I had loved that cow. It had been our first, given to me by my father to help start our own farm when I had married. I had cared for it every day, milked it for years, and in one frenzied, horrific attack, filled its last moments with terror and pain. My thirst, my hunger, had been satisfied, but I carried that guilt with me forever.
I looked down at the pile of dust and clothes at my feet. I grabbed the clothes and searched the pockets for any clues as to where he had been. A pack of matches with an odd symbol on it, a stylized skull with fangs, was all I had for my efforts, no wallet, no money, no ID to be found.
I shoved the matches in my pocket and sheathed my knife, concealing it under my duster as I walked outside. The sun was just starting to break in the distance. I flipped my collar up, pulled my hat low, threw a pair of sunglasses on and slipped on my gloves. Climbing in my rental, I returned to the train station where I had stowed my gear in a locker, and boarded a train for home.
THREE
New York City
I stepped inside the lobby of the hellhole I called home and climbed the stairs rather than trust the claptrap elevator that on a good day only worked until the third floor, leaving the other tenants to hoof it. I was fortunate to only be up one floor. I entered the long familiar hallway of offices occupying the second level, passing by each door on my way to my own, the names long since permanently etched on my brain.
Half were private dicks, half were import/export companies. In other words, smugglers.
This was Chinatown baby, and it ain’t nice.
But, the rent was cheap. Nobody asked questions. You could go about your business, rarely saw anyone in the hallway, so no one knew your comings and goings. It was perfect for me, especially since I’m more of a “night owl”, shall we say.
I stopped in front of the door for my office and sighed as I read the sign:
Zander Smith
Private Investigator
Eight years I’d been using that name now. I refused to count how many names I’d used over the years, because once I’ve done that, I’ll know the number, and never be able to forget it. It was a mystery easily solvable, but one that would remain a mystery as long as I remembered to never count them.
I tried the handle.
Unlocked.
Sydney must be here. I opened the door and stepped through.
“Hiya, Zee!”
“Hey, Syd.”
She rose from her seat, her hourglass figure curving around the desk as she rushed over to help me with my duster. She gave me a peck on the cheek, her thick red lipstick most likely leaving its calling sign.
“Zee, you look exhausted.” She reached up and rubbed my cheek, removing the evidence of her presence. “So, success?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sort of.”
She dragged me to the inner office that was mine and pushed me onto the worn leather couch that had been here when we moved in. “Tell me all about it.”
I shook my head. “Ten cent version. Found the guy, got an address, fought with Tarkan, and he killed himself before he could tell me anything.” I reached into the pocket of my faded 501s and pulled the matchbook out. “This is all he had on him.”
She took the matchbook and examined it, inside and out. “No name. That’s odd.”
“That’s what I thought. Makes me think private club or something.”
She nodded. “Let me do my magic.” She looked at her watch. “It’s almost noon, way past your bedtime. Get some rest; I’ll see what I can find out about this.” She flicked the matchbook back and forth in her fingers, then swayed out of the room.
I never took my eyes off her until she cleared the door and closed it, flashing me a smile and a wink when she did.
She reminded me of her mother. Hell, she reminded me of her great-grandmother. I’d been working with her family for four generations. Her great-grandmother, Rose, had discovered my secret when I saved her life. Since going out during the day was difficult for me, I had needed an assistant, a human assistant—ugh, I hated that. I realized I was lost the day I had started thinking in terms of them and me. That they were human, and I was not. Wasn’t I still human? I had all the same emotions. I hurt. I loved. I laughed. I cried. Sure I could leap tall buildings and tear out throats, but wasn’t I still just a man?
Huh. I was too tired to debate that with myself. I lay out flat on the couch, the feet of my tall frame dangling over the arm, my head propped on a pillow older than some countries. And closed my eyes. Within moments, I was sound asleep.
FOUR
New Jersey
1919
“Are you okay?”
I looked up at the voice. She was angelic. I was in pain. Which I have to admit is a rare occurrence. Sure I felt pain all the time. Stub a toe, jam a finger, catch a tooth, but that wasn’t real pain.
Get your ass knocked fifty feet down the road by some asshole not paying attention to their driving?
That’s real pain.
In fact, you’d probably be dead. Me, I just lay there, assessing the damage. It was extensive. Bones were broken, there was blood, but not much, our blood more of a thick preservative than the fast flowing provider of oxygen a human’s is.
But there she was, this angelic beauty, kneeling over me, a look of concern on her face. She wiped my hair out of my eyes.
“Oh my, you’re so cold.”
If only she knew.
“What should I do?”
I knew my legs were broken below the knees, the car bumper nailing me first, then the full front of the car did a number on a good chunk of the rest of me. None of that was my concern. If I lay awhile my bones would mend themselves quite quickly, enough to actually walk out of here, and in a few days I’d be right as rain. But the legs needed to be straightened first, otherwise the bones would knit in some unnatural way, and I’d have to rebreak them which was a real pain. Literally and figuratively.
“Pull my legs straight.”
“What?”
“Grab my boot with both hands, then pull as hard as you can. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Her hand darted to her mouth. “I think we should wait for a doctor, shouldn’t we?”
I made a production of looking around. “Do you see anyone rushing to my aid around here?”
She looked as well, and shook her head. “We are rather isolated.”
I frowned. “Indeed. Yet you did manage to find me with little trouble.”
This brought tears to her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had a fight with my dad, and, well…you know…”
I hated to see tears in those eyes. I took her hand in mine and squeezed. “Don’t worry about me. I just need you to pull on my legs.” She nodded and repositioned herself, grabbing my left leg. “Now pull hard and straight, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
She nodded.
“Okay, now.”
She pulled. Damned hard. I yelped and she stopped, but I shook my head, gritting my teeth. “Keep pulling!” I managed to hiss.
She pulled again and I felt the bone suddenly move to the side and merge again with its better half. “Okay!”
She stopped pulling, then let go. This process was repeated with the other leg, and within minutes, I could feel the bones knitting. Fortunately we were on a side road that in the entire time I had walked and lain on it, had seen and felt only one car. It was indeed a lucky day for me.
I looked again at the lovely creature that was the cause of my current plight. She was still quite upset. I sat up and began to massage my legs around the breaks. The legs were numb, but I could already sense they were strong enough to walk a short distance.
“Do you live around here?”
She nodded. “Just up the road.”
“Do you think I could rest there for a little while?”
Her head bobbed emphatically. “Absolutely! Of course, but, but, how will you get in the car?”
I pushed myself to my feet and she gasped. I walked gingerly to the passenger side, opened
the door, and climbed in. She remained dumbfounded, her body not moving, her head, jaw dropped, pivoting on her neck as she followed my movements.
“Are you coming?” I asked.
She snapped from her stunned silence and almost jumped toward the car. A moment later she was in the driver seat, the engine was roaring, and we were racing down the gravel road, the car fishtailing slightly the entire time.
No wonder she hit me; she drive’s like a maniac.
I looked at her, her determined expression, her eyes fixed on the road, her two hands gripping the giant wheel. She was striking. Her finger wave hair framed her alabaster skin, blemish free, easy on the makeup, but a thick layer of bright red lipstick accentuating a pair of lips that I think any man would die to kiss.
Just like my beloved Kristyna. Dark hair, radiantly white skin, full, beautiful lips. Except for the makeup, which when she was alive wasn’t readily available—certainly not to poor farmers. But her natural beauty was all I needed. She still fired my spirit when I thought of her, and our passionate nights together.
I looked away, tears in my eyes as my perfect recall brought back memories of the night we had spent together before my turning and her death. It was a wonderful memory, but far too intense for anyone to bear after a loss so horrid.
That was the gift of time.
Time healed all wounds, time let you forget, time let vivid memories dim.
But not for me. For me, time was just a reminder of how much further away from her I was. Would I ever get to join her in Heaven, where I was sure she waited?
But would I ever get in? Would Saint Peter let me pass? Was I even human anymore? Did I even have a soul? It was a question that haunted me, and had for over a century. Did I have a soul, or did it die that day on the farm?
“We’re here!”
I snapped back to reality as she turned into a long driveway leading to a house that would have been the envy of everyone back home. I still couldn’t get over how big American homes were compared to European. Perhaps it was the fact everyone had lots of space. Or, more likely, the abundance of materials to build with.
“Nice house.”
“Thank you. My great-great-granddaddy built it when he arrived here from Scotland almost a hundred years ago.”
She pulled up in front of the house and jumped out, rushing around the car to open my door and help me out. I decided to humor her—it seemed so important to her to help. I walked toward the steps, my arm over her shoulder, putting just a little weight on her so she’d feel she was actually helping, then mounted the steps. I had to admit I winced at that. Walking straight legged, keeping the knees braced, wasn’t that tough a few minutes after setting the bones, but bending the knees and climbing, that hurt still, and risked breaking my legs yet again.
Thankfully there were only four steps, and a pair of shoulders to lean on, which at this point I did take advantage of.
To her credit, she didn’t complain.
“Mom! Dad! I need some help!”
There was no answer.
I grimaced as I cleared the last step.
“Give me a second,” I mumbled, straightening my legs and locking my knees. I was in a little pain, but nothing severe. It felt like the legs had held out. Now I just needed a few hours to lie down somewhere, and I’d be good as new.
“That’s odd,” said the girl, stepping forward and pulling open the screen door. The inner door was open. She helped me over the threshold, my locked knee walking style making it a little challenging, then she led me further into the house, and pointed to a couch. “Lie down here, I’ll find Mom and Dad and let them know you’re here.”
I nodded, lying down, lifting my legs onto the soft cushions, then closing my eyes. I felt myself drifting off, the effort of healing myself taking its toll.
A blood curdling scream tore me from my near slumber. I jumped up, hobbling toward where I thought the scream had come from. I rounded the corner, into a kitchen, and found the girl crumpled on the floor of a porch outside. I opened the door.
“What is it?”
She pointed.
I looked and felt a hunger churn my stomach. Two bodies lay near a barn, maybe fifty feet away. It was obvious even from here that their throats had been torn out.
I helped the poor girl to her feet, her stunned silence reminding me of shellshock I had seen in the Great War. “Go inside.”
She nodded but didn’t move, her eyes transfixed on the bodies of her parents. I stepped in front, blocking her view, and gave her a gentle push. She blinked, looked at me, then stepped inside. I stepped off the porch and walked briskly to the bodies. I grabbed the first, the father, by the shirt, and dragged him over to his wife, then took hold of her blouse. I pulled them both into the barn, and out of sight.
The sunlight pouring in the open doors showed me everything I needed to know. This was no animal attack, unless I considered myself an animal. This was done by somebody who had been turned. And recently at that. They clearly had no control. Those with control sank their teeth, drank, and tossed aside. Those with no control, usually those new at it, would sink their teeth, but in their bloodlust, would keep sinking their teeth, resulting in them biting right through, filling their mouth with a chunk of flesh they didn’t want. They would tear it off, spit it out, and a huge amount of precious blood would be lost as the jugular spurt its life giving fluid everywhere but where you wanted it.
Amateurs.
My stomach growled. I knew it wasn’t that it was hungry, it was just my poor confused brain sending signals. There was temptation here, there was no doubt. I looked at the pale corpses. Whoever had done this had drained them completely; there was no point in even trying to take a sip.
Something grunted behind me.
Forget something, I knew that sound from anywhere having grown up on a farm. It was a pig. Several in fact. I knew I didn’t need to feed, not for another week, but when an opportunity to feed safely presented itself, you took it.
But what if she walked in?
I couldn’t trust that she’d stay in the house, and if she caught me feeding on one of her pigs, it might just raise questions I couldn’t answer.
She screamed, and I realized I didn’t even know her name.
I raced from the barn and saw a figure in the kitchen, the screen door smacking shut. I covered the distance between the barn and house in several strides, my still knitting bones screaming in protest, but I knew if I didn’t get there in time, she’d be dead.
Because I knew that smell.
It was another like me. One I hadn’t met. And if he had killed her parents, he was most likely out of control. They were the most dangerous. Those in control were predictable. They wanted to live, just like you did, and would quite often flee if there was an opportunity. But those in the madness of bloodlust weren’t thinking. All they wanted was your blood, and their frenzied attack wouldn’t stop until they were dead.
How the hell am I going to stop her from finding out what I am?
I ripped the screen door from its hinges as I entered. I found the girl lying on the floor, her hands in front of her as she tried to fend off the attack that had not yet begun, which was lucky for her, because she wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Stop!” I yelled.
I’m not sure why. It seemed the thing to do. And it worked. He did stop. He turned to look at me, and it was clear he had recently fed. His eyes were red with the lust, his face, covered in the blood of his last victims, his clothes soaked in the waste of arterial spray. And his incisors were fully exposed.
That had always disturbed me. I remember when I had first seen mine in a mirror, I nearly filled my pants. It was terrifying. How had these teeth grown? It had taken me years before I was brave enough to look in a mirror again, and after getting over the shock of not having aged a day, I had examined my teeth again. And realized they weren’t extending at all. My gums were receding during the bloodlust, exposing more of the tooth, giving the illusion th
at they were extending. Why this was happening, I had no clue, but at least it had resolved one thing in my mind—the tales of vampires with teeth that lengthened for a feeding were merely a misinterpretation of what witnesses had seen.
But right now, that moment down memory lane wasn’t my concern, it was the amateur in front of me.
He snarled, turning toward me, and sniffed. At this point in time, he seemed more werewolf to me than anything else. He was truly an animal, and there was no way both of us were going to survive. I glanced at the girl and flicked my eyes toward the door leading to the living area. She nodded. I slowly backed out of the kitchen and onto the porch, the snarling beast, arms at chest level, elbows bent, fingers stretching toward me, followed, mirroring my steps.
Can he tell I’m like him? Probably, but does he care? Does he know that a single feeding on one who’s been turned would sustain him for months? He jumped, his enhanced strength sending him sailing toward me, a distance of at least ten feet. Which was impressive to look at, but a poor move tactically. Once you’re airborne, there’s no way to correct. I stepped to the side, drawing my sword from under my long duster, and dropped the blade, hard.
And nearly broke both my arms.
He dropped to the ground like the dead weight he should have been, but wasn’t. I had expected to cut his head clean off, but instead had hit something metallic that had left my arms ringing. He rolled away from me, and stood, reaching behind his neck, and drawing his own sword. I must have hit the hilt with my blade, which was why he was still alive. But for someone newly turned, especially in this day, to already have a sword was almost unheard of.
He must have killed the one who turned him.
It wouldn’t be the first time. I had heard stories of vampires feasting on someone, leaving them to turn, then, their appetite so satisfied, let their guard down. The recently turned are dangerous.
Turned (Zander Vargar Vampire Detective, Book #1) Page 3