Blood Tally

Chapter 4

I began my search for Michael Pavlovich at the Walz Branch of the Cleveland Public Library. What I really needed was a workable file on Michael. Boris’s refusal to help on that front meant that I needed to construct the file from scratch – known associates, old workplaces, possible cell phone numbers. Very basic investigative stuff. Of course, I could save myself a whole lot of work if I just had access to a preexisting file.

Michael being a thrall, and all the legal paperwork that came with it, probably meant that OtherOps had at least a cursory file on him. Problem was that my friend Justin, who I would normally call for this kind of favor, had been pretty cagey since Nick the Necromancer smashed up a Starbucks, then my truck, trying to get at Maggie’s ring a few months ago. I refused to answer OtherOps’s questions about the attack, and the investigation was still ongoing.

So calling Justin was off the table. Lucky for me, one of my regular informants had sold me a low-clearance OtherOps login and password.

I found a public computer with the screen facing one of the walls and logged into the OtherOps account. It didn’t take long to search their records for Michael and, as I suspected, they did have a file. What I did not expect was how large the file actually was. I checked to make sure no one was around to see me browsing an encrypted government website, then settled in for the read.

Michael graduated from Lincoln West High School in 2015. Within a week of his graduation, his parents reported him missing. He was eighteen, so a bulletin had been posted but no amber alert. Three months later, Michael reported himself safe to the local police department. A couple weeks after that, his thrall paperwork was filed. By the time Michael turned nineteen, Michael was officially a thrall of Boris Novak. But the file didn’t end there.

I tapped the screen. Look at this. Six months after becoming a thrall, Michael and Boris filed jointly for a restraining order against Micheal’s family. Sounds like they were not happy about his new life. Restraining order renewed the following year. His mother died the next year, and then nothing else in the system. Michael was left to his fate. I felt a brief pang of sadness over the thought of a heartbroken mother trying to bring her son back from slavery and the system working against her. Michael might be a dumb piece of shit, but she certainly didn’t deserve that.

Just out of curiosity, I clicked off of Michael’s file and searched for Boris Novak. The website gave me an error with a little message saying that Boris’s file was above my stolen login’s security clearance. I clicked back to Michael and sat back, eyeballing it for a few minutes.

The file didn’t tell me a lot, aside from the fact that Michael had likely alienated all his family and friends by becoming Boris’s thrall. There was a slightly updated photo, this one taken the day the thrall paperwork went through, but the most valuable thing on the webpage was a list of known contacts and their phone numbers. I took a screenshot and emailed it to myself.

Any thoughts on this? I asked Maggie.

She sniffed. That the whole thing is gross.

No disagreement here.

I mean, you shouldn’t be involved. Look, I know it’s not your fault, Ada has your leash and all that, but …

I took a deep breath and waited for a scolding. But?

But you’re tracking down a runaway slave. That’s …

“Despicable,” I finished for her aloud. “Yeah. I know.”

Maggie fell silent. I tried to shake off my own disgust. I sighed softly to myself, logging out of the OtherOps website and wiping my browser history before heading back out to my truck. I sat in silence for a couple of minutes, the two of us unhappily sharing the same head, before I turned myself back to my work. I started on the list of contacts and began to work through them, phone tucked against my shoulder and a pen and paper laid against the steering wheel.

I spent the next couple of hours in that position. I called thirty-seven different numbers – some of them from the list, and others gleaned through internet searches. By the time I was done, I still felt super gross about my job and was hot, sweaty, and frustrated on top of it. I hung up when the last number came back as disconnected and tossed my phone onto the passenger seat. “Nothing, damn it. Nobody has seen him in years. Mom is dead. Dad is working on a fishing boat off the Alaskan coast and won’t be back for a month.” I paused when Maggie didn’t respond. “Look, I know what I’m doing is horrible. I wish I had a choice. But Michael, and people like him, sign up willingly for this shit. They want to be vampires. They think it’s worth slavery to gain immortality. They backed out of the contract. I’m not the goddamn bad guy.”

I knew I didn’t have any real conviction behind the words, but I really needed to believe it in the moment. It came as a kind of reprieve when Maggie finally replied. The comment was out of line. Sorry. You’re right.

I could tell by her tone that she still disagreed, but I also recognized the gesture of reconciliation. It was enough. “Thanks.” I picked up my phone and dialed a number. It rang a couple times before picking up.

“Zeke’s Pawn and Charity, Fred speaking.” The voice sounded exactly like Danny DeVito. It made me laugh every damned time.

“It’s still Fred, is it?” I asked. “It’s Alek.”

“Hey, bud! Yeah, still going by Fred. Damned loan sharks are looking for Zeke. How’s that OtherOps login working for you?”

“Like a charm. Wouldn’t mind a higher clearance level next time.”

“Good, good. I’ll see what I can do, but you know that gets way riskier. Is that what you’re calling about?”

I hesitated for a moment. “Not exactly. I have kind of a weird question.”

“I just had a couple elves in here trying to sell me their sex toy collection, so it won’t be the weirdest part of my day.”

That image cheered me up a little. Even Maggie laughed. “Do vampire thralls hang out?” I asked.

“Eh?”

“Like are there discos or clubs or whatever the hell kids call them these days that cater exclusively to thralls?” One of the things I’d learned in my career is that most of the Other were just like humans. They sought out their own kind to create hierarchies, form protective covens, or even just to socialize.

“Discos? Damn, Alek. What decade is it?” Zeke seemed to consider the question. I could hear him shuffling through some papers. Some bottles clinked, and he said, “Yeah, I think I can help you there. Fifty dollars?”

“Sure. Put it on my tab.”

“Right. You’re looking for a place called Sip’n’Bite.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. You know those soda-stream places that are popping up everywhere? It’s one of those. Pretty good business model, from what I’ve heard. It’s ninety-eight percent a totally normal junk food hangout locale.”

“What’s the other two percent?”

“Say the password, and they add a watered-down shot of blood to your root beer float.”

“Ew.”

“Ew to me and you, yeah. Like crack cocaine to a thrall. Drinking straight blood will make them sick, but watered down … I’m told it tastes like candy to them. It’s a side effect of the contract they sign with their master.”

While Zeke talked, I opened a map on my phone and typed in the name of the place. There were three within an hour drive. One down in Akron, one in Bedford, and one in Parma Heights. “All right, thanks for the tip.”

“Are you working a runaway?” Zeke asked. “Isn’t that normally Jose and Karen?”

I grimaced. “Special circumstance. Keep it quiet for me, will ya? Oh, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about the espresso machine you owe me. Going on three months now, man.”

“I haven’t had any good ones come through,” Zeke protested. “I promised you a good one, and what Zeke promises, Zeke delivers.”

“Sure he does. Have a good one, Zeke.” I hung up and checked the map on my phone again. It was time to do some serious footwork.

I began with the Sip’n’Bite in Parma, then headed down to Akron, and worked my way back up to Bedford. I got nothing from the first two, showing off Michael’s high school photo to the customers and staff. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition from anyone. I felt my chances lagging when I found the Sip’n’Bite in a generic strip mall well off the highway in Bedford. I entered just before close. A couple young teenagers were flirting badly in one corner while the sole employee swept the floor with that dejected look on his face that you can only get working eight hours of customer service. I showed the photo to the lovebirds first.

Both of them shook their heads, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the employee’s head whip around to stare at me. He looked down quickly, but it was too late. He damn well recognized that name, and I knew it now.

I played it casual, thanking the teenagers and then turning around. The employee fled behind the order counter, staring at the floor as he began to empty the trash bins. He was tall and gangly, with a face pockmarked with acne. He had a mop of long, brown hair. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five. I cleared my throat loudly, drumming my fingers on the order counter, and he flinched. Wiping his hands on his apron, he came over to me.

“Welcome to Sip’n’Bite, home of the triple-fried chili cheese fingers. What can I get you to sip today, sir?”

I genuinely almost laughed. The poor guy looked like a whipped dog standing there on the other side of the counter. I pretended to peruse the menu, then pulled out the photo of Michael and set it in front of him. “Sorry to bother you at work, bud, but I’m trying to find a guy named Michael Pavlovich. Do you know him?”

“Never seen him before,” he muttered.

He telling the truth? I asked Maggie. There was no answer, though I could feel her presence like someone looking over my shoulder. Despite her earlier apology, she was still mad at me. I decided not to start a fight in my own head. Besides, I was still enough of a professional to know when someone is so obviously uncomfortable with my questions. “That’s more convincing if you make eye contact with the photo,” I said gently, checking his name tag. It said, in cheerful Comic Sans, Hi, my name is BYRON. “Byron, do I actually have to know the password to get the blood in my drink, or can I just ask you for it?”

Byron swallowed hard, staring at anything but me like I was a cop who had just found weed in his glove compartment. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” His voice trembled.

“Seriously?” I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’m just trying to find Michael. He was reported missing yesterday. I heard he hangs out here.”

Byron’s face screwed up and he looked down at the picture. “He doesn’t hang out here,” he finally said.

“But you do know him?”

Byron looked over his shoulder, even though the kitchen behind him was obviously empty. He remained silent, and it took me a few moments to realize he was waiting for the flirty teens behind me to make their exit. Once they’d stumbled out the front door, hands all over each other, he let out a trembling sigh. “You a PI or something?”

“Or something,” I responded vaguely.

That seemed to be enough for him. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Just missing,” I assured. “I’m trying to find him.”

“It’s just … he’s my cousin. Well, second cousin once removed, technically. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

I considered the list I’d stolen from the OtherOps database. Byron’s name hadn’t been on it. I was willing to bet his family name was, though. “You think something bad has happened?”

Byron seemed surprised by the question. “I … I don’t think so. I mean I just don’t want him getting in shit deep. I’m kinda, you know …” He trailed off and returned to looking uncomfortably at the floor.

“I don’t know.” This kid is all over the place, I told Maggie. Was I like this when we met?

Only around women, Maggie broke her silence curtly.

I snorted, covering it up by wiping my nose. I removed a roll of twenties from my pocket – my “light bribe” stash – and peeled off a few, sliding them across the counter. “Can you explain to me what you’re worried about, Byron?”

Byron made those twenties disappear quickly. They seemed to give him a little strength. He licked his lips, nodded to himself, then said, “Look, I’m worried about the Mike. And I feel bad.”

“About?”

“He’s had a hard time of things. You know, with Boris. I’m the one who introduced them, so I feel kind of responsible.”

That caught my attention. “How did you introduce them?”

“Mike was hanging out at the Sip’n’Bite in Parma. I was working there as a summer job – you know, family business and all. Boris would come in scouting for thralls. Took a shine to Mike.”

“Has Boris hurt him?”

“What? No, not that I know. But Mike is a sensitive guy. It would be easier on him if Boris just beat him once in a while, but that’s against the Rules, so Boris just … yells a lot.”

“You know Boris well?”

“Enough. He courted me as a thrall back during my senior year. Ended up taking on Mike instead. Man, I was jealous too. Super jealous. Didn’t realize how big of a dick Boris could be. I dodged a bullet.”

I could feel Maggie hanging out in the back of my head, quietly listening to the conversation, quietly judging my entire part in this. I hated it, but I kept my professional face on. “Do you think something has happened to Michael?”

“Honestly? No idea. He’s smarter than most people give him credit for. Came in here two days ago asking to borrow some money. My dad owns this place, so I lent him a hundred bucks out of the register. Been having a feeling like I’m not going to get that money back, though …” He trailed off, staring at my hand still holding the roll of twenties. I peeled off five more and slid them over.

“Consider Mike’s debt paid.”

Relief crossed Byron’s face. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” It was Lord Ruthven’s money, not mine. “Any idea where he went after you gave him the cash?”

“No, sorry. He refused to say. Look, I’ve got to finish up. My dad will chew me out if I don’t close on time tonight.”

Maggie made no comment, so I took it as truth. “All right, thanks for your help.” I reached into my endless wallet – one of my favorite magical items that lets me carry around anything I can fit through the opening – and produced a fake business card. It said, Alex Frome, Private Investigator, and gave a number that routed to my real one. “If you see him again, could you call my number? He’s got some people very worried about him.”

Byron nodded along and I left, returning to my truck to meditate on this new information. It was almost dark, the lights of the parking lot flickering overhead while “Turn Your Love Around” played on the radio. I considered the options for my next move, then fished around in my wallet for Jacques’s card. I dialed the number.

“Williams here,” the voice answered.

“Jacques, it’s Alek Fitz.”

“Ah. Alek. I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few more days. Have you already made progress?”

“Maybe. Quick question: what day did you hire Ada?”

“I could check my calendar, but I’m pretty sure we talked on Saturday. That’s the day my sources confirmed that Boris had hired Valkyrie Collections to track down Michael. Is there a reason you need to know?”

“I’ll write up a proper report in the morning, but I’m pretty sure Michael Pavlovich is still alive.”

“Why is that?”

I summed up the conversation with Byron, then explained my thoughts on the timeline to Jacques. “Boris called my boss on Friday. Michael borrowed money from his cousin on Sunday. So Boris couldn’t have killed Michael and then hired us as a cover up.”

Jacques was quiet for a few moments. “Yes, I can see the logic. Unless Boris knew that Michael was going to run away, and he’s done the murder in the last forty-eight hours.”

He seems awfully fixated on the idea that Boris has killed Michael, Maggie commented suddenly.

“Do you have any evidence that Boris is a killer?” I asked Jacques. “Sounds like he’s a regular around these Sip’n’Bites and has never been seen raising a hand in violence against his thralls.”

“Trust me,” Jacques said confidently. “Boris is a killer. Though I suppose that if you can find Michael alive, that’s a good thing.”

He supposes. I rolled my eyes. Fucking vampires. “I’ll keep looking, of course,” I told him. “Business as discussed yesterday, then?”

“Of course, of course. Keep a close eye on Boris. In fact, I want you to string this job along. I’ve heard you get quick results, so I need you to slow things down for Boris so you can spend more time investigating his affairs. Even if he hasn’t killed Michael, I know there’s evidence that he’s breaking the Rules. I need you to get that evidence before it gets to OtherOps.”

I scoffed. I’d never actually been told to take longer on a job before. The whole “reporting on one client to another” had rubbed me the wrong way. But getting paid to waste time sounded kind of fantastic. As long as Boris didn’t walk in on me twiddling my thumbs at a KFC, I could get a nice, relaxing week out of this. Something told me that wasn’t going to go down as easy as I’d like, though.

I agreed with Jacques and hung up. I ran a hand across my face. Well, at least I’d been given permission to head home and spend the rest of the night watching old movies. Maybe I’d even start work late tomorrow. Customer is king, after all.

“Look,” I said to Maggie, “can we agree that neither of us likes this situation and stay friends? You don’t have to help if you don’t want to, but it’s going to be a miserable couple of weeks if you’re mad at me this whole time.”

I could sense Maggie stewing. She didn’t answer.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked.

Fine, she finally answered. It’s not your fault. You just don’t need to be so hard on these thralls.

“Oh, come on. They chose …” I cut myself off. “Ack. Sorry. I won’t start a fight if you won’t. Deal?”

Deal.

“Thanks.” I genuinely felt better already. “Like I said, you don’t have to help if you don’t want to, but … you said Jacques isn’t telling me everything, right?”

Right.

“Was he still not telling me everything?”

Definitely.

“I thought so. Is there a chance that he’s going to frame Boris? Did he kill Michael himself?”

I don’t think so. He wasn’t lying when he said that it was a good thing if you find Michael alive.

“That’s something, at least. But he is widening the scope of my job – actively looking for evidence that Boris is breaking the Rules, rather than just finding out if Michael is dead. Should I call Ada?”

She said you were at Williams’s disposal. Seems to fit the job.

“She also said that I shouldn’t work directly against Novak.”

And that was bullshit. You were already hired to look for evidence that Novak broke the Rules. Williams is just telling you to look a bit wider. I don’t think anything has actually changed.

Maggie was right. It wasn’t hard to talk myself out of calling Ada. It would be a waste of breath and would just continue to look like I was trying to get out of the job. I may be a slave, but I did have some professional pride. “All right. Let’s assume that Michael Pavlovich is alive and on the run from his vampire master. Where the hell do I go from here? Has he hopped a bus to somewhere on the other side of the country?”

I doubt it. None of the contacts in that OtherOps file were outside of the greater Cleveland area, and he only has a high school education. He has nowhere to go outside Ohio.

“Poor bastard. Then we have our next step: we find out where thralls go when they run away.”