Street cops found blood under the bridge the next morning, but not a trace of a body. The driver of the car, she had been seen getting out of, had come forward almost immediately. He had, so far, been exonerated as he had received a ticket for reckless driving several blocks north, shortly after dropping Heidi off on the bridge. Aurelia sighed and reread the report from the beginning, especially the part about the ash that had been found scattered across the grass nearby.
“Idiots,” she mumbled under her breath.
Ravi Patel waited impatiently for the blood sample to finish spinning around in the centrifuge. He was a man who always hated to wait. The awkward frustrating days of his youth, as in intern in the overcrowded hospitals of Mumbai, India, still replayed in his mind to this day. He loathed waiting days for test results that doctors in America could get within a few hours. He couldn’t say that his current surroundings were any better than his old ones, but, at least, he had his own laboratory and only waited on himself.
The centrifuge stopped and he opened the door. Removing the test tube, he carefully held it up to the light, the blood was still crimson. He smiled. He walked over to his regular workbench, gently placing the blood sample into a rack packed with other tubes. He scribbled some notes on a pad of paper and went over to his newly-acquired portable DNA microscope.
“Hey, Doc.”
Patel looked up to see Ryker entering the lab.
“Jesus gave the okay or, at least, he didn’t say no after ripping me a new one,” Ryker reported.
“What is it with you, Cantrell?” Patel asked. “You seem to get ripped at least once a day.”
“Must be my wonderful personality,” Ryker replied, smirking. “Are you close?”
Patel smiled a little. He always liked Ryker, perhaps because both men had one thing in common – a desire to fight vampires that was not borne of personal tragedy. Neither of them had lost loved ones to the bloodsuckers or had come close to death at the hands of vampires. Patel became a vampire hunter because he had seen far too many of their victims end up in his hospital.
Generally, most vampire victims recovered with few ill effects because of an enzyme in the saliva that healed wounds within an hour. But, that was only in good conditions. It was a far different story in places like Mumbai, where victims were often left lying in filth after an attack, their wounds becoming horribly infected. Even worse were the superstitions of the people, whose panic at seeing the bite marks on throats forced the government to kill scores of victims who might otherwise have been saved if left alone with an IV and time to rest.
The actions of his youth led Patel to seek more humane remedies for the vampire scourge, for he knew that vampirism was like drug addiction. Most of the body’s immune system spent its energy directly against the infections caused by the attack, with little left over for the enzyme in the vampire’s saliva. That enzyme would often lie dormant, until the victim’s body was too weak to resist. Then, it would spring to life and begin the horrible process of conversion.
It was this process that Patel wanted to attack. He’d worked hard for more than two decades on his ideas and was sure his serum would work; even if the others considered it a waste of time. To him, anything was better than what he had seen back in India.
“I think I might actually have it this time, Mr. Ryker,” Patel said, happily. “The tests look extremely positive. Tell me, has the young woman changed yet?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s ripe and ready, Doc,” Ryker replied, with his sometimes morbid sense of humor. “In fact, maybe too ripe, which is Jesus’ latest reason for ripping me.”
“I’m not worried about Jesus,” Patel said, climbing off his stool and walking over to where Ryker stood. “It’s Dolores I have to please. Jesus would just take everyone who’s ever been bitten and kill them. We can’t win a battle like that. Trust me. I’ve seen it many times. No, I believe my way can work a lot better for us.”
“Hey, you don’t have to convince me, Doc,” Ryker said, good-naturedly. “We just need to know it works, so we can go after the big shots, maybe even Lin Tang. If it works on her, then you’ll be up for the Nobel Prize in Science.”
“Yeah, yeah, you jest, but this is serious business,” Patel remarked, tartly, as he returned to his microscope. “Tell Jesus, I will be ready to test her within two hours.”
“Good luck, Doc,” Ryker said, leaving the lab. “For all of us.”
Chapter 2
Louis Riordan was not happy.
Standing by one of the specially-tinted, full-frame windows of his high-rise office, he ignored the dying rays of the sun to look out over the cityscape of Fort Worth. It looked so peaceful to him; though he knew down on its streets, thousands of men and women were just beginning the hectic race to make it home from work. He also knew his people would be down there, to begin a new day while most others were ending theirs.
Riordan was more than 400 years old and never felt as unsure of himself as now. Other than looking at the silver creeping into the temples of his jet black hair or trying to count the scant few age lines around his eyes and mouth, one could not tell his age. Such mental discipline had helped him weather countless crises from his days as a thief in the mean streets of 17th century Paris, to a new life in Montreal, to the violent days of two worlds wars and, now, the 21st century.
He’d built a vast clan in Canada only to see it fall from within because of jealousy. He’d taken those lessons, built up over centuries, and created his new clan in Texas. Here, he ruled the streets with a hand that was only iron-fisted when it needed to be. And, it helped him become one of the largest vampire clans in North America.
He had a net worth north of $3.2 billion, owned twenty percent of the office buildings in Tarrant County and had no fewer than five homes across the state. He had personal relationships with most of the area’s politicians and celebrities, though only a few knew his true nature (in reality, most of them only cared about was how much green he had).
But, for all that he owned and all the power he possessed, Louis Jean-Marie Riordan was about to give it all up.
Why?
Because he had to.
Sighing heavily, he glanced at his watch and then walked over to the large oaken desk that dominated his spacious penthouse office.
“Allison, have you heard anything yet?” he asked into his voice-comm.
“The first guests have just landed at DFW, sir,” the lovely voice of his secretary Allison came back.
“Please let me know when they’re en route.”
He plopped himself into his leather, high-backed chair and slouched as he picked up a portfolio, containing information about the previous night’s actions. He did not care if he wrinkled his suit. He would change into a fresh one – for he was always impeccably dressed for business – before his guests arrived. He went back to looking at the information, if only to get his mind off his looming problem. Right away, he noticed one disturbing item in particular – the name of that problem had been Kane.
“Allison, please send Travis up here immediately,” he ordered.
He did not need this kind of distraction. It was best to nip it in the bud before any of his guests got wind of it.
The nightly meeting had just finished and, remaining on the dais, Jesus watched his people mill about the room. He glanced at his watch and saw it was only 30 minutes before Patel’s latest experiment took place. He sighed and thought about what his wife said, about stepping up their operations to a new level.
It was true, he often thought about it; it was just that circumstances kept them out in rural areas, rousting vampires out of barns and dilapidated cemeteries. It certainly wasn’t a voluntary decision as Ryker had implied.
The membership of his hunters had always been liquid. He hadn’t pressed for commitments because hunters, by nature, tended to be loners who didn’t stay in one place for too long, lest they become the hunted themselves. The loose-knit feel of the group had worked for years, but, in light of recent
developments, seemed to be wholly inadequate.
For one thing, a bunch of loners staying in touch by Internet or cell phone, getting together once in a while, like relatives at Christmas, could not hope to accomplish big things. Any military historian could show that D-Day was not a spur-of-the-moment event. No, the Allies had to claw their way across North Africa, through Sicily, past Monte Cassino and into Rome. All to gain experience before tackling the monumental task of invading Adolf Hitler’s Fortress Europe.
Likewise, Jesus imagined it would be the same for his young team. They needed to be blooded as a cohesive unit and slowly work their way up to bigger targets. In turn, that would mean particularly harsh responses from their enemies (upon which his people would have to learn to accept the possibility of death). Hopefully, they could remain together long enough to, at least, put some fear into Louis Riordan and his ilk. Otherwise, it would all be a senseless waste.
“Fifteen minutes, Jesus,” said Patrick Wesley, a tall, broad-shouldered, mountain of a man, bringing Jesus out of his trance-like state of deep thought.
Jesus thanked his training officer. He’d nicknamed Wesley “Elvis” because his surname rhymed with the King. He’d recruited Wesley away from a dead-end job running security for a supermarket giant in San Antonio. The man was once a Marine, until a drunk driver clipped him during an early morning jog.
He looked around the room, taking note of the others. Talking to Wesley was Angelica Morales; a brunette whose beauty was only outdone by her muscular yet sensuous physique and was one of two people, in the group, who did not object to Ryker’s presence. She’d sponsored Ryker, feeling Jesus needed the experience and because she’d wanted Ryker to come in from the cold, so to speak.
Sitting at the back of the room, was a short man who looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a month of Sundays. He had a full beard that was already showing a little gray, although Jesus knew it was more from stress than age. Michael Lee was only thirty. As the group’s computer expert, he often let time get away from him and needed to be reminded of such simple things as eating and trimming his beard. But, he was excellent at what he did and Jesus tolerated his sometimes-unkempt appearance.
As usual, Marcus Van Niekerk was studying. Tall and muscular, he cut a mean figure, which was needed for his profession. He was a mercenary and not afraid to let anyone know it. His reputation counted a lot with Dolores Montoya and played a crucial part in Van Niekerk sponsoring Ryker’s membership. The pair had worked together a few times, though not hunting vampires. They’d gone after a werewolf, a devil cult, an Aztec mummy and a good old-fashioned zombie – a voodoo zombie, not a Hollywood one.
Van Niekerk had taken extensive notes of the debriefing following the previous night’s river patrols. Jesus liked that the mercenary was thorough. If this group was to take a big step forward, it needed someone like Van Niekerk to properly train it.
And, last but not least, was Kelly White Cloud, who was, perhaps, the group’s most hardcore member. She’d once been a “half-dead” until Ryker rescued her from the clutches of Lin Tang and persuaded Dolores to help convert her back to be fully human. “Half-deads” were humans who had been bitten by Lin Tang, but just enough to remain addicted to the bite. Weaning Kelly off Lin’s influence had been tortuous at best, involving a vicious form of delirium tremens that would have made the most experienced drug rehab technician quit. Yet, Kelly had pulled through, driven by an intense desire to get back at the woman who had kidnapped her off the streets and made her into a virtual slave.
The only people missing were Jessie Kellums and Horace Garvey, who were on duty in the monitoring room, watching the security cameras that covered the surface of the compound. And Jesus knew Ryker and Patel were in the lab.
The door to the meeting room opened and leaning in, Dolores simply nodded and Jesus sighed. It was time.
“Okay, people, let’s do this.”
While Jesus awaited Patel’s experiment, Aurelia Hernandez waited patiently at table outside her favorite bistro in downtown Fort Worth. It was not that busy, despite only being a few blocks from Sundance Square, Fort Worth’s main entertainment district. She sipped an espresso and nibbled on some nacho dips, electing not to have the queso dip.
Within a few minutes, a portly man, with very white skin and neatly cropped sandy brown hair, took a seat at her table. Her ordered a Bloody Mary from the waitress and grabbed some chips. He said nothing, until after the waitress delivered his drink.
“Thanks for making it sundown,” Tanner Coleman said. “You know how I hate getting sunburned.”
“You and a thousand other people,” Hernandez commented, snidely.
“Hey, I’m a familiar,” Coleman objected. “I can still enjoy the sunlight, just like you. I just get sunburned easily. Now, what can I do you for, Detective?”
“It’s all these missing persons,” Aurelia started. “The list is huge and I suspect it’s growing far too quickly.”
“My boss is very careful, Detective Hernandez,” Coleman countered, testily. “You know they keep their numbers low to draw little attention to themselves. When they feed, they take just enough to satiate themselves. They leave behind saliva, which heals the wounds to two small marks, which the victim barely notices when they wake up. And being bitten does not turn one, you know. More than twenty-five percent loss of blood begins the process, which can be stopped if the victim receives a transfusion or antibiotics. Only when blood loss approaches fifty percent, does the victim turn almost immediately.”
“So, your boss is not responsible for this horrible murder rate then?” Hernandez queried, clearly not convinced. “Gunshots, strangulations, and stabbings, I can understand, but do you know how many bleeders we’ve had in the last month?”
“Most likely copycat,” Coleman offered. “Riordan bucks no rogues.”
“Then maybe some of Tang’s people are practicing,” Hernandez suggested.
“Half-deads can’t turn anyone, not even themselves,” Coleman whispered, fiercely. “Are we done here? I have to get ready for tonight.”
“Put the word out, please,” Hernandez said, sternly. “If your boss and his people are behind these missing person cases, it needs to stop or we’ll be forced to call in help.”
Coleman stopped eating his nachos, staring hard at the detective. She met and held his glare, until he looked away. He felt like a worm on a hook, caught between two equally hard masters, either of whom would gladly throw him under the nearest bus. He was just a “familiar,” a human who willingly worked for a vampire, and had to continue to survive the only way he knew how – by walking a tightrope.
“Okay, okay,” he relented. “We did have a rogue two nights ago. We put the word out to his master, to curb his roaming. His name was Kane. He’s actually an outsider, visiting with some other vampires doing business in Fort Worth.”
“What was his usual haunt while he was here?” Hernandez asked, suddenly willing to listen.
“Under the Main Street Bridge,” Coleman answered, glancing around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “From what I hear, a lot of these rogues love it by the river.”
“I have a missing person reported by the Main Street Bridge,” Hernandez said. “Name of Heidi Nguyen. My street guys found her driver’s license and a lot of blood, but no body. Any chance she made an appearance in the ranks of the undead?”
“Not yet,” Coleman replied, calmly. “But, my people did feel a loss last night. Someone killed one of ours. Most likely, it was Kane who got ashed, but don’t quote me on that. They think it was one of yours that did it. Travis heard it straight from Mr. Riordan; and when I told him I was meeting you, he passed it onto me, – to say our boss is none too pleased would be more than the understatement of the year.”
“No way,” Hernandez denied, vehemently. “Those who know wouldn’t throw away our deal. However, I do have something interesting for your boss – someone has been very active in trying to pin down a schedule for a certain group
of half-deads. I don’t know the identity of the person asking, but a name has been on the grapevine. Seems a lot of people, on both sides, know of this mystery person.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a mystery if you’d give me the name,” Coleman blurted.
“Does the name ‘Cantrell Ryker’ ring a bell?”
Coleman almost spit out his swig of Bloody Mary, he couldn’t have gotten any paler. Hastily wiping his chin, he tried to regain his composure.
“Wow. I haven’t heard that name in almost three years,” Coleman said, as he tossed his napkin down. “Why the sudden interest in Ryker? It didn’t come from my boss’ people – we would have heard it long ago. Believe me.”
Aurelia took note of Coleman’s last words. Had she struck a chord of discontent?
“So, he’s not a vampire?” she said. “Interesting that he should elicit such a reaction. I would certainly hope that he is not in town.”
“No chance of that,” Coleman replied. “He was killed three years ago. He’s as dead as a doornail.”
“Then, why are you sweating so much?” Aurelia queried, with a sly smile. “It’s been my experience, especially during my time with narcotics, death is not all that it’s cracked up to be. The DEA and CIA fought the drug wars in Colombia by killing agents and then letting those supposedly dead agents operate with anonymity.”
“Do you have a reason to believe that Ryker might not be dead, Detective?” Coleman asked, looking somewhat suspicious. “Something tangible, besides a feeling?”
“I’m having it checked as we speak,” Hernandez said. “I still have a few relatives in the DEA, and with some private contractors, they can make discreet inquiries. They can work the government angle; see if he’s listed anywhere clandestine. If he were miraculously alive, he might be someone we could sway to our side. It’s been very lonely in my bed lately.”
Dark Tidings: Volumes I & II Page 11