Corin & Angelique (After the Fall of Night)

by Sherri Claytor

“That should answer your question.” Corin told Fulner. “Now, from her on out, I’ll be doing the questioning. Do we understand each other?”

  Fulner nodded, clearly terrified.

  “The other nightwalker, are you working for him?” Corin moved around the slab, where Fulner stood.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fulner backed away.

  “You’re not a very convincing liar. I’d hate for this to get ugly.”

  “I’m not lying. I swear it,” Fulner declared.

  Corin allowed his fangs and nails to lengthen. “What do you think, Tomes?”

  “He’s lying.”

  Corin grabbed Fulner by his throat and lifted him a good foot off the ground. Suspended like a puppet, his feet dangled beneath him. Maintaining a firm grip with his right hand, Corin’s extended talons punctured Fulner’s flesh just below his jaw line.

  “Please.” The director whimpered, blood trickling down the side of his neck from the wounds.

  “Corin—” Tomes started to protest his actions, thinking he might actually kill the man, but Corin turned his head in a way that concealed his face from Fulner and winked.

  Relieved that Corin had no intention of harming Fulner, not fatally anyway, Tomes played along with his scare tactics.

  “Maybe I’ll just have a little drink.” Corin caught some of Fulner’s blood on two talons of his free hand and held it out for him to see before placing it in his mouth. He glared icily. “Or maybe I should just finish you off and be done with it.”

  Tomes couldn’t help being taken aback by Corin’s bestial appearance. Even though it was all an act, the image he portrayed was real—a bloodthirsty creature no man in his right mind would ever dare stand against. Act or not, it sent a chill racing up his spine.

  “Please, wait!” Fulner pleaded, beads of sweat forming along his brow and running down the arch of his nose. “You don’t understand. He’ll kill me!”

  “Or I can do that right now.” Corin emitted a low-pitched growl and drew the sniveling man closer, baring his fangs.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Corin relaxed his hold on the man’s throat and lowered him to his feet. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, he held him in place.

  “He calls himself Boldor.” He coughed several times before blabbing out information like a tattling child. “He paid me to skip the embalming on Mr. Jaffler’s wife. I couldn’t say no to him. He isn’t the sort to take no for an answer.”

  “I suppose he’s paying you well,” Corin said.

  “For the trouble, I’ve made out pretty good,” the louse admitted.

  “You son of a—” Tomes flew at Fulner in a flash of rage, but Corin held him at bay with his free hand.

  Tomes fought against Corin’s block. “This worm doesn’t deserve to live.”

  “Taking his life won’t solve our problems, pleasurable as it might be,” Corin reasoned.

  “If he’d done his job, embalmed Louisa, she’d be resting in peace right now instead of suffering at the hands of that monster.”

  “He is scum—the worst excuse for a man—but he’s not the one we’re after. And because of him, we now know the nightwalker’s name—Boldor.”

  Tomes reluctantly backed off, endeavoring to control his anger. Oh, he still wanted to rip Fulner’s head off, but he knew Corin was right and this despicable man’s only crime was being an immoral git.

  He’d never been a violent person, but the unfortunate circumstances life had thrown at him had turned him into someone unrecognizable—a different sort of monster—the human-out-for-vengeance kind. Yet, despite the dark changes in him, there was still one thing separating him from the real monsters roaming the earth—his blasted conscience. Still, there was a big difference between taking the life of a bloodthirsty nightwalker and taking the life of a human, and he knew when the time came, he’d have no problem severing the fiend’s head.

  “Where is he taking refuge?” Corin demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Fulner sniveled. “He didn’t tell me.”

  Corin twisted the undertaker’s shirt, pulling

  it up to his throat. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth. I swear it is. He said he’d contact me when my services were needed.”

  Corin stared into Fulner’s face, obviously trying to decide whether or not to believe him.

  The director whimpered. “If I knew, I’d tell you. I swear I would.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth. I do not react well to liars.” Corin relinquished his hold and stepped back. “I’d hate to have to come back and let eager Tomes, here, finish you off.”

  “It’s all I know,” Fulner insisted, rubbing his stinging neck, smearing blood that trickled from the puncture wounds.

  “Let’s go.” Corin aimed for the door.

  Tomes followed, but not quite finished with the man, he turned back before exiting. “Something tells me I’ll be seeing you again real soon.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Fulner responded.

  “You helped that monster turn my wife into God knows what, and I won’t forget the part you’ve played.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tape Number Two

  Louisa, her mind left maddened by the transformation, was wild as a rabid animal. Boldor eased toward her, cautious with his movements, knowing she was capable of inflicting damage.

  Unlike her demented mind, her body had regenerated itself to a pleasing degree. It wasn’t flawless, but considering the extent of damage present prior to her change, it was a miraculous transformation. Any visible evidence of the autopsy she’d undergone was nearly undetectable, leaving her with only very faint scarring.

  “I think I’ll call you my little firecat—red flaming hair and the green eyes of a wild feral.” Boldor reached out to stroke her soft strands, fully expecting counteraction.

  Her wavy locks, falling in mad disarray about her creamy, porcelain face, in combination with her cat-colored eyes, presented a striking vision.

  Responding defensively, just as he’d suspected, she laid a fast and fierce bite to the top of his hand. He snatched it back with a growl and ran his tongue over the wound before sealing it with a pass of his fingers. This was a power of the nightwalkers—the ability to instantly heal small wounds—regenerate the flesh. However, if the injuries were substantial, healing would require placing themselves in a deep sleep while the body repaired itself. Very little could permanently afflict them, making the immortals practically indestructible.

  “It looks like I’ll have to do some taming.” Boldor gave a displeased gnarl. “But in time, you will come to trust me.”

  Louisa snarled back and flew at him in a starved attack.

  Boldor, ready for her charge, spun her around, and pinned her arms behind her back. “Lesson one, don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” He shoved her to the ground, demonstrating his dominance.

  Louisa whirled back and hissed.

  “You’re starving, I know.” Boldor remained calm.

  The rodents he’d supplied her thus far just weren’t enough to satisfy her ravenous appetite. He had to get her some human blood, and once fed, he hoped she might settle down enough for him to work with her, make a little progress in gaining her trust.

  When he’d called her from the grave and realized her demented state, he’d placed her in a trance, releasing her from his control only when they reached his hideout. Knowing he couldn’t watch her every minute, he’d installed a lock on the outside of the basement door, allowing him to leave her alone with confidence.

  Although she showed no hint of civilized demeanor whatsoever, Boldor refused to see her as a failure. He believed that with his guidance, she would calm down and in time, learn to cope on her own. Regardless of her damaged mind, she was his masterpiece—his Goya—a woman well worth the trouble for the enjoyment she brought him.

  “I won’t be long.” Boldor secured the door,
taking a direct route to the hospital for a quick withdrawal.

  Hospital blood banks were the perfect solution when in need of a quick feed. In Louisa’s unmanageable state, he couldn’t take her out to feed without placing her in another trance, which would be too draining for him. Besides, he had to lay off hunting for a while. The bodies piling up were drawing too much attention to von Vadim, all due to his clumsiness.

  He reprimanded himself for losing the gold watch he’d taken from the estate while feeding on his kill in the hospital parking lot, something that wouldn’t have happened had he satisfied himself with several bags from the blood bank, or as his opponent did, fed on cows. But when he’d spotted such easy prey, the meal had been too tempting to pass up. But from this point on, he was determined to be more careful, because too much attention on von Vadim would soon mean too much attention on him when he stepped into von Vadim’s shoes.

  * * * *

  Noticing the desk calendar was a day behind, Sheriff Pierson turned it to July twenty-fifth. The night before had been utterly exhausting. Not only did he oversee the crime scene investigation at the hospital, but he’d also been called to another murder that occurred at the Jackson County Fair, bringing the total number of killings in his county to four.

  The latter victim was a fortuneteller, discovered murdered in her tent, the same MO—chronic loss of blood. Two murders in one night was almost too much to fathom. It left him wondering if the killing was ever going to stop.

  Pierson yawned, impatiently tapping his pen as he waited for a return call from the U.S. Marshals Service. Even with everything weighing on his mind, the matter of checking Jordon Black’s legitimacy hadn’t escaped him. In fact, it ate at him, stirring his insides. Scanning over the files, thirty minutes later, the call finally came.

  “Sheriff Pierson, hello, my name is Wayne Purrant. I’m Head of Administration for the District of Arizona. I’ve been informed you wish to check Marshal Black’s credentials. I hope he’s not giving you too much trouble. He can be a bit unconventional.”

  “So, he is a legitimate marshal, then?” Pierson hated hearing the affirmation.

  “Yes, he’s legitimate all right. He’s part of a special department that deals with major criminal cases…selective. They work closely with the FBI, hunting down the most dangerous offenders,” Mr. Purrant informed him. “I assume you’re calling with a complaint?”

  “Funny you should say that. Marshal Black and I have definitely rubbed each other the wrong way.”

  “I suspected as much. He’s the best at what he does, but he can be hard to take at times. I’ve warned him about abusing his authority, overstepping his boundaries with other officials.”

  “He has one heck of an ego and a personality to match. And he doesn’t mind using his pull, making it clear that every jurisdiction is his jurisdiction.”

  “Believe me, yours isn’t the first call I’ve received regarding his ‘not so pleasant’ demeanor. I’m well aware of his personality flaws. I’ve threatened to pull the plug on him more than once. I don’t know, maybe it’s time I quit throwing idle threats at him and finally take some real action. He’s been so obsessed with a longstanding case he’s working on, I’m sure he could use a rest. It would certainly give him time to reflect…gain a little perspective. Maybe brush up on a few social skills, even a little etiquette to boot.”

  “I don’t think you’d be so lucky,” Sheriff Pierson laughed. “He’s certainly not my favorite person in the world, Mr. Purrant, but I don’t think such a harsh course of action will be necessary. I wasn’t looking to get him thrown off his case, I just wanted to confirm that he was indeed part of your organization and authorized to be reviewing my files, and getting under my skin.”

  “When I get these calls, I try to remind myself how hard it must be for the marshals in that sector of the agency, pursuing psychotics all over the country. They sacrifice their own lives for the safety of the people,” Mr. Purrant rambled on. “It’s a dedicated group of individuals, the job dominating their whole life. Most new recruits can’t handle the sacrifice, but those in the ranks of Black, they hang in there for the long haul. I admit, I have cut him a lot of slack, but I justify it with the knowledge that he’s doing a dangerous job, risking his life on a daily basis, in service of us all.”

  “You make it sound un-American not to have respect for what he does.”

  “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, Sheriff, but he is one of our best.”

  “I take it he’s solved a lot of a cases?”

  “He’s handled more than his share. To be truthful, our Marshal Black has a reputation here at the agency for being the king of unsolved cases. And I’ll let you in on a little secret, he also turns in the most ‘presumed dead’ reports, all perfectly explained, mind you. Now I know that might sound a little cruel, but you have to remember, these marshals are chasing down the worst criminals and killers.”

  Had he heard the man right? Was Mr. Purrant saying that it was okay to kill if you were killing a killer?

  “Black’s current case is a prime example—a serial killer we call ‘The Vampire.’ He leaves his victims, typically women, drained of blood,” Mr. Purrant further disclosed. “I’m afraid if Marshal Black can’t eventually catch him, no one ever will.”

  “Well, after talking to you, I think I now understand him a little better. I hate to admit it, but he might be onto something here in my county. We’ve had four murders, all women, and all drained of blood.”

  “It sounds like he may have followed The Vampire right to your door. It’s a good thing you have him there.”

  “You might be right.”

  “He should be kept informed. However, I’ll make sure to reemphasize that he’s to work with your department, and not try and take over or get in the way of your investigations.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Pierson said. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Purrant. Thank you for returning my call.”

  “You’re welcome, Sheriff, and don’t hesitate calling again should anything else arise.”

  Sheriff Pierson hung up the phone with a curse rolling off his tongue. But at least he now knew a little more about Marshal Jordon Black—the king of unsolved cases—a real vigilante. However, under the circumstances, with the number of victims rising in Jackson County, maybe having him there wasn’t such a bad thing after all. If it meant catching the killer, he could stand him awhile longer.

  Pierson pulled out his notepad and flipped through pages of memorandum, glancing over everything he’d taken down since the first murder. There had to be something he was missing, some vital clue hidden between the ever-expanding lines. His gaze stopped on the name Mr. Glynn Kensington—the new principal at Black River Falls High—taking special notice of a notation he’d placed in brackets mentioning his superstitions. He recalled the real estate office receptionist, Ginger, telling him how Mr. Kensington believed a property in Hixton to be haunted. The man was also part of a very short list of people who had contact with Sandy Darnell prior to her murder, and that couldn’t be ignored. Sheriff Pierson didn’t really suspect him of being the killer, but it was something he should check out. So with that in mind, he headed over to the high school where he met with a very cooperative Glynn Kensington.

  “Sandy Darnell was showing me a ranch over in Hixton. I really liked it—twenty acres of the finest wooded land you could ask for. The house was in pristine condition, but there was something disturbing about the place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not into the supernatural, but I’d swear that place was inhabited by something, or someone.”

  “What makes you say that?” The sheriff was curious to hear what strange notions the man harbored.

  “Well, first of all, the menacing apprehension was just overwhelming, literally making me sick to my stomach. And there were noises coming from below the house. Something was moving around in the basement.”

  “It was probably just mice. Did you go down and check it out?”

&nbs
p; “Not a chance. What I heard wasn’t mice. Trust me. It was something else. I’d bet my life someone was down there.”

  “Did the real estate office look into it?” The sheriff was concerned that a drifter might have taken up temporary residence there.

  “I was too embarrassed to mention it. The agent already thought I was off my rocker.”

  “Maybe I’d better take a ride over to Hixton and check the place out for myself. With the property sitting vacant, vagrants could have moved in, and that could pose a danger for the sales agents.”

  “I’d hate to see anything bad happen to any of the other ladies over at Brookside Realty.”

  “That makes two of us.” Pierson got up. “I’ll be on my way. You have a school to run.”

  Done there, the sheriff pulled out of the parking lot with his cell phone to his ear, attaining directions to the ranch house from Ginger. He thanked her for her assistance, ended the call, and started up I94, en route to Hixton. A minute later, he received a call from Patricia informing him that the hospital blood bank had been robbed again overnight. She also had another surveillance tape she wanted him to view, and by the urgency in her voice, he knew the camera must have caught something interesting. He took the next turnaround and set a new course for the hospital. The ranch house would just have to wait.

  He found Patricia with her secretary, Rhonda. They were viewing what he assumed was the surveillance tape on a small, thirteen-inch TV, set up at the foot of the bed.

  “You can go, Rhonda. I’ll get in touch with you in the morning.”

  The woman gave Sheriff Pierson a courteous nod as she exited.

  “These last few hours sure have made a world of difference.” Pierson was pleased with the progress of her recovery.

  “I’m getting better by the minute. Dr. Krieger won’t release me today, but he should in the morning.”

  “Wonderful. Now, tell me about this tape.”

  “Yes, tape number two.” Patricia motioned for him to take a seat in the chair next to her bed and rewound the tape. “He’s struck again, Allen, the same guy.”