In less than an hour, Morpheus got lucky. A low slung car, a 1960 Chevrolet low-rider, eased off Fanning and drove slowly into the park. Inside were two Hispanic young men, both wearing bandannas on their head, the typical gangbanger attire.
Morpheus figured they were making a late-night cruise through the park to see if there was anyone parked there they could rob. He took a deep breath, knowing they were probably armed to the teeth and that he’d have to move very fast to take them out without risking further injury to himself. He knew he would be in trouble if he lost any more blood before he had a chance to replenish his supply.
He quickly loped through the darkness across a large expanse of grass until he was at the first intersection the gangbangers would come to. Luckily, they were driving slowly as they searched for victims. Their windows were rolled down, and rap music blared a loud, throbbing beat from speakers that took up the entire backseat of the Chevy.
Morpheus lay down flat on the ground in some heavy weeds and waited, hoping the men would obey the stop sign instead of running it. He needed the car to be stopped if he was to have a chance to overpower both of the men before they could get to their weapons.
Once again, his luck held. The driver of the car stopped at the intersection and said something in Spanish to his companion as he pulled a joint out of his shirt pocket and bent over the steering wheel to light it.
Already changing into his vampyre form, Morpheus sprang to his feet and rushed to the driver’s side of the car. With no time for subtlety, he jerked the car door open, his claws around the astonished driver’s throat, and tore his body from the car, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck like a twig.
Flinging the body to the ground, Morpheus dove into the car, both arms outstretched and his fangs bared.
The passenger, his mouth open and screaming at the terrible apparition coming toward him, fumbled for his pistol that he’d stuck in the waistband of his low-slung khakis. The hammer hung up on his belt and when he frantically tried to get it loose, the gun discharged, blowing the man’s penis and one of his testicles off. Just before he fainted, the last thing the man saw was the glistening red eyes and dripping fangs of the monster as it loomed close to his face, murmuring, “I’ll bet that’s not the kind of blow job you were looking for, was it?”
When the unconscious gangster didn’t reply, Morpheus shrugged and lowered his fangs to his neck and began to feed, slowly this time so he could relish the taste of the life-giving fluid. Instead, he made a face and almost spat the coppery liquid out. The drugs and alcohol the young man had consumed gave his blood a bitter, nasty flavor that made Morpheus gag.
Too hungry and too weak to be choosy, he grimaced and forced the vile stuff down, and he immediately began to feel better.
* * *
Half an hour later, satiated and feeling almost back to normal with the blood of two men coursing through his veins, Morpheus dumped the lifeless bodies in the brush and drove off toward his house in their car. He killed the radio, preferring silence to the shit these Normals called music.
The pants he’d taken off the taller of the two men were still much too short for his lanky frame, the cuffs hitting him above the ankles, and the shirt was so small he couldn’t button it, but at least his nakedness was covered enough for him to get to his lair.
He parked the car a couple of blocks away, near a busy intersection, and left the keys in the ignition. He knew the car would be stolen long before the police could find it, leaving them no clues as to his whereabouts. As he walked away, he glanced back at the low-rider, hoping the new owners wouldn’t mind the blood on the seats and floor. When excited, Morpheus tended to be a messy eater, and he’d left the car looking like a charnel house.
Staying on the side of the street away from any lights, Morpheus made his way back to the house he’d rented and felt safe for the first time since he’d been shot.
He shrugged out of the clothes, dropped them on the floor, and flopped facedown on his bed, wincing at the still-present soreness of his chest and abdomen. He desperately needed sleep so his body could heal itself completely.
Just before he dropped off to sleep, an image of Sam floated into his mind. He missed his mate terribly and hadn’t had sex with anyone since she’d been taken from him, other than the aborted attempt with the girl earlier tonight. His groin grew heavy with the image of Sam and he drifted off to dream of their last few days together and of what it would be like when he finally got her back. As his penis throbbed and hardened, and he wrapped his arms around the pillow lying next to him on the bed, he vowed to take her as no one ever had and to do things to her she would remember forever.
Eight
The two couples had little trouble checking into the hotel under assumed names. Matt was surprised at how deferential the desk clerk became when Shooter flashed his shield and told him to assign them two rooms under fictitious names. Shooter later informed him the police department often used the hotel for undercover officers and for an unofficial witness protection asylum.
Shooter got two double rooms, one for him and TJ and one for Matt and Sam, with a connecting door between them. The rooms were on the mezzanine floor that actually opened out onto the Galleria shopping center itself. Shooter explained this was the safest place because they could be out of their rooms and mingling with the large crowd of shoppers in minutes if need be without having to wait for an elevator.
Matt was dreading the moment when he would have to explain what had been going on to Sam. He wasn’t afraid of her temper; even though she was feisty and fiercely independent, she never stayed angry with him for long. It was just that he knew she’d be terrified at the reappearance of Michael Morpheus, and mortified that Matt suspected the vampyre bug coursing through her bloodstream wasn’t being controlled as well as she and TJ believed. He loved Sam and anything that would cause her discomfort was difficult for him.
Shooter and TJ dumped her small suitcase in their room and then joined Matt and Sam in their room next door. Before they sat down, Shooter went to the connecting door and opened the locks. “Just in case we need to make a quick getaway,” he said, his lips curled in a half-grin but his eyes serious.
TJ moved into the room and took a seat next to Sam on the couch, and both girls sat there staring at the men, waiting to have the events of the night explained to them in detail. And heaven help the men if they didn’t have a good reason for scaring them half to death.
After opening the connecting door, Shooter went to the phone and ordered a pot of coffee and four cups from room service, and then he sat down and nodded at Matt to begin the story.
Matt cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say. He really didn’t have a good reason for not telling Sam about the phone call and his suspicions about her reverting to sucking his blood—other than the fact that, like all men, he tended to ignore warning signs until trouble jumped up and bit him in the ass.
“This all started about two or three weeks ago,” he began slowly, thinking about the first time he was concerned about Sam’s response to the antibiotic treatment for the vampyre bug. “I began to have dreams of Sam leaning over me and staring at my neck while I slept.”
Even though he tried to keep his eyes off Sam while he spoke, he noticed out of the corner of his eye how she blanched and then blushed at this revelation. Taking a deep breath, he went on, knowing it was better to get it all out in the open rather than to let his suspicions fester. “At first, I thought nothing of this, figuring it was just remnants, a sort of post-traumatic stress reaction, to the events we’ve all been through the past year or so. But then, just over a week ago, I had the same dream, only this time Sam did more than just stare at me. I dreamed she was biting my neck, when suddenly the phone rang and I woke up.”
He hesitated a moment, noticing that he had everyone’s rapt attention. “I answered the phone, and a deep voice told me that he still considered Sam his mate and that I should let her know he was c
oming for her, and furthermore that he was going to seek vengeance against the rest of us who’d ruined his plans and tried to kill him.”
“Are you sure it was Michael Morpheus on the phone?” Shooter asked, his eyes narrowed and his face pale with worry. He asked this more for the girls’ sake than his own, since he and Matt had already discussed this earlier in the poolroom.
Matt hesitated, trying to think back to that terrible morning when his world was once again turned on its ear. After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah . . . at least I think so. Who else could it have been?”
In a dry voice that was almost a croak, her eyes tortured above a pale face, Sam asked, “And what about the dream?”
Matt’s face softened with compassion. “After I hung up the phone, I noticed I had two small puncture wounds on my neck and that you had blood on your lips.”
Both Sam and TJ gasped at this revelation. TJ’s hand went to her mouth as she turned to stare at Shooter, who still had faint evidence of similar marks on his neck.
Matt smiled at her. “About this time, I also began to notice similar injuries on Shooter’s neck,” he said.
He paused, frowning slightly when he noticed Sam and TJ glance at each other. Was there a secret shared in that glance or was it just his imagination that the women didn’t look as surprised at this revelation as he thought they would be?
“In light of this,” he continued, putting his doubts aside for the moment, “I think we need to get in touch with Professor Wingate in Canada and let him know that the treatments he recommended are not one hundred percent effective.”
When tears formed in Sam’s eyes, Matt got up and went to sit next to her on the couch, putting his arms around her and letting her head rest on his shoulder. “The good news is the treatments have stopped almost all of the other side effects. Hopefully, Wingate can adjust the dosage or add a second antibiotic to completely eradicate the damned bug.”
TJ moved to sit on the arm of the chair Shooter was in. She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Shooter. I had some dreams of drinking your blood, but I thought they were just dreams. I had no idea I was actually doing it.”
Matt watched closely as TJ said this, and he was ashamed when he got the feeling she wasn’t being entirely forthcoming about her ignorance of her actions. He looked down at Sam’s face and thought he detected a speculative glint in her eyes, as if she too might have known more about the nocturnal feedings than she was letting on.
Shooter put his hand over TJ’s. “Don’t be silly, TJ. I love you, and if that means that occasionally I’ll have to donate a little blood, then so be it. I’m more worried about this Morpheus and what we’re gonna do about him.”
“Shooter’s right, girls,” Matt said. “We’ve got plenty of time to deal with your infections, but with this latest attack on the girl who was brought into the ER, we’ve got to assume Morpheus is in town and that he intends to make good on his threats against us.”
“Do we know for certain that he knows where we live and work?” TJ asked. She looked around at the group. “After all, we all have unlisted phone numbers.”
Matt frowned. “Yeah, but he managed to call us, so obviously he’s done his homework. And, just before Shooter and I left the ER tonight, Damon Clark told us the girl who was attacked worked in the dean’s office over at Baylor, and that she was abducted from a club called The Waiting Room, a hangout for medical center personnel.”
“She works in the dean’s office?” Sam asked. “What’s her name?”
“Uh, Catherine Williams,” Matt answered, after thinking about it for a moment.
Sam’s hands went to her mouth and her skin paled. “Oh, no. I know Cathy. She’s a sweet, innocent girl.”
“The point is, sweetheart, that Morpheus was staking out a club that is mainly used by employees of the medical center, which leads me to believe Morpheus knows where we all work, and we have to assume he also knows where we all live. It’s my guess Morpheus was there looking for one of us and when we didn’t show up, he took the first available person for his victim.”
“Damn,” Shooter said, slapping his fist into his palm. He obviously hadn’t gotten this far in his thinking about the assault case. “We’ve got to let Damon know about this. The girls are gonna need around-the-clock protection.”
Sam wagged her head. “That won’t do any good, Shooter,” she disagreed. “Regular policemen wouldn’t be any match for Morpheus. Having them around would just put more innocent lives in danger.”
Matt frowned. “She’s right, Shooter. This is something we’re going to have to handle ourselves. Besides, even though Damon has been through this once, he still doesn’t quite believe in the existence of vampyres. He’d have to make a leap of faith that I’m not sure he’s ready for.”
“So what do you suggest we do?” Shooter asked, realizing they were right. Damon was, like all police department chiefs, a political animal, and he would be hard pressed to do something as outlandish and politically dangerous as assign policemen to guard someone against vampires.
“I think the first thing we should do is call Elijah Pike,” TJ said, surprised that she remembered the real name of the vampyre they all had known first as Roger Niemann, and later as Albert Nachtman.
Shooter stared at her in surprise. “But we don’t even know where he is,” he said, uncomfortable with the idea of getting back in touch with the monster that had infected TJ with the vampyre bug in the first place. He still had his doubts that she’d completely gotten over her feelings for the creature who first took her as his mate and who’d attempted to steal her away from him. “When he took off from New Orleans, he wouldn’t tell us where he was going.”
“No,” TJ said hesitantly, her eyes pleading with Shooter for understanding. “But before he left, he gave me his cell phone number. He told me to call him if we ever needed his help in the future.”
Shooter frowned at this revelation of TJ’s, hurt that she’d kept it from him all this time.
“But what could he do in any case?” Matt protested, uneasy about the prospect of bringing any more vampyres into their lives. “The entire police force is going to be looking for Morpheus for killing a cop. If they can’t find him, how could Pike do it by himself?”
“I don’t know,” TJ said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “But it can’t hurt to get his ideas on how we should proceed, can it?”
Sam entered the argument. “TJ’s right,” she said forcefully, avoiding Shooter’s gaze. “After all, the guy has been a vampyre for more than two hundred years, so I think his advice is worth considering even if we later decide not to take it.”
Shooter frowned, feeling a hot stab of jealously at TJ’s apparent trust of the monster who’d almost succeeded in making her into a vampyre like him.
“He may also have some ideas on a better treatment for TJ and me,” Sam said. “He said he was going to keep in touch with Professor Wingate and try and work with him on a more effective treatment to eradicate the infection.”
Matt glanced at Shooter with an unhappy expression. “Looks like we’ve been overruled, pal.” He sighed. “As much as I dislike the idea of bringing Pike back into our lives, I’m afraid the girls are right. We shouldn’t overlook anything or anyone that might help us figure out how to deal with this bastard.”
Shooter leaned back and spread his hands. It was clear he didn’t agree but was going along with the majority. “All right then, TJ. Go ahead and make your call.”
TJ dug in her purse and pulled out her cell phone and a small address book. She consulted the book for a moment, then dialed a number, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes as she did it.
Nine
I awoke to a beautiful day in Vancouver, British Columbia. The air was clear and crisp, with just a hint of winter around the corner. It reminded me of early fall in Maine when I was a boy, except for the gorgeous, snow-covered mountain peaks in the distance. The White Mountains in Maine, although beautiful in their own right, aren
’t nearly as impressive as the Canadian Rockies.
As I stood at the rail and looked around at the harbor and watched the float planes landing and taking off with their loads of sightseeing tourists on board, I felt the first twinges of the Hunger begin to intrude on my sense of well-being. Even though the treatments Professor Wingate had prescribed had not eradicated the vampyre infection from my bloodstream, they had at least lowered the numbers of plasmids to the point where I had some semblance of control over the worst manifestations of my illness.
Instead of being the driving force of my every waking minute, the Hunger was now more of a nuisance that could be controlled if not completely ignored.
I went to the refrigerator in the galley and opened the door. Neatly arranged in racks were dozens of tubes of blood I had stockpiled before leaving New Orleans. Working in the city as a doctor specializing in diseases of the blood made it relatively easy for me to collect samples from my patients and to use them to assuage the Hunger instead of being forced to feed on hapless Normals.
I removed two of the test tubes from the rack and closed the door. As I downed the blood in two quick swallows, I grimaced at the taste. Like a gourmet forced to live on bread and water, the test tube blood would keep me alive and keep me from Hunting, but it would never taste as good as the real thing or give the same satisfaction. Of course, the fact that I could drink it guilt free made enduring the poor taste well worth it.
I shook my head to rid it of such thoughts and began to make my preparations for my move to Banff in central Canada. I went into my stateroom and packed most of my belongings in a large steamer trunk, being sure to take anything that would cast suspicion if found by intruders. I had the paperwork for multiple new identities, bank books containing the details of dozens of accounts across the United States where I’d secreted monies gathered over the two hundred years of my existence as one of the Vampyri, and of course my beloved journal.
Having decided for the first time in over a hundred years to use the name I was born with, I pulled out the various papers and identifications with the name Elijah Pike on them and put the rest back in the trunk. I smiled. Somehow it felt right that as I prepared to start a new life, hopefully independent of the need to kill someone every few weeks, that I should use the name my parents had given me back at the turn of the nineteenth century. Glancing in the mirror on the wall, I whispered, “Hello, Elijah. Good to have you back.”
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