The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  He gazed at Berkfield, his beady, gray eyes shining. “We also found out that there was another side—a side we hadn’t considered. If there’s a Hell, there’s a Heaven,” he whispered. “You cannot even begin to quantify the energy of that realm. Since we couldn’t capture it, they wanted us to abandon that as a potential source for weaponry and to focus on dark matter. That’s when the group fractured . . . Several good scientists died or, better stated, were murdered or driven mad. Those of us who survived now pretend to go along with the demands of our governments.”

  Berkfield sat very still. “So, you guys are like a hostage ghostbusters team?” he said as he continued to look for a possible escape route.

  The man sighed. “Don’t be foolish. We found hard evidence behind every myth and legend. We’ve catalogued demon fila, Detective Berkfield. The ancient high priests, warlocks, witches, generals, you name it, called on deities to assist them in wartimes. The new era of so-called reason has made us forget their power.”

  “So, you plan to do what with me and my family?”

  Raking his fingers through his hair, the man looked Berkfield in the eye. “Listen carefully. We don’t have much time. There are two sides of this organization—those insane enough to believe that they can open up the gates of Hell and contain what comes out of it, so that they can proceed with imperialistic desires to rule humanity. And those of us who, after having studied the phenomena, have enough respect for it to leave it alone. We know that chaos will ensue. Therefore, the group is philosophically at odds with itself and threatening to implode. That means that valuable and dangerous research will spill out into the various nations that support this work, and as we all know, anything is for sale on the black market. Do you follow?”

  Berkfield nodded, but he still didn’t understand his role. This whole story was too bizarre to wrap his mind around.

  “You, my friend, are currently under the protective seal of the master vampire who controls this region; therefore, right now, you’re in full favor. The dark side essentially has a no-hit policy on you, and the Light apparently has you covered, as well. However, the way the power shifts seem to work within the vampire world are very much like old feudal law—they wipe out anything once associated with the outgoing incumbent. Understood?”

  Terror halted Berkfield’s breath for a moment. He touched his throat and then his fingers slid down to the small gold cross that he never took off. “But I’m a believer,” he rasped. “How could I be marked by the dark side?”

  The scientist calmly reached beneath his olive green flack-jacket and pulled a long chain from beneath it, bearing a sterling silver Star of David. “I’m a believer, too. The mark isn’t physically on your body. It’s in your aura. That’s what we measure—energy fields, if you will. Our equipment cannot pick up much more than that. All we can ascertain is that a very strong energy from the nether realms has been gathering in the region, and it has been sending out sensor tentacles in your direction. Time is nigh, my friend. We’re not exactly sure what this means, but it cannot be good.”

  “My wife, my kids—how do I get this fucking seal off me? I didn’t ask for it, I don’t even understand it!”

  “That’s why we want you to make a decision—quickly—to come work for us. Maybe, just maybe, you hold the key to bringing both sides to a standstill, a stalemate. You were deemed a good man by both sides. You could be the key to creating world peace. We must have an opportunity to study you, understand the conditions that led up to—”

  “No! I don’t know! This is all so crazy!” Berkfield put his head in his hands. “I want my old life back, my kids and wife safe. I want to read the damned paper, drink beer, and worry about gas prices. I do not want to be a guinea pig, nor do I want my family traumatized.”

  “Then you should have never become a crime fighter, never should have made that bargain in that alley, never should have started researching otherworldly phenomena and come up on our radar. I am a man of logic. I’m a scientist with thirty years of hard research under my belt and degrees that would . . .” The man stopped, swallowed hard, his voice gravelly with emotion. He spread his hands before Berkfield, imploring him to understand.

  “I’m no cop. I’m no weapons designer. I opened a gate in a lab and found Hell,” he said in a barely audible tone. “I thought I was losing my mind, and I cried out to God to save me, and another door opened and bright light bearing a blade shut the gate. We all saw it—and all of those colleagues joined us that day.” The man’s gaze slid away and he held the hair at his temples in clenched fists as he stared at the locked back door. “Some said it was a group hallucination. We told our superiors and they gave us an unlimited budget. That’s when I knew we were in trouble.” His voice dipped to a scratchy murmur. “They don’t open the financial floodgates unless they know you’re close. We’re so close, and so are they.”

  “I thought I was the only one . . .” Berkfield said, dazed.

  “So did we,” the professor said sadly. “Then we began religious research, started looking at texts we had never considered in our scientific quest.” He glanced up at Berkfield. “Ever wonder why you were spared that night in the alley where your partner doublecrossed you and pulled a gun on you? Ever wonder what higher purpose you are to serve?”

  The two men stared at each other, only the faint sounds of traffic droning on in the background.

  “But my family—”

  “Will be relocated and re-identified, just like ours had to be.”

  “But we can’t just leave our home—”

  “You make your informants do it all the time. Think of it as a witness protection program for scientists, and like I said, we’re well funded.”

  “I can’t make a decision like this without talking to my wife and my kids, and—”

  “All you have to tell them is that one of the drug lords you’ve put away is out now and looking for payback. They know what you do, so that’s not too far-fetched.”

  Berkfield sat back. “Why me? What special skill do I bring to the table?”

  His abductor leaned forward and touched his clasped hands. “You’re sane, you’re not on the take, you’ve been spared because you’re a good man, and you can call this master vampire to you. We need to speak to him. Plus, you know the inside of the American legal system like the back of your hand, and you have connections. And we may need sanctuary.”

  “But why now?” Berkfield asked, not convinced that this was his problem or that he needed to get swept up into the madness of trying to solve it. Truthfully, it was enough that he’d learned that vampires and demons were real. He didn’t need to know more, or want to know more—except how to keep them away from him and his family.

  “We’ve forecast a problem that is about to blow up on American soil. The dark-side energy levels are off the meters. We have a small sample of its atmosphere contained, and it’s expanding exponentially within the vacuum containers in the lab. More current is being drawn into it, and its density is increasing. Disturbance locations in the U.S., where we know there are dark energy fields, are almost, for lack of a better explanation, harvesting power.”

  The van came to a sudden stop. Berkfield and the scientist’s gaze locked.

  “You have twenty-four hours to make your decision. Push nine-one-one on your garage-door opener between now and then, and we’ll come collect you. They won’t expect the code to be imbedded there. Ignore our offer, and you’re on your own.”

  A henchman motioned for Berkfield to open the door. “You’re home. You never saw us. We do not exist.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CARLOS STOOD outside the compound door, his arm draped over Damali’s shoulder, willing his breathing to normalize. He wasn’t sure if it was his proximity to her, or the fact that he had to explain some real bad news to her people.

  Regardless, he hated going into her compound, which looked like a maximum-security prison. The concrete walls, iron-sealed windows, floodlights, and lack of trees u
ntil you hit the property border a mile away, gave him the feeling that he was walking into the federal pen. Maybe he was. He just hoped that he’d get out alive this time.

  Besides, this whole situation was bullshit. He’d had to splatter the front of his Beverly Hills lair with a courier’s guts, all because Damali was trailing ripe Neteru scent and the dumb bastard had reached for her. Damn straight he had to rip out the brother’s heart, but he also had to clean up the mess before any neighbors noticed and wondered why there was black blood dripping down the white marble columns and the huge oak-paneled door, and why the stained-glass windows were streaked with innards.

  Carlos let his breath out hard in disgust. He loved this woman dearly, but she always created drama! Council was right. It was time to get some guards at his doors, some security measures in place. He had descended and couldn’t roll solo anymore. If he were in his right mind, he’d just make Damali his queen and battle the expected consequences. He glanced at her. No. He wasn’t in his right mind to give her back to the Guardians.

  When Carlos heard the locks engage, a thousand ways to begin the dreaded conversation tumbled through his brain. There was no easy way to say any of it. Worst part was, he had no idea how Damali would react when she found out he was taking her there for good—not just until he came back up from Hell.

  “Que pasa?” Rider shouted, pounding Carlos’s fist with a wide smile as they entered the outer safety chamber.

  “Everything is everything,” Carlos said, returning the pound, but keeping a watchful eye on the team’s sharpshooter as they all moved deeper into the interior hallway. He immediately scanned the tall, muscular white guy with dirty-blond spike hair, and returned his smile—once he was sure that Rider wasn’t packing. Even if the guy was in his forties, Rider was an all-pro vamp assassin.

  “Hey y’all!” Damali hollered. “Can a person come home and get some love?”

  “You know that ain’t no problem from me, D,” Jose said, embracing her quickly, then stepping back.

  “We got nothing but love for you, li’l sis,” Rider said laughing. “C’mon in . . . er, uh, him, too?”

  “Yes,” Damali said, slapping Rider on the back. “If he wasn’t cool, why’d y’all leave me with him for a month?”

  “Point taken,” Rider said, stepping aside. “You’re in.”

  Carlos moved forward with Damali next to him. The young bucks were no problem. Jose looked like his younger brother and had a soft heart, would hesitate if something ridiculous jumped off. However, he paused when he saw the quick flash of resentment on Jose’s face. Something primitive and possessive rose in him and he fought it back down. Had to be Damali’s Neteru still working his system. Jose wasn’t a contender. He was family. He shook off the sensation. Kid was just probably still spooked.

  His gaze scanned the others, sensing for signs of resistance. Dan was a nervous, wiry blond with no real combat under his belt. But J.L. had some Jet Li moves on him . . . Carlos gave the Asian kid a nod, then issued his most disarming smile to the others.

  “Long time no see, hombre,” Jose finally said, laughing tensely, using his head to motion for them to enter beyond the first isolation chamber.

  Good. The noses, Rider and Jose, were out front, and hadn’t picked up anything unusual. Everybody had on T-shirts, jeans, sweats, no place to conceal a weapon, or get to one quickly. Big Mike, their audio sensor, had lowered his shoulder cannon and was all smiles. However, he wasn’t sure he liked having a huge, six foot eight, two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound, old school linebacker walking behind him. Big Mike was usually cool, but even Carlos knew to always keep an eye on the team’s giant.

  He also noticed that the tactical sensors were hanging back. Shabazz, Dan, and J.L. just nodded, and Marlene had her arms folded over her chest. Not good, especially the positions of the two older ones, Shabazz and Marlene. However, if J.L. was out front, then maybe he’d temporarily abandoned the monitors before he could pick up two cold bodies incoming.

  But Carlos wisely noted that Shabazz was strapped—openly had a Glock on his hip and one in a shoulder holster, sending a quiet message to be cool, no doubt. Carlos scanned the streetwise Guardian from the ’hood. Instinctively he knew the old dude could feel trouble. It was as though Shabazz’s shoulder-length locks telegraphed the vibrational changes, almost like a current, and Marlene was a freakin’ seer. She had on a long, flowing, African-print robe—a great place to hide anything with a silver tip. The two of them together, late forties, early fifties, would surely be able to tell that something wasn’t right with their girl. He just wanted the chance to explain.

  “Oh, so now I’m like chopped liver,” Damali said, laughing when no one else immediately moved forward to greet her, then she embraced her team members one by one. “Dag, you all act like I’m a stranger.”

  Carlos hung back in the entryway, watching as the tactical Guardians bristled slightly from her hug.

  “Thought you weren’t coming home, you were gone so long, kiddo,” Marlene said with a sly smile, but her eyes were carefully scanning Damali the whole time. “Doesn’t leave much time for us to get ready to do the Australian gig and all that goes with it.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . what can I say?” Damali replied, her smile widening as she glanced at Carlos. “Let’s go inside and catch up. Y’all got anything good in here to eat?”

  Carlos didn’t say a word as he monitored the uneasy glances that passed between the Guardians. But they followed her down the long cement corridor to the back of the facility; half of the team in front of him, the other half behind him, making him feel boxed in and claustrophobic. As they walked, he glanced up at the holywater sprinkler system, hoping that there’d be no accidental discharge. He shook his head. No, it wouldn’t be an accident at all.

  Damali headed straight for the kitchen, and he was glad she hadn’t gone straight for the weapons room. If he had to make a hasty exit, at least there weren’t UV lights in there that could fry him—only harmless fluorescents. But the fact that she wouldn’t give off a reflection in any of the stainless-steel appliance surfaces was going to be hard to explain.

  “So, how were the islands?” Rider asked cheerfully, taking a backward seat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

  “Beautiful . . .” Damali crooned in a distracted tone as she hunted for what the compound cupboards didn’t have. “The water there is the prettiest blue, even if I did only see it at night.”

  Dead silence surrounded them.

  Carlos glanced at the large picnic-style butcher-block oak table. Wood. Matching wood chairs. If the big brother got hyped, there were eight chairs that could easily be broken down to make fast stakes. Shit.

  Big Mike leaned on the door frame, catching something unspoken in Shabazz’s rigid carriage. Marlene hung back, and leaned against the sink, watching Damali begin to root inside the fridge. Jose, Dan, and J.L. took their time finding seats at the table, their glances nervously darting from Carlos to Damali and back to the team. J.L. fidgeted with a set of sharp knives that protruded from a wooden carving-set holder. Jose’s eyes were practically welded to Damali, following her every move around the room. Dan’s line of vision darted between Jose’s and J.L.’s, then kept monitoring Marlene’s unreadable expression.

  Carlos found the closest spot by a window and vent near the far end of the oak cabinets, then leaned against them. Even the thick bulletproof windows were sealed by steel grates. Yellow designer mini blinds were ludicrous; it was still a prison.

  “You only saw the islands at night?” Marlene asked coolly.

  This could get ugly. Carlos studied the group’s reaction and hoped Damali had enough sense not to just blurt out the truth.

  “Well,” Damali said, not paying Marlene’s tone the attention it deserved, “we mostly stayed in during the day and slept.”

  “She did the day thing by herself for a while, but something happened down in St. Lucia,” Carlos said quietly. “We need some advice, Mar.”

/>   All eyes were on Carlos as Damali slammed the refrigerator door and put one hand on her hip. He held up his palm, and begged her with his eyes not to start.

  “While you’re here, D, I order you to not harm anyone in this compound, or any other human. I don’t care how hungry you get—that’s nonnegotiable. Got it? Call me if it gets bad.”

  “Who are you ordering? Have you lost your mind? And why would you try to out me like that in front of my people? Damn, Carlos. Very uncool.”

  “Oh, shit,” Rider muttered, standing slowly and backing away from the table.

  Rider’s slow withdrawal made the other younger Guardians near him stand and ease back. Only Jose stood his ground. Marlene covered her heart with her hand and remained frozen, centered between Damali and Carlos. Her gaze immediately went toward the stainless-steel stove, then tore back to Damali, and back to where there was no image of Damali to be found. Marlene’s eyes then narrowed on Carlos.

  Big Mike moved from his leaning position on the door frame with slow caution. Shabazz fingered the holstered weapon at his hip. Jose casually retrieved a crossbow from beneath the kitchen table and held it at his side.

  “Talk to me,” Shabazz said in a quiet voice. “Fast.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to go down like this,” Carlos said in a near whisper, shaking his head.

  “Like what, brother? What did you do to li’l sis, man? Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” Big Mike had raised the shoulder cannon again, positioning it in Carlos’s direction.

  Shabazz drew like lightning, the Glock muzzle pointed at the center of Carlos’s forehead.

  “Put it down, Mike,” Marlene ordered. “You wanna hit a gas line and blow up the whole frigging kitchen? Stand down for a second, ’Bazz. Please, gentlemen.”

  “Something went wrong,” Carlos said in a slow, controlled voice, “and I think she’s turning.”