Night is Magic: A Vampire Romance (Hearts of Dagon Book 1)

by Alix Adale

  Green, okay, little dog in a green collar? Where did that last puppy get to? Puppies shouldn’t get hurt. She’d done enough damage this night. This poor dog-walker guy shouldn’t lose a puppy. No, wait—he said firefighter. He’s wearing firefighter-style coveralls. He’s got Dalmatian puppies. That fits, right? Or was that only on TV? Did genuine firemen raise Dalmatians?

  Puppy Guy tied the leashes of the other four puppies to a railing and joined the search, down on his hands and knees, peering under bushes. “Prasino! Little Prasino, where are you?”

  There! A flash of black-and-white puppy barked at the base of an oak tree. A talkative squirrel chattered from the upper branches, nonplussed by the small display of canine aggression.

  Dez scooped up the errant runt and cradled her, kissing her nose. The puppy felt so soft and warm, so trusting. She carried it over to the big guy and handed the last puppy over with a reluctant sigh. “There’s your baby.”

  Relief shows on his face as he cradled Prasino and hugged her too, for good measure, before kneeling to place her on the ground with the others. “Thanks for helping me catch the puppies.”

  “Glad to. They’re so cute! How old are they?”

  “Six weeks, from the same litter. We raise them at the fire station for beer money.”

  “I love the little collars.”

  “It helps to remember the names. See, Kokino wears red, Prasino green, Roz pink, and so on.”

  She scratched a puppy’s ear. “Come again?”

  “The names are Greek.”

  “Ah. And you are too?”

  “Born. But in the U.S. many years now.”

  She grinned, cooing at Roz. Neglected instincts kicked in and she gave his hands a ring-check as the final puppy wriggled in his grasp. No gold, but that didn’t mean anything. She wouldn’t wear a wedding ring if she worked at a fire station, either. Not like she’d ever get a ring now. The Blooded did not wed, they fed. An Armando original. Her sire was such a wit.

  Puppy Guy looked at her with those big, brown eyes again. They were round and warm like his Dalmatians, innocent. His glance shifted toward the upper stories of the condo complex. “What happened—did you fall out a window?”

  She followed his gaze up toward the roofline. Yikes, quite a fall. Her arms rubbed together. Her bones did ache. “No, I don’t—even live here.”

  “No? Where do you live?”

  “Port Selkie.”

  “Port Selkie!” He threw his head back and laughed. “Where is this Port Selkie?”

  “It’s in Cali on the Oregon border.” Oops. How many times had Armando lectured her about the rules of Vampire Club. No names, no hometowns, no numbers, nothing. The hunters do not mingle with the hunted.

  “Cali, huh? What brings you up here?”

  Gee, the guy wouldn’t stop. Must get lonely in the firehouse, with nothing but other, sweaty firemen and a bunch of puppies. Heh. He was a Stud Puppy. The thought amused her, maybe she could work it into a web comic.

  “We’re here for the solstice. Uh, a convention. A convention on the solstice.” Great. Listen to her babble. Surefire great first impression, count on it every time.

  The guy never noticed. “Conventions are fun! Which one?”

  Was this guy moonlighting for the Portland Bureau of Tourism? “We’re, uh…” Fuck. Go on, genius. Tell him all the clans of the Pacific Northwest had gathered to bend the knee to their Blooded queen. “Vacuum cleaners. We sell vacuum cleaners.”

  White teeth flashed in the tanned lines of his face. “That sucks.”

  “Huh?”

  He roared. “I made a joke. Vacuums. Suck.”

  “Oh. Yes. I see. Ha-ha, funny! Look, I gotta dash. Is there a taxi stand around? My—hotel—is on the other side of the river.”

  He pointed one out. “That way, near the MAX station. But why don’t you call Uber?”

  Sweet guy—majorly sweet guy, and hot too. In another life … but she had to get back to Eibon Manor before Cherise ruined the remnants of her undead non-life. She waved, walking off. “Umm, Uber is so 2015. Cabs are back in. Bye now!”

  “Goodbye!” Stud Puppy shouted. “If you feel dizzy, please go to an emergency room! Head injuries are serious.”

  “Good to know!”

  She lucked out and found a free cab in front of the MAX Station and hopped in. “Eibon Manor, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” The driver—an older guy in a Mariners cap—sat up straight when he heard that tony address. The taxi pulled back into the silent, empty streets.

  Fine, the driver would get a good tip if he got her back without chattering or badgering her. Or before the morning rush hour began. She might even beat Cherise back. No, scratch that. Bitch-Eyes had parked her Bitch-Ride not far from the river. The blood-red BMW convertible must be over the bridge by now.

  Dez melted back onto the seat, battling the siren song of exhaustion. The marble benches of the guest mausoleum called—she needed sleep. Falling off the building didn’t damage her more than an ordinary tumble would hurt a mortal, but recovering drained so much of her stolen vitality. It sucked.

  Sucked.

  That guy with the dogs. What a sweetheart. So good-looking too. For a second, the urge to go all girl-talk about the fireman stud walking Dalmatian puppies around made her glow. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends. The glow faded at once.

  There was no girl-talk, not anymore. There hadn’t been in six years. Not since the night her car had plunged off the bridge. What had happened to Kelly-Anne and Fatima Wong by now? Six years. Long done with school, they would have careers of their own by now, maybe even marriages. Maybe even kids.

  For a second, the longing for normalcy, for the life she’d never known and never would know, threatened to engulf her, a tsunami battering down her coast. But she fought it back.

  Girl-talk. One more thing she’d done without. Since her turning, the Bradens consisted of only Armando, Colin, George, and her, the incompetent fledgling who never left the nest. The embarrassment, the black sheep.

  Last year, Armando had turned Cherise for reasons no one else could figure out. It couldn’t be sex. Armando screwed plenty of mortals, no need to turn anyone for that. And sis wasn’t even hot, more like small-town Oregon skank. His choice remained a mystery.

  At first, it was thrilling to have another woman in the clan, someone her age and generation. For a time, they bonded—or seemed to. But Cherise showed her true colors soon enough. No girl-talk with that one. To hell with it.

  Vacuums. I made a joke. Vacuums. Puppy Stud. She grinned at the memory. At least genuine flesh-and-blood people still lived out wholesome, innocent lives away from the machinations of the Underworld. That guy was too cute.

  The driver studied her in the rearview mirror. “You okay, miss?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Something red coming out of your eye.”

  “Shit.” She dabbed it, wiped it away. Dagon-be-damned, blood. “Just—mascara.” No time for self-pity. Call Armando and get it over with. Fess up to what she’d done. Her fingers fumbled in her jacket pocket for the phone.

  It was gone. Had she dropped it in her fall or had Cherise stolen it? No, that was paranoid—or was it? Cherise had to know that leaving a vampire behind as the sun rose wouldn’t hurt anyone with a nanorian, unless…

  Dez’s hand went to her chest, felt her breast. That was instinct only, she could not feel the nanorian beating inside her chest. But her spirit-sense heard it ticking away, synched to her own undead heart, warding off the harmful rays of the sun. Nobody could steal a nanorian, that was impossible.

  So what happened to the phone?

  Chapter 4: Input Password

  Xerxes

  After the Amazing Woman left, he gathered up the puppies for the walk back to the firehouse. Amazing was the right word. Beautiful women did not fall off rooftops, land in trash dumpsters, get up and walk away. Yet, she’d done just that.

  No. His eyes must have tricked h
im. She fell from a second story balcony, that’s all. She didn’t even live in the complex, so no reason to get alarmed. Everything was fine.

  The second story landing above the dumpster looked silent, the curtains drawn, the glass door shut. Should he go knock on the door? But he couldn’t even get inside the building or guess which unit she fell from.

  The Amazing Woman claimed to be from Port Selkie, selling vacuum cleaners. That was a lie. One didn’t need to be a good judge of people—and he wasn’t—to see that. Maybe she jumped away from a bad relationship. Or she banged her head on the dumpster, suffered a concussion. He should have insisted on calling an ambulance. On the other hand, she’d had no trouble catching the puppies, even finding Little Prasino.

  Maybe the lies were because none of that stuff was any of his business. He only got carried away, excited talking to her and eager to ask questions. It was a terrible habit of his. He was too shy to talk to women most of the time, but when he met someone interesting he got over-eager and scared them away. It was no use even trying.

  Sunlight flashed off a metal object lying on a concrete step. That wasn’t there earlier. Bending, he scooped it up. It was an old phone, a Nokia. No damage. Strictly old school, something found in a poor country or a homeless camp. Or among drug dealers and junkies—they still used these models as burner phones. A lot of them turned up at fires and crime scenes.

  Did this one belong to the Amazing Woman? He touched the old-fashioned keypad. The screen asked for a four-digit password.

  He tried a few—1234, 1212—but the phone stayed locked. It must belong to the Amazing Woman. He slid it in his back pocket for safekeeping. Maybe he’d have a chance to give it back to her.

  Not likely. He’d never see her again. That was too bad. Something about her made him want to talk to her, made him keep asking her all those stupid, nosy questions. What a drip he must have looked like! A nosy, braying, jackass. No wonder she rushed off at his terrible, disgusting joke.

  Vacuums that suck. Horrible. Just horrible.

  She’d had the most startling, brown eyes, so round and expressive. Too late to do anything about it, now. Besides, women like that were always taken. Or if they weren’t, they had no time for unemployed meatheads. They liked stylish, flashy men, the fast talkers with sports cars and six-figure jobs.

  Just as well. He didn’t have time for ladies, either. He never did while working at the fire station. Between the job, working out, and sports, he didn’t have time for dating. Yeah, he would keep telling himself that. Truth was, he was a loser. And now, without the anchor of station life to guide him, he might end up anywhere. Nowhere good, not anywhere with a woman, not when he was six hours from the unemployment line.

  Damn the stupid written test. “Come on little guys, we have smelled the flowers long enough.”

  The puppies wagged their tails, yipping with joy and dragging him back toward the fire station. They scrambled over one another, eager to be first through the door, even though he hadn’t filled their morning bowls yet. They’d climb all over him and each other as soon as they heard the rustle of the Purina bag.

  Yes, it would be a sad day, his last at the station—but he would finish out his chores.

  Happy hour customers filled Crafty’s Brew Pub with eager chatter. The guys from the station were downing pitchers, treating the probie to one last night out. It felt good. The guys had accepted him no matter what, would have voted him in. If it weren’t for that damn test, he’d be one of them. They all told him to try again, stay in Portland, and apply next year. Maybe he would.

  As he sat at the bar working it over, a finger tapped his shoulder.

  It was Detective Zenkowski—“Zen” to friends and colleagues—holding out his hand with a genuine grin. Wearing slacks, dress shirt and tie, especially on such a warm evening, the detective was living proof of the police department’s outdated dress code for plainclothes officers. As usual, Zen’s gaunt, unshaven face and the positively globular bags under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in three days. “I hear you’re leaving.”

  “Hi, Zen. I am.” He returned the detective’s steel grip with a firm shake of his own. “Thanks for seeing me off, grab a seat. How did your eHarmony date go?”

  “Not good,” the detective said, grabbing the next stool over. “Got a call on a domestic, had to cancel. Speaking of which, I’m here in a semi-official capacity. Hope you don’t mind.”

  He grabbed some pretzels. “That’s fine. Duty first.”

  “I do hate to see you go, but I’ll level with you. Some of the boys on the force won’t mind that you’re gone.”

  Pretzels crunched as he considered. Strange—he’d never beefed with any cops. “Why’s that?”

  “Police-fire softball game, big guy. Lieutenant Armstrong tore his ACL trying to run down one of your goddamn towering home runs.”

  He grinned at Zen. “That’s right, that’s right. They tried to tell him it’s not a work-related injury.”

  “I know, right? Fuck that.”

  Country metal blared on the jukebox and their waitress brought another pitcher of Hops on Pops, a local microbrew. They found a clean mug for Zen and toasted. Zen took a long swig then put the rest on the counter. “That’s all for now, I’m on duty.”

  What could Zen want to talk about? Then he remembered and scowled at his drink. “Is this about the murder? The radio said some homeless guy got stabbed this morning. Scary.”

  “Yeah, it is.” The detective nodded, pulling a smartphone out of his pocket and scrolling through a few photos. They showed a figure under a yellow tarp in a deserted parking lot. Crime scene tape formed a mournful backdrop. “Like we told the papers, it happened about four-thirty, five o’clock.”

  “That’s when I walk the puppies. Is this a picture of the hardware store?”

  “Yeah. Riverside Freight Tools. You see anything unusual when you were walking the dogs?”

  “No. We don’t go that far down, they’re still puppies.” He gestured. “We go to the condo complex and back. Or out toward the park.”

  “You didn’t see anybody who looked out of place? No suspicious vehicles?”

  Xerxes chewed his lip, considering. The Amazing Woman, but no, what could she have to do with a murder? She’d fallen off a balcony, nothing more. “No. Sorry, Zen.”

  “It’s all right. Just one more pic. Don’t look too close.” His finger slid along the iPhone, scrolling to the next pic. His lean, weathered face never moved. Dark eyes watched Xerxes like a hawk.

  On the screen was a gruesome crime scene photograph. No tarp covered the victim in this one. The dead man lay slumped against the fence, crimson staining his shirt, his pants, the concrete all around.

  He gasped, bile rising. The beer left him queasy. “Fucking ‘ay, Zen.”

  “Sorry. You knew the guy, huh?” The detective put the phone away.

  “Sure, that’s Oil-Can Mike. Homeless dude, comes around sometimes. Good guy, a drinker but harmless. He pushes his cart up and down…” The words died on his lips. Who would kill Oil-Can Mike? The guy was over sixty. He minded his own business and always gave a friendly wave. Loved to stop and pet the puppies. “Jesus, Zen. Who would do this?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did you see him this morning?”

  “No, haven’t seen him in a week or two.”

  “Oil-Can have any enemies you know of?”

  “Not Mike. Come on. He didn’t have any money, only a cart full of cans. I only ever saw him in the mornings. He went to the recycling center early to jump the line.” He rubbed his forehead. The beer—already bittersweet—tasted terrible now. “There’s no reason, man.”

  Zen rose from his stool. “Thanks Xerk, if I need anything else, I’ll let you know.”

  Suarez came over, clutching a Sam Adams against his chest as if someone would rip it away from him. “Hell of a thing, huh? What do you figure it is, Zen? A random attack?”

  The detective shook his head. �
�Off the record, could be. Or an opportunistic attack targeting the homeless. That Springwater Corridor deal has everyone pissed off.”

  Xerxes nodded, still numb. He didn’t pay attention to the news but the guys at the station listened to the radio. Homeless encampments along the Corridor—a greenbelt and bike track that snaked across Portland, following the line of an old railroad line—had grown and grown. New tents and lean-tos cropped up every week. A few homeless committed crimes, littering and theft for the most part, but there’d been some muggings and break-ins too. Maybe a few locals had decided to hit back. Or a couple creeps were out looking for easy prey.

  Why didn’t those punks try picking on him and the guys at Station 34? Cowards. His muscles clenched in anguish and frustration. He’d like a piece of Mike’s killer.

  Detective Zenkowski was handing him an old-fashioned business card. “Call me if you think of anything.”

  He pocketed the card. “Sure. Hey, you should know. I’m leaving town in a couple days. Portland’s too expensive.”

  “I know. Don’t worry, if you were a suspect, you’d be down at the precinct getting read your rights. No, I’m looking for girls.”

  “Girls?” Xerxes scoffed. “You are joking.”

  Zen narrowed his eyes. Perhaps the interview wasn’t quite over. “Junkies maybe. Hookers. Wannabe gangbangers, I dunno. Late teens, early twenties. White or Hispanic. First had black hair, leather pants and jacket. Second with brown hair, denim jacket and blue jeans. Seen anyone like that in the last few days?”

  He jerked his head back in surprise. “Hookers? Around here? No.”

  “All right, take it easy, Xerk.”

  “Yeah, you too, Mike.” It wasn’t until after he finished his beer and was pouring another that it struck him. The Amazing Woman! She had brown hair, blue jeans, a denim jacket. Had he helped a murder suspect get away?

  Impossible. She wasn’t a killer. Somebody who loves puppies, who stopped to help catch tiny dogs before they ran into the street, didn’t murder old homeless guys. Mom always said trust the gut. If someone made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, radiating malice and ill-intent, get away, far away. Mom was right about that. He’d met a few scary individuals in Portland, mostly on emergency calls. At burning cars and crime scenes. Drugs. Death.