Authors: Michelle Rabe
She spun back around to face him. “Talk. And make it good. Or I walk, and the next time you show up, I arrest you and send your sorry ass back home.” When he offered nothing but silence for a few long moments, she pressed. “Our former employers are really interested in what happened at the house you were sharing with that Creole woman.”
“What do you want to know?” Eric asked, taking a deep breath.
She remained silent a while as though choosing each word with care before asking, “What happened to you in that house?”
“I was attacked.”
“By whom?”
“I didn’t recognize the person,” Eric answered, heading toward Grace, hoping to guide her to an even more private area.
“Why didn’t you report it?” she asked, throwing up her hands. “Something? Anything?” Grace’s hands moved as she spoke, reminding him of her Sicilian grandma.
Eric sighed and leaned against the waist-high wall around the roof. “That’s complicated. Can we just say that a friend found me? I was in a bad way and didn’t wake up for a few days. By the time I healed, there were already too many questions being asked that I didn’t want to answer.”
“What about the perp?” The straightforward question held an unspoken demand for the same.
“As I said, I never saw who it was.” Eric’s answer danced the knife’s edge between truth and lie. If she pressed him or did any digging on her own, he knew the story would fall apart.
“I’m not sure I buy that. You were never one to turn away from a good mystery.” She thought of the books he’d kept around his apartment and in his desk, mysteries each and every one. “Why are you here?”
“Because I need access to reports of a car accident that happened about a month ago.”
“You came to see me? A homicide cop, about a car accident?” She tried to keep the note of incredulity out of her voice but failed.
“Yes,” Eric said, deciding to make her work for it;. Otherwise, she wouldn’t believe him.
“Is that all you want to know?”
“I’m going to take the fifth on that one.”
“Damn it, Eric you know…”
“I wanted to connect with an old friend.” He hoped that would make her pause and think.
“What?”
“I’ve missed you, Gracie.” Eric’s eyes were focused on the ground, a small part of him terrified to see her initial reaction. “Since you left home, it’s sucked.”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
“
Come on, Eric, Don’t tell me that you seriously believe that I don’t remember your tells?”
He sighed and looked at the ground for a second before looking back up at her. “Look, right now, all I need to know about is the car accident. There’s a fatality that my boss is concerned about.”
“Your boss knew the vic?”
“Her husband did. They were good friends. He was a good driver, a real car guy. Something’s fishy and she asked if I would look at reports.”
Grace’s hands went to her hips, and she shook her head. “So you volunteered your cop friend?”
“No.” Eric shook his head. “Neither of them know I’m here.” He told the lie and waited to see if she would call him on it.
Grace held her head with both hands and started pacing. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She frowned, pausing to look him in the eye. “I have no idea why I’m going along with this insanity.”
“Because…” he flashed her his most charming smile, being careful not to show fang, “…you know that I’ll treat you to the best cup of coffee the city has to offer.”
She rolled her eyes, put her right hand on her cocked hip and tilted her head to one side, softening her appearance. “And just how do you know where the best coffee is?”
“You’re going to tell me, and I’m going to meet you there tomorrow night.”
“How do you know I’m not on shift?”
A sly smile flashed on Eric’s face, and he chuckled. “I didn’t till you said that.”
Grace shook her head and sighed. “I’m going to regret this. Give me what details you know about the accident.”
“Happened about three weeks ago. Night of September twenty third. Driver’s name was Daniel Young. Single vehicle into the guardrail.” Eric recited the information that Nicholas had him memorize, carefully not offering anything that he’d dug up on the internet.
“Were you able to find any labs on the vic?” she asked while jotting down the information he’d already given her.
He shook his head. “No, there wasn’t an autopsy.”
“Why not?? That’s SOP in a vehicular fatality.” She frowned and made another note on her pad. “I thought you said this was simple.”
Eric knew it was standard operating procedure but couldn’t very well admit the reason for the lack of compliance. “His family didn’t want one.”
But only if you count the ruling Council of the hidden race of vampires as family. Thank you, Nicholas, for that little detail.
Eric concentrated on keeping his expression neutral.
“Did they at least run a tox screen?”
“Yes. It came back negative.” He didn’t tell her that Nicholas had swapped the blood sample out for a clean, human one.
Standard vampire operating procedure, he
thought.
“I’ll see what I can pull up, but no promises. There may not be a smoking gun to find.”
“I know. I just want to look into it for my boss. If she can tell her husband that it really was an accident, it will help him deal with his grief.”
“He’s an evidence kind of guy?” she asked while pulling a small notepad out of her jacket pocket.
Eric carefully considered what she’d asked before he answered, “Yeah, he needs to see proof.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Grace ripped a sheet off the pad and scribbled an address on it. “Be there tomorrow night at nine.”
“Thanks, Grace, I really mean it.” Eric grabbed the paper and stuck it in his pocket before he turned to leave.
He’d gone about twenty feet and was almost to the elevator when Grace’s voice cut through the silence. “Hey, Kincade?”
“Yeah?” He half turned to look over his shoulder.
“What’s with the cane?” She tilted her chin toward it.
“That thing that happened back home?” He lifted the item in question and tapped it once against his left calf. “Leg’s never been quite right since. It doesn’t like hills so I carry the cane to remind myself not to push it.” He smiled and turned, the lie hanging heavy between them like a bomb about to go off.
20 - Hollywood, CA - October 18, 2012
Charles DeVaale wandered around the empty nightclub, satisfied that everything was in order before the day crew came in to clean. The bright working lights were harsh and cast The Dracul’s dance floor and bar areas in an unattractive light. He smiled, remembering the hours that he Christophe and Morgan had spent working with their Hollywood lighting designer to perfect the ambiance.
When the club was open, pools of bright spotlights illuminated the dance floor where crowds gathered. Secluded niches retained little more than a dim glow and everything in between. The variations worked together to give The Dracul a dark, seductive, almost dangerous feel. Charles took one final quick glance around before he killed the working lights and stepped into the Los Angeles night. He turned, closed and locked the door before turning to face the parking lot.
“Merde,” Charles swore under his breath as darkness shrouded the entire employee lot. He glanced up at the top of the lamppost and, thanks to his enhanced sight, saw the problem in an instant. Every light had been smashed. Shaking his head, he made a mental note to contact the security company about checking the video footage for the culprits. He sighed again and started walking to his car. On nights like this, he missed simpler times, when he had less responsibility.
Charles paused, the tiny hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end, causing a chill to run unbidden along his spine. A shadow moved in the darkness at the right edge of his peripheral vision. He spun that direction, dropped his briefcase and brought his cane up in a defensive position.
A loud crack split the silence and pain shot up his arm as a sword met his cane. His attacker darted back into the shadow as Charles unsheathed his blade, settling into a fighting stance, opening his senses to the predawn city around him.
Soft feminine laughter filled the air and a moment later another attack came from his left. Letting instinct take over, Charles took two quick steps to the right, spinning to face the opposite direction.
The woman bore a falchion and danced back, a smile curling her lips. Charles stepped forward, engaging his strange opponent. They traded blows, each pressing the advantage and falling back with the ease of long practice. The fight raged over the flat parking lot, and the vampire had time to be thankful it had been resurfaced in the past few months. A low growl rumbled in his throat.
Where in however many Hells Dante wrote about is the security firm? They’re supposed to be monitoring the parking area.
He fell back under the advance of a brutal attack by his opponent. As he pulled in a breath, a strange odor filled his senses. Sickly sweet, fetid like a rose rotting on the bush. He choked, tasting the bile rise up in his throat and lost focus for a split second.
His attacker’s blade slipped past his defenses and sliced along his forearm, opening a gash several inches long in the skin. As the scent of rusted metal mixed with the rose aroma surrounded them, Charles took a page from Marcus’s training and grabbed his attacker’s blade with his free hand, wrenching it up. She cried out when the blade slipped from her hand. As it did, Charles thought he saw something etched on the inside of her right wrist. He stepped back flipping her heavier sword in the air, catching it by the hilt with ease.
“Who are you?” he asked, feeling a wave of unease wash over him.
“I am one of many.”
“Great, a sci-fi nut. Just what I need.” He shook his head and sighed. “Your name. What is your name?” He enunciated each word with exaggerated care.
His opponent’s chin raised a centimeter or two, and she met his eyes. Void of fear, she radiated only deep-seated hatred. “Two-two-five.”
He shook his head again, not sure he’d heard right. “Excuse me?”
“I have failed.” The woman dropped to her knees, and a soft thump sounded as they hit the asphalt. She bent forward at the hips, keeping her legs tucked under, and pulled a fall of thick blond hair to one side, baring her neck. “You will do as you must.”
Charles blinked, and staggered back a step, gasping for air. “What the Hell are you?”
“I am one among many, the hidden blade of death to those who refuse to die.”
“You’re death? You don’t look it. Dead? Maybe. But you don’t favor Death himself.” His words came across as flippant.
She lifted her face and spat in his direction. “We have killed many of your kind and your so-called Assassin has done nothing about it.”
A feral growl escaped Charles’s lips, and he stepped forward, placing his blade against her neck. “Who are you?”
“We are death,” she said, rising to her feet. His blade remained in place.
Charles shook his head, causing body aches and pains with every movement, and the wound in his arm throbbed. “You are not death. You’re just dead.” He watched the realization dawn in her eyes this time, and with a flick of his wrist, he slashed her throat.
As she crumpled to the ground, Charles scanned the parking lot. Satisfied their little confrontation hadn’t been witnessed, he cleaned his blade on the corpse’s pants before sliding it back in the sheath. Moving with purpose, he grabbed the corpse under the armpits and dragged it to the dumpsters.
The pull of the coming dawn, in addition to his lack of sleep, had sapped his energy, and Charles knew he couldn’t dispose of the corpse where it wouldn’t be found. Deciding to do this quick and leave the area, he went to the recycling container, grabbed several broken down boxes and used them to cover the body.
Satisfied the corpse couldn’t be seen right away, he went back to recover the woman’s blade. When he picked it up, he frowned. Although the workmanship was better than most modern swords, something strange niggled at the back of his mind about the single-edged blade.
A quick glance at the sky showed the deepening hues of pink and red.
Time’s up. Gotta get home.
He’d pushed too hard the past few nights and couldn’t afford the damage that prolonged exposure to the sun would do.
They had run into situations that required day work that a vampire couldn’t or didn’t want to do often enough that he, Christophe, Morgan, James and Danny, had come up with a prearranged message to let one another know that there was trouble at the club. Charles sent James the message and asked him to come back to the club to deal with the situation. He walked to the car, wrapped the sword in his jacket and tossed it into the trunk, pausing before slamming it closed, certain he’d heard movement from near the sidewalk.
Charles shifted his gaze so he could see the area, then pretended to fiddle with something in the trunk, waiting. Nothing. When the relative silence held for a few moments, he slammed the trunk and got behind the wheel. As he turned the key in the ignition, his phone chimed. He glanced down and saw a reply from James saying that he would be at the club in fifteen minutes. Satisfied that no one would find the corpse in that amount of time, Charles put the car in gear and drove away.