Blood City: Book Two Of The Monster Keeper Series

by Jeff Seats

  The bartender rolled his eyes, looking at Alexei as he complied.

  A mischievous smile formed on Alexei’s face. “Would you like a sip?” He asked pushing his glass towards the woman.

  Pete stopped to watch, not sure what was going to happen.

  The woman smiled and took the glass. “Why sure. Always be open to new experiences is what I say.” She put her fingers in her mouth and pulled out a wad of gum she had hiding inside and placed it on a napkin. “If it’s that good I don’t want to spoil the taste.” She smiled coyly.

  “First rule. Always hold the glass by the stem.” Alexei instructed. “Now swirl it around and let it wash up the sides of the bowl. There, that’s correct. See how it clings to the glass? The longer it takes to flow back into the bowl the better. It’s called ‘having legs,’ and this has excellent legs.” He gave Pete a conspiratorial wink. “Now place your nose inside the glass and take a quick sniff. Smell anything?”

  She stuck her nose inside the opening of the glass as instructed and sniffed. She did it a second time. “No. Am I supposed to smell something?”

  “I detected hints of dark loam and copper,” Alexei said.

  Sniff!

  “If you say so.”

  Alexei looked at Pete again, but said to the woman, “Now take a quick sip.”

  Sip.

  “What are you tasting?”

  “Nothing. I taste nothing.” She said with red-tinged lips.

  “You need to educate your palate a bit more.”

  “So, how much for a glass of this?”

  “You couldn’t afford it,” Pete answered.

  “Too rich for my blood? That it?” She sat up straight on the stool tensing a bit. “Well, I wouldn’t pay a plugged nickel for that tasteless swill. And I can afford quite a bit.”

  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t sell it to you no matter how much you could afford.”

  The woman’s face began to cloud over. “The hotel said that this was a great place.” She opened her purse and pulled out a few bills. She tossed them on the bar towards Pete. “I can’t see why? Rude staff! I’ll be telling them about this!” And then she stormed out of the bar.

  Pete leaned into Alexei, “She looks like she could be a tasty morsel if you could shut her up for long enough.”

  Alexei inhaled the aroma of the red elixir and took an appreciative sip. It had reached room temp and had opened nicely.

  “She’s not on my menu tonight. Besides I suspect that she might have a rather sour aftertaste.”

  Pete slammed his hand down on the bar and gave a snort of a laugh.

  “Order!” The cocktail waitress called out.

  “Sorry, sir. Looks like I have a paycheck to earn. Call if you need anything else.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine,” Alexei reassured him, and returned to his drink. Watching the action in the room, he pondered his decision not to follow the woman and do what Vladimir would do without compunction. It just didn’t seem right to him anymore. That woman may have had no sense of humor, and she was annoying but did she really need to die?

  An excessively large man on the other side of Alexei gave another man to his left a nudge. “Hey, look at those guys carrying on over there in the corner,” he said, referring to a group of three happy, buoyant young men wearing a mishmash of campy secondhand-store clothes and didn’t fit the profile of the other customers. Some might say that they were deliberately crying out to be noticed.

  “Yeah, fags,” replied the other.

  “I’m surprised that Bill lets those types in.”

  “Bill doesn’t own the place anymore.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

  “But I’m sure he wouldn’t have cared. Money’s money.”

  Alexei should not have been surprised by this conversation. Humans had a tendency to prejudge, based on surface appearance. That group was flamboyant, but he could see that their flair was a personal expression and one or more of them were probably struggling artists taking advantage of the late night cheap Happy Hour eats. The two next to him continued.

  “Are you visiting?”

  “Here on business. Got a product presentation tomorrow with the city.”

  “Good luck with that. This town is full of fuckin’ liberals.”

  Alexei had been wondering about his place in a world without the constraints of the treaty and the CSC. Sitting here, listening and observing, helped him to arrive at a moment of understanding, acknowledging the inescapable fact of his life. He was a vampire. Taking a human life to sustain his would always bother him. Perhaps it was the Christian commandment Thou shalt not kill that still resounded from some hidden piece of his lost humanity. But his primary objective was to survive, and consuming human blood was necessary to do that.

  An idea began to gel. Being selective regarding which humans he would feed on might assuage his negative feelings concerning killing, and at the same time help humanity by eliminating those that brought nothing positive to the world. Could his calling be to selectively thin out the nasty and hateful people, making room for the creative and enlightened?

  His gaze drifted back to the two obnoxious gentlemen who were shooting off their mouths. After so many years of drinking bottled blood, his mouth salivated at the thought of biting into a warm, throbbing throat. His addiction, for that’s what it was, had slapped him in the face and he knew he could no longer fight it. He gave the two blowhards sitting near him a more studied examination, like a hunter looking through a rifle scope. One caught his eye and Alexei smiled and raised his glass in a silent toast as though he was saying that he agreed with their vile words. They were mortals, and he was a bloodsucking killer, or soon would be again this night. He had to live, right? He knew his friend Craig, had he survived, might understand his choice. Well, did he actually know that, or was he making excuses, still hoping to be accepted by the humans? Liz may not understand, but she was on a long personal journey of her own. Perhaps later.

  “Yeah, heard that, but the boss says he wants Portland as a customer,” the large man said as he signed his credit card slip. He shoved his hand over to the other, “Well, gotta go. Nice to have met you. I’m Frank.”

  The two shook hands. “Harvey.”

  Alexei took another sip of the luscious drink.

  He looked at the three artsy men enjoying themselves. Vladimir’s people had better not be around for their sake. They had a look his brother sought for late night entertainment. His brother was on a long journey of recovery, and he needed every drop of fresh blood he could suck down.

  He flagged the bartender and indicated he wanted the check. Pete placed his tattooed hand on the bar and said, “All covered.”

  Vladimir had been right about the reservation. Vamp Town. His brother had chaffed at the life Alexei had forced them all to live, while pretending he was mortal—doing human things like driving a Jeep, and watching the moon come out as though it was dawn and trying to remember the warmth of the early morning sun as it rose. He had been fooling himself, but not at first. Alexei was convinced he had chosen the honorable path to save his people from extinction. But the law of unintentional consequences had to have its way.

  Right now, he saw his path forward. Alexei knew he had to keep his brother from wreaking havoc on humans while, at the same time, satisfying his own need for blood. He felt confident with a little due diligence he could find deserving targets for his lust.

  Alexei smiled and thanked Pete. Then he slipped off the stool and followed the self-serving prig who had just left.

  Now, taking in the chill evening air, he knew his brother wasn’t wrong in opposing the document that locked them away from the world. Alexei had no illusions, however. Vladimir never wanted to walk down a city street and take in the ambiance, enjoy the music, appreciate what humanity brought to the world. All he wanted was to feed.

  Alexei reassured himself that the original intent of the treaty was, at the core, a good idea. Keeping humans and vampires apart
was good for both species. It was no way to live; in fear that the person you met might want to slash your throat and drink your blood or that your lair would be found as you slept and staked through the heart. Alexei and Vladimir had different approaches to how to handle the issue.

  Vladimir envisioned a world dominated by vampires, one in which humans were submissive, herded like sheep, and cultivated to provide an eternity’s worth of fresh, warm blood. In that scenario, war with humans was inevitable.

  Alexei saw a different path. Humans still would be needed for sustenance, of course, but this could be done in a more sustainable way. He smiled; thinking about the farm-to-table food culture. Not that he imagined farms full of humans being raised for slaughter as his brother had. On the contrary, Alexei’s developing vision was less obvious, more deliberative.

  The equation was simple. Immortals needed blood to exist. Humans provided the blood. Therefore, vampires would forever hunt humans. But for vampires to continue following this centuries-old path, they must do it under a new paradigm.

  Immortals had to drift back into the shadows, staying out of the limelight, and return to the status of legend and myth. Their nocturnal hunting must be directed only at those humans that no longer added to the collective good. Humans could not make those choices, morality getting in the way, but vampires had no such issues. Killing humans was not a problem.

  This approach could mean a smaller population, but the race would remain. Perhaps humans might come to understand and accept this new way. Maybe even embrace it. Who knew?

  And then the ongoing hunt and destruction of vampires could taper off and, with some luck, eventually cease.

  The big loudmouth from the bar stopped at the corner and waited for the traffic to pass, and then he crossed the street and entered a dark parking garage.

  Alexei looked to see if anyone was watching, and then followed the man into the shadows.

  SPOKANE, WASHINGTON, 2018. The throbbing in his head was becoming more incessant. It had been quite some time since he had felt this way. The resulting headache was not the fun side of drowning your problems in a bottle.

  Pound! Pound! Pound!

  Ouch! He would have to deal with this. The pain between his temples was becoming implacable. Attempting to open his mouth, it felt as though his lips would flake off in large dry pieces, and that his tongue was glued to his upper pallet.

  Cottonmouth.

  Pound! Pound! Pound!

  Uhg! Aspirin. He needed aspirin. He pried open one eyelid. Before him on the table sat the mostly consumed fifth of whiskey. Next to the empty pint of vodka. Did I sleep here sitting up? he thought. Trying to move his head, the pain in his stiff neck told him definitely yes, though passed out was probably more accurate. The crust on the corner of his mouth testified to that fact as well. Drooling was the least attractive aspect of an older man who had passed out—that and the snoring. Snoring didn’t bother him. But the sore neck from sleeping with his chin to his chest did. Really? Almost a fifth and a half of booze?

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The haze in his head began to thin as the pounding morphed from the throbbing head to the front door.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Please, Thomas, let me in.”

  Who is that?

  “Just break the son of a bitch down you want in so bad.” He half yelled.

  Pound! Pound! Pound!

  Ouch! That hurt.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Thomas!”

  “Okay, okay . . .. “Thomas said to the door as he lifted himself up from the chair onto rubbery legs.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  He stumbled towards the door and threw it open. “Yes?” he asked groggily to the person standing in front of him. Then his eyes widened, an uncontrollable urge to vomit overwhelmed him. Covering his mouth with a hand, Thomas made haste to the kitchen sink where he spewed out the contents of the previous night’s bender; making the counter-top and the stack of dirty dishes collateral damage with a messy over-spray as he mostly hit the intended target.

  The man followed Thomas into the tiny house. He scanned the dirty room with disapproval.

  Still leaning over the kitchen counter, Thomas’ stomach spasmed. He lowered his head deep into the filthy sink and wretched again, and again, and again. Finally, when nothing more came up—except what felt like the lining of his stomach—the uncontrollable convulsions diminished, and he cautiously raised his head, turned on the faucet and slurped down large gulps of water. When he finished washing out his mouth, he straightened and looked down and shook his head as he splashed water around the sink in a half-hearted attempt at flushing away the puke. With the water still running, he went to the refrigerator and grabbed a large jar of a clear, red-tinged liquid, got a glass from the drainer and filled it. As he gulped down the contents, he reached for a switch on the wall and flicked it up. The disposal whirred into action, chewing up the vomited contents of the night’s weakness. Turning off the disposal he opened a cupboard and pulled down a bottle of aspirin, put the open container to his lips, and swallowed several tablets followed by more reddish water. Next, he grabbed a bottle of Pepto and took several large gulps of the unnaturally pink, peppermint concoction.

  The man watched, saying nothing.

  Thomas turned from the sink, another full glass of red water in hand, and walked past the man and over to the sofa, placed the glass on the coffee table and dropped onto the worn cushions.

  “Hmmm.” He rubbed his temples trying to give the aspirin some help. “I thought for certain that Spokane would be far enough off the radar for you not to find me.”

  “Alcohol does not always lead to the most clear-headed thinking, Thomas. Gonzaga is a Jesuit institution is it not? And the Holy Father, being a Jesuit himself, keeps in close contact with his brothers in Christ,” he said with a wry grin.

  Too weak to actually respond, Thomas just arched his eyebrows. Damn, even that hurt.

  “He wasn’t even Pope when I left the service. It was one of those Italian ones . . . Oh what was his name?”

  “Come on Thomas, you may have thought that you left the service of the church, but the Holy Father had always reserved the right to recall you. I think that the American military calls it the ready reserve. Yes? And you do have a special relationship between those we hunt and those we protect.”

  Thomas closed his eyes, partly from the hangover but mostly to mask his thoughts.

  The man waved his arm around the room. “Look around you. Do you see what you have allowed yourself to become?”

  “When did the Swiss Guard start recruiting mothers?”

  “What? Your mind is addled.”

  “You judge me as though you were my mother, Hauptmann. You are Swiss Guard. Ergo you are a motherfuc—”

  “Being profane will get you nowhere father.” The man, known to Thomas as Daniel Glanzman, captain of the Pontifical Swiss Guard, admonished.

  Another sip of the reddish liquid was followed by a long, painful sigh as Thomas let the throb of his aching head dull the moment.

  Glanzman picked up an empty potato chip bag allowing a few remaining crumbs to escape onto the carpet. “It is none of my business Thomas, but aren’t certain foods and . . . drinks . . .,” he said, pointing out other snack food wrappings and the empty alcohol bottles. “Considered bad for someone such as yourself?”

  “Are you genuinely concerned, or are you compiling information for your report back to Rome?”

  “A bit of both, I must confess.”

  A weary sigh came out of Thomas’ mouth. “Yes. The list of menu items that does not assault my gut is not extensive. My tolerance for food leans towards the rarer of cooked meats. Bloodier the better. Certain bland vegetables are digestible. Rice, potatoes, and pasta with no sauce are boring staples. Onions play havoc with me. Alcohol? As you have observed, it tears me apart, but without it, I cannot keep the monster inside my head at bay.”

  “And chips?”

  “
I like salty snacks when I drink,” he shrugged, “And I pay for it,” Thomas acknowledged while taking another swallow of the crimson water. “Besides, it’s not as though bad food will kill me.”

  “That appears to be true. It seems like nothing can kill you.”

  Thomas gave him a self-deprecating shrug. “It is my cross to bear,” he grinned weakly, “One I can’t seem to escape.” He sat up straighter, putting a hand to forehead and rubbed his eyebrows.

  “You have sacrificed much, my friend. But this is no way for the famous Father Tomislav Lovac to spend his life.”

  “And it appears you are here to save me from all this.” Thomas waved his arm around the dirty room.

  “The Holy Father has requested—”

  “I know. And I am the only one with the skills, and so on and so forth,” a pause then, “I thought the Americans had the issue under control.”

  “That was true until about six months ago. But you always knew ‘under control’ does not mean ‘eliminated.’ And while the Holy Father allowed you the fantasy of believing the vampire threat had been diminished to such an extent as to be almost nonexistent, we all knew, even you, that one day your services would be required again.”

  “When was the last time we saw one another? The last time we were sent out on a hunt?”

  “Those Finnish murders.”

  “Yes, 1960. Ghastly affair. But no evidence of a vampire feed.” Thomas looked at the man who had interrupted a perfectly awful morning. “And so . . . why are you here, now, after fiftyeight years?”

  “He’s out,” Glanzman let that sink in, “He took several others along with him.”

  For a brief moment, Thomas was back in New York City helping to eradicate a nest. He had entered the over-crowded tenement and excitedly rushed into the dark basement ahead of everyone else—his first hunt. Someone came upon him from behind. He had no time to react, was barely able to hold his arm up to protect his neck, when the monster’s fangs shot out, one penetrated his shoulder. Then Roosevelt’s detective squad stormed into the room hacking and shooting. All the parasites were killed except the one who injured him. That one got away.