Malveaux pressed the button to raise the gate at the exit, left the man snoozing in the warm booth and headed toward his Jaguar. If he hadn’t had so much of Tempest’s delicious blood earlier, he might have been tempted to slake his thirst with the man, but drinking anymore would be for habit’s sake, rather than from true hunger. He didn’t have any more time to waste, he could feel the sun rising.
Without further hesitation, he clicked the alarm off, unlocked his door and punched the button on his key ring to start the car. Then he slid into the soft leather seat, revved the motor, put the car in first gear, and rolled out into the pounding blizzard.
* * *
He’d lied to Tempest about his residence being far away.
After rolling silently along the empty streets, he reached his temporary accommodations within moments of leaving the hotel’s parking garage. His employer thought Malveaux would appreciate the unique isolation of the “housing” the organization provided. He was right.
Malveaux turned down one of Detroit’s oldest streets, one of the few remaining that were paved in actual bricks. A hundred years ago, St. Clair Boulevard was the main thoroughfare in the wealthiest part of the city. Then, majestic gated mansions lined the street instead of the graffiti-fouled ruins crumbling behind rusty fences he observed today.
One of the dilapidated buildings shared land with Detroit’s oldest cemetery, which had fallen into the same apathetic disrepair as the rest of the area.
He angled into the entryway of Woodward Cemetery, drove through the permanently open wrought iron gates, and cruised silently through the untouched snow, heading toward the most desolate portion of the graveyard. He almost wished the myth about vampires and holy ground was true, because having his body burst into flames would definitely make for a memorable evening.
As the Jaguar rolled through the deep snow, its windshield wipers barely able to keep pace with the constant build-up of winter’s best, Malveaux let the otherworldly energy of the cemetery trickle through his aura. The feeling was almost intoxicating. So much death. He’d never taken the time to sort out the various aspects he’d always sensed around graveyards, but he had to admit to somewhat of a fascination with the things that whispered to him in the darkness. Things that touched him with icy spirit fingers. Graveyards were often magnets for others of his kind, as well as the mysterious beings – embodied and otherwise – who’d remained, addicted to the scent of death.
Malveaux pumped the brakes, slowing the car as it neared the end of the road. Looming directly ahead was a large gothic-style building, still in remarkably good shape. It had been built more than a century before as a memorial to a wealthy man’s mistress. Seems she’d died under mysterious circumstances. Studying the structure, Malveaux suspected the historical landmark had escaped the fate of the homes he’d passed earlier both because it belonged to his short-tempered employer and because this particular graveyard was considered to be the most haunted in the Midwest. Even the most ardent juvenile delinquents had a healthy respect for superstition.
He picked up the remote door opener he’d left in the passenger’s seat, clicked the button, and waited while a large square of stone slid to the right, leaving a car-sized opening in the structure. He drove through the unofficial garage door and followed the dirt driveway that angled sharply down, ending in an underground chamber, deep beneath the house above.
As he descended, he clicked the device again and heard the heavy stone slide back across the entrance, blocking his hideaway from view. Another click turned on the soft electric lights that masqueraded as torches spaced regularly along the stone walls.
Although perfect for his needs, he knew his employer hadn’t created this place with Malveaux in mind. Even without his enhanced senses, he’d have been able to smell the various illegal items that had been stored here over the years: alcohol during prohibition, guns, drugs, and the subtle scent of blood, no doubt a byproduct of some of the nasty little activities inner city humans liked to participate in. He smiled, thinking how considerate his employer was to provide his favorite fragrance.
He reached his hand toward the door handle, and his fingers brushed against his cock, which was still thick and rigid, pointing northward like a fleshy compass. In all the excitement with Quade’s henchmen, he’d forgotten about the state of his erection, temporarily becoming too distracted to obsess about Tempest and his missed opportunity. He stared down at his belligerently unyielding cock and knew he’d have to take matters in hand if he was to get any day rest at all. He’d learned that masturbation couldn’t do more than take the edge off his need, but he’d settle for even a brief respite from the tension.
As he stepped out of the car, he sensed the sun break free of the horizon. Even though he was underground and safe from the solar rays, he felt the familiar pressure building, rather like a weight on his chest. Moving quickly, he found his way to the steel-reinforced door leading to his sleeping quarters. He entered, locked it from the inside, and stalked toward the extra-large silver coffin resting on a pedestal against the far wall.
The coffin was either evidence of his employer’s sense of humor, or his ignorance. Malveaux would have preferred a comfortable bed, but had no problem with his current accommodations.
After making sure the coffin lid was still upright as he’d left it, and the interior of his resting place was to his liking, he climbed in. Settling himself, he pulled the lid down with one hand and grasped his cock in the other. He smiled, thinking of his evening with Tempest, and what was yet to come. No pun intended.
Chapter 10
Tempest gasped, and her eyes flew open. Something had startled her out of a pleasant, very arousing dream. She didn’t know if she’d heard, felt or imagined whatever had jolted her into wakefulness, but now that she was awake, where the hell was she?
Wherever she was, it was pitch black, and it smelled like fresh paint.
Instinctively, she tried to lift her arms to investigate, and realized they were pinned against her sides, held in place by some kind of soft fabric in which she was apparently wrapped.
“What the fuck?”
She wiggled furiously, shifting from side to side, trying to dislodge whatever was holding her prisoner, and managed to kick her legs free. More jostling loosened what she now realized was a blanket, and released her arms. She sat up slowly, not sure how much space she had above her body, and tentatively stretched her arms out to explore the darkness.
Her left hand quickly connected with a wall, and she leaned to the right, reaching to discover if there was another wall on the other side. There was. Pushing the blanket completely off her naked body, she felt along the floor, sliding her hand over the carpeting.
She took a deep breath and ran her hands over her skin. “Okay, Tempest. We don’t know what the fuck’s going on here, but we seem to be in one piece.” She’d gotten in the habit of talking to herself out loud during her lonely childhood. Whenever scary things happened, she’d imagine all the parts of herself gathering in a group, waiting for the fearless part to take charge. Fearless hadn’t let them down, yet.
Her eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, and she noticed a crack of light at the bottom of the wall to her left. She shifted onto her side and rested her head on the floor near the thin line of brightness shining in from a source outside the wall.
“Fuckin’ A! This is a goddamn door!”
She remained on the floor for a few seconds, listening for any sounds that would give her a clue about her situation, but there was only silence. She rose up onto her knees and moved her hands along the flat surface until she found what she was looking for: a doorknob. “Yes!” She grabbed the knob, ready to burst out of the weird cubbyhole somebody’d put her in, then she stopped, and plopped her ass down on her heels.
“Hmmm. Wait. Let’s just think about this. The last thing I remember is being with the pretty boy in the fancy hotel. We’d been screwing . . . no wait, we’d finished screwing, and Malveaux’d gotten up for
some reason. Yeah, there was somebody at the door.” She grasped the sides of her head in her hands. “Why the hell am I so fuzzy? I don’t remember drinking anything tonight. Did the bastard drug me?” She shook her head, hoping to clear the fog. “I said he was lying about being in the mob, and then – fuck! Then what? What’s the matter with my brain?” She shook her head again.
Tempest had seen enough mob and gang violence in her life to know that just being safe for the moment didn’t mean dick. She had no illusions about false security. Anything – and anyone – could be outside that door, but she couldn’t just sit there like a victim. She’d learned long ago that the fantasy of a knight in shining armor coming to rescue her was a pitiful hallucination. Her imaginary savior had obviously gotten horse-jacked by the local Bloods and Crips and was now a meth addict, selling teenage girls into white slavery to get his fix. Nobody had ever rescued her. She was definitely on her own.
“Suck it up, Tempest.”
Sliding her hand along the wood, she found the doorknob again and turned it gently, pushing against the door to create a sliver of eyeball space. There didn’t seem to be any activity nearby, so she opened the door enough to stick her head out and scan the area.
She was in a bedroom. Was it the place she’d had sex with Malveaux? If it was, why was the bed made? She looked around. No. It wasn’t the same room. The furniture was arranged differently. Opposite. Then she remembered: Malveaux’d rented a suite. Somehow she’d ended up in the spare room, in a frickin’ closet.
As she opened the door wider to crawl out, a burst of cold air shocked her. She dragged the blanket out of the closet, wrapped it around herself and stood, listening. Tiptoeing toward the doorway to the well-lit living room area, she felt the temperature plunge as she approached. She pulled the blanket tighter around her. Her teeth chattered.
She’d seen a lot of things in her thirty years, but nothing quite matched the scene in front of her.
The room was trashed. A huge portion of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows was gone. Shards of glass glistened around the floor, like a sharp-edged minefield. The blizzard still raged outside, and inside. Snow angled in through the gaping hole, the wind sculpting snow drifts throughout the room.
The stark white of the snow and sleet was shot through with vibrant reds and pinks. She recognized the look and smell of blood and stood stunned. Blood was everywhere. It pooled on the expensive furniture, and on the white carpet. It dripped down the gold-etched wallpaper like a Stephen King horror movie.
It looked like a bomb had gone off, or something had crashed through the window. Had she slept through a terrorist attack? Was there a mob hit? Had they checked into the Overlook Hotel?
Her mind spun. Where the fuck was Malveaux? How did she get into the closet? Why was she still alive? Why didn’t the hotel send anybody up? Surely the place wasn’t that soundproofed?
She could either stand there, freezing, trying to make sense of the madness in the room, or she could get the hell out. Questions could wait. Being street smart had kept her alive so far. There was no reason to abandon her instincts now. Besides, she was a believer in luck. Not wanting to jinx it, she ran into the bedroom she’d shared with the sex stud, and searched for her clothes. Malveaux’s leather pants and boots were still there.
She stood, shaking her head and staring down at what she thought were Malveaux’s last remains. “Whoa. It looks like you didn’t go out under your own power, pretty boy. No time to put your pants on. That’s not a good sign. Shit. I woulda liked to have your cock around for company a while longer. So much for hanging out with Family members.”
Sloughing off the momentary sadness about what she imagined had happened to the handsome stranger, she launched into an all-out search for her own clothing. All the covers were gone from the bed, so she quickly looked underneath and throughout the rest of the room.
“Damn! Where are my fucking clothes?”
Then her memory pressed rewind. She’d stripped for Malveaux in the living room.
She frowned, clutched the blanket closer around her, and shuffled back into the main room. It was so cold she could see her breath, her body involuntarily trembled.
Being barefoot, it wasn’t a good idea to step on any of the hundreds of tiny shards of glass, so she stood back, surveying the area for a glimpse of anything that belonged to her. She spied her pink tank top first. Saturated with snow and blood, it was useless, but that didn’t really matter. It had been a cheap toss-off anyway. Her blue jeans were in the same condition, covered with fine particles of glass that sparkled in the light. Yeah. She’d be putting those back on any minute now.
“Yes!” She smiled wide. There were her boots. She’d thrown them against the wall, and they’d escaped the bloody, wet remnants of whatever had happened. She edged around the fringes of the room, gathered up her knee-high boots and hurried back into the unused bedroom. Perched on the edge of the bed, she slid them on, the inexpensive leather cold and rigid against her skin.
She stood, and stomped her feet against the carpet to stretch out the tight leather. “Okay. We’ve got foot coverings. Let’s go back in and look for Dad’s jacket.”
Hands trembling from the cold, she grabbed a fistful of the corner of the blanket, hefted it up off the floor, holding it like a little girl wearing her mother’s much-too-long evening gown. She crunched over the tiny fragments of glass, and almost lost her balance a couple of times, sliding on the bloody snow.
Baffled by how it could’ve gotten there, she found her treasured Jim Morrison jacket hanging from a small light fixture in the dining area, at the far end of the suite. Wow, she thought. That must have been some blast.
She retrieved the jacket from its perch, and inspected the well-worn garment. Aside from a little blood and something else she didn’t want to investigate too closely, the jacket had survived unscathed. She crossed over to the bathroom, used one of the pristine towels to wipe off the questionable substances from her heirloom, and dropped the blanket. Sliding the jacket on, she laughed out loud at the sight of herself in the mirror.
Her long, dark hair was tangled and sticking up in mad chunks, her pale face even whiter than usual. The “water-proof, smudge-proof” mascara she’d applied before leaving for the gig was now smeared all over her face. But that was nothing compared to the picture she made wearing the open jacket, one breast peeking out, and the boots. She looked like Amazon Ho. If the doorman had treated her like a sidewalk hooker before, now he’d really get his rocks off.
She pulled at the bottom of the jacket, trying to stretch it to cover as much of her legs as possible. Luckily, the coat was too big for her and, when she zipped it up, it was long enough to keep her from flashing anything that would get her arrested. Maybe she could find another way out of the hotel, so that she wouldn’t have to be the entertainment for the graveyard shift.
She took a couple of steps toward the door and froze. “Fuck! Goddamn it to hell!” She turned to a big, overstuffed chair sitting next to the telephone table, tipped it over, and then kicked at it a few times, causing it to scoot across the carpet. “What fucking else can happen?”
Her guitar and the briefcase she’d inherited from her musician uncle. She’d left them in Malveaux’s car.
Even if she managed to find the damn car in the parking lot, how the hell was she supposed to convince the attendant to let her get her stuff out? Especially looking like Wonder Ho. What if the mobsters had taken Malveaux’s car? She thought about how long it had taken her to save up for that Fender Stratocaster guitar and what her chances were of buying a replacement anytime soon. Then there were all the original tunes she’d made demos of in the briefcase. Demos she’d paid a mint to record for the music producer who’d expressed interest. Plus the lyric master sheets.
She just had to get everything back. That was all there was to it.
With a grunt, she kicked the chair a couple more times, just for the hell of it. Then she opened the suite door, checked both di
rections of the empty hallway, and stepped out. The moment the door closed and locked behind her, she felt a draft on her legs and pivoted, grabbing the door handle. Damn! Why the fuck hadn’t she snagged one of those huge bath towels to wrap around her lower body? Was her brain totally out to lunch? It would have looked weird, but who cared? At least she’d have some protection from the cold. Too late now. Since she didn’t have a key card for the room, there was no going back. Even if she’d been willing to spend one more second in Mob Manor.
Not wanting to take the main elevator, she wandered the corridor, looking for the stairs, and found them. The idea of trucking down twenty stories didn’t make her heart sing, but she’d do whatever it took to get herself out of the hotel without gathering an audience.
The click-clack of her boots echoed in the stairwell and kept her company as she rushed down toward the lower level. She’d just started to wonder if she’d ever find the damn garage when she reached the bottom of the stairs and eyeballed the red neon arrow, pointing toward a heavy door. She opened it and stepped into the sea of cars. Damn it was cold. The bare skin on her legs in the gap between her boots and the jacket tingled in the frigid air. Not to mention the crispy flow going up inside the loose jacket. She could feel her nipples harden and stand at attention. Thinking about her nipples reminded her of Malveaux.
“Damn,” she mumbled under her breath. “I might have kept him around for a while. Maybe I could’ve gotten used to that gorgeous face and the way he licked my clit . . .” She closed her eyes to relish the imaginary sensation. The memory of the feel of his tongue made moisture pool between her legs. She couldn’t recall ever being so turned on by somebody. It was just her freakin’ luck that what was left of him was probably being added to the foundation of a new inner city construction project right about then.
“Stop thinking with your pussy, Tempest, and get the hell outta here.”
Vampires! A Bundle of Bloodsuckers Page 16