by Debra Dunbar
“You are one of the most knowledgeable and skilled Templars alive,” Dad told me. “The Order needs you. We have a responsibility that was given to us at birth, and it’s time you accepted that and served the Lord.”
“I do serve the Lord,” I snapped back. “I do more to fulfill the Oaths of Knighthood than most of the Elders in their posh estates. I protect humanity. I safeguard Pilgrims on the Path. When I came across an artifact, I brought it to safety. If the Temple is ever attacked, I will rush to its defense. The only thing taking my Oath does is put me under the thumb of a bunch of Knights who have lost their way. I will not be put in a position where I have to choose between my pilgrims’ safety and whatever the Elders decide is more lucrative or important. I won’t allow myself to be in a position where I have to choose between the Oath I made to God, and the Oath I made to the Order.”
My speech was greeted with a shocked silence. Then Essie chuckled.
“Dear, an Oath to God always comes first. And if the Elders fail to realize that, then shame on them. Your great-grandfather always did what he felt was right no matter the opinions of others. And yes, there were many times when he told the Elders to get bent. Facing the hard decisions and making difficult choices is part of being a Knight. It’s part of being a Templar.” She waved a hand and drained the rest of her whisky. “Bah. But what do I know? I’m not a Templar and never will be. I’m just an old woman who has seen far more than anyone except the divine and the dead. I’m going to bed. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
We watched Gran leave, Fulk following her to the doorway, then trotting back to me with a whine. I looked down at his chisel shaped head and scratched between his ears, not wanting to see the expression on my parents’ face.
“She’s right, you know,” my mother said, her voice soft. “An Oath of Knighthood never displaces an Oath to God. And if you ever found yourself having to choose between the two, then know this, Solaria Angelique Ainsworth—every member of this family will stand behind your decision. Every one of us. We are Knights. We serve the Order. But we serve God and all that is right first.”
“Agreed,” my father chimed in. “Well said, Mavia.”
Tears blurred my vision as I blinked. If I were to take my Oath, and the day came where I had to go against a direct order by the Elders, my punishment wouldn’t be a slap on the wrist. And it wouldn’t be a slap on the wrist for those who supported me.
But knowing that my family would be willing to give up all they had to stand behind me…that made me love them all even more. We were family, and family always protected each other. I wasn’t alone. I was never alone. Even if things didn’t work out long-term between Dario and me, even if some horrible monster attacked Baltimore, even if I had to stand between what I knew was right and the Order I’d been brought up to respect and obey, I’d survive.
Because I’d always have my family right there to catch me if I fell.
Chapter 8
“So what’s happening up in Baltimore? Necromancers, death mages, Boo Hag, warring Balajs… Are there dragons now? A gorgon?” Dad leaned his arms on the counter, nudging the bacon toward me. As usual, we were the first two up in the morning, and Dad had made the pair of us breakfast. He’d clearly been up at the crack of dawn getting the massive turkey in the oven. Normally we had staff that prepared family dinners, but they’d been given Thanksgiving off, so my father was handling the turkey, and we’d warm up all the dishes the staff had prepared earlier this week when it was closer to dinner time.
I grabbed a piece of bacon and took a bite, relishing the thick crisp texture and the smoky, applewood flavor. “I don’t want to say things are quiet. I tripped over a dead homeless man Tuesday morning on my jog.”
Dad shook his head. “That’s such a tragedy. Perhaps we should donate to Baltimore area homeless shelters or addiction treatment programs in the city. Now that you’ve made Baltimore your home, we have a responsibility to help the less fortunate there.”
I winced, knowing Dad meant well, and donations were better than “thoughts and prayers” or just shrugging over the whole thing, dismissing it as a sad state of affairs.
“That would be nice, but this man wasn’t just the usual homeless drug addict. He was severely anemic. He was so anemic that the M.E. had to draw blood from an organ. There were three other homeless deaths this month where the decedents were unusually anemic, but not to this extent.”
Dad smirked. “Decedent. I can tell you’ve been hanging out with cops.”
I smiled, knowing Detective Tremelay’s lingo had seeped into my vocabulary. “The first three died from cardiac arrest due to a heroin overdose. They were clearly long-term drug users, and their anemia might be due to some undiagnosed underlying disease or genetic condition. But this last one…it’s like he was drained of blood.”
“Vampires.” Dad shot me a sympathetic glance. “I know you’re dating one, Aria, but they’re the likely culprit when it comes to these things. There’s a Balaj in Baltimore. There are rogues outside the city. They usually cover these things up, but sometimes one gets sloppy.”
I got the impression Dario never got sloppy. And I didn’t want to jump to the assumption that these deaths were due to vampires—especially not Dario’s family.
“The only puncture wounds were the victim’s inner arms, which is consistent with drug use. Yes, it could be vampires trying to cover up their feeding by taking blood from a site where a junkie might shoot up, but I’m trying to explore other potential causes.”
Dad slapped some French toast and bacon on a plate and sat down beside me. “Perhaps the anemia is from a disease. Some of those needle marks might be transfusions for medical care and these homeless people died from the disease.”
I took a bite of French toast and thought about that. “But what disease could cause the lack of blood in the last victim? How could he have been still walking around the night before if he was that bad off? I’m just trying to think outside the box here, to figure out if something other than a vampire could possibly be responsible.”
Dad frowned as he chewed. “Plague demon? If you’ve got a plague demon in your city, then the guy could have been fine the night before, and dead from advanced leukemia by morning.”
“Maybe. But I’m sure the M.E. would have noted in the preliminary if the guy had been riddled with cancer. And leukemia doesn’t drain the body of blood.”
Dad thought a moment. “More of those death mages?”
Ugh, I hoped not. Most of them were dead or in jail, but I knew of at least one that had gotten away. I doubted he would have returned to Baltimore, but who’s to say there weren’t more lurking around? I’d certainly bring it up tomorrow when I went to the prison to talk to Chuck, but there were a few things about the body that made me doubt a death mage was responsible.
“There’s nothing about the body that indicates a ritual killing. Maybe blood magic, although I don’t know any blood magic rituals that require more than a few drops. And usually it’s the mage who needs to supply the blood. I can’t imagine any magic that would need six or more pints of a homeless drug-user’s blood.”
“Black market blood banks?” Dad shrugged. “Like those waking-up-in-a-bathtub-without-a-kidney stories only it’s blood and not kidneys?”
Wow, I hadn’t even thought of that. Homeless people would be a quick supply of blood, and they’d be willing to donate for a quick buck. But would homeless blood be usable? Especially those who were drug users? I knew they screened those people out at community blood drives, so I couldn’t imagine that paying for multiple blood donations from the same at-risk individuals would yield…well, anything. And it wasn’t like blood was something that could be sold at a premium, unlike black market kidneys.
Dad waved a piece of bacon at me and continued. “Maybe it’s a rare blood that’s actually in demand, either for humans with autoimmune problems, or those who live on human blood and are willing to pay big for preferences.”
; I suddenly remembered Dario commenting to me that certain human illnesses lent blood a very pleasing flavor, and caught my breath. Rich people with exotic illnesses. Rich vampires with kinky blood preferences.
“But how would the killers know the homeless people’s blood type?” I mused. “It doesn’t make sense to go around taking blood from a whole bunch of people in hopes that one of them might be the right type. There has to be some prescreening.”
“Doesn’t take much to test blood. A quick finger stick, and you’ve got it.” Dad frowned. “But I’m assuming this would be more than just blood type, otherwise I doubt there would be enough money in it to be worth the bother. Maybe a specific genetic abnormality creates the value? Something that only one in tens of thousands of people have?”
“Then it wouldn’t be worth it to go around finger sticking a gazillion homeless people,” I replied. “That’s far too much work for what might potentially be no reward.”
Dad swirled a piece of French toast in syrup and popped it in his mouth. “If it’s humans killing for blood to sell, I’d think the best plan would be to steal the records from an actual blood donation site. I’m thinking if this is the case, then one of them works there. Prescreened. Already knows the blood type and all the information about someone. And who cares if they donated last week if you’re going to kill them anyway.”
Dad scared me sometimes. “It is the most logical scenario if we’re talking about blood-for-sale,” I agreed.
“But…”
“But…” I grinned. “I am down here for the day and I want to go through all possibilities. So, who drinks blood that isn’t a vampire?”
Dad gave me that one-eyebrow look. “Or what sort of magic requires blood—lots of blood—but doesn’t involve a death.”
That was the question of the year, and I wasn’t sure who to go to on that one. I had been in touch with Reynard after the ritual on Halloween, and his knowledge was strictly Goetica. I also doubted this was a specialty area that Russell could help me with.
I knew who to go to and he was in Jessup prison. I had a visit scheduled with him on Black Friday of all days, and was bringing his tub of Fisher’s caramel popcorn up with me as well.
“Think we can do a little research after we eat and before I need to head home?” I asked.
“You know I’m always willing to research something with you, Aria.” Dad saluted me with a piece of bacon. “Right after dinner, when everyone is having their turkey coma, we’ll head into the library.”
I grinned and saluted him back with my own piece of bacon. “Then it’s a date.”
In typical Thanksgiving tradition, we ate our turkey around two in the afternoon, which gave everyone plenty of time to lay around in a food stupor for the rest of the day. We’d hit the kitchen again around eight o’clock for a second round. I planned on leaving sometime before ten since I’d drawn the short straw at work and needed to be at the coffee shop at six in the morning. I was pretty sure traffic would be light getting back to Baltimore, but I wasn’t too worried. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d worked a shift on a few hours’ sleep. And after my shift, I could catch a quick nap before having to be at the prison for my scheduled visit with Chuck.
But all this meant I couldn’t do a late night research session with Dad. Instead we waddled into the library after gorging ourselves with food and sat down with a stack of books to look for supernatural beings who had needle-like fangs or mouth parts, and fed on human blood.
“Manananggal?” I asked, pointing to the entry in Schumer’s Creatures of the Night.
“I’ve never heard of one leaving the Philippines,” Dad confessed.
“They’ve been sighted in Indonesia and a few other areas, but they get lumped in with Aswang, so there’s an issue with reporting accurate numbers.” I turned in surprise to see my mother sitting down across from me at the table. “What?” She grinned. “I’m not about to let your father have all the fun. Besides, I’ve never been much for napping after a big meal. You’re thinking there’s a Manananggal in Baltimore?”
Dad smiled at her. “Aria possibly has a non-vampire bloodsucking supernatural being in her city, but I doubt it’s a Manananggal. They separate themselves into two parts, then sprout wings and fly to hunt their victims. They’d be biting humans on the neck and actually chewing on their faces, not draining them of blood via punctures on their prey’s inner arm.”
Mom’s eyebrows shot up. “Inner arm? Drained of blood? Sweetie, it sounds like vampires to me.”
“It might be, but I’m trying to cover all bases here. Vampires. Some blood-for-pay scheme where the guy had a rare form of blood. Magic that needs a huge quantity of blood. Or possibly some creature other than a vampire. I’m just trying to be thorough.”
“Always a wise idea, Solaria.” Mom nodded in approval, pulling one of the books over to her and leafing through it.
Dad read down an entry from Predators of the Orient. “Ekek, Chonchon. Krasue. Nukekubi. Penangglan. Tiyanak. Wak Wak. Most of these have a similar attack method as the Manananggal, so I doubt it’s one of them. Besides, their populations are pretty much limited to Asia.”
“Isn’t Chonchon a shapeshifting sorcerer?” I leaned over to look at the illustration.
“It’s more a permanent transformation spell where a sorcerer becomes a Manananggal,” Dad said. “So again, the method of blood feeding isn’t consistent with that sort of creature.”
“And the Krasue looks like a floating female head with entrails below the neck, so I’m guessing no on that one,” Mom chimed in.
I grimaced. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure there would have been reports of floating female heads if it was a Krasue.”
“Outside of the Tiyanak they all detach their heads and fly around,” Dad commented. “I’m thinking if this man was killed by something supernatural, it would be a creature that was comfortable or adapted to urban living and would be fairly unnoticed in a high-population area. Possibly the Tiyanak, but I doubt any of these others.”
“So I should consider a Tiyanak?” I asked
Dad shook his head. “Probably not. Tiyanak aren’t very mobile. They lure their prey in by sounding like a baby in distress. That might be a successful hunting strategy in the city, but they’re not the sort of creature who would go unnoticed. Plus having to crawl around everywhere would be a huge disadvantage. Besides, they chew their prey with claws and fangs, and you said the only noticeable injury to the victim was puncture wounds on their inner arms?”
I nodded. “And some bruises, but I’m pretty sure the M.E. would have noted if the bruises were the kind that might have led to internal injuries, so I’m thinking we can discount those.”
Mom waved her hand to halt the pair of us. “Look, there are thousands of supernatural beings who feast on human blood. Let’s start with the ones common to this continent first, rule them out, then consider the more exotic ones.”
She had a point. Dad and I tended to go down the rabbit hole and get lost in the fascinating details of various creatures, all while losing sight of our original question.
“Chupacabra?” Dad turned a questioning glance to mom.
That’s right. She’d battled a nest of Chupacabra down in Puerto Rico a few years back. I turned to my mother. “Would the injuries from a Chupacabra attack be limited to puncture wounds on the inner arm and some random bruises?”
“If the victim didn’t fight, which might be the case with someone who was passed out from drug use. Although as far as my experience goes, they only drain the blood from goats and animals. They’ll attack humans who they see as trespassers and rivals for territory and food,” Mom commented. “But I doubt they’d drain the blood from a human. From what I’ve seen, a Chupacabra killing on a human would look more like a wild dog attack.”
Dog attack. Crap. I made a mental note to mention that one to Tremelay as well as Dario. Those murders in the north part of the city might be rogue vampires, or some nutjob with an attack dog, but it
could also be Chupacabra.
Was it wrong that I was hoping it was a nutjob with an attack dog?
I pulled up the picture that Janice had sent me and showed it to Dad. “I don’t have any close-ups of the actual puncture wounds. This is the guy I tripped over, the one who was basically drained of blood.”
He looked at the photo and turned my phone to show it to my mom.
“How about a Soucouyant? Or as they call them in Haiti, a Loogaroo?” My dad asked.
“Hold on, Solomon.” Mom took my phone and zoomed in on the picture. “Let’s look at the limiting factors here. Male victim. The only injuries appear to be on the inner arms where there are puncture wounds. Blood was drained from the body.”
“That’s all I know at this time,” I told them. “The earlier victims, which may or may not be related to this, didn’t have any other marks or diseases, although they had heroin in their tox screen. They had severe anemia, but this last guy basically didn’t have any blood left in his body at all.”
Mom and Dad were both silent—Dad flipping through Schumer’s Creatures of the Night, Mom frowning down at the picture.
“Outside of a vampire attack, which is the most likely scenario in my opinion, I’m leaning toward a Dearg-Due, or possibly a Mandurugo,” Dad announced.
“Femme fatale,” Mom mused. “With one victim we can’t really be positive, but I agree. The puncture wounds could be the barbed tongue of a Mandurugo, or the needle-like one of a Dearg-Due.”
“And both would easily lure a man back to their lair,” Dad said.
“How do they choose their prey?” I asked. “Is there something special about their blood, or do they just select randomly?”
Dad shrugged. “They tend to choose cheaters, enticing men in with promises of sex only to drain them and kill them, but the homeless would be an easy mark. You could definitely have a Mandurugo in your city.”