Mistress of the Undead

by Isabelle Drake

  On a table across from the one they’d taken by the plate glass window, Hayden spotted The Globe’s pages heaped into a pile. He snatched them up, started sorting through, scanning articles and bylines as he did. All the usual headlines, the usual stuff. The bread and butter of the print media world. But still, he really, really wanted to write for that paper. Over 100 years old, dozens of Pulitzer Prize winning writers. In the age of digital, it was one of the most successful print papers in the U.S. If he wrote for them, he’d know he’d made it. Getting that job would make all this shit worth it.

  “You want to write for them?” The old man popped the last of his first donut into his mouth. “That’s going to be a stretch, don’t you think?” Belmont wiped his mouth, picked up his other donut, broke it into thirds. “Try for The Herald.”

  Hayden set the pages down. “Bob’s going to help me get in with The Globe. He has friends there. Connections. The sort of things that happen in a career when you don’t spend your whole adulthood stalking a tribe of sex-crazed zombies.”

  “Why would Bob help you?” He pinched one of the donut chunks between his fingers and lifted it half-way to his mouth. “Makes no sense when you’re cranking out garbage that’s making him money.”

  Why hadn’t Hayden thought of that?

  “You got something on him?” Belmont waved the hunk of donut. “An angle?”

  He did not. Why hadn’t he thought of that either? “Just this garbage. The zombie stuff.” Said aloud, it sounded really lame. Also, it could die out any minute. After all, he wrote for a tabloid. Those readers could stop caring about something mid-sentence.

  “That’s swell, but you’re going to need more than that.” He stuffed the piece of donut in to his mouth and chewed.

  Hayden tucked the pages neatly together. “What do you have on him?”

  “Me? The man who wasted his career being a stalker? What makes you think I have something on Bob?”

  He folded the paper, set it on the table beside them. “At his office.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” Belmont picked up another piece of donut, tossed it into his mouth.

  “I may have information that could help you.”

  Shaking his head, he swallowed. “Thanks. But I doubt that.” He grabbed the last piece, held it up, studying it carefully before cramming it into his mouth.

  Something wasn’t adding up. “Why are you still around? What do you want from them?”

  Again, he shook his head while he swallowed. “Where’s Mattie?”

  Hayden took a long gulp of his coffee. Still hot, it burned as it slipped down his throat.

  Wiping his mouth, Belmont leaned forward. “Something happen to her?”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Hayden got up, grabbed his coffee and crossed to the door, went outside. The dog was still there, sniffing the air, eyes alert, watching a couple guys pushing their way through the crowd of people waiting at the bus stop across the street. Belmont had stopped to watch the dog, watch the men across the street.

  “Come on, man.” The last thing he needed was a couple bored assholes getting mad about being stared at. “That’s nobody.”

  Belmont took one last look then moved on, heading back the way they’d come. “Tell me what happened to Mattie. I may be able to help you.”

  “What makes you think I need help?” He was starting to think that her being turned was the best-case scenario for him. No more threat. Well, except that thing stuffed under his bed. And the bad, terrible feeling he got every time he accepted his role in Mattie’s demise.

  Belmont’s only response was a laugh. “They aren’t done with you until they’re done with you.”

  Again, Hayden pushed aside the confusion he had over his own actions and considered that thing under his bed. The old man knew what he was talking about. He couldn’t see any downside to telling Belmont about his night, so he did. He left out the part about Matthew’s hands all over his cock. That went without saying. He also left out the evil of his own thoughts and behavior. That was too disturbing.

  Belmont listened to it all, then was silent for a while until he asked, “How well do you know Bob Keeler. I mean personally.”

  “Not at all. What’s that got to do with anything?” They were back on Commonwealth, walking past the cozy cafes and charming brownstones.

  “You think these things just happened to show up in Boston around the time of the movie release? That Bob randomly asked you to do a tie-in piece? Does it make sense to you that these things managed to go undetected all these years?”

  That had been what he’d thought, but suddenly realized how dumb that was.

  “I’ve seen more than sex rituals. So have other people.”

  “What was that shit about you wanting your turn at being used? That you felt cheated?” They paused at the corner, waited for a trash truck to roll by. “Why did you go to that ritual at the bar? Seriously, Guy. What the fuck?”

  “I do feel cheated.” He fell silent for a long moment, then continued. “I’ve wasted years on this shit. Got nothing in return. Nothing yet.”

  “Is that why you went to The Southie?”

  “I went to see. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  “Why? You could have done anything else.”

  “Think about Rachelle. Think about her family. Stop feeling guilty because you think you led her astray because that’s crap. Think about where she’s come from, her people I mean.”

  They were near Hayden’s apartment, so he stopped. “What are you talking about?”

  “Who is she connected to?” He moved on and Hayden leapt forward to catch up. “Who are her people connected to?”

  The answer was obvious. “Other rich people.”

  “Who is Bob connected to?”

  Shit. Why hadn’t he thought of that. “Other rich people.”

  “There’s something.” He said, grabbing the handrail of Hayden’s brownstone and pulling himself up the icy steps. “Dig in. Think.”

  “What do you have on Bob?” he asked again. Whatever it was, it had to be big.

  They both stepped aside so a woman walking her terrier could pass.

  “It’s nothing to do with you. Nothing that will help you either.”

  They’d reached the landing. “You really want to do that article together? The one Bob talked about in his office?”

  “Right now.” Belmont pointed to the door. “Let’s write it now.”

  “Why? What’s in it for you?”

  “I want to provoke Matthew.”

  Hayden had his key out, a surge of excitement sparking inside him. “Get back at him?”

  “You might put it that way. I’m not saying more, so don’t bother asking. You want my help. You got it. But like I said, we’re doing it my way.”

  The way Hayden saw it, he had nothing to lose and something—the job at The Globe—to gain. “I’m in.”

  “We’ll write the article, take it to Bob in person. Tell him to release it tomorrow.”

  Hayden unlocked the door, shoved it open. “I don’t have an appointment with him.”

  Belmont smirked, crossing in front to go inside. “I don’t need an appointment.”

  Chapter Seven

  “That’s all you need to know for now.”

  Four hours later, his mind blown, Hayden sat beside Belmont in the back of an Uber. They’d worked together to write the piece, in the end agreeing it was what they needed to provoke Matthew into coming for them both. Next step in their plan—Bob had to run it. Given what the article revealed, Hayden wasn’t so sure his boss was going to go for it, but Belmont insisted it was an offer the man couldn’t refuse.

  They were right around the corner from the tabloid office and Belmont had been going over the details ever since they’d slid into the backseat. “It’s not Bob I’m after,” he said, grabbing on to the door handle. “I have no interest in damaging him. I just want to shake up Matthew. Get him to come for us. You understand that, rig
ht?”

  “Right.” Good. If the Kingpin of Crap was going to crash and burn, Hayden didn’t want that happening until he got what he wanted.

  Belmont asked the Uber driver to stop by the back door of the building, and they climbed out. Bob’s personal assistant, Christopher, was waiting with the door open and a professionally blank smile pulling on his mouth. “You gentlemen will be meeting in the lower lounge.” He waved them inside. “Right this way.”

  He led them down a hall Hayden hadn’t even known existed, down a set of stairs. They passed through a pair of locked metal doors, then came to a wooden one at the end of the hallway. The assistant pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, then again ushered them through. “Please, make yourself comfortable. They’ll join you shortly.”

  Belmont didn’t miss a beat. He brushed past Christopher and headed straight to the bar along the left wall. Hayden followed him into the room, but turned right toward a low, round table circled by four overstuffed chairs. On the table was a plain looking wooden box, a stack of brass trimmed coasters, and a miniature gold chest. The assistant hadn’t come in, he simply nodded at them both, then turned and closed the door.

  Soft nondescript jazz floated into the room from above, plush paisley carpet swirled across the floor. Other than the music, the room had a stuffy, silent feel. Soundproofing?

  “What are you drinking,” Belmont called from behind the bar. He’d already begun twisting off tops and pouring shots into a low glass.

  “They? Someone else is coming?” Hayden eyed the colorful collection of bottles. “No thanks on the drink. I think maybe I better keep a clear head.”

  “Yes, on the drink.” Belmont pulled an ice bucket from below the bar, set it next to a pair of glasses. “They’ll think you’re nervous if you’re not having a drink. Nervous means weak. Do you want to look weak?”

  The man took a swig straight from a bottle with a green label, set the bottle on the bar beside a stack of signed baseballs in clear plastic cases. “Besides that, I think sooner or later you’re going to need something with a kick.”

  Whatever that meant. “They? Who else is coming?” Hayden asked again.

  “I’m not going to spoil the surprise.”

  Hayden kept his groan to himself. “What’re you having?”

  “Manhattan.”

  “I’ll have that,” he replied, even though he had no idea what it was. Beer or wine, those had always been his options.

  The old man took the bucket ice away and replaced it with a jar of cherries. Hayden stepped to the side, picked the chair with the best view of the room and dropped himself in to it. The soft leather hugged him, filled his nostrils with an earthy scent. The smell filled his nostrils, went deep in to his lungs. Something clicked in the back of his mind, making him shiver. The sudden chill flashed across his skin, went deeper, deeper still, sent an icy force through him so intense for a moment he couldn’t move. A collection of images churned through his mind. Mattie’s arm, flexing as she pinned him down to his couch, her fishnet-covered thigh as she climbed in the library window on the night he’d become hers, the glassy stare of her eyes after he’d fucked her like… like… there were no words for that. Only more images. The molten ash chum of his thoughts. And feelings. Dispair. Hope. Disgrace. Hunger.

  He wanted to blame Matthew and Rachelle for what he’d done to Mattie, for being part of their plan, for fucking her even when he knew she was clawing to get away, trying to tell him to stop. But more likely the oil worked like the tea, releasing a nefarious nature every human held hidden far inside the evil part of their soul. Another round of shivers quaked through him, continued to tease and tense his muscles. He was still nearly frozen when Belmont came over, offering him one of the golden-brown drinks tucked in his palms.

  “Feeling the chill?” he asked, holding the drink out.

  Hayden forced his body to move, looked into the man’s face. The understanding he saw there did not make him feel better. It forced him to accept the bleakness of his situation and to recognize that he had no choice about going back to the camp. Belmont’s plan to provoke Matthew had to work.

  He pulled his gaze away from the old man’s shrewd expression and checked out the square shape of the room. “Was this an old walk-in refrigerator or something?” Using both hands, he took the glass and put it directly to his lips. The sip went down smooth. He took another, longer drink. His muscles softened, almost went back to normal. The shivers continued but declined to a manageable level.

  Belmont took a sip from his own glass. “That chill wasn’t from this room.”

  Hayden took another drink, willed himself to relax.

  The wood paneled walls were covered with framed Red Sox posters, signed photographs, and other old school Beantown effects. The area behind the bar was full of Patriots paraphernalia. A signed helmet sat on one of the two bookshelves filling most of the wall across from the door they’d come in.

  Belmont eased himself into the chair across from Hayden, his back to the door. “Withdrawal, that’s what you might call it. Or jonesing. Not much difference, is there?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  The old man swirled the liquid in the glass, then reached in to pull the cherry out. He dropped it between his wrinkled lips, closed his mouth to yank the stem off. After twirling the stem between his fingers, he threw it onto the floor. “Did that shudder feel like I was kidding?”

  Belmont reached down to grab one of his calves, pulled his leg up, then set it over the other thigh. Then he set the glass on his calf. The old man knew too much. Hayden slouched in the chair, draped one wrist over the armrest, set the other, the one still holding his drink, on his knee.

  The door swung open. Bob came in first, headed straight for the bar. Rod McKinon strolled in behind him, long hair tied back, head covered with a bright pink bandana. Bob set out a glass, grabbed the green-labeled bottle, the very one Belmont’s mouth had been all over, then poured himself a drink. Belmont drummed his stubby fingers against his glass as he watched Hayden watch Bob.

  Old guys and their vendettas.

  McKinon paced, his gaze bouncing between the bar and the two empty chairs.

  “Go ahead and sit.” Bob said, grabbing a Rolling Rock from under the bar. He handed the can to McKinon, then brushed past him to get a cigar out of the wooden box on the table. He lifted a cutter and lighter out, set them on the table. “Smoke?” he asked the three of them, gesturing to the full box. “Help yourself gents.”

  McKinon took a step forward but seemed to think better of it because instead grabbing a cigar he sat him the final remaining chair. Guy took one. Hayden stayed still. The two older men took their time, taking turns with the cutter, making a show of snipping the ends, then exchanging the lighter, again making a show getting them lit. Watching their fleshy, withered cheeks pull in as they sucked the tobacco to life made Hayden queasy. Within a few minutes, a cloud of smoke hung over the quad of chairs, making the already stuffy room even stuffier.

  McKinon’s narrow body looked smaller than usual in the big chair.

  “You may as well spit it out, Guy.” Bob took a long draw on his cigar, tipped his head back and released a stream of smoke. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Speaking of shows,” McKinon uncrossed his legs, then recrossed them the opposite way. “You enjoy yourself, Hayden, at The Southie?”

  “Oh yeah.” Hayden was still having a really hard time believing what Belmont had told him about Bob, but he did believe what the old man had said about not looking anxious. Or afraid. He let some sarcasm slid into the tone of his reply. “That’s exactly what I call a good time.”

  “Guy had fun too.” McKinon to Belmont. “Didn’t you Guy?”

  Guy’s only response was a quick sip of his drink, followed by a puff of the cigar.

  “Hayden?” Bob ashed his smoke. “How come you didn’t tell me you were going to Rod’s par—?”

  “You want the show?” Belmont tossed t
he envelope containing a printed version of their newest piece on the table. It slid a few inches before hitting the wooden box. “Why don’t you take a look at it.”

  Bob picked it up. “You sure you want to do it this way, Belmont?”

  Guy took another sip and followed it with a series of small puffs.

  “Roddy.” Bob cleared his throat then ended up coughing on cigar smoke. “Take Hayden to your playroom so the grown-ups can talk.”

  McKinon hopped to his feet and rushed to the space between the two bookshelves. He leaned his shoulder into the wall and pushed. The section swung open, revealing a continuation of hallway. Fuck. Hayden did not want to follow that freak down a secret passage and into some obscure room.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” Belmont said, swirling his drink.

  Bob’s face had turned to stone.

  No choice for Hayden, apparently. He downed the last of his cocktail, set the empty glass on the table, then followed McKinon out of the room. Overhead fluorescent lighting buzzed and cast sharp shadows on the walls of the bland hallway.

  McKinon jogged the last ten yards. “Everyone who comes in here for the first time has to play a game. But you get to pick which one.” McKinon put his hand on the doorknob, then paused to look back at Hayden, “You have two choices. Truth or Dare or Treasure Hunt.”

  “Drop the act, Rod.” Hayden replied, still walking to the door. “There’s nobody here to impress.”

  “You. I can impress you, Mr. Thomas.”

  Leaning against the wall, he said, “I don’t give a shit.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I think you do give a shit. You just don’t realize it yet. Or worse than that. You’re a liar.” Rod eased the door ajar. “I’ll pick for you. Treasure Hunt.”

  “Fine.”

  He lifted his eyebrows a couple times. “Don’t you want to know the rules?”