X-Rated Bloodsuckers

by Mario Acevedo

  “What plans?”

  “That weird crap about lifting humanity to a new partnership with the undead realm. Cragnow might as well be speaking in tongues.”

  Wow, vampire–human collusion disguised as an evangelical ministry. Could Cragnow and Venin have pulled that off?

  “Now we get to the murder part,” Rosario said. “Those dogs started barking and Cragnow’s men went ape shit. They pulled guns—serious firepower, shotguns and M16s—and hustled outside.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Cragnow wouldn’t let us look. He kept us inside and commenced with his ranting. He was already well sauced, so he yelled like there was a fire in his asshole. He blamed us for the trouble.”

  “Us, who?” I asked.

  “Everybody. Me. Niphe. The girls. His guards. Cragnow said he’d do anything to protect himself. That’s when he admitted to killing Rebecca Dwelling and Fred Daniels. To shut them up.”

  “And Katz?”

  “That’s what bothered him the most,” Rosario replied. “Katz was his property. Who had done her in? The same people who knocked off Roxy Bronze?”

  “Cragnow worried about who had killed Katz?”

  “And you don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “Before Niphe and I left, Cragnow let us in on some news,” Rosario said. “He had another way to corner Journey into cooperating with us.”

  “Which was?”

  Rosario paused and gave a grin. “You won’t believe this. Journey’s girlfriend was coming to see Cragnow. Some broad by the name of Lara Phillips.”

  That stunned me. “Journey’s girlfriend? Are you sure?”

  Rosario chuckled. “I couldn’t make up something like that.”

  “Why would she see Cragnow?”

  “Apparently she wants him to back off Journey.”

  “How is she going to do that?”

  “Probably by sucking Cragnow’s dick, for starters.” Rosario laughed. The sweat dribbled over the rolls of his neck. “Of course Cragnow has no intention of easing up on Journey. In fact, he’ll use Lara to humiliate the preacher. Take his money and his woman. What a naïve bitch.”

  Naïve didn’t describe Lara. I saw her as guarded. Volatile, even. Lara had cruel words for Roxy and her life in porn. Lara had to have known Cragnow’s part in Roxy’s past.

  “Do you know Lara?” I asked.

  “Never met her.”

  How could Lara hope to reason with Cragnow? He was a vampire. She had no chance. Maybe she went with Journey’s blessing to work a deal. Cragnow couldn’t resist the irony of Roxy Bronze’s sister kneeling before him.

  But I couldn’t see Lara doing that. Nothing about this made sense.

  Rosario blotted his forehead with the kerchief. “Isn’t this some twisted shit?”

  CHAPTER 45

  Rosario had told me plenty. But I needed more.

  “When was Lara going—” I heard a noise, like the rattle of thunder. The reverberations grew louder and deeper, then turned into the baritone rumbles of two big-bore motorcycles roaring up Vermont Canyon Road.

  I didn’t need a sixth sense to know this sounded like trouble.

  The two motorcycles—custom Harleys—turned up the twisting road, moving fast. Sun glinted off the chrome. One rider was lean, the other heavyset and bearded. Neither wore sunglasses or goggles to hide their fierce gazes.

  I whipped off my sunglasses. Orange auras burned around them. Vampires.

  I kept my face averted to hide my eyes from Rosario. I pushed him toward his car. “Hurry. Don’t hesitate to shoot. And put your sunglasses on.”

  “My sunglasses?”

  “Trust me.” One zap and these vampires would snag Rosario’s corpulent ass.

  Rosario grasped his .45 and let the newspaper fall away. He scrambled for his Porsche, like a fat horse accelerating into a gallop.

  The motorcycle riders separated. They reached into the leather panniers and each pulled out an over-and-under sawed-off shotgun. If their goal was to get the drop on me, these loud bikes were a poor choice. A deaf man could have heard them approaching.

  Unless.

  My fingers buzzed another warning.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Orange auras lurked in the underbrush of the hillside.

  The motorcycles were a diversion. This was a trap, and Rosario was the bait.

  I thumbed the safety on my pistol, whirled around, and popped four rounds into the shrubs.

  A screech like that of a wounded beast echoed above the roar of the motorcycles. One aura behind a bush flattened to the ground and dimmed.

  The skinny rider rolled past and panned me with his gun, the muzzle looking like a metal figure eight.

  My nerves were raw and I sensed everything at super vampire speed. Fire blossomed out of the top barrel of the shotgun. A swarm of pellets whooshed out, the wadding peeling back. The silver pellets bounced against one another as they sailed toward me.

  I dodged the volley and centered the sights of my pistol on the vampire.

  His denim vest wrinkled where the three slugs tore into him. He tumbled backward off the motorcycle. The Harley T-boned a parked Lexus. The vampire landed on the asphalt, squirmed, and quit moving. Smoke curled from around his sides. The alarm in the Lexus shrieked.

  I reloaded my Colt automatic.

  Rosario rushed for the driver’s door of his Porsche. The hairy-faced rider swerved around the rear of the Porsche and leveled his shotgun.

  Rosario dropped and crawled around the front bumper. The shotgun blast shattered the windows of the Cayenne.

  A bullet whizzed past my nose. Another stabbed the ground by my shoes.

  I dove to the right onto the grass.

  More bullets hunted me.

  My shooters were three vampires advancing down the hill. They carried Uzis. I fired a wild shot and they ducked for cover.

  I sprang to my feet. More bullets peppered the dirt around me.

  The three vampires crouched low to the grass, two males flanking a brunette. My arm panned right to left, my index finger squeezing the trigger with mechanical precision.

  The first vampire took a shot in the forehead. His head snapped back and he collapsed.

  The next vampire caught one in the sternum, as if the slug couldn’t help but go between her boobs. She tumbled forward and the Uzi dropped from her hands.

  My sights hovered over the face of the last vampire, a wily-looking bastard with the expression of a starving ferret. His gun jerked rhythmically, the spent casings whirling in the air.

  A searing pain hacked my side and I sank to my knees.

  My aim drifted off target and I centered the sights again. My bullet cleaved the shooter’s nose. Blood sprayed across his cheeks like the pulp of a smashed tomato. He clutched his face and fell, howling in agony.

  I struggled to get up. A silver bullet wormed inside of me, the poisonous metal burning flesh like a hot poker.

  Rosario knelt by the front of his Porsche. He saw that I was wounded and scrambled toward me. Great, let’s bunch up and make it easier for this vampire bastard. I waved that Rosario stay back.

  Hairy-face gunned his bike forward and angled the muzzle of his shotgun at Rosario. The raging glow of the vampire’s aura froze like a muscle tensing.

  I tired to shout a warning but the words came out as a groan. My reactions were sluggish from the pain. By the time I brought my pistol up to fire it was too late.

  The vampire’s shotgun barked once. Blood spurted from Rosario’s back. His arms splayed forward and he fell prone on the ground.

  I fired at Hairy-face. He had no problem ducking at vampire speed.

  Hairy-face looked at me. His gaze focused on my wound, and he smiled. Long fangs spanned the gap between his mustache and beard. His red eyes glared a message. Go ahead and waste your ammunition.

  With a jerk of his arm the shotgun broke open and ejected the two empty shells. He snatched fresh shells from a vest pocket and re
loaded.

  A pistol shot rang out. Hairy-face’s aura lit up from the shock of sudden pain. He grabbed his side and jerked his head to the right at Rosario.

  Rosario pushed off the grass. His aura burned with defiance. Blood ran from his shirtsleeves and over both of his wrists and hands. He tore the sunglasses from his face. His hand left bloody streaks on his cheeks. He kept his .45 trained on Hairy-face and fired. The big slug ripped the vampire’s shoulder.

  My turn. I shot again and hit Hairy-face in the center of his chest.

  He dropped his shotgun and doubled over. The part in his hair pointed to a bald spot that drew my aim like the bull’s-eye of a target.

  My bullet punched through his skull. Blood geysered out. The red spew turned into rust-colored flakes. Hairy-face slumped against his handlebars, and the Harley toppled over.

  Rosario staggered and fell. He wheezed and clawed at the grass. His aura began to lose its glow.

  I cupped my hand over the wound in my side. Blood and smoke oozed past my fingers. I struggled to get upright, the bullet in me heavy as a sack of foul toxin. Once on my feet, I moved in a painful shuffle to stand over Rosario.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. I stood over him to block the sun, but of course, there was no shadow. His eyes wouldn’t focus. He held up his .45. “Told you I put it together right.”

  “So you did.” He was a breath away from dying, so I couldn’t do anything except say, “I’m sorry, Rosario.”

  “What for?” His arm dropped and the pistol clattered against the ground. “At least I won’t die broke like my old man.”

  Police sirens closed upon us. I glanced to the road, and when I looked back at Rosario, his aura was gone. Blood snaked through the grass around him.

  Shattered windows and bullet holes decorated the cars in the parking lot. Spent shell casings littered the grass and asphalt. Rosario lay dead. The corpses of the vampires smoldered as the sun ate their flesh. What a mess.

  The slide of my pistol was locked back, signaling that the gun was empty. I inserted my last magazine and released the catch. The slide snapped forward.

  The police sirens echoed louder. I had to hurry.

  CHAPTER 46

  Humans popped up like prairie dogs. Red auras ballooned around them. They gaped at the carnage and at me.

  I unfolded my sunglasses and put them on, to hide my eyes. I walked stiffly toward my motorcycle and, despite the agony, moved faster as the sirens approached.

  My Yamaha waited between two mock orange shrubs. I bent over and plucked my overnight bag from under the leaves.

  I lay across my bike and levered one leg over the seat until I could sit upright. I slipped the bag’s straps over my shoulders and inserted the ignition key. I left my helmet clipped to the rear of the seat.

  The Yamaha started right away. When I clicked the foot shifter into first, pain jolted through my leg and up my side.

  One, two, three police cars swerved into the parking lot.

  I released the clutch handle, rolled the throttle grip, and the Yamaha jumped forward. I steered out of the grass and toward the pavement.

  Cops sprang from their cars. I zigzagged around them. Another police car swerved in front of me and blocked my way.

  I fishtailed off the pavement and back on the grass. I shot between the shrubs along the base of the hill. Spiny leaves and branches smacked my arms and face. My body was a blur of reflexive motion that obeyed one simple command. Get away.

  I punished the V-Max, relying little on my riding finesse and more on the brute force of the Yamaha’s engine to bash through the vegetation. Every bump jolted me with excruciating pain. Branches pummeled the motorcycle and me, tearing my clothes and ripping off both mirrors.

  The rising hill boxed me against the north side of the Greek Theatre. I steered for the stairs and railings to my left and bounced down the steps to land in front of the box office.

  I crashed through a wire fence and raced in front of the theater. A maintenance worker piled bags next to an open gate at the far end of the concrete walkway.

  I opened the throttle. The worker dove clear as I flashed through the gate and got back on the road.

  A police car zoomed past. I left the park and entered the neighborhood of northern Hollywood. I ran stop signs and turned randomly from street to street.

  I slowed and looked over my shoulders. No one followed. I paused under a cottonwood tree shading the curb. I picked leaves and twigs from my body. Now that I had stopped and the commotion of my escape lifted from my mind, the pain from the silver bullet crashed into me like a runaway railroad car. A wisp of smoke curled from the tear in my shirt. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes for a moment. I imagined the silver wad of metal frying my insides like meat on a skillet.

  Blood seeped down my side and soaked my shirt and trousers. The rivulets crusted over and broke into clots of dust.

  As huge as Los Angeles was, I found myself only blocks from the spot of Roxy’s murder. How ironic if I were to die here.

  But I wouldn’t die. Not soon.

  Where to go? Where to get help? Coyote was dead.

  Veronica?

  I could hide at her place. She would dig the bullet out of me. I had managed to have sex with her in wild acrobatic positions and still kept my undead identity secret. Guiding her hands and a knife through hypnosis would be tricky, but what other option did I have?

  My watch said 4:14 P.M. She’d be at work. I slipped the cell phone from my pocket and called.

  “About time,” she said, her voice hovering between eagerness and displeasure. “Where have you been?”

  “Bad trouble,” I replied.

  Veronica stayed quiet. Her breath rushed against the phone. “I didn’t want to hear that. What kind of trouble? With the police?”

  “With everybody.”

  “You…you don’t sound well,” she said.

  “I’m not. I’m hurt pretty bad.”

  “You need me to take you to the hospital?” The phone shifted and I was sure she sat taller and more alert.

  “No. I just need a place to rest and recuperate. Until tomorrow.”

  “My place?” She whispered, her tone guarded, as if she’s hoping that I’d say no.

  “If you could.”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s meet at your place.”

  “I’m way over in Riverside. Probably can’t get there until seven.”

  Three hours from now. Could I stand the pain? “I’ll wait.”

  “Should I get anything? I’ve got bandages and stuff in the bathroom, but would you need something else?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “You call to tell me you’re hurt bad and you say not to worry?” Her voice cracked. “Oh Felix.”

  “It’s not that bad.” It’s much worse. “Buy cheese and wine. We’ll have a party.”

  “I gotta go. Seven then,” she said and hung up.

  The worst was over. All I had to do was survive the next few hours, rest overnight, and go after Cragnow tomorrow.

  When I lifted my left leg to set my shoe on the foot peg, a volcano of agony surged up my torso. The pain funneled up my neck and flooded my head. My eyes dimmed. Through sheer force of will, I shoved the fountain of anguish back down.

  I rolled the Yamaha from the curb and rode south toward Veronica’s apartment.

  At every traffic light I thought I’d pass out. I lied to myself to keep going. Hang on for another hour. I’ll stop and rest in fifteen minutes. Just one more block.

  I reached the street where Veronica lived. I pulled into the driveway and maneuvered the Yamaha against the back cinder block wall close to the Dumpster and recycling barrels. My plan was to break into her apartment and rest inside. Hopefully she’d forgive me.

  I peeled myself off the motorcycle. The afternoon sun reflected from the back windows of the buildings and baked me. The heat drained my weakening b
ody. I could barely stand. The breezeway seemed an impossible distance.

  I’d wait for Veronica out here. I crawled into the shade between the Dumpster and the cinder block wall. The area reeked of decaying food.

  Each minute seemed like an hour. The sun’s rays angled lower, and the coolness of evening gathered into the darkening shadows.

  CHAPTER 47

  Veronica’s brown Nissan turned into the driveway. My kundalini noir rustled expectantly. The driver’s silhouette, with a mane of long hair, was Veronica’s. The Nissan halted inches from the Dumpster and my motorcycle propped against the wall.

  I adjusted my sunglasses. I didn’t want her to see my eyes until I was ready to hypnotize her.

  The driver’s door opened and nudged against the Yamaha’s handlebar grip. Veronica rose from the Nissan, hitched her purse on one shoulder, and gave my motorcycle a quizzical once-over.

  “Veronica,” I said.

  She turned toward me and bent down. She pulled her sunglasses up and hooked them into her hair. Her expression of puzzlement deepened.

  I retrieved my overnight bag, grasped the side of the Dumpster, and dragged myself from the wall.

  Veronica gripped my free hand. Helping me stand, she caressed my face and shoulders. “What happened to you? Looks like you wrestled a bear.”

  “I could’ve handled a bear.” I pressed my hand over the wound.

  She tugged at my wrist. “What are you hiding?”

  I didn’t have the strength to wrench my wrist free.

  Veronica touched my shirt around the wound. “Did you get shot? Stabbed?” She leaned close, sniffed, and pulled away in horror. She let go of my wrist. “Is that smoke?”

  “Help me inside,” I said. “I’ll explain.”

  Her arm clasped my shoulders and I staggered beside her. She led me to the breezeway.

  “You got shot, didn’t you? Felix, we have to call an ambulance.”

  “Not yet,” I told her. “Take me inside first and help me get fixed up.”

  “I don’t appreciate this,” she said. Her voice lost its caring tone and sounded frightened. “Gunshots are supposed to be reported to the police.”