I wake to the sound of a fist beating on my door.
There's a cat on my face. My black cat. Lucky.
"Jesus, fuck," I groan, taking hold of Lucky and sitting up in my coffin.
I built it out myself, lined it with thick cushions and beddings, and I honestly like the feeling of being enclosed, safe and snug. It's cliche and most vampires would make fun of me for it, but it's so cozy. Stumbling half asleep across my messy, clothes-strewn floor, hugging sweet baby Lucky to my chest, I crack the door and appear the very visage of the waking dead.
"What the fuck is so important you'd rouse a vampire from her evil and sexy slumber?"
"Can you put some fuckin' clothes on?" Nia demands, covering her eyes with a hand. "There are children here!"
"Quitcher naggin', ya damn broad. Whaddya want?"
"There's someone at the door lookin' for you, Daddy. Like, right now."
That ain't often a good thing. "Aw, hell. Hang on."
I get dressed in a black hoodie and shorts, grab my little .32 caliber, then hurry downstairs with Nia. Before I do anything, I quickly check on Portia in her chair, Tyson in the kitchen with his wife, Jasmine, and the kids, Mycah and Tasia, and… Wait. I'm missing one.
"Porsh, where the hell is that other daughter of ours?"
"Sonya moved out two years ago, baby."
"Fuck, that's right. Hey, 1920 was–"
"We know the sayin', robin."
"Ten years ago… A'ight, y'all stay put. I'll handle–"
"Can I help?" Mycah asks me, the bright eyed sixteen year old, yet to lose his hopeful light. "Somehow? I–I can back you up, Granny Redd!"
"Oh, hellll no, young man! Gitcher ass back in there! If you ever even think 'bout doin' half the dangerous shit I do, or havin' anythin' to do with this gang type shit, I will slap your honor roll extracurricular ass into next fuckin' week. Figuratively. I won't hit you, but you'll goddamn regret it! Git! Git! G'won now!"
"Okay…" He trudges back into the kitchen.
Portia is brimming. "They're in good hands."
"For sure. Yours. You ain't goin' nowhere, honeybee. Excuse me while I handle this intruder upon the doorstep of me and mine."
Stomping down the hallway, pissed off all around by the chaotic fucking week I've had, getting woken up far too early, and another dreadful reminder that modern pop culture romanticizes gang life and violence in the eyes of young men, I storm out the front door and onto my porch.
It's way too goddamn bright this morning. There's a nice looking white woman at my top step. Three truckloads of Devils have pulled up to the curb on watch. They don't fuck with people fucking with me.
Crossing my arms, I study this cute little thing right here. She's probably in her early twenties. Blonde. Blue eyes. All smiles. Happy, maybe. Too happy. Happy people annoy me. What the fuck is there to be so goddamn chipper about?
"Whatchu want?" I ask, lifting my chin.
"Miss Autumn Grace Robinson?"
"Yep, that's me. What's this about?"
"I was told to hand this to you personally." She checks her bag, and at least fifteen hands close around fifteen gun grips behind her. But it's just a manila folder with some papers in it. "Here you go. Your revised lease agreement, amended for its management by the Malkov Concern, pending your review and approval."
"The transfer of ownership hasn't happened yet."
"We do like to take initiative. Getting everything settled ahead of time will make the transition as seamless as possible, without any interruptions to your business or routine. Once you've signed, please bring these forms directly to our offices, the address for which is on the papers themselves. If you have any questions or concerns, you may bring them up then as well. That's all I have for you, so thank you for your time, and have a wonderful rest of your day."
I glower as she turns around and strolls away, somehow indifferent to the dangers all around her. The sheer audacity of pretty blonde white women is often a marvel to behold.
"Uh. We good," I call down with a wave. "Thanks, boys."
The squads drive off and I go back inside, scowling as I flip through the pages to skim over the new lease. I tell the family it's all good so they can relax, taking a seat at the kitchen table to mull over this shit. I have a ton of junk to do today but this takes priority. Lucky jumps right up on the table and meows in my face, so I hold her in my lap as I parse through this nonsensical legal letterhead.
Jasmine sets a steaming mug of coffee down for me. "Bad news?"
"Indiscernible news," I huff, turning the page and scratching my purring baby's ears. "It's our new lease agreement. Nothing looks all that… strange…"
I trail off as my scowl deepens. I read it again. And again. And again. I rub my eyes. I drink some coffee. I kiss my cat a few times. I look out the window for a few seconds. Then I read it again. It's still the same. My heart is sinking lower and lower.
"That… can't be right."
"Uh oh." Nia's cooking up breakfast at the stove. "Bad news after all?"
"The… Listen. The rental payment, which will be made on the first of each month with a four day grace period, paid by cash, check, or card, and delivered in person at the Malkov Concern's American Branch Headquarters, will be revised from the amount of two thousand dollars per month to… one dollar per month."
There isn't a sound in this house besides the bacon sizzling.
"Robiiin!" Portia calls. "C'mere, baby!"
I think I'm in trouble but I don't know why.
Standing before Portia, holding my cat, I prepare to receive my scolding.
She holds up an open palm, head down.
Praying for the words to come to her.
And then… Hallelujah…
"Now just what in the hell did you do? Hm? Why on God's green Earth would a massive Russian corporation buy up this shitty ass ghetto ass bumfuck neighborhood and set your rental charge to a single dollar? Are–Are you in bed with the goddamn Ruskies now? I know you're a red blooded commie at heart, you busted down vampire ass hoe, but what the fuck are you thinkin' gettin' yourself involved with the Russians?"
"P–Portia, the kids… We haven't had that talk yet–"
"As if they don't already know! Your melodramatic ass sleeps in a coffin! You brush your teeth with fangs out! You haven't aged a day, their whole lives! And you a little too damn good helpin' with their history homework! Mycah, Tasia, listen here and listen good. Ol' Granny Red's a blood suckin' parasite from the 1800s, and that's just how she made, and we love her to death anyhow!"
"Y–Yeah, okay," Mycah stammers, giving me two thumbs up. "Love you."
"Cool," Tasia drones, nose buried in her phone screen. "Can you make me one–"
"None of that now!" Portia cuts her off, redirecting her ire upon me, the lowest of lowly sinners. "Explain yourself, or so help me God! I do not want those damn Ruskies anywhere near me nor mine!"
"Portia, that's kinda racist–"
"How is that racist?"
"Well, Slavs are their own ethnicity and they haven't always been considered white–"
"White enough!"
"But you expressing distress at the proximity of people born of that ethnicity purely because–"
"Caucasian!"
"Actually, the Caucasus people of South Asia are a separate ethnicity altogether, closer to Armenian or Azerbaijani–"
"Oh, Lordamercy! Not with the anthropology lesson! What did you do, robin?"
All I can think about in this moment is that one internet joke about mixing up the words jacuzzi and Yakuza, and ending up in hot water with the Japanese mafia. Hilarious. Somewhat relevant. I think I might be in hot water with the Russian mafia.
"So…" I wince, giving her a finger gun and holding Lucky in one arm. "Hi. Hello. Just remember that you love me–"
"Spill it."
"Um. My… recent benefactor…"
"Yes. I hear you. Go on."
"She… owns the Malkov Concern."
Portia lowers her forehead to her hand, eyes closed.
"And apparently… may or may not have ties."
"To the Russian mob."
"To–To the Russian mob, yeah."
"Sweet baby Jesus Christ in Heaven. You are nothin' but trouble and love. So this benefactor. How did she find you? Here? This address?"
"Shit, I tried to play it safe and had her drop me off a half dozen blocks down, but she just… Porsh, she up and bought the whole damn hooood! The whole shiiit! A–And if she took over the lease management, she would have access to all that personal information on the tenants. Filter through 'em, do some diggin', narrow it down, dig some more… Like, I covered my tracks well with my identity, but that's really no match for a billionaire with the right resources."
"Wait. She's a billionaire? With a B?" Portia lights up, all smiles now. "Girl, why you ain't say so? Go get yourself hitched! And get that billionaire wife of yours to take care of us too! Hell, I'll learn some Russian!"
"Damn, she changed up fast. Come tomorrow you'll be singin' the Soviet national anthem."
"Shiiit, I might be point zero three percent Slavic now I think about it. But here's what don't add up. She already benefitted you. Why would she bother to do this too?"
Hugging Lucky, I strain out, "I have… no clue…"
She turns her head slightly, lips pursed. "Interest?"
"Huh? But then she'd just use a bank."
"Interest in you, ya damn useless lesbian."
"Oh!" Lightbulb moment. "Wait. No way. You think?"
"Why else? You should hit her up! If anyone bought an entire neighborhood just to change my rent payment to a single dollar? Girl, you best believe I'd try swingin' the other way for that! A billionaire, no less? Damn!"
"You're tellin' me to be a gold digger."
"Sounds more like she handin' the gold to you."
"Ain't this just prostitution with extra steps?"
"She's a billionaire. Sell your ass for all it's worth, bitch! Not that it matters, 'cause you're interested in her too. I can tell. You got that twinkle in your eyes again." With a deep sigh, Portia lets it all out and gets more serious, but also more soft. "Baby, I think you should see what's on the table. This could be huge for you, and you deserve much more than what you've got."
My heart sinks. "Honeybee, don't say that–"
"It's true. You know it. I know it. We all know it. You've put your whole life on hold for us. For me. Sixty years now you've taken care of me. But I'm good, baby! I'm old, fat, and happy! With a lovin' family and some grandkids to nurture. You got me here. When I'm gone, I know you'll be lookin' out for my babies. I'm content with the life you've helped to give me. Now I want you to take this chance to go out and live yours. You ain't gotta worry about me so much. Please."
"But–But your medications and your treatments and your–"
"These babies of mine got me covered. And if you get a bend to this girl's ear? Shit, maybe she could help us too. I ain't holdin' hope for that. Don't put us first here. This time, put yourself first. Just this once. Please. Let me see the day when my red robin is just a little bit selfish."
I rub the back of my neck, watching the game show on TV for a couple seconds while I zone out and think. "Guess I could… see what's up. At the very least to demand she gets us a real maintenance crew. If puttin' out all the fires 'round here weren't taking up half my time, I could maybe… branch out. Some."
"There you go. You'll do it?"
"Y–Yeah. I'll do it. Thanks, Por–"
"Hush now, you, you're talkin' over my mans."
"Oh, bless your heart." I roll my eyes and trudge back into the kitchen, where Nia, Tyson, Jasmine, and Mycah are all looking at the lease documents. "Guess things are about to change 'round here, y'all. Big time."
I drop into my seat at the kitchen table to nurse my hot coffee and pet my cat, lost in thought about pretty Russian women and what the hell else could motivate one to buy up an entire neighborhood just to do me more favors. Is she really interested in me? We didn't trade numbers, she didn't ask for my name, she kicked me out on the curb, and then she drove off. I thought that was a wrap.
Now all this?
I'm starting to question if it's a game. Maybe I'm just a rat in a maze for her entertainment, and I don't even know it. Hell, I don't know the first thing about her. Maybe she just likes flexing her money and power on the bitches she hooks up with.
Feels like a housecat toying with a rat.
A vampire toying with her prey.
I'm viscerally into that primal shit.
This is exciting. I admit it. She's buying me. It feels surprisingly good. Like I'm just so desirable that she's willing to drop all this money on me. Sure, these are just pennies to a billionaire, but from where I sit, these are some damn big pennies. I feel wanted. Craved. Someone powerful is trying to win my attention.
Sure. Sure. She can buy my attention. My body. My time. But nobody will ever buy my love. And if that's what she's after, then she likely thinks it'll be so easy because she has all this money, but she will be sorely disappointed.
It could be fun to play along. Play pretend. Play coy. Play hard to get. See just how badly shewants me. Wouldn't it be torture for someone who has it all to be denied that one thing they cannot have? Wouldn't it be fun to hold that over her head and watch how high she jumps for it?
Oh. Yes. That sounds very fun.
"As the youths would say," I announce, clicking my pen, "I'm locked in, gamers."
"Please, stop," Tasia groans.
"Are you really…" Mycah trails off.
"Yep." I show my fangs. "I'm a vampire. I'm 138 years young. Uh. I do have to drink blood every couple days, and I've got some wicked senses and a couple other tricks, but obviously none of that Dracula shit applies. The plan was to tell you two after high school, 'cause y'all are young, dumb, and talkative. Your cousins don't know yet either. But I hope you realize nobody can ever know about this. Like, down lower than low."
"Y–Yeah. Totally. I won't say anything."
"Whatever. Why can't you make me one?"
"Because not all vampires can do that," I lie through my fangs, because that's what Portia told me to say the day she found out she was pregnant. She doesn't want her descendants ever getting corrupted by a lust for eternal life. And honestly, as much as I'd love to hold onto my people forever, I don't wanna be seen as a bargain bin fountain of youth or some shit.
Leaving it at that, I pick through the lease documents and make amendments in blue ink, negotiating for way more than what was written. Parking guaranteed for residents, street sweeping every month, return to regular operation windows for trash collection, a full time maintenance team, guaranteed renovations to bring the house up to code, accessibility improvements so that Portia can get around easier, brand new appliances and air conditioning units, a door to door security system, and carpet replacement for the entire upstairs, as a start.
Once I'm done, it's around noon, so I get up and get moving. With a dozen kisses for Lucky, I grab the essentials in a small black backpack–phone, wallet, keys, butterfly knife, switchblade, brass knuckles, nine millimeter, loaded cigarette case, two lighters, sunglasses, black eyeliner, and eye drops.
Sunlight stings the old vampiric retinas.
Checking my kids one more time–Portia, Nia, Tyson, Jasmine, Mycah, Tasia, Lucky, all good–I pass out my love freely among my family.
"Where you goin'?" Portia questions.
"Finna link up with Dom and arrange this sit down."
"Stay safe out there, hotshot."
"You know me!"
Blowing kisses, I dash out the front and have Nia lock up behind me, pulling up my phone to call Domino. Before I do, I notice I have a new message from a random number. Probably just some scam marketing bullshit. It's an image with no text attached, so I pull it up just to see.
It's a black and white photo of five inmates gathered together in the yard of some prison or other. All of them look well beyond dangerous. One is a slender but tall man with dark hair and gaunt cheeks, smoking two cigarettes at once. The second is a large and bearded Italian man lost in thought looking elsewhere in the yard, only three fingers on his left hand holding a cigarette. Then a giant of a man with light colored hair who looks like a goddamn lumberjack is busy rolling more smokes.
The other two are dead ringers for each other. A middle aged man with a scar cutting through his black beard, arms crossed with a shadowy look in his eyes as he stares right at the camera. Just next to him is some young punk barely pushing his teens, smoking a cigarette and watching the camera too. His short hair falls in his eyes, which are just as cold as the older man's.
Staring at the photo is a weird feeling.
I type out a cautious message.
Autumn> who is this?
No response.
Autumn> Miss Vasilovna?
Nothing.
Autumn> yeah aight, cool pic. old school. who are these guys?
Leaving it at that, I flip to my contacts and ring the big dog. When Domino picks up, I holler, "Yo, D. Where you at?"
"Yo. Benny's. I'll wait up."
I hang up and get going, scanning the streets as I go and finding that things are relatively normal. It's a quiet afternoon, warm and humid, with the trees rustling in a weak breeze coming off the mountains way off Northwest. Checking my messages as I walk, I note that there's been no response from that odd number. It's awfully strange to be getting an image like that without explanation. I wonder why it was sent to me.
Slipping into the backyard of a seemingly random house, I tap a knuckle on the glass door and one of the young bucks lets me into the trap. Smells like base, which is cooking up in the microwave, and weed smoke, which is trailing from multiple blunts in multiple hands. Dapping everyone up, I pass through the crowded kitchen and into the living room, where Domino and a couple of the other higher ups are chilling on a few couches talking business. The room is kinda messy but not too bad, and a stereo set is bumping some newfangled rap track I'm less familiar with that's way heavy on the 808s.
I snag a seat with a sigh, letting my head fall back against the cushion and closing my eyes. "Goddamn. What a fuckin' week."
"Yo, grab her one," Dom tells somebody, and a cold beer is set in my hand. "What's good, Red? Heard you had some white bitch knocking at your place."
The beer's a little more bitter than I'd like, but I'll drink it. "Yep. Another advance from our mysterious Slavic overlords. Nah, it was just a revised lease. Nothin' to it, really. We're all good."
"A'ight, a'ight. You hear from 'em Soviets?"
"Pfft. Uh, yeah. Hang on. Igor messaged me. They…"
I trail off when I see the reply.
"Uh, one sec. I gotta deal with somethin' here."
555-0327> This was taken in 1905 within the yard of the Ohio State Reformatory. Left to right…
> Robert "Bobby Bourbon" Mackey, incarcerated 1893 for felonious aggravated assault and first degree murder.
> Antonio "The Barber" Vespucci, incarcerated 1881 for felonious aggravated murder of three police officers.
> Egilmar "Lumberjack" Weiss, incarcerated 1889, aggravated arson and four civilian murders.
> Francis "Big Dog" Redd, incarcerated 1891, aggravated robbery, aggravated murder, abduction, extortion, and ransom.
> Ellis "Little Dog" Redd, incarcerated 1900 for grand larceny, burglary, aggravated robbery, theft of firearm, felonious aggravated assault on an officer of the law, and the murder of two others.
> Four of these men died in prison. One of them escaped custody and was never seen again. The year was 1908.
> Oddly enough, all court documentation represents Ellis Redd as male. Did he change to she over time? Was this a logistical misrepresentation? Or was this deception?
I stare at the messages as a cold bead of dread settles in my stomach. Fuuuck. How the fuck could anyone have dug this up? It has to be Lilia, right? I'd much rather it be Lilia than some random motherfucker who's about to potentially blackmail me.
Lilia could blackmail me. If she wants. But nobody else.
"Uhh." I hesitate another second, then switch focus. "Y–Yeah. Sorry. Dom, our boy Igor says they'll accommodate us. Whenever, wherever."
"Bet," Domino says, sitting back and spreading wide as he studies me. "The generals say hell nah. This our turf. There's no partial ownership. 'Cause at that point, the commies gon' want a cut. And they'll have leverage to demand it. That shit ain't happenin', Red."
"Look, they bought the shit, they gon' move in for it, D. Sayin' no to this… They realize that means war, right? With the Russians."
Domino tells me, "Then it's war."
"You got kids here, D. Families. Shootin' in the streets means strays in the homes. People gon' die from this, more than just Devils or Russians. It ain't good for business, havin' a dead clientele."
"Line's in the sand, cuz. They cross it, that's on them. Set it up. Junkyard, off Glenn and Wells. Ten PM tomorrow night."
I clench my jaw, trying to think of a way around this. Motherfuckers are putting my family at risk. One odd nine millimeter round and suddenly my kid's gotta bury one of her babies. Or one of her babies' babies. There has to be some way I can keep the peace here. I just have to think it through. But this gives me plenty of time to think.
"A'ight, fine. Damn it. I'll send that off."
Autumn> D says 10pm tomorrow junkyard between Glenn and Wells
The response is almost immediate.
Igor> OK! [EMOJI: THUMBS UP]
"Done deal. They'll be there."
"A'ight then. You good?"
"Not really," I huff as I stand up to go. "But in an immediate sense, sure. I'm good. I'll see y'all then. Deuces."
Back on the street, I head for home to get started on Tasia's busted air conditioning unit, checking my phone again to stare at the messages from the random number. It's gotta be Lilia. No chance it's anyone else. Right? I guess I'd better try to find out.
Autumn> idk what you mean about any of this. Ellis must've been a man, otherwise he wouldn't be in a men's prison.
The dots pop up to show this stranger is typing.
555-0327> Curious indeed. Here's another question. If Ellis Redd was born in 1887 and escaped OSR in 1908, how is it that Ellis Redd was killed in action in Argonne, 1918, at the age of 22?
Fuuuck! I've been found ouuut! Seriouslyyy!
Autumn> pretty sure that's a different Ellis Redd.
555-0327> …
555-0327> Is that the best you can do?
Autumn> only makes sense, don't it?
555-0327> Perhaps to the senseless. But these two Ellis Redds look awfully similar…
It's another photograph of a squadron of soldiers in the trenches. Just seeing this image makes my feet ache from the memory of that trench foot. One of the soldiers does indeed share a remarkable resemblance to the teenager in the prison yard photo.
It's getting worse and worse.
When I make it home, I take a seat on the stoop and choose to deal with this first and foremost. Staring at the faces of the soldiers, I feel an old and faded sense of heartache, guilt, and regret. My experience in the Second World War was horrific in its own ways, but I wasn't on the front lines.
The Great War…
The Great War still haunts me.
Autumn> not exactly sure what you're implying. u think they're the same person? how is that in the least bit possible? seems like a conspiracy theory or some shit…
555-0327> Now you're just playing dumb.
555-0327> Ellis "Little Dog" Redd was 13 when incarcerated in 1900 and 20 or 21 when he escaped in 1908. Now Autumn Robinson is 28 in 2025. Aren't you reaching a little too far? A 20 or 21 year old is generally far too youthful to pass for 28.
Yeah, there it is. The noose is tightening.
Autumn> total conjecture, but I'm pretty sure Little Dog was 21 at the time of his escape in 1908. as for his relation with Ellis Redd in Argonne, I just don't see any connection. what r u tryna say, exactly?
555-0327> 21, you say? Interesting conjecture. Good to know. ;-) You see, the first surviving record of Ellis Redd ever having existed is from his arrest in 1900. Nothing before that is even possible to access. Sorry to say, I can't pin down his exact date of birth…
Autumn> doesn't Ellis get to keep any secrets from you? hm? any at all?
555-0327> Only if I allow it, Собачка. ;-)
There it is. And now I'm fucking smiling and blushing and kicking my feet and giggling as my heart flutters. It's her. She's actually texting me. She's been looking into me.
Autumn> I knew it was you…
555-0327> Should I be impressed? As if it wasn't obvious. There's something about you… It's as if you're stuck in my teeth. I've found myself quite curious. So many mysteries about you, Little Dog. Consider me intrigued.
Holy shit, she is interested. In me? In me?
Kicking my feet again and quietly squealing, I lose my mind with excitement and glee for a few seconds and come out of it lighter than air, smiling wider as I text her back.
Autumn> maybe that interest is mutual…
555-0327> As if it wouldn't be. How could you possibly resist? I've work to do now, Little Doggy, so I must go. Look forward to seeing me tomorrow night…
Oh fuck. Shit. I forgot. She owns my fucking house!