He stood up and flexed his muscles, letting himself begin to change. “I can’t let you do that, Carmilla. Not until I’m ready,” he answered, rasping through a throat already becoming thicker and more massive as he assumed the Vampyre form.
Carmilla’s face blanched and she bolted for the stairs at the other end of the shop. She tried desperately to change, too, so she could fight him, but he was minutes ahead of her in the process.
He caught her halfway up the staircase when she was only partially Transformed. His claws sank into her shoulders and he whirled her around, picking her bodily up off the steps and holding her above him, her feet dangling off the ground.
She swiped at him with a claw-hand, laying his cheek open to the bone. He growled deep in his throat and threw her against the wall like a rag doll, grinning through fangs stained with crimson drool. Her head bounced off the wall with a resounding cracking sound, leaving a trail of blood on the wall.
Growling deep in his throat, he entwined his claws in her hair and dragged her up the stairs to her bedroom while she moaned and tried to finish her Transformation.
He picked her up and tossed her limp body onto the bed. As she lay there, moving feebly, trying desperately to regain her senses, he stripped off his clothes.
Reaching down, he stroked himself into full tumescence and approached her. “Carmilla, I once asked you to mate with me as equals, as Vampyres should, and you refused me.”
He grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it from her body, baring her heaving breasts and blood-soaked groin to his view. “Now I’m going to take you like one of my victims, and I will enjoy every second of your torment.”
Her Transformation finally complete, she bared her fangs at him and growled as she tried to claw his face again. He brushed her weak attempt aside and straddled her on the bed, letting his engorged penis rest between her legs while he took her head in his claws. With a vicious thrust, he impaled her, causing her to thrust upward in pain as he lowered his head and kissed her roughly on the lips while he held her face steady.
Thrusting his tongue between her lips, he began to pump into her, kneading her breast with his right claw, while he pulled her face against his in a wild animal-like coupling.
After a moment, in spite of her pain and humiliation, Carmilla began to respond to him. She spread her legs and pushed her pelvis against his in an obscene parody of lovemaking.
Soon, against her will, the pounding of his penis in her caused her to climax with a sound, deep in her throat, between a shriek and a groan. As he felt himself begin to come inside her, Michael lowered his face to her neck and began to rend and tear until her blood flowed and spurted into his open mouth. He drank her life’s blood as fast as he could, continuing his wild coupling until she lay depleted beneath him.
To finish the act, as his penis grew flaccid within her, he grasped her head in both his hands and, with a mighty wrench, ripped it from her body, holding it aloft and staring into her open, dead eyes.
His blood lust satiated, he rolled to the side and tossed her head to the foot of the bed, then calmly walked into her bathroom and stepped into the shower. He leaned against the wall of the stall, exhausted, as the steaming water washed all traces of Carmilla de la Fontaine from his body.
Once he was dressed, he took her corpse and head and rolled them up in a priceless antique Persian rug. “It wouldn’t do for the police to find you like this, my dear,” he said softly to the form in the rug as he carried it down the stairs. He peeked out the door to ensure that the street was clear before he carried the rolled-up rug to his car and placed it in the trunk.
Only one more thing to do, he told himself as he reentered her shop. He went to the cash register and opened it, taking all the money out of it and scattering a few dollars around on the floor. The police must think this was a routine burglary and robbery, he thought, and since they’ll never find your body, Carmilla, it will go down as just another instance of inner-city crime.
As he drove toward his lair, he chuckled. My little bayou friends are going to get a special treat for lunch, he thought, and the sight of what happens to people who disobey me will be a good lesson for the lady doctor before I send her back to her friends. This will be a warning that they face the same fate if they continue in their research.
Thirty-seven
After leaving Carmilla with the promise to return at four o’clock, Albert and TJ went back to the apartment.
They walked in and found Shooter and Matt anxiously awaiting their return. “Did you find out anything?” Matt asked, jumping to his feet as soon as they walked through the door.
Albert shrugged. “A little. The name of the Vampyre behind Sam’s kidnapping is probably Michael Morpheus, and Carmilla let slip a couple of other names of ones who are probably in it with him: Sarah and Jean, although she didn’t give us their last names.”
“Does she have any idea where to find him?” Shooter asked, his jaw set tight.
“No,” TJ explained. “She says he almost certainly isn’t at his home, but most likely has a hiding place, where he’s taken Sam.”
“So what do we do now?” Matt asked, plainly agitated.
Albert held out his hands. “We wait. Carmilla is going to have a noon meeting with Michael and see if she can’t talk some sense into him.”
“She’s going to threaten retaliation by the rest of the Council if he doesn’t release Sam and stop his hunting and feeding on innocent people,” TJ added.
Matt nodded, though he clearly wasn’t happy with sitting around and waiting for something to happen.
“Hey, Matt,” Shooter said, “tell them about the call from Wingate.”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. He called and said with Albert’s data, he felt sure the serum he had on hand would stop the reproduction of the plasmid family causing the symptoms you and TJ are having.”
Albert sighed and looked at TJ, giving her a somber thumbs-up sign. “At least that’s something.”
“When will he get the serum to us?” TJ asked.
Shooter walked over and hugged her tight. “By this time tomorrow, sweetheart. He’s FedExing it for overnight delivery.”
“And,” Matt added, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in it, “he said he’d have enough more made to treat five or six people by the end of the week, Albert.”
“That’s good,” Albert said, a tight smile on his face, “but first things first. We’ve got to find Sam and prevent this Morpheus creature from doing her any harm.”
Matt glanced at his watch. “They should be meeting about now. You think we should go over there and confront Morpheus in person?”
Albert shook his head. “Carmilla knows him the best and said that would be the worst thing we could do.”
TJ walked to Matt and hugged him. “Carmilla felt sure she could reason with him, Matt. I’m sure Sam will be all right.”
Matt returned her hug, tears of relief in his eyes.
To break the somber mood, Albert got to his feet. “How about I go out and get us some muflattas?”
“What the hell is a muflatta?” Shooter asked.
Albert smiled and shrugged. “About the closest I can come to describing it is to say it’s a type of Italian sub. Two pieces of pita bread with ham and cheese and salami and tomatoes and olives and onions—all swimming in olive oil inside.”
When Matt didn’t say anything, Shooter clapped him on the back. “We’ve got to eat something and keep our strength up, pal, so it might as well be something delicious.”
Matt laughed. “Of course, you’re right. Let’s eat and, meanwhile, wait and hope for the best.”
“Come on, Albert, I’ll help you bring the grub back,” Shooter said, thinking he’d leave TJ and Matt alone for a while to get their feelings under control.
They were back in less than twenty minutes, and as Albert promised, the muflattas were delicious. They were each wrapped in butcher paper and were so rich in olive oil that it had soaked right thr
ough the paper. Shooter also had a large bag of potato chips and a six-pack of Orange Slice soda water.
The mood, either because of the food or the passage of time, was considerably lighter, and the four easily discussed the possible timetable of TJ’s treatment with Wingate’s serum.
Before they knew it, three hours had passed; it was time for Albert and TJ to return to Carmilla’s shop.
“You sure we shouldn’t go with you . . . just for backup?” Shooter asked. He wasn’t used to standing on the sidelines and letting someone else do the dirty work.
TJ shook her head and gave him a light kiss on the lips. “No, lover. Carmilla made it plain she would only talk to us ‘creatures of the night.’ ” She said this with a Bela Lugosi accent to show she was kidding.
“All right,” he said, trying without success to hide a smile, glad she was taking things so much better after the promise of a possible cure. “But”—he pointed a finger at her—“you are to call us on your cell phone as soon as you know anything. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with only a little sarcasm in her voice, and followed Albert out the door.
When TJ and Albert arrived at Carmilla’s shop, they found the door locked and the Closed sign in the window. TJ glanced at her watch. “That’s odd,” she said, a puzzled frown decorating her face. “It’s five after four. She should be here waiting for us.”
Albert knocked loudly on the door several times and received no answer. He looked at TJ. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. He looked over his shoulder and waited a moment until there were no passersby on the sidewalk, then stepped close to the door, turned the knob, and punched the wood hard with the palm of his hand just over the dead bolt.
The wood splintered with a sharp crack and the door eased open. With another look to make sure the sound hadn’t aroused any attention, Albert opened the door wide enough so he and TJ could squeeze in, then shut it behind them.
His nostrils dilated and TJ noticed his features coarsen slightly, as if he were about to change into his Vampyre form.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, not liking the feral expression on his face.
“I smell blood, lots of it,” he whispered, his fingernails lengthening into claws. “Something is terribly wrong here.”
In spite of herself, TJ felt similar changes begin to take place in her body. Her muscles seemed to bunch and quiver as they got ready for action, and her fingernails lengthened slightly.
“Follow me, but be ready to fight,” Albert said in a low voice. Assuming somewhat of a crouch, he moved across the room toward the stairway leading up to Carmilla’s bedroom.
He paused, then snorted through his nose, pointing up the stairs. TJ stared upward and they both saw a large splatter of blood on the wall that had trailed down almost to the stairway.
Without taking his eyes off the stairs, Albert said, “Check the back room. Make sure no one’s hiding in there.”
TJ whirled and slowly crept into the back room. She saw a shattered brandy snifter near the wall and a used teacup on the table. She sniffed, and recognized the acrid scent of alcohol on the air. Returning to Albert, she whispered, “Some one was here. He drank brandy and Carmilla had her usual tea. Then something must have happened and he threw the glass against the wall.”
Albert expelled his breath. “They must have had a disagreement.” He looked over his shoulder at TJ. “You want to go up with me, or would you rather wait outside?”
“I’ll stay with you.”
“It’s probably not going to be very pretty up there.”
“I know,” she said, and gave him a slight nudge up the stairs.
When he got to the door of Carmilla’s bedroom, his nostrils dilated again and TJ could hear him sniffing. She followed suit and detected the odor of sex permeating the room, mixed with a coppery scent of old blood and the stronger smell of urine and feces.
“Wow,” she uttered, almost gagging. “That’s strong.”
Albert glanced at her. “Your sense of smell is hundreds of times more acute than a Normal’s,” he said, making her blanch when she realized he meant she was no longer quite human.
He moved into the room, checking behind the door and in the bathroom to make sure they were alone before he relaxed and began to examine the room more closely.
He pointed to a bloodstain on the mattress and some other smaller stains nearby. “Blood and semen and urine,” he said after bending his head to take a close smell of the area.
“Michael must have mated with her and then killed her,” she said, “and her bladder emptied when she died.”
“That would be my guess,” Albert said.
He knelt down next to the bed and pointed at the wooden floor. “Look here,” he said, “the floor is darker in a rectangle, about four feet by six feet, with a dark bloodstain in the center.”
“What could that mean?” TJ asked.
“I think Carmilla had a rug over the floor here, and Morpheus used it to wrap her body in so he could take it someplace and dispose of it. He wouldn’t want the police to find it in the shape he left it in.”
“But with all this blood, they’re gonna know someone was killed here,” TJ said.
“Yeah, but they won’t know how. They won’t connect it to the type of killing a Vampyre does, and they’ll probably just put it down to a burglary and rape gone bad.”
TJ shuddered. “Albert, let’s get out of here.”
“Not yet,” he said, getting to his feet. He went over to the dresser and began pulling out drawers and throwing things out of the way as he searched.
“What are you looking for?” TJ asked.
He glanced at her. “I’ve never known a Vampyre yet who didn’t keep some kind of journal. When you live several lifetimes, it’s hard to keep track of people and places and times, so most of us use a journal to refer back to in order to refresh our memories when needed. I’m hoping Carmilla left something in writing that will help us identify the Sarah and Jean she mentioned as being in league with Morpheus. Otherwise, we’re dead in the water.”
TJ nodded. “I see what you mean.” She went to the closet and began to search through Carmilla’s things, checking the hatboxes and shoe boxes she found behind the hanging clothes.
Suddenly she heard a whoop of joy from Albert and turned to find him holding up a leather journal, not unlike his own.
He opened it and scanned a few pages. “Let’s go,” he said. “This is what we need. It’s got all the members of the Council in here and where they live and work.”
“Should we call the police?” she asked, following him down the stairs.
“No. It won’t help Carmilla, and we may need to come back here and search the place further. Better not to get the police involved just yet.”
They peeked out the door to make sure they could make it to his car without being observed. When no one was about, they eased out the door and pulled it shut behind them. Once in Albert’s car, heading for the apartment, TJ hurriedly scanned the journal for clues to the whereabouts of Sam or the people who took her.
Thirty-eight
After Morpheus left Sam, locking the door behind him, she jumped off the bed and searched the room for anything that might allow her to escape. The room was like a prison cell—absolutely nothing in it that might be used to force the door lock. Even the sheets had been removed to prevent her from fashioning a rope to lower herself out the window.
Finally, she went to the window and looked out again, trying to decide whether she could dive into the bayou and make it to shore before the alligators had her for lunch. The ancient forms could be seen slowly gliding back and forth beneath the porch. Morpheus must have been feeding them for some time for them to hang around so close. She shuddered and shut the window, refusing to think about what he’d been throwing to them.
Sam lay on the bed, figuring to get a few hours’ sleep and charge her batteries so she’d be able to cope with him better on his return. She was so exhausted from t
heir earlier confrontation and the energy she’d expended trying to fight his mental commands, she fell asleep almost instantly.
Waking up two hours later, shivering and shaking, she was covered in sweat. Her eyes burned and her mouth was dry and cottony. She stumbled out of bed, nearly falling from weakness. Putting the back of her wrist to her forehead, Sam realized she was burning up with fever. Almost fainting, she steadied herself on the dresser and finally gained the strength to wobble on unsteady feet back to the bed. Flopping down, she breathed heavily with the exertion. Hell, it’s not even flu season, she thought. What the hell’s the matter with me? And then she passed out and lay sprawled, soaking the bed with her sweat as she shivered in her sleep.
Michael pulled his car around to the back of his cabin and retrieved Carmilla’s body parts from the trunk. He slung the rug over his shoulder and entered the house, moving straight to the porch and dumping it there. He didn’t immediately throw Carmilla to the gators because he wanted the lady doctor to see what happened to people who crossed him.
He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, surprised at the gamy, stale odor of the room. When he saw Sam lying on the bed, shivering and shaking, covered with sweat, he felt his heart jump.
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He gently reached down and shook her shoulder, trying to wake her without startling her too badly.
She moaned and turned; her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes stared up at him for a moment without recognition. “What . . . Where am I?” she croaked through dry, chapped lips, her eyes blank and staring.
He got up and went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and water. Returning, he held her head up and let her drink greedily of the cool liquid.
“Sam,” he said, “it’s Michael Morpheus.”
Her eyes flickered once, and then they seemed to clear as she shrank back from his touch and scrambled up against the headboard. Crossing her arms to cover her nakedness, she stared at him with hatred.
“Oh, now I remember,” she said, her voice sounding as if she’d swallowed razor blades.
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