Because of our bizarre connection, however, I had managed to sleep through the entire day. I had arisen in near unison with Constantine! My first instinct was to go and confront him, but I squelched that pronto. If proximity to him had created this psychic bond, then I could not, must not, be near him again.
Nor was I going to abandon Tanya, but I did not need contact with Constantine to find and rescue her. There were go-betweens, Ginny and Gerard, should any communication with him be necessary. No, I most definitely would not be seeing Constantine again.
With that resolve firmly made, I tackled more important matters, specifically, stuffing my face with sausage, toast, and eggs. I then quickly freshened up as per my usual sparse routine. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, combed my hair, and finally dressed. As for clothes, I selected comfy faded jeans and a light-weight, long-sleeved, lime-green cotton shirt. I stepped into a pair of old loafers and was almost set to go. My last minute preparations would be the most critical.
Downstairs in the shop proper, I judiciously took stock of the inventory, for once sorry that I sold silver bullets but no firearms. I often berated myself for rather hypocritically carrying ammunition, since I was semi-anti-gun-control. So, unable to load-up-for-supernatural-bear, I hung a Celtic cross around my neck, oftentimes preferring it to the regulation movie crucifix. One offered as much protection as the other, this according to the Von Hesling Manual Of Vympiric Legend and Lore. Faith was what made either of any use. For some odd reason, I favored the Celtic cross. So far, I had never had a real encounter, apart from my ambush by Snitch those ten years ago, to test the faith issue. The irony of this fact was lost on me, the owner and operator of a shop specializing in anti-vampire paraphernalia. Next, I grabbed up a pocket knife with silver embedded in the blade, of course, and a small vial of holy water. And, for more practical reasons, I dredged up a small penlight. These I stuffed into my pockets, as well as the door keys, and away I went.
My exact destination—the spot on the river where Tanya's body had been discovered by the passing barge. I was going to the scene of the crime, not out of morbid curiosity, nor to get a psychometric reading of the place. I simply didn't know where else to start my search. For good or ill, it gave me my best immediate connection to poor Tanya.
* * * *
The nearly full moon was beautiful, a white-yellow ball that glowed low in the sky, its frail luminescence mingling with the city lights reflected on the dark water of the Kanawha, the red and green of traffic signals, the dim gold fluorescents of businesses, the soft white of homes along the Boulevard which gently followed the bank of the river. Charleston, WV, population fifty thousand and shrinking, was lovely, and fragrant, and quiet on this late May night.
Yet, just days ago, an atrocity had happened here. Tanya, unregistered fledging vampire, had been dumped into the water at the river's edge, timed perfectly so that a passing barge had reported the body to the authorities. I said timed to perfection, because, if she had not been discovered and retrieved before dawn, she would have been rendered to nothing more than a pile of ash, born away on a wispy summer breeze, leaving Max with grief, and loss, and doubts about her ultimate fate. Still, wouldn't that horrific but abrupt end have been more merciful to Tanya than to be semi-alive, consciousness trapped in a body that was unable to move, to be driven insane by an eternity of starvation and suffering?
I shut down such ghastly thoughts and concentrated on the picturesque riverfront, constructed and maintained for the pleasure of the citizenry. A sidewalk bordered the Boulevard for its entire length down the Kanawha Valley, while a second tier-like sidewalk, paralleling the street, placed halfway down the riverbank, offered an even closer view of the water for joggers, cyclists, sight-seers, couples, or, in my case, singles. At distant intervals, stone staircases descended from the upper walkway to the lower. Shade trees were planted here and there in sporadic rows at street level, while the steep embankments were sewn with well tended grass.
Constructed in the early 1940's, the Kanawha Boulevard was reminiscent of an even further bygone time, in the days of the sternwheelers and horse drawn carriages, when strolling on a Sunday afternoon would have been entertainment, and deservedly so. For the deep, dark watered Kanawha was beautiful, especially on this shadowy late summer evening.
I had walked the relatively short distance from my shop to the river, having casually meandered the streets of downtown Charleston past lots of legal firms, a few boutiques, the huge Kanawha County Public library, and a couple of busy nightspots. On the way, I had encountered few other passersby—a group of noisy teens heading to the Cineplex, and a lone street person who squatted in a dim doorway, resembling a huge ragged discarded bundle—and now, I stood on the lower, bottommost sidewalk of the Boulevard near the watery shoreline. I hunkered down, watching and waiting. This was a lonely stretch of the river being above the South Side Bridge and further still from the actual levy, which had been developed only a few years ago to include an outdoor amphitheatre, the Haddad Riverfront Park.
Occasionally, a fish jumped, plopping against the surface. Water lapped now-and-again against the shore. The splashing and rippling sounds reminded me of nebulous rumors about things in the river, perhaps, mutated things because of illegally dumped chemicals. After all, South Charleston, WV, used to be known as the chemical capital of the world. Strange thing to be proud of, but I was, even if that legacy had left some kind of Loch Ness monster in the river. I didn't really believe it anyway. Still I kept very vigilant with both eyes and ears as I staked out a portion of the water's bank—on a river, the Kanawha, named with an Indian word that reputedly meant ‘valley of death'. In these circumstances, how very apropos.
I stayed rooted there for over an hour, long enough to see several massive and majestic coal barges thunder by me, while, on the opposite side of the river, a ghostly freight train had come-and-gone, rumbling by the old railway station at the foot of the South Side Bridge, which, in turn, stood at the foot hills of the mini-mountains surrounding and forming the Kanawha Valley. Bridge Road, with its tight kiss-your-ass-curves, wound up that mountainside to the swank South Hills district. There was also a recently restored nineteenth century carriage trail that made a great hike or bike trip up that big mountain to the beautiful MacCorkle mansion at the top.
While I had stood watch on my uneventful vigil, the dusky evening had deepened into velvety night. All about me was quaint, quiet solitude. What had I expected anyway ... to catch the criminal returned to the scene of his crime to enjoy the view?
About ready to head back to my apartment, I straightened up, stretching, unkinking my muscles and joints, casting one final glance out over the water before I left. I had climbed up several of the stone steps when the beam of a flashlight bobbed over me. I squinted up the bank, shielding my eyes with a raised hand to try and make out the person above me on the upper walkway.
"Miss Soulsmith?” A vaguely familiar voice called out to me. I instantly recognized the crisp, uniformed silhouette with its very prominent gun butt at the hip. “It's patrolman Donovan. Is everything ok?"
I released my pent breath. “Everything's fine, Officer. I was just taking a look around.” I had met Richard Donovan in passing many times while doing business at the police department, city hall, and occasionally at the Federal Courthouse. He was an earnest, freckled red-head in his mid thirties, a good cop, and a friendly person.
Donovan's flashlight swung away from me and down toward the edge of the water. Nothing but a few twigs floated there. “Yeah, this was the spot where that Jane Doe was found the other day. I heard she was literally covered with bite marks. So, Traeger's involved you?"
His last question held no resentment, unlike others on the force who did not like my input on anything. After all, I was merely an ordinary citizen. It just so happens I own the city's only paranormal Army-Navy surplus, which bestowed some sort of weird cachet, and made me seem to be an expert. Which, of course, I denied. Emphatically. I wanted pe
ople, real live men and women, to have the weapons to protect themselves from things not exactly of flesh-and-blood. Hence my business was named De Facto Self Defense.
"He seems to think I can help. Whereas, Agent Zellden thinks I'm a total waste."
"Zellden's nose is out of joint because your testimony convicted Lantaglia's voodoo princess of murder. Too bad we don't have the death penalty in this state."
"Don't remind me. I only recently stopped wearing a charm to ward off her hexes, for whatever good it would have done me.” It was true. I had finally persuaded myself that Hetti Chambogo had lost the freedom to practice her black arts, the ones she had used against her former lover when he had traded state's evidence against her on several murders in return for immunity. Best not to dwell on what had befallen Salvatore Lantaglia after that betrayal. Hetti had been sent to prison for life, hadn't she? Besides, in lock up she shouldn't be able to get her hands on any of the ingredients needed for her type of evil gris-gris magic. At least that's what I hoped, cross my fingers. All ten of them.
Donavan, still above me on the upper walkway of the Boulevard, switched off his flashlight and returned it to his belt, signaling his intent to continue his predetermined beat. The street lights, plus the faint moon glow, were sufficient. We could both distinguish the other in the soft night. “I would be more than happy to escort you home, Miss Soulsmith."
"Thanks, but it's not necessary. I'm not going directly home."
He paused, not wanting to accept my refusal. Like I said, he was a good cop and a good guy. But he realized there was no point arguing. He gave a muffled laugh. “All right. Good night, Miss Soulsmith. Be careful."
"Night, Officer Donovan.” He had already moved out of my sight, about-facing to cross the four lanes of the Boulevard and continue into the city proper, away from the residential blocks directly across the road.
With a lazy sigh, I eyed the steep climb ahead of me and prepared to haul myself up the remaining stairs. I hadn't even taken a single step when I heard Donovan cry out. The sound, a horrified, startled scream, ended abruptly. My heart heaved almost forcefully enough to burst through my chest. I sprinted upward, terrified. And with good reason.
My knees nearly buckled. I gagged, but, mercifully, did not throw up or pass out.
Donovan lay struck down on the pavement amidst the wet, widening pool of his own blood. In one instant, he had been decapitated, his throat torn away. His crumpled body lay contorted, legs bent strangely to the right, his head tossed off to the left. His right hand was close to his holster, as if he had registered the danger one millisecond before the attack. In the end, his only defense had been a scream, a quick, helpless cry that had been stilled far too easily.
Only one thing could have struck with such incredible force and speed and ruthlessness—a vampire. My head swiveled this way and that looking for the killer, whose presence was suddenly undeniable. The hackles rose on the back of my neck. Gooseflesh pebbled my arms. Bile rose in my throat. I could feel him but not discover him in some nearby shadowy spot where he enjoyed my fear, nourished it, in fact, while he fed off it. Then I FELT his laughter. It vibrated in my bones.
His entire aura was evil, encompassing, smothering. And, I knew, without any doubt, this was Rasputin, a powerful progenitor who could mask or unmask his presence at will. My gut wrenched. This was true dread. This was undiluted terror. I automatically reached into my pocket to retrieve the vial of holy water. I clutched it in nerveless fingers, then groaned at this useless gesture, leaving the vial where it was. What possible chance did I have of spritzing a creature that struck almost faster than the eye could see?
I needed saving! There was only one way for me to call help and that was to use Donovan's two-way radio. That realization made me shudder, but I kept my hysteria under control, for the most part, and bent over his cooling body, wishing that I had something with which to cover his poor startled face. Decency demanded that he be covered, and my frazzled nerves concurred. But I had no sweater, or scarf, or jacket, nothing with which to shroud this victimized soul.
My hands fumbled, but finally I grasped the radio two-handed because of my trembling ... and because of my blood soaked palms. Had I but comprehended anything, I would have realized my shirtfront, too, was now bloodied. Again, a sick nausea threatened me, but I held it back, knowing I could not tolerate the stench of vomit on top of everything else. Operating the radio with the inexperience of a kid with his first walky-talky, I called in the murder, reporting my name, the location, and the identity of the victim. Almost immediately I heard the wail of sirens. I then dropped the radio, its short coiled cord snapping it back to its dead owner.
I staggered away several paces and finally threw up the sausage and eggs which I had earlier eaten with such relish, now much to my regret. I had never witnessed such violence, such brutal death, before. This was exactly what I expected when consorting with their kind. One of whom still hovered out in the dark, watching me with avaricious fascination, releasing his covetousness into the very air. He, it, did not want to kill me. He wanted to turn me. Still doubled over from my sickness, I wiped at my mouth and glared into the deep shadows. I was on the verge of daring the monster to show himself.
Thank god for the cavalry. Three police cars, their pulsing red lights streaking the night and Donovan's body, sirens piercing the quiet and my eardrums, skidded in quick, screeching succession into an uneven line across the broad Boulevard. Some few short moments later an ambulance next came on the scene. I knew it was to collect a body. The policemen had known it instantly, too.
I recognized most of the men, particularly Cameron Styles, Hap Chesterfield, Walter Marks, and the sole woman officer on duty, Maxi Penton, who counted towards two minorities being a black female patrolperson. They were all stunned. Donovan was a colleague. A buddy. A brother. And his killer needed to be caught. Professionalism and duty dictated their actions. Officers Penton and Styles began to take my statement, while the rest began the process of evidence collecting, taping off the area, redirecting traffic, waiting for forensics out of the medical examiner's office.
As I detailed the events prior to Officer Donovan's murder, two more vehicles, one an unmarked FBIC-issued sedan, the other a flashy civilian vehicle, further clogged up the Boulevard, depositing the last arrivals.
"Agent Zellden.” I barely breathed the name. Of course the report of such a homicide would warrant the presence of the Charleston-Metro area's senior Federal Bureau of Interspecies Coexistence Agent. Or, more likely, he simply came to give me a hard time. Zellden, tall and formidable in a black suit and tie, his jar shaped head, square cut jaw, and single browed eyes reminding me of a semi-literate Neanderthal, had no trouble entering the police-taped area. However, Ginny and Gerard, the arrivals from the second car, were being detained.
My relief at sight of Ginny, if not of Gerard, deflated all the adrenalin from my body, and I nearly collapsed. Officer Penton steadied me, leading me to a concrete bench.
"Just a few more questions, Miss Soulsmith.” She had been extremely efficient, writing down my statement, listening to her partner's queries, adding a few of her own.
I nodded agreement, but all I wanted was to join Ginny where she stood outside of the eerie circle of yellow police tape, the entire area now awash in the bloody glow of emergency flares, at the center of which lay the broken, lifeless, chalk-outlined body of Officer Donovan, a corpse on display for Agent Zellden's clinical, dispassionate inspection. In reaction to the gruesome sight, I canted my face toward the river.
A man lay dead. Why? Because he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person. Me.
I could no longer sense Rasputin, Donovan's murderer. But was he really gone, or not? This not knowing if he yet lurked about, basking in the aftermath of his hellish handiwork, panicked me.
I needed to escape. I needed to go home and wash the caking blood, another's blood, from off of me. To change out of the sticky shirt, which felt coldly plast
ered to my skin. To pretend that a casual stroll on the riverbank had not ended in grisly murder. To deny that I was being stalked by a vampire.
"I've told you everything that happened.” Done with being cooperative, I stood on shaky legs. Ginny saw and tried to push past the officer blocking her way. Gerard made no such move. He simply spoke a word to the man and they were allowed to pass.
Zellden, however, unbending from a crouch at the side of the corpse, beat them to me. “Not so fast, Soulsmith. You haven't told me anything yet. For instance, why were you here in the first place? And, secondly, how come the owner of Self Help, Inc., stood by and let a cop be butchered by a vampire?” Zellden paused at Ginny and Gerard's approach. His entire face registered distaste. “Or maybe you've taken up with the living dead? And you're protecting one of your new friends?” He openly sneered at Gerard Lamphere, one of the State's most prominent, if not the most prominent, vampires, by virtue of his one time high placement within the District Attorney's office. Even Constantine had a lower profile, being less well known outside of Charleston, West Virginia's capital city.
Zellden hated vampires even more than I did. He owed his FBIC position solely to a political appointment, and a BA in Occult History. Little else made him fit for the post, not intellect, personality, or integrity. He had once said within my hearing that you must know the enemy in order to destroy him. I had been on his hit list from the moment we met. Scuttlebutt claimed that he had once, in his young foolish salad days, tried to join—but been rejected by—the same males only vampire fetish club to which Neal Argent belonged, the Red Fallacies, that, among its tamer activities, reputedly arranged homosexual liaisons between its members and the undead. If these rumors were true, Zellden disguised his proclivities and his prejudices for the most part. But, he was, in my opinion, a dangerous loose cannon.
There was palpable hostility floating amongst us. Mine towards Zellden, the cops towards the interfering newcomers, and Zellden's towards everybody. I had to admit, right at that moment, I had few charitable feelings for Gerard Lamphere, myself. Especially having noticed the infinitesimal flare of his finely sculpted nostrils when he drew abreast of me—and the congealed blood on my hands, arms, and shirt. His was a tiny, instinctive reaction that most humans would not catch, but I was at that very instant experiencing my first conscious vampire alert. My teeth were set on edge, as if biting into aluminum foil, and there was a buzzing tingle traveling down my spine. All this physical response came from a novice vampire, one made within the last four years, therefore relatively immature and less capable of disguising his own primal urges, mainly hunger. I got a sudden niggling suspicion that the more direct contact I had with vampires the stronger these ‘alarms’ would become. Great. Just freaking great.
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