by Rita Herron
He strode to the bar, took a seat, and ordered a shot of whiskey. “Where is everyone tonight?” Dante asked.
Drake’s steely black hair gleamed against his pale white skin as he poured a shot glass full of bourbon and shoved it toward him. “I guess they sensed you might come. You have a way of clearing out the place, you know.”
Dante traced a finger around the rim of the shot glass. “You heard about the local girl’s murder?”
Drake’s eyes slanted downward. “Yeah,- but don’t try to pin that murder on me. I only feed from animals, and—” he indicated a plastic bag of blood, “—occasionally the bloodbank.”
Dante choked out a sarcastic laugh. “Any word down here about the killer?”
“No. But there’s been rumblings about the new leader of the underworld stirring up trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Black-Paw claims there’s a new wolf pack moving in and one of his own was injured. There’s also talk that the elements are gathering for something big. I don’t know what yet, but it could rival another Katrina or a tsunami.”
“No bloodletters or firestarters?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Has Father Gio returned to the area?”
A long hesitation, then Mortimer shrugged, ripped open the bag of blood with his teeth, and poured it into a mug. “It’s possible, but I have no clue where he’s set up camp.”
“If you hear anything let me know.”
Mortimer glared at him. “I’m not a snitch, Zertlav.”
Dante leaned into the man’s bleached-white face with a snarl. “You want to keep this bar, have a place for the peaceful demons to hang out, then you’ll do it, or I’ll shut you down and expose the lot of you.”
Mortimer hissed, his fangs slowly appearing. “You wouldn’t do that.”
Dante chuckled. “Damn right I would. Either those of us who want to exist in town form a truce not to feed from the locals or we become just as vile as the others.”
A young woman wearing a gauzy black skirt, a dark blouse, and a shawl slipped into the bar, halting the conversation.
Her face was angled sideways, her hair forming a curtain across her cheek. Slowly she lifted her chin, and Dante’s gaze zeroed in on the scarred flesh.
She had suffered third-degree burns. The scar was old, but the injury must have been extremely painful. Silently she walked toward him, then slid onto the barstool beside him with a coy smile.
His demon radar kicked in, and he sensed human blood flowed through her veins, yet the faint scent of something otherworldly radiated from her as well, as if she’d only recently come into her demonic side.
He’d never seen her here. How had she discovered the Dungeon?
“Hi,” she said in a tentative tone. “My name is Prudence.”
His lips curled into a half-smile. “Dante. What brought you here?”
She slid her hand to his thigh. “You.”
He arched a brow. “Me?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. Her hand moved across his leg, inching closer to his crotch, teasing him, triggering heat to flame inside him. “I followed you in the tunnels.”
Man, his radar was off if he’d let a damn woman slip up on him unnoticed.
“How about a night together?” she whispered. “I’ll do anything you want.”
He downed the shot of whiskey, sensing her desperation and hunger. Most men in town probably ignored her, or turned away in revulsion. Oddly, her scar didn’t bother him.
He had enough of his own: the ones on his back that he’d earned through punishment; the ones on various other parts of his body, battle scars; the ones on his hands and arm, the markings of each time he’d used his powers.
Did she know the clientele this bar catered to? Was she so lonely that she’d stoop to screwing anyone? Even a demon?
She rubbed her fingers across his waistband. “You can use those handcuffs on me.”
That image taunted him. But instead of her face, he saw Marlena’s. Sultry, erotic, beautiful Marlena.
The woman he wanted with a vengeance.
Hell, maybe indulging in a mindless fuck would relieve some tension and keep him from wanting her.
But the woman’s hand on his leg did nothing to arouse him the way Marlena’s simple touch on his arm did, and he stood with a curse and turned back to Mortimer.
“Remember what I said.”
Mortimer glared at him with his fangs bared, but Dante didn’t allow the vamp to faze him. He’d seen worse.
He’d almost been worse.
Nothing scared him now.
Except the thought of the demon attacking Marlena.
The nightmares plagued Marlena again. She tried to wake herself to escape them, but they trapped her inside the terrifying world of her childhood.
“Run,” her mother screamed. “Run!”
Marlena heard the hideous whish of monsters attacking, saw them swoop down with claws and fangs extended, and worked her little legs as fast as she could, darting through the trees. She had to escape. Had to get away or they would eat her alive.
But she stumbled over a tree stump and fell into the dirt. Her knee scraped a rock and pain sliced through her. Weeds chewed at her legs and a snake hissed from the dirt beside her.
Her mother screamed again, and her sister cried out in pain as the monster snatched her up and sank his sharp teeth into her. Blood spewed from her sister’s neck, and Marlena screamed in horror.
“Run!” her mother shouted, but the monster grabbed her and flung her against a rock, and she cried out.
Marlena sank her fingernails into the stone and tried to pull herself up, but terror immobilized her.
Then suddenly a teenage boy appeared out of nowhere, running like a streak of lightning.
She stared at him in shock, but he hauled her up, threw her over his shoulder, and began to run through the forest. One of the monsters chased her, his ugly head spitting something vile in a stream that made fire erupt behind them.
She buried her bead, shaking and crying. She wanted her mommy and her sister. She didn’t want to die...
Marlena jerked awake, her heart pounding. The house vibrated with the wind, floors and pipes creaking, windows rattling.
Perspiration soaked the bedclothes and her pajamas, and she threw off the bedding, stood, and shuffled to the den. She expected a storm to be raging outside, but when she slid the sheer curtain back from the window, the night was quiet. Still, the house trembled and vibrated, and the whisper of her mother’s voice echoed through the eaves.
“Run, Marlena. Run.”
Marlena choked back a cry as she felt a hand press against her back. Again, she turned and no one was there.
Or was there? Could her mother’s spirit still be lingering in the house? Was she trying to give her some kind of warning? Was she here protecting her, or was there an evil spirit inside the house trying to drive her insane?
Gerald Daumer rocked himself back and forth beneath the giant oak tree outside Marlena’s house, shivering as the cold engulfed him. He hated the cold.
A sob wrenched from deep inside him. He wanted to go home, but everyone was looking for him and would be watching his house. The doctors at that nuthouse. The cops.
The devil.
No, the devil had, followed him here, had climbed inside his head and wouldn’t go away. Just like he’d been inside Marlena’s house earlier. In the attic.
Go inside to Marlena. She left you in that crazy place. Make her pay for abandoning you.
He covered his ears, pressing his hands tighter over them to silence the voices. They wanted him to do ugly things.
To hurt Marlena.
It’s her fault you’re like this. You have to kill her.
“No!” He beat at his head, over and over and over. “Leave me alone! I don’t want to be evil.”
But images suddenly bombarded him. Images of his hands tying Marlena to a tree. Lighting a match. Watching the fl
ames ignite.
The bark of the tree caught ablaze, the crisp wood popping as it sizzled and burned, the erotic yellow and orange colors skipping up toward Marlena’s feet.
The beauty of it mesmerized him.
Her screams pierced the night, the scent of burning wood and flesh swirling around him in a mind-numbing rush. Then the flames caught her hair and body, and the devil’s voice finally quieted.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Marlena tried to banish the thought of her nightmares and the fact that a killer had given her Jordie McEnroe’s ring as she drew blood from the last subject of the morning. “Thank you, Miss Curtain. We’ll be in touch.”
The young woman nodded, tugged her purse over her shoulder, and exited the lab. Marlena labeled the blood sample and sighed. She’d conducted psychiatric evaluations on ten possible subjects for Dr. Sneed, the young genius of Neuropsychopharmacology, who’d transferred to Blood-Core to focus on the very research that had driven her own interest in the subject since childhood. Whereas she worked more of the clinical side of the study with her psychological exams and studies, he was the geneticist of the group.
At age twenty-three, he’d already published several papers in major medical journals and had earned a glowing reputation as a pioneer. in his thinking. He had made strides toward proving that variation of genes of the serotonergic circuitry affected aggressive behavior. Yet other studies proved early-life experiences also played a part in aggression.
Marlena had been impressed, especially since his motives were altruistic. His sister had suffered a psychotic break as a result of a head injury and had struggled with drug and alcohol addiction as well as biopolar disorder ever since.
“How did that study turn out?” she asked him as he entered the lab.
“The preliminary results indicated that the frequencies of the S allele and the SS genotype were higher in the study group of violent suicide attempters.”
“Have you had a chance to look at those blood samples from the two Valtrez men?” Both their samples had been lost in the stolen-blood incident but both men had agreed to a second sample. Vincent, an FBI agent, had been trying to find the person who’d stolen the blood, but so far they hadn’t turned up a clue. Security cameras had been stopped and revealed nothing. And everyone at the lab had been questioned and had taken polygraphs. No one on the inside even remotely seemed suspicious, so they knew it had to be a break-in.
“Not yet, but I’ll get to them.”
Edmund Raysen loped in, quiet and awkward as usual, and Marlena’s heart squeezed for him. Dr. Sneed already overshadowed him with hi-s youth and accomplishments.
“Did you lose your glasses again, Edmund?” Marlena asked.
He gave a dismissive shrug and patted his pocket, then slipped the big, dark frames on, washed his hands, and loped back out.
Marlena’s cell phone rang. Her heartbeat instantly accelerated as she saw Dante’s number.
A second later, her stomach clenched. He wasn’t calling for personal reasons—he was probably calling about Jordie’s murder. Maybe he’d caught the killer...
She excused herself, then connected the call. “Marlena Bender.”
“Marlena, I just wanted to call and see if you were all right.”
Her heart fluttered again. “Yes, I’m fine. Any news?”
A pause. “The cause of death was not smoke inhalation nor was it a result of the fire.” -
Marlena tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “What?”
“Jordie McEnroe bled to death.”
Marlena frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Dante’s breath rattled out. “The killer bit her neck and punctured her carotid artery.”
Marlena sank into her chair. “Oh, God. How horrible.”
“I’m going to organize a search party to search the mountains for Daumer.”
She swallowed hard, the scene playing out in front of her like a horror novel. “Call me if you find him, Dante. I’d like to be there. Maybe I can help.”
A heartbeat of silence. “All right.”
“Dante?” -
“What?”
“I’m going to talk to the sheriff who investigated my family’s murder. I have to know what he did to find the killer.”
A tense second passed, then Dante hissed. “Marlena, don’t,” Dante said in a gruff voice. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I have to do this and no one can stop me.”
Without waiting for a response, she ended the call. Her phone buzzed automatically, and she checked the number. Dante.
But she ignored it. She needed to get to the mental hospital to see patients, not listen to a lecture or another warning.
Then she would pay a visit to Sheriff Sam Larson and find out exactly what he had done to find her mother’s and sister’s killers.
Dante drove by the crime lab and spoke with the CSI in charge.
“Did you find anything at the McEnroe apartment? Fingerprints? Forensics?”
“We’re still sorting through the prints. So far, the only ones we’ve identified belong to the girl and her mother.”
“How about hairs or fibers?”
“We did find cat hairs,” he said. “But we questioned the neighbors and one of them said the cat was a stray. The victim could have let the animal inside and fed it, but we didn’t find the cat.”
“Anything else?”
“Hair from the victim,” the CSI said. “And a couple of short, dark, wiry hairs. We’ll keep them on file. If you bring in a suspect, we can compare for a match.” -
“Any footprints?”
“No. This guy obviously knew what he was doing and covered his tracks.”
Dante gave a clipped nod. Of course a demon wouldn’t have fingerprints. He would also cover his tracks, especially if he had the ability to orb or fly.
A thin, balding CSI tech with red sideburns approached him. “I found something odd.” -
Dante checked the man’s nametag: Horace Ford. “What is it, Ford?”
He crooked a thumb for Dante to follow him to the lab. When they arrived at his station, Ford indicated a computer printout. “The victim’s blood type is AB positive. But when the killer bit her, he also left DNA in his saliva.”
“DNA? That’s good news.”
Ford rubbed a hand over the top of his slick head. “Yeah, but that’s what’s so odd. The DNA is human, but there are also genetic markers that indicate an animal’s DNA. In all my years of study, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Dante cursed beneath his breath. “You’re sure? Maybe an animal smelled blood after the killer left and came up and licked her?”
Ford’s look was skeptical. “I suppose that’s possible, but I ran several tests and the properties appear to be from the same saliva.” Ford leaned against the counter with his arms folded. “Tell me, Sheriff, what in the hell are we dealing with?”
“I don’t know,” Dante said matter-of-factly. “Let me know if you find anything else. And don’t share this information with anyone, especially the press. We don’t want to create panic.” -
Suspicion flared in Ford’s eyes, but he nodded.
Unfortunately, the lab results had just confirmed his own fears, that the killer wasn’t totally human. Now he just had to figure out what kind of demon he was.
Then he’d track him down and destroy him.
Marlena studied her newest patient, Prudence Puckett, a twenty-seven-year-old brunette who obviously suffered from low self-esteem triggered by childhood trauma. She’d also complained of hearing voices, which disturbed her even more. “Tell me about your childhood, Prudence.”
Prudence touched the scar on her left cheek. “My mother threw a pot of hot water on me when I was ten.”
Marlena swallowed, determined not to react. She couldn’t imagine a mother hurting her own child in such a cruel manner.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “That must have been very p
ainful.”
Prudence twisted her hands together. “She said I had the devil in me, that I was a bad girl and had to be punished.”
“No child deserves that kind of punishment.”
Prudence chewed on her bottom lip. “I played in her makeup. I just wanted to be pretty like her, but she said I’d never be pretty.” Prudence angled her head sideways, then lowered her voice. “And she made sure of it.”
Compassion swelled in Marlena’s chest. “You’re not ugly, Prudence,” Marlena said softly. “You have beauty and strength inside you.”
Prudence shook her head, her tone suddenly brittle. “I have bad thoughts, Dr. Bender. Evil thoughts about hurting others.”
Marlena frowned. “Hurting others? Who do you want to hurt?”
Prudence looked down into her hands as if she was staring into a mirror. “Men,” she whispered hoarsely. “The men who don’t want me.”
Marlena crossed one leg over the other. “Everyone gets rejected, Prudence.”
Rage and years of self-consciousness racked the young woman’s expression. “You don’t,” Prudence said shrilly. “You’re beautiful and can have any man you want.”
She pressed a hand over her chest, pounding it with her fist. “Men look at me like I’m some kind of freak. Some of them even pity me.” Her voice broke. “But most of them turn their heads away as if it hurts their eyes to look at me.”
Marlena let the bitter words settle before she responded. “Let’s talk about your rage and anger toward these men.”
Prudence pulled her scarf around her head, her heels clicking as she strode briskly toward the door. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Talking does no good.”
Marlena caught her before she exited, wanting to calm her before she left. “Prudence, promise me that you won’t act on any of those feelings. That you won’t hurt yourself or anyone else.”
The glacial look of hatred in Prudence’s eyes sent a frisson of fear along Marlena’s spine. But Prudence didn’t reply.
She rushed out the door, leaving the scent of her despair and rage lingering behind.