by Jackie Ivie
Forsaking
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
26th in series
Copyright 2015, Jackie Ivie
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Dry. Desolate. Dreary. It was the kind of environment that turned youthful, dew-touched skin to the texture of aged beef jerky; strips of succulent fruit into edible leather; and any water source into scum-covered undrinkable muck before it evaporated completely.
All things considered, the night was damn near perfect.
Oh.
He needed to add in that it was dusty, too.
Dust had a particular sensation about it. A vague smell that Bram could almost remember. It was part of his past, bringing back recollection of cattle drives. Back when he was a greenhorn. Stuck riding ‘drag’. That was the least favored position – the one at the back of the herd, eating dust. That was before he’d demonstrated his talent with cards and firearms. Gun-slinging became a much better vocation. Every boomtown was looking for a man with a good aim. They’d stick a badge on his chest and call him sheriff. They didn’t seem to care much about a man’s past. Only his ability. And Dobbin Creek, Nevada had needed a sheriff desperately.
This was a right stupid time to think of that. It was a long time ago. Before the town died, and this animated death became his reality.
Bram holstered his Colt-45 Peacemaker and looked about. The moon was almost full, sending shadows into the dirt from one side of the street. A breath of wind stirred dust against his boots. Somewhere out in the distance a coyote howled. If he concentrated he could hear laughter. Music. Tinkling of drinking glasses. Dice getting tossed. Roulette wheels spinning. Slot machines ringing as they paid out. All amid cries of joy or anger. Gambling sounds.
He didn’t bother to concentrate and listen. He didn’t care. Nothing looked out-of-place tonight. Or even borderline interesting. He’d been awakened abruptly, but that wasn’t all that unusual. His rest had never been peaceful.
So.
He was up. He could find a willing donor and feed...but he wasn’t thirsty. He’d gorged last weekend on an unsuspecting group of elderly women that had stopped by for the “ghost town” tour. They’d lingered a bit too long. They’d been here at twilight. All of them had been wrinkled, purple-haired, blue-veined, and pretty much thrilled to have him join their party. It was always the same when a tour bus filled with geriatric tourists stopped by.
Then again...
The elderly were the only kind that stopped by - and that was because of the bus ride. They were all heading to the real attraction, a place called Dobb Lake – which was a lie. They’d never had a lake. His ghost town of Dobbin Creek had barely claimed a trickle of water. Unless it stormed. But Dobb Lake they’d named the new town, and Dobb Lake it was. That town was just over the hill. Barely out of view. Behind a bit of landscaping courtesy of Mother Nature. It wasn’t a big hill, but Dobb Lake wasn’t a big town. It had a few houses. Grocery store. Mercantile place. A power station thing. And the reason for it all: two big-ass casinos. Bram had visited when the casinos had gone up and the ghost town of Dobbin Creek started getting visitations. He’d checked online, too. More than once. Just to make sure having casinos for neighbors wouldn’t be an issue.
It was.
And it wasn’t.
Sometimes he got disturbed...like tonight. On the flip side of that, he didn’t have to go far for fresh human blood. Bram resettled his hat. Creased the brim. Tapped the crown. He liked this hat. He’d had several made in the mid-twentieth century. When dressing western had been a fad with the city-slickers. But he still had the one they’d put on his head for his burial. It was wrapped. Then boxed, brim up. And then placed on a high shelf. Like a shrine.
A hint of noise passed through the street, carrying odd sounds. Like a car horn. Engine sounds. Had Dobb Lake expanded? He usually avoided the place, but maybe he should check on it. The casinos were well attended. Boisterous. Loud. Well-lit. It was difficult to view the night sky from the parking lots. And they could really use a sheriff over there, except robbery was the main business. Their operators were one-armed bandits called slot machines, dealers with brilliant white smiles and quick hands, lots of house liquor, and dice that weren’t anybody’s friend. They probably turned a blind eye to anything that didn’t involve making money.
Then again, they didn’t notice his perfidy, either.
Bram’s complex was underground. Naturally heated and cooled, but now it was fitted with electricity, running water. Cable. Even Wi-Fi. Nobody at the casino noticed his access. Nor each upgrade. He snickered and turned back toward his home. He resided beneath the town. Unnoticed. Undetected. Completely undisturbed. The sign above the saloon door was still legible. They’d refreshed the paint years ago, when some film company had used Dobbin Creek for a western movie set. They’d refreshed the entire place, painting facades, fixing up holes. Making floors solid again. And then they’d finished their filming and disappeared.
Hmm. The sign lettering was fading now. Soon it would be the same shade of gray as the rest of the town.
Oh. Wait. Somebody had outlined the letters. They must be fixing the place up again; making it more “tourist-friendly”. Hopefully, they’d stop at paint. He didn’t need or want company. He moved his gaze lower, to the saloon’s swinging doors. One hung crookedly from a rusted hook. The other was permanently stuck open. It hadn’t even swayed when he’d rushed past it. Nothing looked different. All of it looked derelict. Vacant. Quiet.
Everything was exactly as he liked it.
And then the screaming started up.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
Bram swung toward the noise. He hadn’t noted it earlier. There was a light source from an upstairs window of the Harris Mansion at the end of the street. The Harris Mansion was the best-preserved building in town. One of their heirs had lived in it until her death some years ago and left a trust to keep it habitable. The floors and ceilings were intact. The walls solid. The windows still had all their glass. Looked like fresh white paint on the portico, too. He regarded the Victorian-designed house for long moments.
“No! I said no, damn it! No! Help me!”
It was a female. Young from the sound. Desperate from the tone. Bram sucked in on his cheeks. He really shouldn’t interfere. No good ever came of it. Humans did their wicked deeds. People got hurt. Some died. Evildoers usually got what they wanted. Sometimes they got caught and paid for it. Sometimes not. They still died. Eventually.
Nobody ever won.
Ever.
Besides...redemption was something he’d never earn. Bram rubbed at his neck, where the slight scar from what was suppos
ed to be his hanging could still be discerned. If a body knew where to look. And what to search for.
“Please? Somebody! Help me!”
Damn everything.
He was at the porch the next instant. The front door was ajar. A portion of his mind noted the damage to the doorjamb where somebody had busted the lock loose. Bram flew up the steps. Stopped for a moment in the hallway, outside the door. Tested the handle. It wasn’t locked. And then he heard what sounded like a fist striking flesh. Bram smacked the door open and strode in, evaluating everything in a glance.
They were using a guest bedroom. They’d brought a camping lantern. It sat atop a bureau, shedding light and attracting interested moths. The place was decked out in shades of pink and purple. The late Harris spinster had been an aficionado of the color scheme. Dust sheets had been flung aside, showing that everything was done mostly in velvet, some glossy-looking satin. Here and there were touches of dark wood. Like the bed. It was a four-poster. Appeared to be in sturdy condition, too. There was a woman tied to a post with one wrist, splayed on her belly across the mattress. Her white skin was striped with some vicious-looking welts, while her attacker was just getting ready to insert a smallish-looking Part A into Part B.
“Hi there,” Bram said in the immediate silence his entrance caused.
“What the—?”
The guy grabbed for his pants with his left hand and what looked like a 9MM gun with his right. Bram had his Colt out and aimed at the guy’s upper belly before he finished. They hadn’t made these rooms large. At most, he was about ten feet away. And the Colt Peacemaker made a very big hole. The pants fell silently to the guy’s ankles. The gun followed with a thud.
“The lady said no. I heard her. Loud and clear.”
“Fuck you.”
“You are not my type.”
Bram cocked his Colt. It was just as loud and threatening as it was meant to be. The would-be rapist had a potbelly, covered over with a large shirt. His erection hadn’t looked like much before. Now, it wasn’t even visible. He put his hands out, palms up. They were shaking.
“Um. Look. Buddy. You have it wrong, okay?”
“Really?” Bram replied.
“What do you say...we all just calm down? I can explain.”
“I look agitated, do I?” Bram asked.
“Actually...uh...you look pretty damned lethal.”
Bram nodded. He didn’t even blink.
“This is a business transaction, okay? It’s perfectly legal. It’s probably on the books somewhere.”
“Why’d you drive all the way over here, then?”
“What? I picked her up four miles away. Okay. Maybe five. I may not have been the center of Dobb Lake, but I was still on pavement.”
Dobb Lake was that close? When the hell had that happened? Bram grunted. He didn’t know what to answer.
“All right. Fine. I drove over here because it’s a lot quieter. Less chance of being...you know...interrupted.”
“Now, that’s powerful strange. You wanted quiet, did you? I’d wonder why. Wouldn’t you, ma’am?”
Bram tipped his head toward the woman. Other than a glimpse of shine from her eyes, he didn’t get a reply. And then she turned her head away from him.
“Okay. I confess. It sounded cool. You know. I got to visit Nevada and have a bit of fun in an old whorehouse.”
“This is not a whorehouse,” Bram told him, “and you looked like the only one having fun.”
“Not true. She knew the score beforehand.”
“This conversation is over. Hitch up your pants. You are leaving.”
“Not without her, I’m not.”
“I don’t think I heard that right,” Bram replied.
“I said I am not leaving without her. Or I want my money back. You hear me, bitch?” He turned his head to direct the last words toward his victim.
Bram took another step into the room. The man’s head jerked back to him as Bram’s spurs jangled against the wooden floor. That was the only sound for a moment. It was followed by the sound of the man wheezing. And what could be sobs from the woman. Bram kept the man in his direct vision, with the woman and bed on his left. His canines started tingling.
“You want to get moving?” he asked. “I have an itchy trigger finger.”
This was starting to resemble a western movie script. It was about as entertaining. Only he must not be portraying lethal as well as the guy said. He didn’t sound or look shaky anymore.
“Look. Buddy. You can’t do this! I paid good money for this.”
“You did, did you?”
“Yeah. A thousand dollars!”
“It costs a thousand dollars to beat and rape a woman?”
“Exactly. Oh. Wait a minute. That’s not what I said.”
“Really? What part of that am I getting wrong? And pull your pants up. I’m not saying it again.”
“You are way out of line here, buddy. I am going to report this.”
“You do that.”
Bram’s voice carried amusement. Nobody reacted. They didn’t know him well enough. Now that he thought of it, his gun wasn’t even loaded. He’d spent the last rounds on target shooting a few months back. Maybe it had been a year ago. He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t care. Vampires didn’t need bullets to kill. But at least the guy was pulling his trousers up. Looked like he wore them a little too snug, since he had to stand up straight, lean backwards, and suck in his gut to get the top button fastened. That was pretty comical-looking, too. He let his breath out as he zipped up his fly. Words came with it.
“She’s a prostitute. Okay, buddy?”
“Well. Last I heard rape is rape, beating is beating, and force is force,” Bram replied.
“This here was a legal business deal. But you win. I’m leaving. I don’t like being threatened, but I will be getting that refund. I’m going to find her pimp and force it out of his ass. I hope she lives through the beating he’ll probably give her.”
“You gonna mention the rest of it? The tying? And attempted rape?” Bram released the cock on his gun with his thumb as he said it. The guy looked ineffectual. Innocuous. And pretty damned harmless.
“It will be my word against yours. I think I’ll stop at the police station and file charges against you, too.”
“For what? Rescuing a woman?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Right.” Bram opened the cylinder of his Colt. Looked through it at the would-be rapist. Slid it back into position. And then he holstered it. The gun slid easily into its seat of oiled leather.
“You didn’t even have it loaded?”
“No need, is there?”
“Why you—!”
The guy went for the 9MM on the floor. Bram flung himself across the space, snagged the gun, and was past the fellow and back on his feet before his opponent had finished bending down.
Bram was grinning as he leveled it. This time, when the fellow was back upright, he had his hands above his head.
“Okay! Okay. I give. Don’t shoot! Just...don’t! I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait...”
The woman spoke, interrupting them with the feeble tone of her voice. Bram glanced in her direction. His new position put him up by the headboard. She had violet-hued hair. It was really dark at the roots. The color combination matched the stripes all along her bare skin. She still had her face turned away from him.
“You got something to say, ma’am?” he prompted.
She rolled onto her side. He saw a flash of metal. And then she shot him.
Lead ripped through his belly, slapped around some organs, and then exited out his back. He heard it hit the wood paneling behind him. Bram looked down at the small hole that was just starting to turn wet and dark with fluid. Fast-moving steps thundered into his consciousness from out in the hallway. Her customer obviously wasn’t waiting around for the fall-out. There was a thump as the guy must have stumbled. Recovered. And then more footsteps resounded as h
e finished running from the scene.
Well.
This was just more proof Bram didn’t want and certainly wasn’t in need of. He already knew no good deed went unpunished. He should have just gone back into the Number Eight Saloon, opened the trap door to his home, and retired back to his coffin.
Bram absorbed the sight and smell of his own fluid as it leaked out the hole. The wound was already starting to close. Didn’t matter. Blood-lust filled his senses. Elongated his fangs to a deadly length. Piercing sharpness. And then he looked back up at her.
She was quite striking-looking. Bram could see why she’d caught her attacker’s eye. She wore a lot of makeup, but even without it, she’d be a looker. Her lips were shaded a dark red. There was a tiny black rose tattooed at one corner of her mouth. A sparkling purple stone adorned one nostril. Her eyes were encircled by a lot of black liner. And they were huge as she looked at him.
“Oh. Bad move, sweetheart,” he told her.
And then he lunged for her.
CHAPTER TWO
“How many art degrees do you have again?”
“Not enough. Obviously.”
“Why is it obvious?”
“Well. Look. I’m painting signs.”
“And doing awesome! Dad was right. You are really something. Isn’t she?”
Susan asked it of her twin, Sharon. Marielle lifted the brush and glanced down before she messed up. The sisters didn’t look alike. Or act anything alike, either. They were both the same height. Susan was thinner, however. She sported blue-and-black striped hair and dark clothing. Sharon was the healthier-looking of the two. Cherubic. And blonde.
“That was sarcasm, ladies. And I wasn’t even accurate. Let me rephrase it. I’m not painting anything. I’m refurbishing someone else’s handiwork.”
“Well, it looks awesome!”
“To like...me, too!” Sharon echoed.
“Thanks.”
“You must have a lot of experience.”
“Yeah. Like. Years.”
Marielle twisted her lips before replying. “Gee. Thanks for that, too.”
“For what?” Susan asked.
“The comment about my age.”