Blood Moon (Vampire Vigilante Book 1)

by Nazri Noor

  You could hear a pin drop. Asher shrank farther away from us. Gil only stiffened even harder. I grabbed Vilmas by the wrist.

  “We should take this outside.”

  He tittered as he followed me. “Must you treat me so rough, Sterling? How cruel.”

  I slammed the door after us, the cold of the woods rushing against my face. I was starting to like the forests up here. The climate helped me keep my cool, especially around jerks like Vilmas.

  I slumped against my car, the chassis cold against my back as I lit another cigarette. Annoying that I wasted the first one on panicking over nothing, although it was probably best that I showed up when I did. I didn’t trust Vilmas to play nice. I didn’t trust him with much of anything.

  He folded his arms behind his back, grinning sweetly as he sauntered down the path towards me. “It really is so lovely to see you again, Sterling.”

  A stream of smoke left my lips, followed by my reply. “Get fucked, Vilmas. You showing up never means anything good. You’re a bringer of bad news. Harbinger of destruction.”

  He chuckled. “Flatterer. And feisty as ever. It’s why you never did rise to any political prominence. Too unpredictable. Too mouthy.”

  I took another drag of my cigarette, watching the ember glow bright as it burned, quietly wishing I could stub it out on his face. “We can stand out here flirting and sniping all night, or you can cut the bullshit and tell me why you’re here. The vampire courts don’t send out their greasy underlings to backwoods nothing towns for no reason.”

  Vilmas stiffened, patting at the ends of his hair. “Hardly greasy,” he muttered. “But I’m only here to check on you, Sterling, see how you were doing out here on your own, away from the big city that you love so much.”

  I squinted at him, restraining the urge to crush my cigarette into nothing between my fingers. The boys and I came from Valero, a much more populated part of California that had more than one boba place to visit, and certainly many more vampires in residence. Not all of us got along, and it was probably more common to make enemies than friends among our kind, but when it came down to it, vampires still looked out for each other.

  There’s a grudging sense of kinship from knowing the struggles of the hunger, the bittersweetness of never being able to see the sun. We’re a subset of freaks, a niche within a niche. In a strange new town, tapping into the local vamp community can be good for finding your own little support network of likeminded perverts. They’re the ones who can tell you which weirdos in town are most willing to put a few ccs of liquid red gold in your collection plate.

  But I’d done my homework. Silveropolis wasn’t home to very many of us. Sometimes, a gorgeous, if infuriating effete man in a crushed velvet suit is all you have to call a friend.

  “How sweet of you to think of me,” I growled. “But that’s not all, is it? You bureaucrats are far too busy sucking up and sucking each other off.”

  Vilmas feigned a pout, reaching for my cigarette. “I did miss your filthy mouth, Sterling.” He took a drag, leaving a shiny film of gloss on the filter, exhaling a little too close to my face. “You’re crass, but you’ve never been stupid. The Scepter has heard tell of an interesting artifact that may be hidden somewhere in your sleepy mountain town.”

  I laughed, the sound of it coming out like a bark. “That old bat is still in charge?”

  Vilmas frowned as he handed back my cigarette. “I wish you’d speak of her more respectfully. The Scepter has never held any ill will towards you.”

  “Except for that one time she tried to have me staked.” I rolled my eyes, grimacing when Vilmas’s minty gloss smeared across my bottom lip from my final puff. “And I don’t know what part of that was disrespectful. She’s old, and she can turn into a bat. Facts.”

  See, as a vampire, I had the cute little perks that came with being one of the perpetually thirsty undead. Exceptional strength and speed were par for the course. But the oldest and strongest among us had unlocked the secrets of the ancient blood. Not all the vampire legends are true, but some of that cool Dracula shit? Totally possible.

  “Well,” Vilmas said. “The fact remains. I am loyal to the Scepter, and what she asks, I give. In this case, she desires information about this so-called Filigreed Masque.”

  “That’s a silly-ass name for – for whatever that thing is.”

  Vilmas grinned, pressing a finger against my cheek. It pushed a warm indentation into my skin, making a dimple. He’d just recently fed. More reason to hate him. I swatted his hand away.

  “It’s exactly what it sounds like, a mask sculpted out of delicate silver filigree. You are aware of the origins of this town, yes? Silver deposits, a burgeoning industry, and the rush of human inhabitants longing for a taste of wealth. Pitiful. Well, some of the more magically minded among them found other uses for the precious metal, had other, more arcane intentions. Can you guess what the purpose of the Masque is?”

  I shrugged. “Moisturizes you while you sleep. I don’t know. Couldn’t give two fucks.”

  “You might give at least one about this, Sterling. The Filigreed Masque protects its wearer from the light of day.”

  6

  My heart stopped. I thumped a hand on my chest to start it up again.

  “You’re joking.”

  Vilmas shook his head, grinning even harder when he noticed how intrigued I’d become. “It’s a very rare kind of enchantment, wouldn’t you agree? There’s a reason the Scepter wants it. Imagine the glory of basking in the sun’s light again. Imagine it, Sterling. Even for one day. Even for just one morning. What wouldn’t you give?”

  I looked down at the back of my hand, at its unnatural pallor. There were alternatives, yes. Powerful lamps, brightly lit rooms, even arcane artificial lights specifically magicked to mimic the sun could be used to give a vampire a taste of life before death. It was one of those things I’d always taken for granted, the simplicity of stepping out bare-chested on a beach without running the risk of total incineration.

  More than that, this alleged artifact, if legitimate, would let any vampire walk in daylight. We had all the time in the world, but realistically, you only got full use from the half of it that was shrouded in night. Sure, there were blackout curtains and tinted car windows. But the ability to walk among mankind completely unimpeded? That kind of power would be dangerous indeed in the hands of someone truly creative, and truly ambitious. The Scepter of California was both.

  “I’d give my left nut,” I muttered.

  Vilmas chuckled. “Well, perhaps you won’t have to. Folklore has it that the mask is still somewhere in Silveropolis. If you happen to hear anything about it, you must let me know immediately.” He tapped two fingers against his own cheek. “We can take turns wearing it before I hand it over to the Scepter.”

  “Very cute, Vilmas. A little play date. What’s the catch?”

  “Oh, there is no catch. No penalty. Only rewards. Stop rolling your eyes, I know that money means nothing to you. This could put you back in the Scepter’s good graces. The vampire court might not be so hot under the ruffled collar whenever your name comes up.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets, grimacing. “Still notorious, then? It’s not like I’ve done shit to deserve any of their ire.”

  “Oh?” Vilmas said, his voice pitching like he’d caught me in a particularly exquisite trap. “But your continued insistence on working so closely with werekind, this Gilberto Ramirez of yours. Handsome and strapping, to be sure, but still, not someone to consort with. Tut, tut.”

  “That’s one guy. I’m friends with one werewolf. Could be more if I met any I liked. They’re not so bad as you and the old fogeys at court seem to think.”

  “You know how it is, Sterling. Tradition. Old blood. Bad blood.”

  “It’s not tradition. It’s prejudice.”

  He steepled his fingers together, smiling like he’d just led me from one trap to another. God, I fucking hated this guy.

  “Perhaps the pre
judice is well-placed, considering the murderous nature of these cannibalistic barbarians, hmm? All these faces being eaten. You were saying something about a ‘werewolf problem’ back in your cabin? Not that I need further explanation. It’s quite clear that the lycanthropes are behind it. A local pack, perhaps.”

  Not half an hour ago I’d been trying to reason with Gil about the possibility of werewolves perpetrating the Silveropolis attacks, and now here I was, getting all pissed off on his behalf. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger against my temples.

  “Look, Vilmas. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, whether it’s about the mask or the werewolves. Just leave me alone. We’re just settling in, for fuck’s sake, I don’t need you and the court breathing down my neck already.”

  He tilted his head, smiled, then extracted a slender bit of card from his breast pocket. “If you insist. Here.” His hand lingered a little too long as he slipped it into my jeans pocket. “Call me if you hear anything.”

  “I will.”

  “Good boy. And hey, since you’re new in town, you can always drop by my hotel if you want to feed. Nice little place off the plaza. I brought two of my best thralls. You must be awfully hungry.” He ran a finger along my jaw. “You’re so cold. Well, in every sense of the word.”

  I clenched my teeth, refusing to give him the pleasure, my pride overriding my hunger. “Very generous of you, but I’ll manage.”

  “Suit yourself, Sterling. It really is so nice to catch up.” Vilmas waggled his fingers, beaming as he waved goodbye. “Keep in touch.”

  Without another word, Vilmas burst into a cloud of glimmering droplets, a million beads of blood that glistened in the moonlight. The red mist rode the wind, streaming away past the forest and down the road.

  “Fucking showoff,” I grumbled, hoping he could hear me as he drifted off back to his hotel and his two tastiest, most delicious thralls. I hugged my arms close against my torso, sullenly aware of how cold my body was running from lack of feeding. As a last resort, maybe, if I was crawling on my hands and knees. But before that, there was Olivia Everett and her juicy fruit shop. Worth a try.

  Honestly though, screw Vilmas with his pompous accent and histrionic fashion sense. Sure, I liked leather jackets myself, but those were practical. Wearing red velvet up in the mountains? The man was a vampire, not a cupcake. And what sort of name was Vilmas, anyway? It drove me nuts that I could never place his accent, something I was normally so good at. It helps to know where another vampire is from, in case you ever need to snuff them out. We’ve got plenty in common, but across cultures and countries, the differences can range in the extreme. So can the vulnerabilities.

  There’s a kind of vampire native to the Philippines that Asher once told me about. A manananggal, it’s called. They pass as normal humans by day, and in fact can walk in sunlight. The trade-off is the very inhuman flip side of the situation that comes by night. To feed, a manananggal sprouts bat wings from its back. Then the torso, and only the torso, flies off, leaving the stump of the pelvis and legs behind. To kill one of these, you’ll need to locate its lower body. Salt the exposed flesh of the stump generously. Season it good. When the torso comes back from feeding, the process of reconnecting into one organism becomes so excruciating that the agony drives the manananggal mad with pain, eventually killing it.

  Not that I had a big enough reason to want Vilmas dead – not just yet. But that was why many vampires chose their own names, or at the very least hid their family names. It was part of the etiquette. I mean, do you really think that Sterling is my real name? It may well be. Or I could be lying. You’re not meant to know.

  Our pasts are behind us, and yet those could be the very things that other vampires, or worse, that hunters could use against us. A secret vulnerability, perhaps, or potentially more painfully, a descendant that could be held hostage, even killed. A vampire who uses their true, full name is one of a few things: very stupid, very brave, or very, very powerful.

  That rule holds true for the Scepters. There was a Scepter to rule every vampire court, and a court in every state. Power trickled down to smaller courts in certain cities, but everyone knew that it was the Scepters who held the true authority in vampire America. But I was happier to be away from all that. The courts and the Scepters could keep their politicking to themselves. I didn’t have time for power plays and tugs of war. The Filigreed Masque, though – that was something worth considering.

  Now, only a stake through the heart would get me to admit it, but I was happier being among friends. I rubbed at my breast pocket, considering another cigarette, then decided against it, slinking back up the path towards the cabin. I loved smoking too much, which worked out fine because I was already dead. Still, it was something Asher was trying to get me to give up. It couldn’t possibly be good, he said, even for an undead smoker. It was nice that he cared, a reminder that really, I genuinely was happier being among friends. Maybe if I buttered one of them up enough, they’d let me take a tiny nibble.

  I reached for the door, hearing the muffled laughter from inside, when my ears picked up on something else. Even without my heightened senses I would have heard it: the unmistakable sound of a man screaming. The door flew open. I jerked away just in time to avoid having my face flattened. Gil rushed out onto the porch, shrugging on a denim jacket.

  “Did you hear that?” he said, his eyes smoldering, glinting as they searched among the trees.

  “Loud and clear. We should check it out.”

  With a wordless nod, Gil took off, veering sharply away from the cabin and heading straight through the woods. Asher came running up to us, locking the door behind him as he pulled on a sweater of his own.

  “Wait up,” he said, his breath a wisp of shuddering fog.

  The man screamed again, louder, this time. I could sense the fear in his voice, the pain.

  “Can’t wait,” I said. “Keep up. Follow.”

  I raced off into the trees, keeping on Gil’s trail. Twigs snapped underfoot, dry leaves crunching as I stomped them into dead earth. The forest was full of its own sounds and smells, but my senses kept their focus on the man’s screaming. He wasn’t far off. We were closer. I could smell his fear, the tang of new blood in the air.

  Worse: I could hear the snarling.

  7

  I dashed through the woods, the trees and clouds and slivers of moonlight whizzing past me in a blur. The sound was unmistakable. It was the slavering and growling of something feral. Canine, maybe, but more likely lupine. Did it really make any difference in this context? Something with powerful jaws and horrific teeth.

  But the noise had stopped. The snarling had been so fleeting. What bothered me more was how the screaming had also stopped. I balled my hands up into fists, running harder. I didn’t have far to go, though. I spotted the outline of Gil’s body a few dozen feet away through the trees. He was in a clearing, breathing heavily, hands on his hips as he stared at something on the ground. I smelled the traces of his sweat as I entered the clearing. I smelled the metal of freshly spilled blood before I even saw the corpse.

  Not far from Gil’s feet was the still body of what was once a man, lying face up. From the frame and build I would have guessed him to be in his late twenties, dressed in flannel and jeans. I could sense the heat leaving him. The sheer shock and terror of witnessing what had attacked him was written all over his face – or at least on what was left of it. You could see the fear in the gape of his fleshless mouth, in the way his fingers were crooked and clenched.

  Blood pooled on the ground, seeping into the man’s hair, a crimson halo. It didn’t smell right to me. Once, and only once in the past had I ever tried consuming a dead man’s blood. It felt immoral, like stealing something from someone who couldn’t fight back. I felt like a scavenger, more predator than every time I’d ever accosted someone in a darkened alley. The taste was tainted. Wrong.

  “This is horrible,” Gil said, his hand over his mouth. “What would do something like this?”


  I bit the inside of my lip, hating the idea of starting another argument, but it had to be said. “We don’t know yet. But I know that you heard what I heard.”

  He nodded, saying nothing. There’s a massive list of fundamental differences between werewolves and vampires, but Gil and I were both equipped with keenly developed senses. He smelled the blood on the air long before we got there, heard the man screaming more clearly than a human could. But something else was bothering me about all this.

  “Did you smell it?” I asked. “The thing that did this. Because I couldn’t.”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t pick up any scent. It’s like there was nothing here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I stared at the corpse, clenching my teeth as I studied the mangled remains of the man’s face. “Like it was a ghost.”

  Asher came running out from among the trees, skittering to a stop between us, leaning over and grabbing his knees as he panted. “Holy shit,” he said, scuttling backwards when he realized what the three of us had gathered around. “Oh, shit. Oh my God.”

  I walked up to him, draping an arm across his shoulders, squeezing the back of his neck firmly. “Relax. Seriously, chill out. You’re the necromancer, you’re supposed to be used to shit like this.”

  Asher shivered, his muscles tensed. “I know this is your idea of being supportive, Sterling, but holy shit, something ate this guy’s face. Oh. Oh, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I clapped him on the back. “Hold it together. No, get it together, actually. We need you right now. Do your little trick.”

  Gil perked up. “That’s right. Not to be too callous about this, but it can help bring this man’s killer to justice.”

  Asher raked his fingers through his hair, glaring at the both of us. “Are you guys serious? The guy just snuffed it and you already want me to drag his spirit screaming back into his dead body?”