Stake

by Kevin J. Anderson

  As the three entered, a swarm of paparazzi took their photographs. She clung to the sleeve of Blair’s immaculate tux to make sure no one assumed she and Carrow were a couple. As a saving grace, Lexi realized that no one really knew who she was. The creator and site administrator of HideTruth? If it weren’t for Hugo Zelm’s patronage, she would never have been invited here.

  She saw countless reporters, photographers, some of them with large cameras, others with small digital ones. Considering the sheer amount of media here, it must not be terribly difficult to get a press pass.

  Lexi took in the sparkling chandelier in the foyer, the towering windows that looked out at the panorama of city lights below. Carrow sidled up to her, lowered his voice. ‘Keep your eyes open. Let me know if you see Helsing.’

  And her moment of warm glory dissipated. ‘I’ll look around.’

  She scanned the faces. She had never seen so much make-up or jewelry in her life. All of these tuxedos and gowns probably cost more than her monthly rent. Straight-backed servers glided among the guests offering trays with glasses of wine so dark it looked like blood. A server extended a tray to Lexi. ‘Pinot noir, miss?’

  Lexi accepted one of the glasses, knowing it was more expensive than any vintage she had ever tasted. The first sip was delicious, though she wasn’t enough of a connoisseur to appreciate its fine qualities. Blair clinked his glass against hers. ‘Thanks for having me here, Lex.’

  When Carrow took a glass for himself, she said in a low voice, ‘Are you supposed to be drinking on the job?’

  ‘I’m not drinking. I’m just holding it.’

  A tray of hors d’oeuvres came by, spinach and ricotta puffs in phyllo pastry, another tray with tiny quiches. Carrow looked at the neat little canapés with toothpicks. ‘Look at these tiny sandwiches!’

  ‘Canapés,’ she corrected.

  Another server offered him a tray. ‘Rocky Mountain oyster, sir?’

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘You’ll like them,’ Blair said, not offering details. The detective took one.

  With starry eyes, Blair absorbed the crowd, and Lexi sent him off to mingle. Blair, the best wingman anyone could have wanted, had coached her, guided her, reassured her. Now he was in his own element, and she didn’t want to diminish his excitement. He flitted about like a professional, introducing himself as a ‘personal chemistry specialist’ without explaining that it meant he was a bartender.

  Lexi felt out of place. She knew no one here, didn’t recognize a single face. She felt like an observer. With all the other fabulous gowns, even her lovely dress didn’t stand out. She remained close to the wall.

  A dapper old man glided up to her. He was bald, with an aquiline nose and close-set eyes. ‘You must be Alexis Tarada? The creator of one of my favorite websites.’

  She extended her hand automatically. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Hugo Zelm?’

  ‘I am your host.’ He clasped her hand, letting the grip linger. The man had a cold intensity about him, as if a hypnotist had just placed her under his spell. Self-consciously, she reached up with her free hand and adjusted the red velvet choker at her neck, feeling strange without the usual gold cross necklace her parents had given her.

  ‘I’m glad to have a devoted fan, and such a reliable patron, Mr Zelm. HideTruth wouldn’t survive without people like you.’

  The moment he stopped to talk with her, reporters pressed closer, now curious about who she was. More photos were taken of her in that one moment than in her entire previous life.

  ‘You make me want to believe. I am very, very pleased to support your work, Miss Tarada. You shed light on mysteries the world would rather ignore. I appreciate your efforts, and I fully intend to continue my support.’ His grip lingered awkwardly, and she withdrew her hand. His flesh had never warmed. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Zelm turned and gave a curt nod to Carrow. ‘I am glad you are here as well, Detective. I feel safer already.’ He glided off into his party, followed by the flock of paparazzi.

  At the front door of the mansion, even more guests and reporters were streaming in. Lexi feared it would be a long night.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Using the Bastion’s cash resources, Helsing had bought a good second-hand suit, which would let him blend in. The gray tweed with felt patches on the elbows made him look more like an English professor than a reporter, the disguise he had chosen for the night.

  After fleeing the home of Frederik Lugash, shaken by his near escape, he focused on his main task: destroying the king vampire. He was alone in his work. The Bastion had retreated into hiding. Lucius was a coward, failed as a leader. Alexis Tarada – someone he had considered an ally – had betrayed him to the police. For all he knew, Alexis was also in the thrall of Hugo Zelm.

  He had washed thoroughly in a public restroom after buying necessary toiletries at a convenience store – ironically, the same store where Mark Stallings had worked. He had switched out his satchel for a large camera bag, also purchased at a thrift store, and stashed the mallet and stakes elsewhere, leaving nothing to arouse suspicions when his bag was inevitably searched by security. Doctoring a press pass for himself wasn’t difficult.

  No one questioned his credentials when he arrived at the mansion, because Hugo Zelm basked in media attention, like a spider drawing in as many flies as possible. The king vampire wanted every reporter from every possible outlet to cover this event because it was part of his protective camouflage. The quirky philanthropist hid behind layers of security that merely disguised his true bloodlust. Zelm’s web extended throughout the city, possibly across the state.

  But Helsing knew who he was, and he intended to stop him.

  Once he set the wheels in motion tonight, the chaos would explode. He had a vague exit strategy, but the king vampire had enough security to make every detail unpredictable. Many of the lampir were arrogant, and perhaps Zelm considered himself invincible, believing that no vampire killer would threaten him with so many people around at the gala.

  Or maybe Zelm was just taunting him, daring him to make a move. It might be a trap.

  Helsing stashed his car on a nearby street where he could retrieve it quickly – if he managed to get out of the house alive. Strolling ahead, he clipped on the laminated press pass and carried his camera bag, which received a cursory search by the guards at the gate and again at the main entry.

  Helsing entered the lair of the monster.

  The mansion was a flurry of perfumes, glittering jewelry, false smiles, and meaningless conversations. Helsing glided among them, wearing a foolish, star-struck smile that he had practiced. So many other photographers scuttled about taking pictures that he blended right in.

  The guests were dressed in dizzying couture, perfectly schooled in etiquette. People at this strata of society were accustomed to media attention, expecting it as if it were their due. And they were well practiced in ignoring it, paying no attention to the cameras in their faces.

  Helsing felt like a wolf among the sheep as he looked around. No, not a wolf – the shepherd dog, the guardian. He would protect and save these people from inhuman predators. The real wolf was Hugo Zelm.

  He had seen photographs of the king vampire and spotted him easily. The host was surrounded by cameras and sycophants. Seeing Zelm sent a shudder down his back. This man had a great deal of blood on his hands.

  Helsing still had four silver-loaded shells. The king vampire would die.

  He froze when he saw Alexis Tarada standing next to Zelm, beautiful in a lavish white dress. Smiling, she chatted with the philanthropist, and she had a strange dazzle in her eyes. Obviously, the lampir had used his glamour on her. Worse than that! Helsing saw the red choker around her neck, which surely covered fang marks. Alexis must be the king vampire’s slave.

  Not only had she betrayed Helsing to the police and likely to Zelm, she was also feeding him with her blood. Had the king vampire promised to turn her, to make her into a lampir like himself?

  As
anger sent a wash of heat through him, Helsing opened his camera bag and removed the shell of the big Canon. He had to get closer.

  While Detective Carrow was alert for an ambush, Lexi heightened her own awareness. She scanned the crowd to spot a man she had met only once, and he had been slouched, wearing a baseball cap. The paparazzi pressed close around Hugo Zelm, capturing photos and sound bites. The point of this gala was for him to be seen, and all those camera lenses guaranteed it.

  After his perfunctory conversation, Zelm wandered off to chat with an older woman with an improbably lavish hairstyle. Blair was laughing with a dapper man who owned an art gallery in Old Colorado City, and Lexi smiled to see how happy he was.

  Carrow came up to her. ‘Anything yet?’

  She shook her head, looking around the room again. ‘I thought you were supposed to mingle.’

  ‘Unlike you, I have been mingling.’

  The detective hadn’t even sipped his wine, but Lexi, unused to such large social situations, had bolstered her courage by emptying her glass, which she now handed to a server. Another tray came around within seconds, and she reached out to take a fresh glass.

  Looking past the server, she saw a photographer in a tweed jacket making his way closer, raising a ridiculously large camera. Her gaze skated over him, then caught on his face as if snagged on a fishhook. She knew that chin, that cheek, those blue eyes. He looked up, and her gaze met his.

  Simon Helsing!

  As soon as he saw her recoil, Helsing lunged.

  ‘That’s him!’ Lexi yelled.

  Helsing smacked the side of his large camera with his knuckles, making a loud crunch. The lens and the camera housing broke open, the components separating, as if they had been held together with no more than tape.

  Carrow began to move. ‘Watch out!’

  Hugo Zelm spun and ducked, moving as swiftly as a shadow.

  The shell of Helsing’s camera fell away to reveal a gun. As he dropped the outer pieces, he shoved the server aside, swung the revolver. The tray of wine glasses flipped, spilling blood-red pinot noir down the front of Lexi’s white dress.

  Other guests began to scream. Blair’s mouth dropped open, and he pulled the art dealer out of the way.

  Carrow dove for Zelm to knock the philanthropist out of the line of fire. Helsing fired with an explosive concussion, spraying a cloud of silver pellets that shattered wine glasses and tore into the sides and sleeves of nearby servers. One man fell to the floor.

  Helsing fired his revolver again, then a third time. Shotgun pellets sprayed everywhere. Guests screamed and ran in opposite directions.

  Lexi dropped to the floor among the smashed wine glasses and scrambled for cover. She touched her chest, pressed down on the oozing red liquid, unable to tell whether or not she’d been shot.

  Zelm’s security bounded in, big men in dark suits drawing their own large-caliber handguns.

  Helsing fired one more time, and the blast shattered the magnificent main window that looked out on Colorado Springs. A rain of broken shards tinkled down, mixing with the screams. The gala turned into pandemonium. Many photographers fled, while some planted their feet and captured the fiasco.

  His face flushed with fury, fixated on Hugo Zelm who had crashed to the floor, Helsing pulled the trigger again, but the revolver only clicked on an empty chamber. Still waving the weapon as a threat, he bolted for the door. Panicked guests and staff automatically dove out of the way.

  ‘He doesn’t have any shells left!’ Lexi cried, but no one heard her.

  The security guards closed protectively around Zelm like linebackers guarding a football. Helsing kept pointing the gun as he charged out of the room, scattering people like pigeons. He made a beeline out the main entrance of the mansion. As the shouting built to a roar behind him, he vanished into the night.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Carrow picked himself up off the floor, his ears still ringing from the loud gunshots, the shattering window, the shrill screams. Knowing Hugo Zelm was the target, he had tackled the man to the floor as soon as the first blast rang out.

  The philanthropist felt like a mummified buzzard, all bony arms and legs, and Carrow thought he might have broken the old man while shielding him from the shots – probably silver pellets, like the ones that had killed the motel manager.

  After Helsing emptied his four shots and bolted, Zelm struggled away from Carrow and into a sitting position. ‘I am intact, Detective. You are very, very effective as a human shield.’

  Carrow frantically checked himself over. Some of the pellets had scored his arms, and his back felt like hamburger, but the low-caliber round hadn’t killed him. He glanced about for Alexis Tarada, saw her drenched in red – wine, apparently – appalled but very much alive.

  Like Secret Service guarding the President, Zelm’s private security guards created an impenetrable wall of flesh around him.

  The old man shouted, ‘My guards aren’t allowed to leave the grounds, Detective.’

  Carrow nodded. Helsing had a head start. ‘I’m going after him.’

  As he ran for the exit, he could barely think amid the pandemonium in the mansion. Men in tuxedos fled like spooked cats in slippery patent-leather shoes, while women in cocktail gowns and high heels scrambled after them.

  Carrow pushed his way through the front door. Standing on the porch, one of Zelm’s guards assumed a shooting stance and fired at a figure that ducked and weaved in the darkness.

  Helsing had discarded his bag and the pieces of the large camera that concealed the revolver. He hadn’t had time to reload even if he had more silver-filled shells.

  On the radio, Carrow called the additional officers in the area, preparing for full-on pursuit. Even above the sounds of panicked guests demanding their cars from the valets, Carrow heard another car start up down the street and peel out. That had to be Helsing.

  He knocked people aside as he ran to the valet attendants. The first car was a sleek black Mercedes that was too expensive for Carrow even to look at. He waved his badge. ‘CSPD! I need that vehicle!’

  A dapper gentleman snapped, ‘That’s my car, and we’re leaving.’

  Carrow jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘Take it up with the police commissioner.’ The dashboard looked like a space shuttle control panel. Giving a low whistle, he muttered, ‘How do you drive this thing?’ He realized the ignition was still running. Assuming that most controls were basic, he pulled the shift lever down and stomped on the accelerator. The engine roared to life, and he raced off as if afterburners had kicked in. He nearly ran down two women who appeared to be waiting for him, as if they wanted to hitch a ride. He swerved, overcorrected, scraped the passenger door against the open wrought-iron gates as he hit the residential street.

  Many cars were parked along the road, narrowing the lane. Behind him he could hear the sirens of other police vehicles racing toward the mansion. Helsing’s car was already around the curve and accelerating uphill, heading west out of the high-end neighborhood.

  Carrow fought with the Mercedes. It purred along smoothly, hugging the road, but he wasn’t used to driving at high speed on such narrow streets. A few patches of ice remained from the early snowfall a week ago, but he skidded only a little as he pressed on the accelerator and whipped around hairpin curves up into the hills.

  He shouted into his cell phone as he drove, calling for backup to follow him. Sirens continued to shriek behind him as he left the residential area and headed into the foothills. The sound of the road under his tires changed from asphalt to hard-packed dirt. The car rattled and bumped, and Carrow raced as fast as he dared while trying to control the car. In the upscale forest property, wealthy homeowners considered it quaint to leave the roads unpaved for the rustic ambiance.

  At first Carrow thought Helsing was driving blindly, just trying to get away, but as he ascended deeper into the foothills, he seemed to have a goal in mind. Helsing drove at breakneck speed, anticipating the curves as if he knew the road. The
dust of his passage made a smokescreen, and Carrow struggled to keep his eyes on the red tail lights, using them as forewarning for sharp turns. The powerful Mercedes could have closed the distance if he pushed it, but they were going over fifty on the steep unpaved road. The ruts rattled under the tires, making the steering wheel vibrate in his hands. The car slewed from side to side.

  Ahead, the red tail lights zigzagged, but continued to accelerate. Somewhere in the rear-view mirror, dwindling sirens plaintively called for Carrow to wait up.

  Gritting his teeth, he pushed harder on the accelerator and held on for dear life. The red lights ahead suddenly turned right, off the road, and plunged into deeper darkness. Helsing had turned on to a side road marked with a brown flexible post with white letters and numbers. Some obscure old forest road – the guy definitely knew where he was going.

  Carrow fishtailed, and gravel spat under his tires as he braked and skidded, trying to keep control. He was unable to turn swiftly enough and nearly wiped out as he passed the turnoff, and when he stopped the car, the Mercedes was facing the opposite direction. His heart pounded.

  He paused just a second to take a deep breath, then got moving again, turning into the narrow forest road. The killer must have some destination in mind, but Carrow felt that this track was a dead end. The ruts were deeper. He nearly hit his head on the roof of the car as he drove over a rock on the right side.

  He shouted into the phone, ‘Turn right up here! There’s a forest road, hard to see. Watch for our dust!’

  A voice came back from one of the pursuing police vehicles. ‘That’s F381, Detective. I’ve gone fishing up there. It leads to a reservoir.’

  ‘Crap almighty, how do people know these things?’ He followed Helsing’s bobbing lights as the lead car continued to toil up steeper inclines. As he gained altitude, Carrow could see flashing red and blue lights and the piercing headlight beams in the rear-view mirror. The other cars were only a few minutes behind and below him.