ABVH 01 - Guilty Pleasures

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Even if I solved the case, I still had problems. Aubrey and Valentine were going to kill me once Nikolaos removed her protection from me. Peachy. I wasn’t even sure that Nikolaos herself didn’t have ideas in that direction. Now, Zachary, he was killing people to feed his voodoo charm. I had heard of charms that demanded human sacrifice. Charms that gave you a whole lot less than immortality. Wealth, power, sex—the age-old wants. It was very specific blood—children, or virgins, or preadolescent boys, or little old ladies with blue hair and one wooden leg. All right, not that specific, but there had to be a pattern to it. A string of disappearances with similar victims. If Zachary had been simply leaving the bodies to be found, the newspapers would have picked up on it by now. Maybe.

  He had to be stopped. If I hadn’t interfered tonight, he would have been stopped. No good deed goes unpunished.

  I leaned palms against the bathroom tile, letting the water wash down my back in nearly scalding rivulets. Okay, I had to kill Valentine before he killed me. I had a warrant for his death. It had never been revoked. Of course, I had to find him first.

  Aubrey was dangerous, but at least he was out of the way until Nikolaos let him out of his trapped coffin.

  I could just turn Zachary over to the police. Dolph would listen to me, but I didn’t have a shred of proof. Hell, the magic was even something I’d never heard of. If I couldn’t understand what Zachary was, how was I going to explain it to the police?

  Nikolaos. Would she let me live if I solved the case? Or not? I didn’t know.

  Edward was coming to get me tomorrow evening. I either gave him Nikolaos or he took a piece of my hide. Knowing Edward, it would be a painful piece to lose. Maybe I could just give him the vampire. Just tell him what he wanted to know. And he fails to kill her, and she comes and gets me. The one thing I wanted to avoid, almost more than anything else, was Nikolaos coming to get me.

  I dried off, ran a brush through my hair, and had to get something to eat. I tried to tell myself I was too tired to eat. My stomach didn’t believe me.

  It was four before I fell into bed. My cross was safely around my neck. The gun in its holster behind the head board. And, just for pure panic’s sake, I slipped a knife between the mattress and box springs. I’d never get to it in time to do any good, but . . . Well, you never know.

  I dreamed about Jean-Claude again. He was sitting at a table eating blackberries.

  “Vampires don’t eat solid food,” I said.

  “Exactly.” He smiled and pushed the bowl of fruit towards me.

  “I hate blackberries,” I said.

  “They were always my favorite. I hadn’t tasted them in centuries.” His face looked wistful.

  I picked up the bowl. It was cool, almost cold. The blackberries were floating in blood. The bowl fell from my hands, slow, spilling blood on the table, more than it could ever have held. Blood dripped down the tabletop, onto the floor.

  Jean-Claude stared at me over the bleeding table. His words came like a warm wind. “Nikolaos will kill us both. We must strike first, ma petite.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ crap?”

  He cupped pale hands in the flowing blood and held them out to me, like a cup. Blood dripped out from between his fingers. “Drink. It will make you strong.”

  I woke staring up into the darkness. “Damn you, Jean-Claude,” I whispered. “What have you done to me?”

  There was no answer from the dark, empty room. Thank goodness for small favors. The clock read six-oh-three a.m. I rolled over and snuggled back into the covers. The whir of air conditioning couldn’t hide the sounds of one of my neighbors running water. I switched on the radio. Mozart’s piano concerto in E flat filled the darkened room. It was really too lively to sleep to, but I wanted noise. My choice of noise.

  I don’t know if it was Mozart or I was just too tired; whatever, I went back to sleep. If I dreamed, I didn’t remember it.

  32

  THE ALARM SHRIEKED through my sleep. It sounded like a car alarm, hideously loud. I smashed my palm on the buttons. Mercifully, it shut off. I blinked at the clock through half-slit eyes. Nine a.m. Damn. I had forgotten to unset the alarm. I had time to get dressed and make church. I did not want to get up. I did not want to go to church. Surely, God would forgive me just this once.

  Of course, I did need all the help I could get right now. Maybe I’d even have a revelation, and everything would fall into place. Don’t laugh; it had happened before. Divine aid is not something I rely on, but every once in a while I think better at church.

  When the world is full of vampires and bad guys, and a blessed cross may be all that stands between you and death, it puts church in a different light. So to speak.

  I crawled out of bed, groaning. The phone rang. I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. It did. “Anita, this is Sergeant Storr. We got another vampire murder.”

  I picked up the receiver. “Hi, Dolph.”

  “Good. Glad I caught you before church.”

  “Is it another dead vampire?”

  “Mmhuh.”

  “Just like the others?” I asked.

  “Seems to be. Need you to come down and take a look.”

  I nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and said, “Sure, when?”

  “Right now.”

  I sighed. So much for church. They couldn’t hold the body until noon, or after, just for little ol’ me. “Give me the location. Wait, let me get a pen that works.” I kept a notepad by the bed, but the pen had died without my knowing it. “Okay, shoot.”

  The location was only about a block from Circus of the Damned. “That’s on the fringe of the District. None of the other murders have been that far away from the Riverfront.”

  “True,” he said.

  “What else is different about this one?”

  “You’ll see it when you get here.”

  Mr. Information. “Fine, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “See you then.” The phone went dead.

  “Well, good morning to you to, Dolph,” I said to the receiver. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person either.

  My hands were healing. I had taken the Band-Aids off last night because they were covered with goat blood. The scrapes were scabbing nicely, so I didn’t bother with more Band-Aids.

  One fat bandage covered the knife wound on my arm. I couldn’t hurt my left arm anymore. I had run out of room. The bite mark on my neck was beginning to bruise. It looked like the world’s worst hicky. If Zerbrowski saw it, I would never live it down. I put a Band-Aid on it. Now it looked like I was covering a vampire bite. Damn. I left it. Let people wonder. None of their business anyway.

  I put a red polo shirt on, tucked into jeans. My Nikes, and a shoulder harness for my gun, and I was all set. My shoulder rig has a little pouch for extra ammo. I put fresh clips in it. Twenty-six bullets. Watch out, bad guys. Truth was, most firefights were finished before the first eight shots were gone. But there was always a first time.

  I carried a bright yellow windbreaker over my arm. I’d put it on just in case the gun started making people nervous. I would be working with the police. They’d have their guns out in plain sight. Why couldn’t I? Besides, I was tired of games. Let the bastards know I was armed and willing.

  THERE are always too many people at a murder scene. Not the gawkers, the people who come to watch; you expect that. There is always something fascinating about someone else’s death. But the place always swarms with police, mostly detectives with a sprinkling of uniforms. So many cops for one little murder.

  There was even a news van, with a huge satellite antenna sticking out of its back like a giant ray gun from some 1940s science fiction movie. There would be more news vans, I was betting on that. I don’t know how the police kept it quiet this long.

  Vampire murders, gee whiz, sensationalism at its best. You don’t even have to add anything to make it bizarre.

  I kept the crowd between myself and the cameraman. A rep
orter with short blond hair and a stylish business suit was shoving a microphone in Dolph’s face. As long as I stayed near the gruesome remains, I was safe. They might get me on film, but they wouldn’t be able to show it on television. Good taste and all, you know.

  I had a little plastic-enclosed card, complete with picture, that gave me access to police areas. I always felt like a junior G-man when I clipped it to my collar.

  I was stopped at the yellow police banner by a vigilant uniform. He stared at my I.D. for several seconds, as if trying to decide whether I was kosher or not. Would he let me through the line, or would he call a detective over first?

  I stood, hands at my sides, trying to look harmless. I’m actually very good at that. I can look downright cute. The uniform raised the tape and let me through. I resisted an urge to say, “Atta boy.” I did say, “Thank you.”

  The body lay near a lamp pole. Legs were spreadeagled. One arm twisted under the body, probably broken. The center of the back was missing, as if someone had shoved a hand through the body and just scooped out the center. The heart would be gone, just like all the others.

  Detective Clive Perry was standing by the body. He was a tall, slender, black man, and most recent member of the spook squad. He always seemed so soft-spoken and pleasant. I could never imagine Perry doing anything rude enough to piss someone off, but you didn’t get assigned to the squad without a reason.

  He looked up from his notebook. “Hi, Ms. Blake.”

  “Hello, Detective Perry.”

  He smiled. “Sergeant Storr said you’d be coming down.”

  “Is everyone else finished with the body?”

  He nodded. “It’s all yours.”

  A dark brown puddle of blood spread out from under the body. I knelt beside it. The blood had congealed to a tacky, gluelike consistency. Rigor mortis had come and gone, if there had been rigor mortis. Vampires didn’t always react to “death” the way a human body did. It made judging the time of death harder. But that was the coroner’s job, not mine.

  The bright summer sun pressed down over the body. From the shape and the black pants suit, I was betting it was female. It was sort of hard to tell, lying on its stomach, chest caved in, and the head missing. The spine showed white and glistening. Blood had poured out of the neck like a broken bottle of red wine. The skin was torn, twisted. It looked like somebody had ripped the freaking head off.

  I swallowed very hard. I hadn’t thrown up on a murder victim in months. I stood up and put a little distance between myself and the body.

  Could this have been done by a human being? No; maybe. Hell. If it was a human being, then they were trying very hard to make it look otherwise. No matter what a surface look revealed, the coroner always found knife marks on the body. The question was, did the knife marks come before or after death? Was it a human trying to look like a monster, or a monster trying to look like a human?

  “Where’s the head?” I asked.

  “You sure you feel all right?”

  I looked up at him. Did I look pale? “I’ll be fine.” Me, big, tough vampire slayer, no throw up at the sight of decapitated heads. Right.

  Perry raised his eyebrows but was too polite to push the issue. He led me about eight feet down the sidewalk. Someone had thrown a plastic cover over the head. A second smaller pool of congealing blood oozed out from under the plastic.

  Perry bent over and grasped the plastic. “You ready?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice. He lifted the plastic, like a curtain backdrop to what lay on the sidewalk.

  Long, black hair flowed around a pale face. The hair was matted and sticky with blood. The face had been attractive but no more. The features were slack, almost doll-like in their unreality. My eyes saw it, but it took my brain a few seconds to register. “Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  I stood up, fast, and took two steps out into the street. Perry came to stand beside me. “Are you all right?”

  I glanced back at the plastic with its grisly little lump. Was I all right? Good question. I could identify this body.

  It was Theresa.

  33

  I ARRIVED AT Ronnie’s office a few minutes before eleven. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. I couldn’t shake the image of Theresa’s head on the sidewalk. She had been cruel and had probably killed hundreds of humans. Why did I feel pity for her? Stupidity, I suppose. I took a deep breath and pushed the door inward.

  Ronnie’s office is full of windows. Light glares in from two sides, south and west. Which means in the afternoon the room is like a solar heater. No amount of air conditioning is going to overcome that much sunshine.

  You can see the District from Ronnie’s sunshiny windows. If you care to look.

  Ronnie waved me through the door into the almost blinding glare of her office.

  A delicate-looking woman was sitting in a chair across from the desk. She was Asian with shiny, black hair styled carefully back from her face. A royal purple jacket, which matched her tailored skirt, was folded neatly on the chair arm. A shiny, lavender blouse brought attention to the up-tilted eyes and the faint lavender shading on the lids and brow. Her ankles were crossed, hands folded in her lap. She looked cool in her lavender blouse, even in the sweltering sunshine.

  It caught me off guard for a minute, seeing her like that, after all these years. Finally, I closed my gaping mouth and walked forward, hand extended. “Beverly, it has been a long time.”

  She stood neatly and put a cool hand in mine. “Three years.” Precise, that was Beverly all over.

  “You two know each other?” Ronnie asked.

  I turned back to her. “Bev didn’t mention that she knew me?”

  Ronnie shook her head.

  I stared at the new woman. “Why didn’t you mention it to Ronnie?”

  “I did not think it necessary.” Bev had to raise her chin to look me in the eye. Not many people have to do that. It’s rare enough that I always find it an odd sensation, as if I should stoop down so we can be at eye level.

  “Is someone going to tell me where you two know each other from?” Ronnie asked.

  Ronnie moved past us to sit behind her desk. She tilted the chair slightly back on its swivel, crossed hands over stomach, and waited. Her pure grey eyes, soft as kitten fur, stared at me.

  “Do you mind if I tell her, Bev?”

  Bev had sat down again, smooth and ladylike. She had real dignity and had always impressed me as being a lady, in the best sense of the word. “If you feel it necessary, I do not object,” she said.

  Not exactly a rousing go-ahead, but it would do. I flopped down in the other chair, very aware of my jeans and jogging shoes. Beside Bev I looked like an ill-dressed child. For just a moment I felt it; then it was gone. Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Eleanor Roosevelt said that. It is a quote I try to live by. Most of the time I succeed.

  “Bev’s family were the victims of a vampire pack. Only Beverly survived. I was one of the people who helped destroy the vampires.” Brief, to the point, a hell of a lot left out. Mostly the painful parts.

  Bev spoke in that quiet, precise voice of hers. “What Anita has left out is that she saved my life at risk of her own.” She glanced down at her hands where they lay in her lap.

  I remembered my first glimpse of Beverly Chin. One pale leg thrashing against the floor. The flash of fangs as the vampire reared to strike. A glimpse of pale, screaming face, and dark hair. The pure terror as she screamed. My hand throwing a silver-bladed knife and hitting the vampire’s shoulder. Not a killing blow; there had been no time. The creature had sprang to its feet, roaring at me. I stood facing the thing with the last knife I had, gun long since emptied, alone.

  And I remembered Beverly Chin beating the vampire’s head in with a silver candlestick, while he crouched over me, breath warm on my neck. Her shrieks echoed through my dreams for weeks, as she beat the thing’s head to pieces until blood and brain seeped out onto the floor.


  All that passed between us without words. We had saved each other’s lives; it is a bond that sticks with you. Friendships may fade, but there is always that obligation, that knowledge forged of terror and blood and shared violence, that never really leaves. It was there between us after three long years, straining and touchable.

  Ronnie is a smart lady. She caught on to the awkward silence. “Would anybody like a drink?”

  “Nonalcoholic,” Bev and I said together. We laughed at each other, and the strain faded. We would never be true friends, but perhaps we could stop being ghosts to each other.

  Ronnie brought us two diet Cokes. I made a face but took it anyway. I knew that was all she had in the office’s little fridge. We had had discussions about diet drinks, but she swore she liked the taste. Liked the taste, garg!

  Bev took hers graciously; perhaps that was what she drank at home. Give me something fattening with a little taste to it any day.

  “Ronnie mentioned on the phone that there might be a death squad attached to HAV. Is that true?” I said.

  Bev stared down at the can, which she held with one hand cupped underneath so it wouldn’t stain her skirt. “I do not know positively that it is true, but I believe it to be.”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard?” I asked.

  “There was talk for a while of forming a squad to hunt the vampires. To kill them as they have killed our . . . families. The president of course vetoed the idea. We work within the system. We are not vigilantes.” She said it almost as a question, as if trying to convince herself more than us. She was shaken by what might have happened. Her neat little world collapsing again.

  “But lately I have heard talk. People in our organization bragging of slaying vampires.”

  “How were they supposedly killed?” I asked.

  She looked at me, hesitated. “I do not know.”

  “No hint?”

  She shook her head. “I believe I could find out for you. Is it important?”

  “The police have hidden certain details from the general public. Things only the murderer would know.”