Gregorio Vasilescu, Vampire + Private Detective

The Bean & Brew was on the northeast corner of 4th and South Streets. Easy enough to find. Unassuming on the outside. Downright tame compared to the bright purple Copa Banana across the street.

The café was close to home, as it turned out. Only a short walk from my office.

How in the-gin-joints-in-hell did Dmitri stumble into a decidedly human café in this part of town? South Street was a tourist spot, and a Tourist spot, but a dying one. Sure, the city staples were still in business. Bars like Tattooed Mom and Fat Tuesdays. But South was becoming a member of the undead itself. Everyday another shop or bar was boarded up, leaving vacant vessels eager for their next temporary occupants. Ready to suck the life and finances out all those who tried to do business on the block.

I once saw a man curb stomped right there in front of the Banana while a couple was taking engagement photos just down the block.

Rumor had it some lots got bought up by a South Philly werewolf pack creeping north a few years back. And by rumor, I mean property records. I checked. The D'Onofrios expanded their territory.

Most established vampires like Dmitri kept to the posh clubs and pre(American Revolutionary)-war homes of Old City, staking their property claims right off the boat and not budging in the 300 years since. Lot of the master less, baby gutter punk vamps gravitated north of City Hall. Hip neighborhoods like Fishtown and Northern Liberties, now being hyper developed with trendily themed bars for the millennial and gen z crowds. So, if Dmitri were out recruiting for young vamps and fresh humans to turn, my guess would have been there, not in my punctured neck of the woods.

Loitering on the opposite corner, I texted Phoebe to double check if this was the right address. Maybe the Bean & Brew was a chain? Waiting for her reply, I watched a tacky neon purple Psychic Readings sign flicker in the window above the café. Yeessh. Of course, there was a psychic above the coffeehouse. Fortune tellers were a dime a dozen on South.

Phoebe texted me back.

Phoebe was sweet. Lousy secretary, leaving case folders open and scattered about, books practically tossed from off their shelves. All the drawers to my filing cabinets were constantly hanging open, and oh, let us not forget blabbing my location to a disgruntled vampire while I was out on a job.

Not disgruntled... Dmitri had gone absolutely batty.

The vamp had always been a kook, but I never thought he'd let himself go like that. Lovesick loon clearly hadn't been eating (I ignored the gnawing pang of hunger in my veins.)

But Dmitri's driver, or valet or familiar or whatever the kids called them these days, he was of more interest to me.

The retainer check had been signed in his name, Julian Nguyen. If I had to bet, I'd say Nguyen was just the latest in a string of pulses on Dmitri's bank account. Awful difficult to open one of those when you're undead and undocumented. Speaking from experience.

I crossed the street to the café, dodging traffic, flexing my injured hand as I reached for the door. The wound had closed. My bones shifted back into all the correct places while I slept. Angry, but clotted, cuts still adorned both sides of it. They would heal completely in a day or two. Sooner if I stopped off for a bite. Thanks a lot, Dmitri, old pal.

The air in the café was warm and thick. A caffeine craving – one of many I could never kick – slugged me right in the jaw. I do love that smell. Not so much a fan soured milk and cleaning solutions and body odor that also lingered in the space. A whiff of incense though and red wine, that was pleasant.

Only person ahead of me in line was a woman in a shaggy leopard print coat and, strangely, a raspberry cloche hat pulled low over her ears. The ends of her white hair poked out and curled around her chin. It looked worn and frayed and like it belonged to a woman who kept a flask of illegal gin in her stockings. Which was odd, since I hadn't seen a woman casually sporting that kind of look since at least '32. Then again, she wasn't really pulling it off either.

"You know how to treat a girl, Mason," she said in a husky voice at the barista.

As the boy behind the counter turned his back to her, the gal opened her wallet and her shoulders slumped. She glanced up at the barista paying her no mind, quickly slipped a hand in and out of the tip jar, and slapped the wad of cash loudly down on beside the register, calling: "Keep the change!"

Well that's something you certainly don't see every night. And trust me, the nights, and what human people do with them, really do all start to look the same after a few hundred years' worth of them.

I snickered. "Sneaky devil."

The woman turned sharply and almost instantly stepped back to keep from smacking straight into me. She knew she'd been caught, puffing out her chest and parting her lips for some defensive reply. She looked up – eyes were so dark I couldn't tell her iris from pupil – and that angry snarl melted into a look that said, above all else, I'm tired.

A funny taste flooded my mouth.

Red wine and ash and fresh dirt.

The woman shivered.

She was pretty. She was very pretty. So pretty the dried-up veins in my neck ached at the sight of the quickening pulse in her jugular. A tinge of red flooded her round, olive cheeks as she looked me up and down. Swallowing once. Her throat quivered.

Stop that.

I wasn't here for this.

She wasn't even that appetizing. Her makeup was smudged. The blonde was fake—her thick eyebrows didn't match the color in the slightest. Was the mole under her left eye fake too? Probably. I mean, wow, did it work for her but it had to be as fake as the rest of this Marilyn thing she was going for. Except for maybe those hips.

Cleared my throat. "Our little secret," I said, nodding at the tip jar and avoiding her eyes. Could've told her off. Could've ratted on her for stealing. But, I don't know, guess I just got curious to know what she do next.

"If you say so," she mumbled, giving me a wide berth as she scooted to the opposite end of the counter to pick up her drink.

It took an immense effort not to watch her go. Which irked me. Not her going, but my urge to watch her.

"One extra hot—oh, can I help you?" The barista boy, cardboard cup in hand, sighed at me.

I rubbed my eyes. For a moment, the image of that odd woman burned under my eyelids. Right. What was I here for again?

Missing barista.

Or rather, likely ghosted barista. I was already rehearsing how to break the news to Dmitri.

Sorry my liege, my pal. Found the girl and, now, don't want to say I told you so, but she just doesn't want to see you anymore so if you could leave the poor thing alone, thanks, and that'll be fifteen hundred for your troubles.

"Good evening," I said, soft as a cat's purr, and leaned lazily against the serving counter. "Iced mocha please."

Sliding the cardboard cup down the end of the counter and wiping his hands on his apron, the barista dully replied: "Four fifty."

He took my cash and I slipped a generous tip into his jar. Beyond myself, the barista, and that woman I could feel staring at me from the milk bar, there was a small collection of patrons (human, I'd say) minding their own business throughout the café. I didn't spy another barista, though I noted an open stairwell behind the counter that led into a basement, where a light was on and the electronics of refrigerators hummed.

Black and white tiles plastered the floor, while the walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of art of for sale. Though the place was notably clean. At least the seating area was. Behind the counter, the coffee pots and espresso machines and blenders, were dotted in a variety of brownish smudges. Mess sink overflowed. The potted plants in along the windowsills looked as though they hadn't had a drink in ages (feel that). Little trash bin on the pickup counter was stuffed to the gills with straw wrappers and napkins.

"Say," I said, "you work here long?"

The barista spilled chocolate syrup along the countertop and groaned. He was sweating. Pulse jumpy. Stressed.

I glanced around the café. The woman in the leopard print coat was hurrying out a back exit, one that appeared to lead deeper in the building, her head down. Her legs—no.

Cleared my throat. "Busy night?"

He threw a dirtied rag down the basement steps and shrugged. Not the chatty type, I guess.

"This your usual shift?"

"Been doing doubles," the barista said, clearly annoyed, getting to work on my drink. "Freaking no-call no show," he muttered under the whirr of the espresso machine, so quietly a mere human likely wouldn't've overheard.

Well. That was unexpected.

"Right. Didn't think I recognized you. Doesn't a—"

... Oh Dmitri you demented cock, you never gave me your barista's damn name!

"—a young woman usually do this shift?"

"Schedule rotates."

"Frequently?"

Another shrug.

"Not frequently enough, is my guess. How long have they saddled you with double shifts?"

"Like, five, six days?"

"That's a bit of time," my mouth was dry. No... no, Dmitri could not have actually been on to something here. "Did the young lady quit?"

Scooping ice into the cup, the barista's whole body seemed to sag with a heavy sigh. "Listen, man, if you're like a secret shopper, my manager already gave us this talk. Everybody knows we can't just give out personal info."

Suppose that gives me enough reason to treat the witness as hostile, eh?

Bit my lip and let the boy finish my drink in silence. I had patience. As an immortal member of the damned, I better have patience. But when the barista turned to present me my drink, I oh so soft and intentionally grazed my fingers over his. The boy shivered and, reflexively, looked up.

It didn't take much. Must be a rather empty-headed fella. One glance into my eyes and the boy's whole body went slack.

"Thank you," I purred, concentrating on holding the barista's gaze without blinking. I'm not the handiest vamp at enthralling. Not in recent years, at least. If I blink, the spell could break. Or melt the boy's brain. Listen, hunting is an old-world concept. When you can legally hire a meal for a night at a club, well, you just lose your touch sometimes. Happens to us all.

"You're very good at this aren't you?" I said. He nodded. "You must work very hard." Nod. "Yes, of course you do. It shows. You must be so tense, from all this work. I bet it feels nice to just, once and awhile," I pulled the sweating cup finally free from the barista's loosening grip, "let go for a bit. Go on. Check out for a few. I can look after the café and the only thing you need to worry about is looking at me, just like that. Relax."

Tension coiled in the boy's shoulders and arms slackened so suddenly he smacked his hands against the register. I snuck in a quick peek around to make sure he hadn't drawn any extra attention. Outside, I think a man exited the building from the apartment entrances, but other than that, not a stir.

"S'there anything else I can help you with today?" slurred the barista in a slow, numb voice.

I spun back to the boy, fixing my stare on his watery eyes. "Yes, actually." I took a long sip from my straw, velvety latte blanketing my tongue, and relished in the perfect blend of sweet and bitterness. "Your coworker. The poor dear who's been out a few days..."

"Lily."

"Lily, that's a lovely name. Do you know her surname?"

"Perez."

Lily Perez. I slipped a pen and notebook out my pocket and jotted the name down, writing a little note to text it to Phoebe later.

"Has she done this before? Taken days off without telling anyone?"

The barista shook his head this time. "Nope."

"How many days has she been out?"

"Five."

Five. Five days. That matched Dmitri's count exactly.

"You've tried calling her, I trust?"

A nod. "Goes to voicemail. We've left, like, a billion messages."

"And what number have you been calling?"

The barista whipped out his phone so fast and recited digits staring with two one five so fast I worried my spell had broken him.

"Aren't you a dedicated lad." I noted the number. "And her address?"

The barista grinned, pleased with the compliment. "She lives in Center City. Thirteenth and Spruce, I think. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"Yeah, kid," I scribbled down notes. "Say, does... a scary old man ever come in on Lily's shift?"

Shrug. "I mean. He doesn't come inside anymore. Sends some other dude in. He's been banned. But when the other guy isn't with him, Lily just goes outside. They talk."

For a love like ours, words are unnecessary. Dmitri you lying sack of bones.

My spine tingled. Felt a fang poking at my bottom lip. The thrill of the hunt.

"That's very helpful pal," I lisped around my fangs.

The barista didn't answer. His gazed wandered over my heard and at the ceiling. Damn. I should release the kid soon. Just a few more questions.

I rattled the ice in my cup. The boy's focus returned slowly, as if waking from a nap.

"When did you last see Lily?"

"Sunday."

"You worked together then?"

"No. She worked the swing shift. Ended hours 'fore mine." The barista raised a flimsy hand and pointed forward. "She came back."

I ground my teeth around the thickening plot and my straw.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, not, er, yeah, yes kid," I snapped fingers in front of the barista's face. He was beginning to blink. "One more question, promise. And then you can wake up from this swell nap and go back to work. What did Lily come back for?"

"Psychic."

"I... she... what?" I blinked. Hadn't been expecting that. "What psy—"

The barista looked away, dreamily. Dang it all, I'd lost him, hadn't I? "Alright kid, you can wake—"

The boy lifted a lazy arm and pointed over his head.

"Third floor."

It hit me like a runaway SEPTA bus. Of course. The sign in the window upstairs. Psychic Readings.