by Skye Knizley
“No idea, maybe he likes to make models,” Raven whispered back.
Storm cocked his head and shuffled to a different angle. “It looks familiar.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
“I didn’t say that, it just looks familiar,” Storm replied. “Standing stones were very popular when I was young.”
They parted and Raven moved to the nearest bedroom while Storm checked the other. The door opened easily under her hand and she pushed it open. Beyond was a bedroom decorated in the same green and gold motif as the rest of the hotel. A female figure lay naked with nothing but part of the comforter over her sex. The room reeked of coitus and blood, enough so that Raven was certain the woman was dead. She crept forward and placed two fingers against the young woman’s neck. The girl was cold as ice and there was no pulse, she’d been dead for at least eight hours.
Raven rolled the woman’s head sideways and saw the bite marks in her neck and the pool of dried blood on the sheet that was all the vamp had left behind. It was enough to make Raven’s blood boil. The Master was supposed to prevent shit like this, it was the whole point of having a Master.
Storm appeared in the door behind her. “Find anything?”
“Just another victim, it looks like a vampire kill,” Raven said. “She doesn’t look like a street person, judging from her jewelry I would say the vamp met her at a high-end club. What about the other room?”
“Clean, it looks like this Draven person is already gone. Do you think he knew we were on to him?” Storm asked.
Raven started going through the woman’s belongings. In a purse on the floor she found a Michigan driver’s license and ten dollars in cash, along with lipstick and toiletry items.
“Her name is Astrid. Francois tipped Draven off when he called last night, I’d bet my badge on it,” Raven said.
“That little weasel!” Storm growled.
“I can’t swear he did it on purpose, but…” She trailed off waving the license.
“But your gut tells you he is involved somehow,” Storm finished.
“He’s always involved somehow,” Raven said.
They spent the next hour processing the scene and waiting for Archer’s team to come for Astrid’s body. There wasn’t much in the room beside the strange model and map. There were fingerprints on two bottles of German-labeled Claret that likely belonged to Draven and the bedroom he’d used contained used toiletry items in the waste-basket. Otherwise, the room was spotless, far too clean for an ordinary vampire. Draven was someone who’d been trained and took his job seriously. Raven labeled him as MI6 or whatever the current version was, if not OSS or SS.
“This is damn peculiar,” Storm said from the living area.
Raven stepped out of the bathroom with a hand written receipt attached to a ticket stub. She’d found them in the wastebasket along with a bloody rag that smelled like Astrid.
“What is?” she asked.
Storm was looking at the model. “This. The detail is amazing. Someone spent an immense amount of time putting this together, but why? What’s it for?”
Raven shrugged. “Maybe he’s a hobbyist. Don’t vamps usually adopt hobbies to keep from being bored?”
“This kind of detail is the sign of a diseased mind,” Storm said. He gestured at the receipt. “What’s that?”
Raven sniffed at the paper, which had blood spatters on the back. The blood was Astrid’s, but she couldn’t tell if it came from the cloth or direct from the source.
“It’s a receipt and what looks like a punched ticket for a motor launch cruise,” Raven said. “The blood belongs to Astrid, no more than twenty-four hours old.”
Storm looked over her shoulder. “Lockport Charters. They’re north of the harbor, they have their own marina, my boat is stored there. They should be closed down this time of year, it’s too cold for a pleasure cruise.”
Raven snapped the paper with one finger. “Obviously not for everyone, this is dated yesterday. We should go have a look.”
“Agreed. What about Du Guerre?”
“I’d like to hang him in the sunlight by his ankles until he tells me who is holding his leash, but I doubt we’ll find him,” Raven said. “And I can’t lay a finger on him without disturbing the timeline.”
“But?” Storm asked.
“But I can ask nicely.”
Nightingale’s, North Broadway, Chicago, IL 1943
The club looked different in daylight, less imposing with a hint of camp that Raven hadn’t detected before. The whipped-cream like dusting of snow across the windows and door didn’t help any, either. The daytime appearance was likely why Archer let the club stay open. Only those who saw it the way Du Guerre did would ever have any interest in visiting, which assured careless tourists didn’t wander in uninvited.
The club was closed, but the door opened to the heel of Raven’s boot and she entered with the fanfare of wood crashing into the wall. The chairs were leaned against tables, which were covered with fresh white linens awaiting the evening’s first guests. The only sound was the creaking of the door and the hush of wind down the street.
“Francois! Get your narrow ass out here!” Raven yelled.
“Did I not teach you the word ‘subtle’ as a child?” Storm asked.
Raven glanced at him and took the steps two at a time. “Do you remember what I said in the elevator?”
“About your ovaries?” Storm said, following behind. “Funny, but in poor taste.”
“I’m more aggravated now than when we were there,” Raven said.
She pushed through the employee entrance and almost walked into a human roadblock. He was well over six feet tall with arms like tree trunks and thigh muscles thicker than Raven’s entire body. He was also naked save for a pair of European cut underwear.
“Lord Du Guerre is not to be disturbed,” he rumbled.
Raven punched him. She was careful to pull it and not send the familiar’s head flying off his shoulders, but she was in no mood to explain herself to a flunky who, in the end, would let her by or get knocked out.
“Raven, maybe you should put it on a low boil,” Storm said.
Raven spun on her heel. “No! I know this Du Guerre doesn’t know what he did to me, but I do. He’s involved in this somehow and whatever it is, it’s building. I can feel it, like a pressure in my head. We’re running out of time.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She knew that Du Guerre wouldn’t be in his office, it wasn’t comfortable enough. He was, at heart, a romantic which meant his bedroom had to be something that would impress his bed partners while providing the most creature comforts available. Raven stopped at the next intersection and sniffed. She knew Du Guerre’s scent as well as her own. The fact he’d been aroused when she left meant he’d also had sex before bed. There was no question, he was as faithful to his Modus Operandi as the average serial killer.
There. Down the other hall and to the left. She followed the scent down the corridor and stopped in front of a plain wooden door stained the same color as blood. A discrete sign read ‘no admittance’.
Raven considered kicking it down, but that might give him time to get away. She looked at Storm who was standing behind her with a mix of awe and annoyance on his face. He gave her a look that said, ‘Well, now what, smartass?’
She took a breath and tested the knob. It turned with a slight squeaking noise and the door opened into a large bedroom that was very familiar. A king bed of dark wood and lacquer sat in the middle of the room beneath a canopy of red and black silk. The floor was covered in deep furs of white and black and several dressers of different designs, but matching colors lined the walls. Du Guerre lay in the middle of the bed with a pair of Embraced, one male and one female, both very attractive and naked as the day they were born. Raven padded to the bed and drew one of her knives. She held the blade to the
female vampire’s lips and tapped her forehead. The vampire’s eyes opened and crossed as they tried to focus on the knife.
“Get out, don’t make a sound,” Raven whispered.
The vampire, her eyes wide with fear, slipped out of the bed and gathered her clothes. She was gone a moment later. Raven repeated the performance with the male and then closed the door. Storm leaned against the wall beside it, sword in hand.
“I know you want to, but you can’t kill him,” he whispered.
“I won’t kill him, trust me,” Raven said.
She returned to the bed and slapped Du Guerre hard enough to draw blood. He sat up with a cry of alarm and touched the growing red patch on his cheek.
“What in… you’d best have a good reason for that, little on…oh.” He trailed off when he saw the look on Raven’s face.
“Yeah. Oh. You tipped off Draven, didn’t you?” she asked.
Du Guerre pulled the sheet up to his chin and put on an innocent expression. “I don’t know who that is.”
Raven raised the silvered blade she held and twirled it through her fingers. “He killed Astrid, probably early this morning after you tipped him off. Who is he and why did you let him know we were looking for Lash’s killer? Did Draven kill Lash?”
“I doubt it, Horne isn’t a killer, he’s an informant.”
Du Guerre looked away. “Is Astrid truly dead?”
“Dry as a bone, Francois. Her blood is on you, if you’d told us about him she might still be alive,” Raven said.
“Wait, someone fed on her? Then it wasn’t Horne,” Du Guerre said. “He’s strictly animal blood, he says he prefers it to human sheep. If she was feed, someone else killed her.”
“Who?” Storm asked from the shadows.
Du Guerre ran a hand through his sex-matted hair and closed his eyes. “I don’t know, maybe the woman Astrid saw with Lash. I wasn’t lying about her.”
Raven tested the edge of the knife with her thumb. “Why should I believe you? You lie about everything and use your influence to cover it up. What’s the connection between you, Lash and Draven Horne?”
Du Guerre composed himself and Raven saw in him the man she’d wanted him to be years ago. The man she’d thought he was. He pulled himself up and folded his arms over the sheet.
“Raven, I swear to you I am not lying. Yes, I tipped Draven off that you and your partner were looking into Lash’s murder. I thought how it would look and knew you would jump to the wrong conclusion,” he said.
“Then what’s the right conclusion?”
Du Guerre met Raven’s eyes. “I think he introduced the woman to Lash.”
As Du Guerre explained, Draven was an informant, not just for the Nazis, but for anyone who had the cash to keep him in blood, booze and five star hotels. Two nights before Lash died, Draven had met with him at Nightingale’s. According to Du Guerre they had parted amiably and that was the last time he’d seen the kindly old Bori. Astrid, however, had confirmed Lash had been in the club with the strange woman the following night. It wasn’t like Lash to be at the club once, twice in the same week was remarkable.
“I knew he hadn’t killed Lash, but I knew how it would look to you,” Du Guerre said. “He’s useful, I couldn’t afford to let you pin the murder on him. Archer would have him flogged and executed.”
“Your stupid move cost a woman’s life,” Raven growled.
Du Guerre slid out of bed, naked and uncaring. He was over his initial fear and acting much more himself. “I couldn’t have known that, Miss Raven. I am a vampire, not a psychic. Excuse me, I would like a drink.”
He reached for a bottle of Claret sitting on a nearby table. Raven threw the knife she’d been clutching and the bottle shattered, leaving the knife sticking hilt first from the wall.
“You can feed later. Where do I find this woman?”
Du Guerre turned. “That was rude, Miss Raven. As I said last night, I don’t know. She is unfamiliar to me and I was not here the night she was in.”
Storm stepped out of the gloom. “You might want to give her something useful, Frank. She would like nothing more than to cut little pieces off you for letting a human die.”
Du Guerre folded his arms. “I do not see why, she was just another human. Attractive, useful, but only a sheep. They are too fragile.”
Raven pulled the knife out of the wall and fought the urge to ram it through Du Guerre’s skull, to hold his ashes in her hands.
“Du Guerre, I’m a hair’s breadth from slipping this in your eye socket and leaving your ashes for the maid. Why would anyone want Astrid and Lash dead?”
“I do not know, Raven, as far as I know they’d never met until two days ago. She was a hostess for my vampire clients so naturally seated Lash and his companion. She’d never harmed anyone, nor had, to my knowledge, Mr. Lash,” Du Guerre replied.
He paused and paced a few steps away before turning back. “The valet!”
“What valet?” Storm asked.
“Most nights I have valet service for VIP clients. The lady in red had to get here somehow, the valet or doorman should know,” Du Guerre said.
He reached for the telephone. “May I?”
Raven stopped him with the blade. “Just make the call. If you try to warn anyone else, I will put this through your heart and damn the consequences, clear? Eight innocent people are dead−”
“I wouldn’t say all of them were innocent,” Storm interjected.
“−and I won’t let any more be sacrificed if I can stop it,” Raven finished.
She turned to Storm. “Not helping!”
He held up his hands. “I’m just saying, kid. The Naga were hardly innocent, most are bloodthirsty killers.”
Raven glared at him. “Two wrongs don’t make a right!”
Du Guerre was holding the phone. “Can you two keep it down? I’m trying to get the information you requested.”
Raven turned to him, her annoyance plain on her face. Du Guerre smiled, oblivious to her green stare. “Yes, Mr. Hunt, an attractive woman in a red dress…yes, do you remember how she got to the club? By taxi, you say? Do you remember… Lucky Star. Thank you, Mr. Hunt, you may be a true life saver.”
He hung up and set the phone aside. “She arrived by Lucky Star cab, number seven.”
“Thank you,” Raven said.
Du Guerre’s smile was genuine. “You are welcome, Raven. Have I told you what a pretty name you have?”
“Shut up, Francois.”
“As you wish,” Du Guerre replied.
Raven felt his eyes on her all the way out the door.
Outside, the snow had stopped, but the sky was still heavy with clouds and the roar of thunder so close it shook the windows of nearby buildings. The storm wasn’t near finished with the Windy City. Raven pulled her hair back and stretched, her jacket flapping in the wind. “He’s going to remember you,” Storm said.
Raven opened the Packard’s door. “You think?”
“I know the look he gave you when we left, Raven. He’s smitten.”
“If he did, it never showed, not even when he bedded me. Come on, let’s go check out the cab company.”
“Bedded you?” Storm asked, putting the car in gear.
Raven nodded. “You’re the one who said we had a history.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
Lucky Star Cab Company, West Addison Street, Chicago 1943
The Lucky Star building was a low, one story brick building that looked more like a service garage than anything. One side consisted entirely of garage-style doors that were open to the street. Five vehicles were inside undergoing maintenance while others were parked on the street or crowded into the small parking lot. All of the cabs were 1938 Ford Model 38s with rear “suicide doors.” They were painted yellow with black fenders and the Lucky Star logo on the
front door. Men were shoveling snow off the sidewalk and out of the lot, trying to keep things clear for anyone who needed a lift.
The office was a small square set next to the garage entrance. It was clean, with six chairs, a coffee table and a long counter scattered with newspapers and magazines. Raven rang the bell on the counter and waited. It wasn’t long before a short man with black hair cut in a crew style and a wide mustache appeared wiping his hands on greasy shop rag.
“Need a cab? It’s a good day not to be driving yourself,” he said. The name sewn into his shirt was ‘Solly’.
Raven held up her badge. She’d taken the credential card out. “Agent Storm, I’m looking for the driver of cab number seven, do you know where I can reach him?”
“Lucky Eddie? What’s he done now?” Solly asked.
Raven put her badge back in her pocket. “Nothing, I just need some information from him. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“Is she really a cop?” Solly asked Storm.
“Yeah.”
“Eddie’s here, his cab is getting an oil change. He’s in the locker room, I’ll fetch him for you,” Solly said.
“Thank you,” Raven said.
She was relieved to finally meet someone who didn’t think a woman being a police officer or asking questions was weird. She turned to find Storm had poured two cups of coffee. He held one out and Raven accepted it with a smile. Storm touched his cup to hers and sipped with every sign of relish.
“Little known fact, cab companies have the best coffee. Their drivers are often up for sixteen hours at a time, coffee is a godsend,” he said.
Raven tasted her own coffee. It was surprisingly good, rich and flavorful like she got from the Donut Vault.
“Did you drive a cab?” Raven asked.
Storm shook his head. “No, no. I drove a delivery truck for a while, and a transport in the Great War. Same principle, though. Most drivers have blood that tastes like Colombian black.”
“You looking for me, ma’am?” a new voice asked.
Raven turned. A lanky man with brown hair and gold-colored eyes stood in the shop doorway. He looked tired, with circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.