Lara stared at the carpet. “Jail?” The tendrils of her aura shrank and turned flaccid. “But I did it for you.”
“Please, Lara, face reality. You think we can run away from this? Where could we hide? For how long? Turn yourself in, and I promise you the best legal help and psychiatric care. At the very worst, you can plead insanity.”
She levered upright. The tendrils stiffened from her aura like quills. “Insanity. Now I’m crazy? Just because I won’t let you snitch on me?”
Rage boiled through her aura. “You’re no different from anyone else. You only want to betray me, to humiliate me.”
The gunshot startled me.
Journey fell into the chair, a shiny, dark stain spreading across the front of his shirt.
His gaze searched the room, as if groping for respite from his pain. His eyes found me and begged for help.
Lara faced me. Her right arm extended to point a small revolver at me.
At this distance, I couldn’t hypnotize her. With my nerves primed like this, I wouldn’t have a problem dodging her bullets. I could reveal myself as a vampire but better to keep her talking and get her to tell me things I had to know.
Her aura flared with alarm. She fired. I ducked right. She fired again. I ducked left.
Lara stopped shooting. The pistol shook in her trembling hand. Her aura crackled with fear.
Journey clutched for Lara, his bloody fingers curling into a red claw. “Lara.”
“Shut up, lover.” Lara steadied her aim upon me. “What do you want, Felix Gomez?”
“To tell you I know who murdered Roxy Bronze.” I pointed my finger at her.
A new emotion tinted her aura…admiration. “How do you know?”
“Roxy’s cell phone records. Your number was the last one. It arrived at one-oh-two in the morning, right about when she had been killed. Kind of a strange time to call and say hello. How did it feel to shoot your sister?”
Lara hesitated. Her fingers adjusted their grip on the revolver. She smiled. “It felt good.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Please, Lara.” Journey wheezed, blood frothing on his lips and over the hole in his shirt.
“You hush now,” she said. “Die quietly.”
Cold witch.
“I told you why,” Lara said.
“When?”
“The first time we met at the church. Freya, my big famous sister, throwing her talents away while I stumbled behind her. For that she had to die. To erase the shame of being the sister of Roxy Bronze.”
“What right did you have to kill her?”
“What right did she have to humiliate me again and again?” Lara’s grip tensed on the pistol. “Ask yourself, mister private dick, how is it you pieced together what happened through the phone logs and the cops didn’t?”
“Ask them. Did you think you’d get away with her murder?”
“Not at first. After I killed her I expected the worst, but nothing happened.” Lara’s mouth curled with disgust. “I was amazed how those imbecile cops tripped over one another to not solve the case. The police lied about everything. That’s when I realized others wanted her out of the way.”
“What about Katz Meow?” I asked. “Your number was also the last on her cell phone record.”
“She was my sister’s best friend in the porn business. But Katz didn’t know who I was. She never saw it coming, the stupid whore. It felt good to shoot her, too.”
Journey’s hands trembled with the palsy of a man at the brink of death. “Please, Lara darling. Call for help.”
“I told you to shut up,” she replied, not looking at him. Tendrils circled her head as if she were Medusa.
I asked, “And Cragnow?”
“When I told him I was Roxy’s sister and wanted to work for him, he drooled at the possibilities. Turned out he was as stupid as everyone else. I’ve done this city a favor by killing the whole lot of you scum.”
“What happens now? This ends the tidy arrangement you had with your boyfriend the pastor. His stealing from the church. You committing murder.” I stepped toward Lara.
Her eyes widened. “You’re one of them.”
“One of the good guys, you mean?”
“No. You’re like Cragnow and his guard. I gave them enough cyanide to poison a team of horses, and even then I had to shoot them. It’s those eyes. You, Paxton, and the others are…different.”
I smiled and showed her my fangs.
Her aura exploded with shock. She whispered, “You’re a monster.”
“I prefer vampire.”
She fired.
The bullet flew through the space where I had been.
By the time we locked eyes I was close enough to grab her wrists. Her blue eyes dilated into black circles.
Her expression softened. Her arms relaxed, and the revolver fell to the carpet.
Journey’s corpse slumped in the armchair. His head lolled to the side, mouth open, foam clumped on his lips like pink toothpaste. His legs relaxed into parentheses. The bloody stain on his shirt gathered along his waist, his aura gone. Too late for the EMTs.
I could kill Lara by fanging, but her blood was too polluted with the wretched evil of her slaughter. She would die another way.
I placed my left hand behind her neck and the other gripped her jaw. Her eyes gazed at mine with innocent warmth.
Compared to the agony I could inflict, what I was about to do should be considered a gift of mercy.
One quick twist to the left. Her upper spine snapped with the sound of a broomstick breaking. The atlas and axis verte-brae tore from the base of her skull and severed the medulla oblongata.
Her aura vanished like a light switched off and just as quickly, her soul went to the great beyond. All motor functions instantly ceased. Lara didn’t even twitch. Her lifeless body sagged against my palms.
How had this changed anything? Roxy Bronze was still dead.
I didn’t worry about leaving clues. The Araneum would order the vampires remaining with the police to scrub this crime scene of any undead evidence.
After the ordeal I’d been through, I needed to end this case with a warning to my fellow vampires. Cross the Araneum, cross me, and you will be punished. Your death will be a cleansing. And what better medium for cleansing than water?
I hoisted Lara by the wrists and draped her over one shoulder.
I tossed her into the pool outside. Lara floated with her face to the sky, buoyed by the trapped air puffing inside her dress. Lara bobbed in the water, her expression serene, as if enjoying one final warm kiss from the sun. The air escaped her dress with a wet sigh and her shoulders tipped to one side. She rolled to float facedown. Her brown hair surrounded her head like a wispy, weedy crown.
I’d come to Los Angeles to investigate and undo vampire–human collusion. And that collusion, for all its planning and supernatural resources, was ravaged by the twisted vengeance of one female.
The most dangerous kind.
A human.
CHAPTER 57
I parked my newest rental sedan in the lot just inside the gate of the Oakwood Memorial Park.
An older model Ford pickup truck turned off Valley Circle Boulevard, rattled through the gate, and rolled to a stop beside my car. Coyote sat behind the steering wheel, and he nodded at me.
Three days ago, he had appeared in the backseat of my locked rental—barefoot, asleep, and wearing blackened rags. He looked like he had been shot out of a cannon and landed in a cinder pile. Seeing him again had filled me with the joy of a man finding his lost brother.
I am a vampire. I’m supposed to have shed my human persona and left behind the aches—and smiles—of the mortal world. But that hadn’t happened. Not yet. Not completely.
Coyote didn’t say much, only that he was hungry. I bought him red chile beef burritos and a six-pack of Löwenbräu. I asked what oblivion was like. In between chomping on the burritos and guzzling one beer after another—raining crumbs and lager on
the upholstery—he said it was as boring as a Baptist wedding reception.
Coyote sucked dry a bag of A-positive, and when I turned around to hand him a napkin, he was gone.
Since then, I have driven by Veronica’s apartment once. Being close eased the longing, but soon the moment passed and I felt creepy spying on her. I drove off and tried to forget the pain of losing her.
The engine of Coyote’s old Ford wheezed like it was dying of tuberculosis. The driver’s door creaked open. A couple of screws dropped to the asphalt.
Coyote stepped out, looking freshly bathed and his sunblock neatly applied. His hair was combed back and threaded with silver strands. He wore an embroidered shirt with pearl snaps. His creased jeans fit snug over the tops of yellow cowboy boots.
“Órale, Felix,” he said. “Good morning.”
“Buenos días.” I had so many questions, but all I could do was point to Coyote’s well-pressed clothes. “This a new look?”
“Sometimes a change of clothes is more than a change of clothes, raza.” He smoothed the front of his shirt. “I’ve had these a while.”
“Where? I thought everything was burned up.”
He gave one of his Coyote grins, meaning, vato, I’m the trickster, and I won’t give away any of my secrets.
A white Infiniti turned off the street and parked close to us. Polly Smythe, the infamous JJ Jizmee, got out. A rose-colored scarf covering her neck marked her as a chalice.
Polly waved at me. “Felix, I didn’t know you were Coyote’s friend.”
“We go back.”
Coyote offered his hand to her. They clasped fingers and pecked each other on the cheek.
Polly carried a ribbed, knit sweater over one arm. The sweater was the same color and style as the one back in Coyote’s destroyed home. “This is way too small,” she said. “It won’t even cover one boob.”
“Well then, mi corazón, we’ll have to try something else. Wouldn’t want you and your girls to catch cold.”
Polly told me back at Fred Daniels’s funeral that she wished for a change. I couldn’t think of a bigger change than becoming a chalice and dating Coyote.
Polly now belonged to the undead world—it was an irrevocable act. Coyote in turn acted as if he belonged to her—another irrevocable act.
The three of us walked on the narrow road curving through the grass and rows of grave markers. I brought a supermarket bouquet of flowers.
We found a marker decorated with a small brass urn. A sprig of carnations, baby’s breath, and roses—the faded blossoms crisp as old paper—drooped from the mouth of the urn.
The marker read:
FREYA KRIEGER A.K.A. ROXY BRONZE
A LOVING SPIRIT WHO SOARS ABOVE US STILL
Under that were the dates of her birth and death. Roxy lived to be thirty-four.
Visiting graves was always anticlimactic. Even when I was human, there was never a rush of emotion. It was just a plot of turf with a plaque to announce the physical passing. What really mattered about anyone was as ephemeral as the wind. The grave was a place to express our tributes, though more honest and sincere words were rendered over drinks in a bar.
I thought about the girl with the bright smile who had welcomed me while others shunned the poor brown kid from Pacoima. I thought about losing Veronica, and the ghosts of my childhood. Thank you. And vaya con Dios.
I pushed the bouquet alongside the other flowers in the urn.
“Roxy loved the Valley,” Polly said.
From here, you couldn’t see much of the Valley. The grass sloped toward the boulevard. A wall of trees—willows and elms—and a chain-link privacy fence overgrown with honeysuckle blocked the view. The rising terrain, the Santa Susana Mountains and Knolls to the north and west, and the Santa Monica Mountains to the south made it clear that we stood on the rim of a gigantic trough extending to the east—the San Fernando Valley.
We headed back to our cars. Coyote and Polly whispered and giggled. I trailed behind.
I stood by Coyote’s truck, waiting for him to ask for a final push start.
Polly opened the driver’s door to her Infiniti. “Coyote and I are going for coffee or whatever.”
The polite tone in her voice implied I was invited, but the “whatever” meant she wanted me to say no. They had plans beside coffee.
“Thanks but no,” I said.
Coyote climbed into the passenger’s side.
I asked, “You’re not taking your truck?”
“Chale. The damn thing probably won’t start. I’ll get it later.” Coyote closed his door and rolled the window down. “Vato, can’t say it was fun…”—he broke into laughter—“but it was loco.” His face lit up with more joy than I’d ever seen on any of the undead. “Ay te watcho.” See you later.
His window raised, and the Infiniti backed up. I waved good-bye.
This assignment was over, thank God. I had nothing left to do but get home, at my leisure. Emphasis on leisure to clear my head of Veronica.
A crow cawed and broke my thoughts.
The black bird paced across the roof of my rental car. A metal tube gleamed on one leg.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to the wonderful people at HarperCollins and especially my publisher, Rene Alegria, my editor, Diana Gill, her assistant, Will Hinton, and my publicist, Michelle Dominguez. There’s no mention big enough for PMA Literary and Film Management, Inc. and my agent, Scott Hoffman, now at Folio Literary Management, LLC. I’m grateful for the support given to me by booksellers across the country. Writing about corpses involved special research, and thanks to Lt. Ed Winter at the Department of Coroner, County of Los Angeles, for giving me the short tour. The burdens of my travels were eased by the many people who welcomed me into their homes: Rebecca Hulem, Bob Hadaya, Joni Mulder, David Lacy, and Joe Flynn. To Erika Paterson for her advice, friendship, and the occasional dance lessons. I got a lot of wonderful props from those rabble-rousers at La Bloga: Manuel Ramos, Dan Olivas, Rudy G., Michael Sedano, and Gina Ruiz. A big smile for that special vampire writer, Marta Acosta, who contacted me out of the blue and dragged me into her blogosphere. My critique group who kept after me until I got things right: Heidi Kuhn, Jeanne Stein, Sandy Meckstroth, Margie and Tom Lawson, Jeff Shelby, Jim Cole, Kevin Tracy, and Sue Viders. To mi gente at El Centro Su Teatro: Tony Garcia, Tanya Mote, and Mica for pushing the Chicano vampire bandwagon. I still look for inspiration from my friends in the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and my fellow scribes at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop: Andrea Dupree, Mike Henry, William Henderson, Shari Caudron, Eric Olson, and Amanda Rea. Then there is that malicious bunch in the Mystery Writers of America: Gwen Shuster-Haynes, R.T. Lawton, Chris Goff, and Bonnie Ramthum (who gave me a bottle of vampire wine). Zooming in at low orbit is the creative and hard-charging bunch of the DogmataDenver team: Russ Wright, Tadd Moskal, David Menard, Jennifer Mosquera, Eric Matelski, and Amy, his smarty-pants wife. Finally, to my sister Sylvia and her partner Janet, my brother Armando, my sons Alex and Emil, my aunt Angelica, and my uncle Sam and tia Alma.
About the Author
A former infantry and aviation officer, Mario Acevedo lives and writes in Denver, Colorado. The author of The Nymphos of Rocky Flats, he has worked as a military helicopter pilot, engineer, and art teacher.
www.MarioAcevedo.com
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THE ADVENTURES OF FELIX GOMEZ
X-RATED BLOODSUCKERS
THE NYMPHOS OF ROCKY FLATS
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
X-RATED BLOODSUCKERS. Copyright © 2007 by Mario Acevedo. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted
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ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061758805
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