Chapter 3 – Nine Out of Ten

Sol

“Mr. Hallowell.” The lawyer smiles at me like we just met at a charity gala. “Gordon Fisk. I represent the Kron family.”

“Great. I represent me, and I’m busy.”

I’m sitting on a bumper in a foil blanket. The officer who took my statement went back to her car to type it up, so right now I’ve got about as much going on as a lawn gnome.

He holds out a business card. Cream, raised letters. It’s thicker than my lease.

“You’ve had a horrible night,” Fisk says. “If anyone wants to ask you more questions, the police, the university, some reporter, you call me first. The family will take care of it.”

“Why would the Krons offer me legal representation?”

“You were a guest in their house.” He keeps holding the card out, and I don’t even know why I grab it. My hand just does. “And people in shock sometimes say things they’d regret in retrospect.”

“I said he had blood on his face. Because he did. Go look, there’s probably still some on his lip.”

“You said it to an officer, and that’s your right.”

His voice stays soft and nice, like a guy reading a bedtime story about my funeral.

“Saying it to anybody else is a different matter. Your friends. Your followers. Those kids filming from the windows. That’s defamation, Mr. Hallowell. The family has never lost a single case and I doubt you can afford the settlement.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m advising you. Free of charge.”

Oh please. Nothing a Kron gives away comes without a bill.

Laz is still over on the porch steps, not even watching. Why would he? He’s got people for this. I bet there’s a guy on the payroll who shakes it off for him after he pees.

“You checked the boy’s pulse, I understand.” Fisk’s eyes drop to my left hand. “So your prints are on him now. I’d hate for anyone to start asking why.”

My mouth goes dry. Only one other person saw me touch that kid, and he’s sitting on the porch pretending I don’t exist. That fucker told on me. He picked up his phone and tattled to Daddy’s lawyer like a third grader.

“You’re unbelievable. Your client walked out of that kitchen with somebody’s blood dripping off his chin, and you’re over here-”

“Your mother’s name spent a year in the papers next to a dead boy’s,” Fisk says, still soft, still nice. “I’d hate to see that happen to yours.”

He doesn’t even blink. He talks about my mom the way you’d mention a new coffee shop opening on the corner.

I want to put my fist through his veneers. My magic’s right there, buzzing in my fingertips, and the only thing holding it in is how much he’d love it if I let go. One more blown light, and it’s in a file by morning. Unstable warlock, history of outbursts, just like his mother.

I grip the bumper so hard the metal bites into my palms.

“My mom didn’t do anything,” I tell him. “And if Laz wants me to shut up, he can walk his ass over here and ask me himself. Tell him that. Word for word.”

“I’ll let the family know you were cooperative.”

He nods like I just agreed to something and walks back to his Mercedes.

I want to bounce the card off the back of his head. I put it in my pocket instead. I’ve got a better target in mind.

* * *

“Previously,” Kat says, in her Keith Morrison voice, “on the worst night of Solomon Hallowell’s life.”

“Please don’t.”

She doesn’t care. She’s cross-legged on the arm of her couch in a Bratz T-shirt, holding a mug. I slept under her blanket in my jacket, and I feel like something the dishwasher spat back out still dirty.

Fisk’s card is on her coffee table between two empty Celsius cans. She’s read it out loud so many times I know his office hours by heart.

“Suspect number one.” She jabs the mug at the card. “The Count. Blood on his mouth, called it in himself, which is a classic move, by the way. Killers love doing that. Nine out of ten.”

“What’s he missing?”

“A confession. And I knocked off a point for the suit.”

“He did it,” I say. “Or he knows who did, and he’s sitting on it so Daddy’s lawyer can bury the whole thing.”

“Counterpoint. Rich vampires with lawyers don’t leave bodies next to their own trash.”

“He’s a Kron. He thinks his trash is too good to get searched. If I wasn’t trying to leave unseen, nobody would have seen the body until his fixers took care of it.”

Her TV’s on mute behind her. Channel 4 has the front of Kappa Rho Nu, then a woman on a porch somewhere, holding up a school photo. Kat sees me looking and turns the sound on.

The kid in it has braces. His name was Marcus Bell. His mom keeps saying he was a good boy, like somebody already tried to imply he wasn’t.

I’ve been carrying Marcus Bell’s pen around all night, and I never even asked him his name.

Kat mutes it again without saying a word. She leans over and sniffs me.

“Why do you smell like the Count?”

“He grabbed my wrist. Last night.”

“Laz Kron grabbed your wrist,” she says slowly, and her nostrils flare. “Oh. Oh, no. Sol. You just...”

“Don’t.”

“You did. Right now, when I said his name. It’s coming off you in waves.”

“That’s adrenaline.”

“Adrenaline smells like a gym bag. That smells like a bachelorette party in Vegas.”

I count her throw pillows. Eleven. I go round again in case I missed one. Still eleven, and I’m still not into Laz Kron. My body just never got the memo. It’s been playing me his mouth all night on a loop, minus the blood, like that’s supposed to make it better.

“This is going on the podcast,” Kat says.

“Nobody listens to that thing.”

“Three people listen, and one of them leaves really long comments.”

* * *

By noon, the whole campus has seen the videos.

I feel it walking through the student union. The humans glance at me, then at their phones, then back at me, like they’re checking I match. The vampires take their time about it.

Two Kappa Rho Nu guys are leaning on the vending machine by the stairs. One of them sniffs the air when I go past, big and loud, so everybody hears.

“Smell that?” he says. “Sugar’s out early.”

His buddy laughs so hard he has to hang onto the glass.

The machine gives up. Every coil inside it spins at once and it just dumps its guts out. Cans of Coke bang down on the floor, then Doritos, then an avalanche of Sour Patch Kids. The guy who laughed jumps back, slips on a Mountain Dew and lands right on his ass.

“Six out of ten,” Kat says, without slowing down. “Minus four because he’s ugly and you clearly didn’t want to fuck him.”

I don’t answer that. I do grab a Dr Pepper on my way past. I’m proud, not stupid.

* * *

My phone buzzes in the stairwell.

The landlord’s rent reminder sits at the top of my inbox. I don’t open it. I know what’s in there, an amount I don’t have.

Under it there’s an email from the dean of students. Ashgrove Student Conduct Board.

I applied for the warlock seat back in the spring for one reason, which is money. A whole year of sitting at a table voting on frat boys, and I get paid for it. Nobody even throws up on my shoes.

Congratulations, it says. First session next week. The board will review the Kappa Rho Nu party.

I scroll for the part where they kick me off for finding the body. It’s not there. Thank God, because without that money I’m sleeping on Kat’s couch until graduation.

The members are listed on page two.

Student representative, warlock seat: Solomon Hallowell.

Student representative, vampire seat: Lazarus Kron.

Well, fuck.