Clay White: A Bureau Story (The Bureau)

by Kim Fielding

  With his shirt in tatters and his jeans pushed down his thighs, Marek suddenly went very still beneath me. He pushed my head back a little and held my face with surprising gentleness. My blood smeared his lips and chin like poorly applied lipstick.

  “I need to warn you,” he repeated.

  “Kill me or don’t. I don’t give a fuck about warnings.”

  “But you still give a fuck about something, don’t you?” Soft voice, soft hands, pale eyes showing warmth—a monster with a façade of tenderness. At least he could manage the façade. I never could.

  “I give a fuck about fucking.” I pushed my groin—still clothed—against his naked one.

  “Is that why you came to the club tonight? For sex?”

  I remembered my original mission then and, ashamed, disentangled myself from him. I stood and backed away several steps, but he remained sprawled on the floor, his pale cock hard against his belly. How the hell do vampires get hard-ons? I dragged my focus back to more important matters.

  “I came looking for you,” I said.

  “Me?”

  “I know about the murders.”

  His expression went blank. Moving gracefully, he rose to his feet. He pulled up his jeans but let them hang unfastened and low on his hips. “You know better than that, Agent White. I didn’t kill them.”

  I ignored the Agent and shook my head. “Five young men, dead. Every one of them drained dry.”

  “So you assume a vampire did it.”

  “Seems a safe assumption.” Uneasy about where the conversation was going, I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. As I said, I don’t like to think—and questioning my actions leads nowhere good.

  Marek gave me a look that a schoolteacher might bestow on a dim student. “You’ve seen what my kind does to people. Have you ever seen corpses like these?”

  “I haven’t seen these victims at all. The Bureau isn’t exactly in a sharing mood.” I’d heard rumors and read between the lines of the news reports, but I hadn’t viewed the bodies. Hadn’t even gotten my hands on any photos.

  Marek prowled closer. There was something disturbingly near to pity in his gaze. It clashed with my blood on his skin. “They were dried-out husks,” he said. “Not just their blood gone, but everything liquid. Nothing left but bones and hair, and skin like old leather. Mummies.”

  “How would you know that if you didn’t kill them?”

  “They were left for me to find.”

  None of this made any sense—least of all that I simply stood there, still hard from his touch, my gun far out of reach. But the orderly house I’d made of my life had begun to crumble months earlier, and perhaps all semblance of logic had crumbled with it. “Left by who?” I asked. “And why?”

  He searched my eyes. “Will you believe me if I tell you?”

  I shrugged.

  After a long pause, he nodded. “Let’s go somewhere else for this conversation. Coffee?”

  I may not be an intellectual man, but I have some share of curiosity. So I agreed.

  Chapter Two

  Before we left, Marek washed the blood from his face and buttoned his jeans. He dampened a scrap of his now-ruined shirt and, grinning, cleaned my face too. Then he reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a plain black T-shirt. I wondered if he’d deliberately acquired one that was a size too small—it showed off every line of his lean torso and exposed a strip of pale skin below the hem. If you didn’t pay too much attention to his eyes, he could have been mistaken for a human boy interested in nothing more than sharing his body. But I knew better.

  He didn’t say anything while I retrieved my gun, put on the safety, and tucked it into my boot holster. He even turned his back to me as he led the way out of the restaurant. Maybe I could have shot him before he turned around. I didn’t try.

  The temperature had cooled while we were inside but not enough to make me wish for a jacket. The fog hadn’t settled into this part of town, probably due to the light breeze that sent bits of paper skittering along the sidewalk. Although the air reeked of piss, the wind brought a hint of salt from the Bay, that damp, piscine odor that I imagined the whole world had smelled like, once upon a time.

  Marek walked quickly and I had to hurry to keep up. But we didn’t go far. Three blocks from his restaurant, we came to a donut shop with brightly lit windows. Inside, the scent of coffee was thickly overlaid by the aromas of frying dough and sugar. I ordered for us at the counter—two coffees and a glazed old-fashioned—then joined Marek at a booth in the corner. The table was scarred and sticky, the vinyl upholstery cracked. But the coffee was decent and the donut freshly made.

  Since Marek seemed disinclined to speak right away, I looked around. Working for the Bureau meant I’d spent a lot of time in places like this one, trying to stay awake through the night hours when those I hunted tended to appear. Because this was San Francisco, the late-night crowd was a little different from those in other cities. Fewer truck drivers and more drag queens.

  In the harsh fluorescent light, Marek’s skin was nearly translucent and his eyes glowed as if lit from within. I stared at him shamelessly, wondering whether he’d been as beautiful when he was alive, wondering what he’d witnessed over the decades.

  “Monsters come in many guises,” Marek said quietly. His hands were wrapped around his mug as if for warmth.

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Some of them are human.”

  “A lot of them are.”

  He lifted his cup and took a small sip, which fascinated me. I’d heard vampires could consume things besides blood if they chose, but I’d never sat down with one and witnessed it myself. He put down the mug and ran his sharp, pale tongue over his lips. “Why were you in the club tonight?”

  “Told you.”

  “Right. Looking for whoever murdered those men. But you say you no longer work for the Bureau.”

  I lifted my lip, showing my teeth. “Call it a hobby.”

  “So hunting is your entertainment now? I don’t think so. I’m guessing… penance. Why are you no longer an agent, Clay?”

  This time I actually growled, and I turned my head away. I didn’t owe him an explanation. It was none of his business—none of anyone’s goddamn business.

  After waiting a few moments, Marek sighed. “All right. You will remain a man of mystery. But let me assure you of one thing—I was looking for the same thing as you tonight. Looking for the person responsible for those deaths.”

  “Why the fuck would you care?” I demanded, turning to face him again. I realized as the words left my mouth that I was implicitly acknowledging that he was not the murderer. It was a stupid thing to believe, yet I believed it. After all, had he intended to kill me, he’d already had plenty of opportunity.

  He leaned back in his seat, making the vinyl squeak. “Would you believe I am a principled fiend? Probably not. I have the feeling such a shade of gray doesn’t exist in your black-and-white world.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Let me explain it this way. I learned very early that if I snacked lightly on humans instead of draining them, I’d be much less likely to come to the attention of men like you. I abstain from murder out of a desire for self-preservation. Do you believe that much?”

  Slowly, I nodded. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a story like that, although it had never come to me straight from the vampire’s mouth. But there were vamps I’d been instructed by the Bureau to ignore. Townsend had compared it to feral cats. If you removed them from the neighborhood, more would move in to take their place. But if you neutered them and returned them to streets, they’d keep any newcomers away and few new kittens would be born. As I had recently experienced, Marek was far from neutered. Yet perhaps the principle still applied.

  Seemingly satisfied that I wasn’t arguing with him, Marek reached over to my hand, which clutched my mug, and used one finger to trace a vein. It made me shiver.

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said. “Not only do
I leave my victims alive—and really, few would consider themselves victimized by what I do with them—but I also keep my eyes open for… more lethal predators.”

  “Vampires with fewer scruples?”

  “Sometimes, yes. And all kinds of other beasts. Human and otherwise.” He seemed to consider a moment before continuing. “Do you remember that serial killer in Boston a few years ago? The media called him the Harvard Horror.”

  The case hadn’t been mine, both because it was on the East Coast and also because everyone believed the perp was human. But the FBI often shared information with the Bureau—sometimes we even cooperated—and like most of my fellow agents, I’d followed the case out of professional curiosity. “He was never caught,” I said.

  Marek’s teeth shone very white. “Not by your people, no. But the murders stopped, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s because the Harvard Horror lies in many small pieces in a landfill. He tasted good.” He looked smug.

  “So you don’t always abstain from murder.”

  “I indulge when the situation calls for it.”

  I didn’t point out that a vampire’s notion of a justified killing might be skewed. Sometimes humans had twisted views of their own. “If he wasn’t a vampire intruding on your territory, why would you bother with him?”

  “Because I’d generally rather not have federal agents poking around. Generally.” He gave my hand another quick caress. “Because I could kill him without any twinges from whatever remains of my conscience. And because you are not the only one who wishes to perform penance.”

  I drained the last of my coffee, stood, and returned to the counter, where I paid for a refill. I thought about buying another donut too, but I wasn’t in the mood for sweets. Truly, I hungered for something more substantial. Marek waited patiently, watching me instead of allowing himself to be distracted by the noisy teenagers a few tables away or the colorfully dressed people sitting at the counter.

  “You said you had a warning,” I reminded him, after I’d resumed my seat.

  He ran quick fingers through his hair—a shockingly human action. “I was at the club looking for whoever—whatever—killed those men. But then I saw you, and I thought I might make sure the Bureau was aware of what’s going on. I had other thoughts about you too. Those had nothing to do with murders or federal agencies.” The predatory look he gave me made me shiver again, and not from fear.

  “So if you’re not the killer, who is? Or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. I can tell you that it is not one of my kind, which at least narrows your field of suspects a bit, yes? I can tell you that I believe there are undiscovered victims—perhaps discarded in the Bay or elsewhere. There are rumors among the boys in the clubs. They know something is stalking them, yet they are not afraid for themselves. The young always think themselves invulnerable.” His smile suggested he might have been referring to foolishness he’d once possessed himself.

  I could have countered that even as a small child, I’d known exactly how susceptible to harm I was. In fact, some days I’d gone to bed mildly surprised I’d survived thus far. Some days I still did.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “I think whoever is doing this knows I am here and is trying to lure me closer, but I do not know why. I believe the murders will continue unless someone catches him.”

  “What do you want me to do with this warning?” I asked.

  “Tell the Bureau.”

  “Which no longer employs me.”

  “They might listen nonetheless. I’d appreciate if you’d ask them not to hunt me. This time, at least, we’re on the same side.”

  I snorted. “I thought you didn’t like it when agents come poking around.”

  His expression went momentarily bleak. “I also don’t like it when young people end up dead. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. And this killer is more elusive than the Harvard Horror.” The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Policemen sometimes call for backup, yes? This time, I believe I need backup.”

  Grimacing at the mental image of vampires in blue uniforms, I drained my mug a second time. I dug in my pocket and pulled out a pair of wrinkled singles, which I left on the table for whoever had to clean up after us. Then I stood. “I’ll tell ’em,” I said. “Can’t guarantee they’ll listen.”

  His answering nod was regal. “Thank you.”

  The darkness wrapped around me like a cloak as soon as I left the donut shop, and despite the caffeine I’d just consumed, I was suddenly exhausted. If my wallet had been fatter, I’d have considered a hotel room for the night. Someplace with clean white sheets, sparkling granite and chrome in the bathroom, tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner smelling of lemongrass, and where the only ghosts were polite, corporate ones. But since my cash reserves were low, I trudged in the direction of the nearest BART station.

  I’d gone four or five blocks when I heard his light footsteps behind me.

  When Marek grasped my wrist and dragged me away, I didn’t resist. He took me down a narrow alley between a laundromat and a housing clinic, and then through a tiny parking lot to a loading dock behind a bodega. In a tight, closet-like alcove, he pushed me back against the concrete wall.

  “Long ago, I was taught to finish what I’d begun,” he whispered. And then he kissed me fiercely.

  This space was so utterly dark that I was nearly blind, so I closed my eyes to concentrate on the taste of him—bitter coffee—and the feel of his body against mine. This was better than my imagined hotel. The exhaustion drained from me at once, replaced by passion that had been suppressed while we sat in the donut shop. Moaning into his mouth, I grabbed his ass and pulled him closer. I was as hard as I’d been in the Chinese restaurant, and his cock was equally stiff. I spread my legs and bent my knees a bit to equalize our heights, the building supporting my back as we rutted together.

  I could have come like that, quick and dirty and desperate. But Marek pulled away, dropped to his knees, and opened my jeans, then used one cool hand to pull out my cock.

  A wise man knows that a vampire’s mouth is an imprudent place to put his dick. But I’m not all that wise, and when it came right down to it, there were worse ways to die. In fact I almost laughed at the irony of it. I imagined what the guys at the Bureau would say when they found out—those men and women I’d worked with for years but had never become close to. They’d shake their heads. Call me names. But I think some of them would be envious, deep inside their hardened hearts. Every agent expects to die at the hands of some monster; few picture themselves enjoying the process.

  And I was enjoying indeed, nearly delirious with the pleasure of Marek’s tight throat around me and his soft hair between my grasping fingers.

  He didn’t bite me. Well, not quite. Sometimes he drew his head back, releasing my cock with an obscene pop, and then with infinite care and delicacy, he drew a fang across the tender skin of my glans, my shaft, my scrotum. It didn’t hurt. The opposite, in fact. That sharpness sparked my nerve endings so deliciously, I had to grasp his hair tightly to keep from convulsing and collapsing.

  Marek seemed as caught up in the experience as I was. Vampires don’t need oxygen, yet when he wasn’t sucking me, his breaths came harsh and rapid. And sometimes he paused to press his nose against me and inhale.

  My cock was deep in his throat when I came, and I had to stuff a fist in my mouth to muffle the cry. I leaned back against the building, gasping, and Marek stood. He took my hand and chuckled as he licked it—I’d bitten myself hard enough to draw blood.

  Before I could fasten my jeans, he kissed me again. Slowly this time. Tenderly. Still tasting of coffee but now also of my fluids—blood and semen, salty and warm.

  “Keep yourself safe,” he whispered in my ear. “Don’t give up. Don’t let the darkness overwhelm you. There’s still light within you.” He kisse
d my cheek. And then he was gone.

  Chapter Three

  The Bureau’s West Coast headquarters occupied one of those ugly urban buildings that had sprouted up during the late fifties and early sixties. No effort or money had been wasted on ornamentation, and passersby paid it so little attention that they likely didn’t even remember it was there. This particular edifice was four stories of graying concrete in a nondescript neighborhood in one of the many communities that made up Los Angeles, and for several years, it had been more of a home to me than any of the dull apartments where I’d slept. It still felt like home now, even as I entered through the door marked Visitors and stepped into the cool sterility of the lobby.

  Every surface there was hard and smooth; it was a space completely devoid of warmth and life. The smallest noises echoed, and my footsteps sounded like an advancing army. Liz Biggs sat behind a tall reception desk, her back straight and hair as perfectly coiffed as always. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked crisply, as if she hadn’t known me for years.

  “Need to see Townsend.”

  “You may email his assistant to set up—”

  “Now.”

  “Associate Director Townsend is in a meeting.”

  Almost certainly bullshit, but I didn’t call her on it. “Then he can take a break. I need to talk to him. People are dying.”

  A flash of irritation showed on her face, which I considered a major victory. I continued to stare her down, even though both of us knew there wasn’t a damn thing I could do if she turned me away.

  Biggs blinked first. She spent a moment working her tablet before looking up at me. “You may go ahead, Mr. White. He’s in—”

  “I know where he is.” I took the plastic card she held out and stomped past her. When I reached the elevator bank, I flashed the card at the scanner. Although Townsend was only three floors up and I certainly could have taken the stairs, the card wouldn’t let me into the stairwell. The Bureau was careful about which parts of the building visitors could access.

  The elevator doors whispered open, I stepped inside, and the doors closed. There were no buttons to press, but thanks to the card, the elevator knew where to take me. I wondered who was watching on the security cameras. Tipping my face upwards, I gave a mocking little salute.