil and actually took a sip of my watered-down beer. It was bland and flat. My hand was cramping from trying to write out all I gathered. My head hurt too. Margarita pulled back her curtains to check if I was still outside for the third time. I flexed my hand and picked up the pencil. I needed to review the facts.

Lily Perez arrived at the psychic, presumably in one piece, around midnight... and left a little later with one less finger. If she left at all. Was it likely our Madame murdered the girl and disposed of the body in tiny, manageable pieces? Could it have been Lily confronting Margarita about her lousy practice? Money in exchange for silence toward the Magistrate on the whole illegal medium-ing thing? Hmm, but with Lily herself being an undocumented bloodbag, this theory would hold up about as well as Margarita's bathrobe.