They made the unspoken adjustment, the play for danger that Jack so enjoyed. The arms of their chairs now touched. He made a movement to clasp her hand in his but she withdrew from him slightly. But not enough to completely escape his touch either. His look was warm and firm and when he smiled again, the little dip of his brows made him seem completely unlike the wolf that he was. He looked trusting. He was good at this game. It was the way his face was designed. That was why his wife loved him and why women would always respond affectionately to him.
He had brows that curved down in the middle to make a playful frown, and then curve gently up and out from his nose. They gave his face a look of peering mystery, the tall, dark handsome stranger. Jack played his role well. However, it was not working on Marty. She was well aware of men like Jack, men who were fishing for a little too much attention, and she would never bite his hook.
Jack took a drink of water, a long deep drink as if it felt wonderful to him, and Marty realized he had no intention of leaving her soon. She would have to get blunt with this one if she was to get any work done.
“I thank you, Agent Mitchell, for coming by. I will call you if I find anything. But I do have a lot of work to do.”
252
Chapter 27
9:15 p.m., November 24
That evening I was at Kenny’s house at Lake Washington and his uncle was making us dinner. It was a welcome diversion from the case. The smell of homemade toasted cheese sandwiches, pan-fried on the stove top, filled the small house. I was sitting at a long, wooden coffee table, a cold beer in my hand and my good friend across from me. The television was on low and the news played in blurred images out of the corner of my eye.
“Hank has been making toasted cheese sandwiches for me for a long time,” Kenny was saying. “I had these about three times a week when he would look after me… Amazing, right?”
“Oh yeah, very good,” I said through a mouthful.
“I learned how to make these during my time overseas when I was in Incheon. Food like that reminded us of home. We kept fighting,” Hank told us, a strange gleam of nostalgia in his eye.
“Tim, have another one. These are the best,” Kenny told me.
“We should get back to the streets, Kenny,” I said, taking another bite.
“Tim is right, old man. We have a lot of work to do. Amazing sandwiches though—thank you, Uncle Hank.”
“What channel is that history network on?” he asked as we were putting on our coats and I was heading for the bathroom.
“215.”
“Hank, you’re out of your wayfarin’…” I said, walking out of Kenny’s bathroom holding Hank’s empty prescription bottles. I was pretty concerned about it.
“Oh, I forgot to get more. So many pills, you know…” he answered.
“These pills are important! If you forget to take them, you get clots, you have a heart attack or even a stroke.”
“No…” Hank said unbelievingly.
“Kenny, I know about this. The same thing happened to my grandmother,” I said.
“Uncle, when was the last time you took them?”
“A few days ago.”
“We have to go get this refilled. He should take this immediately,” I told Kenny.
“I’m fine!” he protested.
“No, no, you’re coming with us, okay?” Kenny said as he ushered his uncle to the door. “And, Hank, I’m going to make sure you take them in front of me, alright? Let’s go.”
252
Chapter 28
10:15 p.m., November 24
It was late evening and Seattle’s skyline was in view when Fabiana left the home of Cerci’s latest prey. The memory of him played in her mind unrelentingly, and she was plagued by their history. It pulled at her heart and made her remember things she had tried very hard to forget.
* * *
The year was 1511 in Italy.
It was the Renaissance, a time of art and beauty. Caravaggio’s father had not yet been born. The famous composer Adrian Willaert was only thirty. The Roman Empire had been dead for a thousand years. Leonardo da Vinci was an old man. Agnolo Bronzino was just a child. Italy was occupied by France, but that was soon to change. Pope Julius II was getting ready to change it all. But the political and artistic shifts in Italy mattered little to the group of vampires living in the hills outside of Rome.
The Origin of Blood had moved to Italy a hundred years before. They had found another home, deep in the foothills to the north of Rome and the Seven Hills. The vampires soon blended into the Renaissance culture of Italy without difficulty.
The gentlemen covered their heads with great colored, feathered hats when they were out. They carried swords and wore long chains of silver and gold. They sported breeches buckled at the knees, stockings, high-heeled shoes and coats of such enormity that they made up half of their frames. Ladies in ruffled corsets fixed their faces with red color and wore their hair in elaborate styles. They attended saloons, drank and gambled, just as anyone else did in those days.
Italian art had consumed Europe, but Fabiana knew nothing of the world outside of The Origin of Blood and Cerci. The city of Rome was more wondrous than anything she had ever beheld, and the conservatorio where she chose to feed overlooked the town and hills. It seemed as magnificent as the Palazzo Colonna.
She was given a black dress with red lining. It was made of the finest cloth she had ever touched. She could scarcely believe she was meant to feed in a place of such beauty. She was sure such luxury was not meant for her and that one day they would take it all away from her.
On sultry festival evenings, she walked in a slow procession with the other vampires through the crowded streets. Her dress was immaculate and her brown curls were clean and shining. She was proud to be among them. But even then, Cerci could detect the change in her.
Their soft vampire voices floated on the air like the mingled scent of lavender and candle wax. As they came upon a lofty church, their immortal song swelled suddenly amid a splendor that she had never known or seen before. Cerci loved to watch as she would become entranced by the beauty of Italy. He knew her heart was singing for it and it pained him to look upon her in this light. He wanted her close but he knew someday she would be gone from him.
All went well for her over the years. The hunting at the conservatorio was nothing compared to the forum of downtown Rome. She had a beautiful visage that stopped most men from their errands around town. But as time passed, she became less willing to take the lives of the men that her beauty attracted. No matter how many swooned for her, she only bled them when her hunger was overpowering. And even then, she would only hunt the street urchins, the worthless killers and thieves of the city. They were easy to spot in any city, Rome most of all.
Fabiana could recall everything. She had known only routine hunger and cruelty during her time with The Origin of Blood. From all of her life before her transformation, she remembered she was given her first good meal and her first taste of the love of a real family, a real father. She held onto that comforting memory for as long as she could, for that kind of innocence and security would never come again.
Her room in The Origin’s temple was a beautiful one on the east side of the structure. She shared it with Cerci. It had a real floor of smooth stone tiles and on the wall Fabiana had hung a ticking clock of handcrafted skill made by one of the greatest clock smiths in Rome. Their household, being of the old French design, had the usual Italian tapestries, hordes of lace, bed hangings hand-trimmed with gold-leaf and gems, and all of the most desirable finery. The hallway alcove had its own towering armoire filled with shining, gleaming gold frames around works of art. This was the start of her taste in lavish living.
As the heat of the evening was ending, Fabiana sat on a stone bench in one of her favorite inns. The raucous and playful salutations of the patrons boomed magnificently over the latticework and the light of the moon gleamed down in wonderful patterns all around her. This place was on the same si
de of the city as the Basilica di San Giovanni in the Laterano Church and it too had a lovely view of the city.
She closed her eyes, put her elbows on the table, clasped her hands and prayed silently. She knew he was there before he had even spoken a word to her. Did Fabiana have to read Cerci’s mind to know how he felt? She did not. She read it in Cerci’s eyes, and he, a child of The Origin, felt a wondrous comfort here in this place. Frightened as he was of potentially losing the love of the whole Origin clan, as if they would come at him and deny him his heart’s due, Cerci knew he could never be without Fabiana. Like any tacky love saga, over the years their relationship had played out the tale of two star-crossed lovers.
“There is but one purpose in life… to bear witness to its beauty and understand as much as it can teach you,” Cerci said as he walked up to her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were called in to Council?”
“I snuck away. I missed you.”
She smiled at that. She wasn’t even sure she believed him but she so wanted to. “If anyone catches you, what will happen?”
“I do not know, but I am sworn to serve The Origin at all times. I am the High Priest… even though The Origin has allowed me to be with you. If it were known—my true, deep feeling for you, well …the Council would say that my judgment is impaired… and they would surely be right.”
“They would destroy you.”
“Yes.”
Their lips found one another’s and it was as it had always been for them—passionate and complete. They had loved each other for many years. Their commitment had been like the tides of the ocean, crashing down with such force that all they could do was give in to it. But just as the tide came in, it would recede back only to come again with more and more force. Such was their love. Just like the receding waters of the sea, every hundred years or so they fell apart, unable to be together, but soon enough crashing back with even more passion.
Fabiana’s eyes fastened on Cerci’s. He was worn down, yet immeasurably strong, proud of his standing in The Family and happy.
For a moment, Cerci wanted to put his arm around Fabiana’s, just to stake his claim. His fledgling vampire beauty now. His baby, he thought.
The inn seemed a perfect square with perfectly round columns. Roman tables were surrounded by murals of the artists that had flooded into the city in the recent years. Above them was a different sort of chandelier, forged in wrought iron with a kind of opulence they had never known. It was set low and decorated with so many delicate candles.
They fell silent.
Fabiana closed her eyes. She gasped as though exorcising a deep and invisible clotted horror from the recesses of her mind.
“Hearts love,” she whispered. She sat against Cerci. Her left hand went up to clasp his shoulder. He held her close, his fingers reaching into her soft hair.
Fabiana looked down as though she wanted to think in solitude, leaving her heart to none other than him. They seemed adrift in their tiny moment.
* * *
The Palatine Hill, a hundred years later.
One night, on one of their rendezvous, Cerci and Fabiana were deep in the hills of Rome. Their arms were wrapped around one another in a tight embrace when the peace of the night was shattered by a voice.
“We shall live, even like we are… in living death. For who shall love us, but us? We shall love, we shall defy all around us. Correct, High Priest?”
The voice boomed around them echoing like the words of God… but not God. A lone man, barely illuminated by the moon, stood under a patch of trees, staring at the two immortal lovers. He stepped out of the shadowed foliage and his face came into view. It was Jizi from the old Chinese family Ban. He was a practically ancient Chinese general and one of the oldest vampires in The Family.
“I found you,” he began, once more. And in a flash, he had climbed up the hill to them. “A rat that gnaws at the cat’s tail invites destruction. You have turned your back on The Origin for a woman.”
“What do you want, Jizi?” Fabiana asked, irritated.
“If one person is not hungry, the whole Family is not hungry.”
“Enough of your family’s proverbs, Jizi. Speak plainly!” Cerci roared at him.
“You want plain? Then how about this? I am going back to The Family and when asked what I have seen, I will speak plainly to them… And you will be killed. You and your whore.”
Then, before Cerci could react, Fabiana was on Jizi. She moved faster than he had ever known her to strike. Her teeth sunk into his neck, immortal blood spilling onto her tongue for the first time.
“No!” Cerci yelled at her. But it was too late. She was already feeding on him.
The blood flooded into her, awakening every part of her mind like nothing ever had before. It pulsed throughout her and she loved it. She had never imagined the effect that immortal blood could have on her. Fabiana refused to release her grip on the vampire until Cerci wrenched her off of him. In one forceful action, she was pulled off of Jizi’s neck. Blood sprayed outward, then came down in a mist of red droplets around them.
“He is dead. You killed him… They will kill you for this. How could you murder one of our own?”
She looked up to Cerci as she knelt in the darkness.
“He was going to destroy you. I had to stop him.”
“They will kill us both now. The Family will make sure of it. We are predators but we do not do this—we do not kill our own kind… ever.”
Cerci took a long pause and then for some reason quoted the Bible, something he had never done before that moment.
“And the light shineth in darkness and the darkness did not comprehend it.”
She was stunned for a moment. Fabiana was religious of late, but Cerci was not. He had never shown any interest in spirituality, but the words hit her hard.
“What are you saying to me?” she asked, but he would not look at her and his silence seemed to stretch out infinitely.
“You must go… I will do what I can here. To save you.”
“Go? Leave The Family? What about you?”
“I will stay. I will do all I can to save you,” Cerci repeated. He still could not look at her. Tears filled his eyes but he fought his emotion. She was getting angry with him. She loved him very much and it hurt her to think that he wanted her to go.
“I love you. Do you not see that?” he read in her thoughts.
Cerci sighed. “You must live. And if I have to be away from you for you to live, then I will. Now go.”
“But they will kill you… I cannot accept that, not for me,” Fabiana tried to reason.
“If I go with you we will both die. The Family will hunt us down within a matter of days. Now go. There is no choice.”
He turned to her and they held each other for the last time. When their lips met again they were sobbing uncontrollably. Then, with the power of his thoughts, he said into her mind, “I will always love only you, my sweet Fabiana. Until we meet again, I will think of you always. And until that day comes when I can hold you again in my arms, I will miss the very thought of you.”
For several long moments they remained locked together. He covered her hair in small, sacred kisses, her scent crucifying him with her memory, as it always did.
“Eat garbage if you have to. Sleep out of the light, even if you sleep in the streets. None of that really matters, but whatever you do, do not kill one of ours ever again. If you kill any other vampire, The Origin will destroy you and I will not be able to stop it from happening.”
Fabiana pulled away from him, tears flowing down her face. She turned and walked away, soon disappearing into the darkness of the night. And then she was gone.
252
Chapter 29
12:00 a.m., November 25
Kenny and I decided to bring the suspect from the Pike Place hideout in for questioning. This was a big deal, a pivotal progress forward for the case.
Jack Mitchell had flown in from
D.C. and wanted to do the interrogation. Jack is one of the FBI’s best interrogators—“the human lie detector” as I called him. He questioned Joe Dorty throughout most of the early morning.
Jack had never really stopped being a student since his time at George Washington University and it had served him well in the FBI, had even given him a certain inscrutability. He hoped this trend of admiration from his colleagues would continue, though this case so far had proved difficult. Jack set himself up with a supply of black coffee and started in on the witness. He needed to know everything about these “vampires” and what had occurred.
I made notes along the way, though I usually remember most of what is important and don’t need to write it down. I sat with Kenny and we watched the interrogation through a two-way mirror inside the Seattle Police Headquarters. I felt like I had gotten to the movies early and was impatiently waiting for the show to start. I wanted some sign of activity to tell me it was getting close to curtain time.
I confess that when I laid eyes on the man whom I came to know as our only witness, I was somewhat disappointed. Because of the early hour, Kenny’s solemn demeanor, and Jack’s keen interest in the case, I had expected to discover a more impressive figure than was seated before us. What I found was a rather weak man, dressed in a black t-shirt, looking more despondent than any man I had seen before.
The Blood Born Tales (Book 1): Blood Collector Page 13