Blood Rising

by Amber Anthony

  It wasn’t a long wait at the building’s security-barred entrance before an older male resident let her follow along behind him. He didn’t look familiar, but she supposed she didn’t look like much of a threat, either. The man looked her up and down.

  “Social worker?” he blurted.

  “No.”

  “Don’t be trying to sell nothing here.”

  Cat smiled in what she hoped was a disarming way. “No, I’m looking for a friend.”

  “You’re not a cop?”

  “No, definitely not,” she said firmly, hoping she’d soon find a familiar face.

  The miasma of mold and bad food choices permeated the building, and the light in the hallway was even dimmer than she’d remembered, if that was possible. Rap music assaulted her ears from Maria’s old apartment, but across the hall should be Amy, the young teen mother with twins. Cat knocked loudly, hoping she wouldn’t wake the babies.

  The door was thrown open by a large intimidating man in gang colors. He snarled a hostile, “Whadaya want?”

  Cat cleared her throat. “I’m looking for Amy? We used to be neighbors?”

  “She gone! Go away!”

  “Sure, sorry to bother you. Uh, you don’t happen to know where Amy went, do you?” she inquired meekly.

  “No!”

  The door slammed in her face. She remembered people here being friendlier. Now what?

  Cat turned slowly in the hall. Everything was different, not just the residents. The baseboards were peeling, and the overhead fluorescent lights were flickering or missing bulbs. Things there were falling apart—just like her life, she thought dejectedly as she trudged back to her car.

  * * * *

  Matt watched the city streets and suburbs of Barranquilla, Colombia drift past the heavily tinted windows. The Lust for Life Resort sat high atop a hillside on the outskirts of the city, making the limo drive tedious in the high sun of the day. It was also a stone’s throw from the remote location of Maynard’s pharmaceutical production plant. Was it possible they were producing more than Humanité? What if Dias was running his drugs through it? Matt needed to get inside the facility.

  Eventually, the stretch limo pulled under the generous, misted portico entrance where a handsomely dressed bell-staff rushed forward to welcome him. A bleached-blond beach boy in a jacket and cap gave Matt the once over and winked. Matt looked around for the source of the man’s admiration, and with a shock, realized it was him.

  “Buenas tardes, señor,” the young man welcomed him.

  Matt looked at him askance. “Yeah, hi.”

  The bellboy switched to English. “Are these your only bags?”

  Matt nodded.

  “When you’re checked in, ask for Juan. I’ll be happy to escort you to your room.”

  “I bet.” Matt grinned and shook his head. “See you in a few.”

  “I live to serve.” The young man bowed.

  “Okay, later then.”

  * * * *

  Matt followed Juan inside the door of the frigidly cooled suite. “Seating for the dinner show begins in the evening at eight,” the young man began. “Tonight’s entertainment is a gypsy orchestra and an insouciant blonde, 2000.”

  “Isn’t that a little young?” Matt asked, repulsed.

  The man turned a bland look his way. “Welcome to Lust for Life, senor.”

  “Uh-huh. So, Juan, have you seen this woman?” Matt presented a picture of Veronique.

  “Si, senor. That is Senorita Moreau. She is a guest of Alejandro Dias. They’re in the Palacio de Oro.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Sadly, that residence is not accessible to all guests.”

  “That sounds like Ronnie.”

  “Though, she never misses a dinner show.”

  Matt put a friendly arm around Juan. “So, Juan, I guess Dias is pretty heavily protected?”

  Juan’s eyes clouded with suspicion. “Are you from the policia?”

  Matt shook his head and gritted his teeth. “No, just a jilted lover.”

  Juan’s eyes lit up. “Ahh. I understand the heartbreak.”

  Matt pounded his shoulder good-naturedly. “I knew you would. So, you’ll keep an eye out for me, right?” He folded a crisp bill into Juan’s breast pocket.

  Juan bowed again. “I live to serve.”

  * * * *

  Rick decided the Hotel Cul De Sac in the rural outskirts of Port-au-Prince was clean and hospitable, if a bit rougher than his usual haunts. Georgia chose it precisely because each two-bedroom suite was a bungalow complete unto itself with its own ventilation and air conditioning system. It perfectly suited a vampire’s needs, and a little extra coin made sure Rick had the most secluded bungalow on the hotel grounds, along with the most discrete staff.

  * * * *

  Rick did an interview with the state-owned radio station that afternoon. It provided the majority of the country’s news. The radio spot was sold to two of the largest privately held stations as well. He surprised them all by conversing in their Haitian Creole, a language in which he’d become fluent during the eighteenth century.

  “Who’s your largest coffee grower?” he demanded of the interviewer on the live broadcast.

  “François Moreau,” the commentator replied respectfully, knowing how to kowtow to one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country.

  “Let the people know,” Rick’s Dom voice emerged, “by this time next week, all Moreau’s workers will desert him to work for me. I pay twice what he does for half the work, and I provide decent housing for all my worker families—each with electricity and fresh running water. In six months, his coffee plantation will be abandoned, and his beans will die on the vine.”

  “Those are bold words, Monsieur. How can you be so sure of what you say?”

  “Research my properties in Vietnam and Indonesia, see how the workers are treated,” Rick challenged, knowing his computer wizards created an elaborate and totally fictitious presence on the Web, extolling his successes as Jean Martin, a coffee magnate. A search of the Internet, the DarkNet and, most importantly, the VampNet, should pique Papa Moreau’s curiosity.

  “Moreau’s days are numbered. He and those like him, who think workers can be enslaved financially, will lose everything. I’ll win, because I know workers who are well-paid and well-treated are loyal, and will give their all to the success of the company—for everyone’s sake.”

  “There have never been complaints by Monsieur Moreau’s workers.”

  “Of course not. If there are only a handful of employers in the country, who’d be foolhardy enough to complain? That doesn’t mean unrest is non-existent. It’s merely restrained by circumstance. Well, circumstances have changed.” Rick grabbed the microphone and spoke urgently to the country’s population. “I want every unhappy one of you to leave Moreau. Work with me, reclaim your lives.”

  The interviewer gaped at Rick, his expression a mask of horror and confusion. “Thank you, Monsieur Martin, our listeners will follow your endeavors with interest.”

  * * * *

  Rick was amused by Wester’s caution. “You are poking the barracuda, are you not, Monsieur Martin?” Wester frowned on the drive back to the hotel. “Papa Moreau is not known as a generous or kind man. He is ruthless with his enemies, and you have intentionally made yourself that.”

  Rick shrugged. “We’ll see, my man.” They walked into the bungalow and were greeted by the solid wall of muscle and armament Georgia sent as Rick’s security team.

  “Ah, I begin to understand.” Wester nodded. “You are not unprepared for the fight.”

  “Like a boy scout,” Rick affirmed. “I’m always prepared.” He handed a stack of business cards to the wide-eyed man. “These are my contact numbers. Tell your people one call will get them a job. Spend the rest of your day handing these out to anyone who’s interested.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “And, Wester,” Rick’s hand on his arm stopped the driver,
“I need one brave man, someone who used to work for Moreau, preferably someone who was humiliated and fired. I don’t care why. I want that person answering my personal phone. Send him to me here, and make sure everyone knows about it.”

  “As you wish, Monsieur. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are baiting the barracuda?”

  “Perhaps.” Rick grinned. “It makes life interesting.”

  * * * *

  Cat had an intense longing for comforts of the past, so she headed for the student union of her alma mater. What the hell, she thought. She was hungry, and they had the best bear claws in town. She heaved a relieved sigh. This place, at least, consoled her with tempting aromas of all the smells that had brought on her freshman fifteen. After grabbing a tray, she pushed past the health-conscious, salad bar patrons and headed straight for a caramel macchiato and a warm bear claw, glistening with fresh glaze.

  As she savored her treat, Cat pondered who she trusted enough among the university staff to disclose her totally impossible drama. Maybe, Professor Beatty would be willing to help her? He was conservative enough to be skeptical, but open minded enough to listen.

  She was headed to the ladies’ room to wash the glaze off her fingers when a startlingly handsome guy blocked her path, hands on his hips and eyes blazing.

  “Bet you’re surprised to see me out of the looney bin?” He smirked.

  Cat’s mouth worked, searching for words, and she finally fell back on the tried and true. “I beg your pardon?” She cautiously stepped around him. “Excuse me, please.”

  He caught her arm in a less-than-gentle hold, but released her as if he’d touched a live wire as soon as she frowned down at his offending grasp. He raised his hands as if in surrender.

  “Don’t want to get your boyfriend upset again.”

  “Boyfriend?” She jumped on the word, and then thought better of her optimism. This guy just admitted he’d recently been released from a psychiatric unit. What if he was just crazy? “Do we know each other?” her eyes narrowed at him.

  “Well enough to dodge an accessory charge.” His face was hard.

  “Um…purses and shoes?”

  “Oh, you’re good. Really good.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So, I guess your fanged friend got what he wanted and headed back to Transylvania?”

  Cat’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she steered the hostile man toward a less crowded area. “My ‘fanged’ friend?” She swallowed hard. “Could you please explain what you mean by that?”

  “If you think I’m gonna spill my guts, and get sent back to the sanitarium, you’re crazier than they think I am.” He leveled her with a scornful stare. “You should just know, I’m watching you. One wrong step, and I’ll prove it’s all true.”

  “What’s true…” She was left talking to his rapidly retreating back.

  * * * *

  Cat thought it a wonder she actually had the wherewithal to get to Beatty’s office, and make an appointment to see him the following morning. She was consumed with the hint vampires were real. Who was that guy? How did he know me? And who was the “fanged boyfriend?” Her anxiety shot off the charts. Funny, she would have thought confirmation of her vague memories of Matt would be welcome. In fact, the thought that he was real and actually a vampire devastated her.

  * * * *

  Matt watched the Baranquilla night glow indigo against the infinitesimal horizon of southern Colombia. He studied the sunset as he savored a last swallow of his blood-laced scotch, thinking he had now or never to succeed with Veronique.

  Rick wanted an ostentatious distraction for Papa Moreau, and Matt wanted Ronnie’s access to Humanité. Well, he guessed he’d better be extra-convincing in his seduction tonight.

  The drug-infused nights lured a misfit vamp population to the Lust for Life where they could live in the luxury several lifetimes afforded them. At least, they did it in style. As he walked toward the music, Matt took a moment to admire the shimmer of pale light emanating from chandeliers suspended over the dark teakwood dance floor. A full orchestra played. Gypsy violinists, who generations ago played over the soundtrack of their lives, now played to spend a season in this rarified atmosphere of age and money.

  It was no surprise Ronnie and her exotic date, Alejandro Dias, were the most arresting figures on the dance floor. Veronique had always been an unnatural force of sensuality. Tonight, she wrapped the drug lord around her finger with her usual ease. Poor besotted ass, Matt thought, blending into an ebony corner.

  The violin’s bow cried a low, long note as the soloist stepped into the spotlight. Matt didn’t need one to see Ronnie toy with her ancient wealthy vampire. The guy couldn’t take his gaze off her. Dusky, long limbed and fluid, Veronique pulled the more reserved vampire into her arms, capturing him with her knee hooked around his hip as the music compelled them. There was no disguising the immediate bulge in his pants. How else could the undead cartel leader respond when Papa Moreau’s insatiable daughter set out to vertically seduce him?

  Her stiletto-clad feet drew her close to Dias; her inviting fingertips glanced over his cheeks. Veronique fascinated him; he dared not refuse the dance. The couple moved tentatively at first until her partner caught her fever.

  The rumba beat led their hips to brush in tantalizing swipes, inviting a more brazen touch. Seeing her ruse stirred Matt’s groin. He knew only too well where this was going. He needed to redirect the evening before Ronnie dragged Dias into her suite, shut Matt out and wasted precious time.

  After beckoning a roving waiter with two fingers, Matt made sure his discretely folded currency found its way into the conductor’s pocket. Once the rumba ended, the violins behind the soloist closed ranks within the spread of the spotlight and began a torrid tango.

  * * * *

  Rick listened intently to Giles’ scathing report on Moreau’s Colombian connections. It was just approaching midnight when a responder interrupted to inform Rick a man named Odney asked to see him.

  “You worked for Moreau? You know him well?” Rick questioned, handing a chilled fruit drink to the man who sported a black eyepatch.

  “Oui,” Odney gritted, “I know him very well. He is mon père.”

  Rick’s brow rose. That assertion was obviously impossible, but it was clear the man before him believed it.

  “Your father?” Rick repeated.

  “Oui, or so ma mere claimed. She was his mistress until I was six, until he killed her.”

  Rick’s mind spun with the possibilities. That made slightly more sense. God knew what a small child remembered. “I’d assume if he’d killed her, he’d be in jail?”

  “Non,” Odney shook his head. “Not in Haiti. The police looked the other way, and not a thing changed for him, except that he took an interest in me. A guilty conscience, I suppose.”

  “What makes you think he killed your mother?”

  “The police said it was an accident in the warehouse.” Odney’s expression was bleak, his voice hollow. “An industrial accident. Except she never went anywhere near the warehouse. And what kind of industrial accident leaves a woman drained of blood?”

  Rick shifted uneasily. The man didn’t know they were vamps, but… “Your mother bled to death?”

  “So they said. I never believed it. Moreau is a cruel man. I believe he slit her throat and left her there to die.”

  Rick gave a little sigh of relief. Okay, probably a feeding accident. That or one of the vamps close to Moreau got carried away. “How did you come to work for him?”

  “As I said, he took an interest in me after Maman died. Made sure I went to school, and when I graduated, made me the manager of his import/export warehouse. Then, one day, I discovered our latest Colombian delivery had nothing to do with coffee.”

  “Cocaine,” Rick surmised.

  “Oui. I went to Papa and demanded answers. Instead, he told me to forget about what I had seen. I told him I would never do so, wou
ld never be part of such illegal activity. That was when he accused me of ingratitude and disloyalty. He ordered this.” He tapped the eyepatch. “He ordered it as a warning to all. He would determine what his workers did and did not see.” His jaw tensed as he recounted the day. “Within an hour, my family was thrown out of our home and off his property. He made sure we were pariahs.”

  Rick winced. That sounded like Moreau.

  “That was two years ago. Since then, of seven family members, I’ve been the only one to find work. Now, I am an officer with the American Red Cross. Between that paycheck and our small farm, my family barely survives. If you have come to put an end to Moreau, I thank God for you, and I will help in any way I can.”

  Rick put a hand on the emaciated man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your troubles, Odney, and yes, I will put an end to Moreau. This is how you can help.”

  The words were scarcely out of Rick’s mouth when the phone rang. One of the security guards picked it up. “You’re Moreau?” he clipped. “Just a moment.”

  Rick smiled slyly. “Take the phone, Odney. Tell him I’m not available, but I’ll meet him here at noon tomorrow. Also,” he smirked, “feel free to be as impolite as you wish.”

  Odney laughed and reached for the phone. Moreau refused the meeting, as Rick was sure he would. Maybe, he needed a little more motivation?

  Rick turned to Odney. “How would you like to shut Moreau down for good?”

  “Tell me how.”

  “My plane is waiting to take you to Miami. I have friends at the Drug Enforcement Administration. We won’t only rid you of Moreau, but his entire operation.”

  Odney frowned. “I’m concerned not for myself, but for my family.”

  “Don’t worry, your family will be right behind you. We’ll settle you anywhere you like. I have work for all of you as legitimate coffee growers. What do you say?”

  Odney hesitated, eying Rick distrustfully.

  “Trust me, my friend.” Rick extended a hand to Odney, who shook it with a look of bewilderment still on his face. “Give the United States authorities the ammunition, and by this time tomorrow, Moreau won’t be a problem for anyone.”

  “I will do my best, Monsieur.”