by Angela Allen
The request is familiar, the pain a little less sharp each time he voices my own secret longing. The memory of the secret caverns deep underground where our kind nest and mate fills me with constant longing. Each time he comes he asks me to return. But each time I answer the same.
“By the order of the Council I have no home,” I answer, my head still bowed and my gaze directed toward the floor. “Any vampire who stands accused of harboring a human must be punished. I am guilty of nothing and would do it again. The human I found had less than five years. I did not bring him forward to the Council because they would have ordered his death.”
“That is the right of the Council. It is not your place as a non-power-holder to pass judgment on these matters!” says the man harshly. “It has only been three months’ time. If you come back with me now I can still use my power as a Council member to sway them against a full Inquisition.
“You made this choice. No one expected you to choose a sentence of seven years’ banishment in the world of the humans rather than submit to a trial by Inquisition,” he adds, a note of accusation in his voice now. “It’s not too late to go back. You can still prove your loyalty.”
“No, this is my life now,” I answer, without looking up. I don’t need to see him to visualize his face, a breathtaking arrangement of skin the color of richest teakwood over bold, chiseled features and curved lips set under stormy gray eyes, his shining black hair worn long in the way of his warrior ancestors who roamed this land when it was still called the New World.
Silence stretches between us for long seconds and then I hear my name called in a throbbing whisper: “Sheila.”
His hand falls across my shoulder in a heated caress that leaves a trail of fire in its wake. I rise to my feet, bringing my nude body against his fully clothed one and twining my arms around his neck as he towers over me.
The kiss is full of heat, scorching me both inside and out. His hands slide down my back and encircle my hips. I feel his heavy erection rising between us. I twist my hips against him, eager to feel him inside me. He rains hot kisses down the side of my neck as we sink to the floor, falling into each other with the ease of longtime lovers.
“I miss you,” I confess on a broken breath as his lips find my nipple. I grasp handfuls of his thick, silky hair, swirling it over my breasts and stomach in a sensual feast. The flickering candlelight bathes us in soft shadows.
As we lose ourselves in the dark taste of passion, our heartbeats slowly synchronize until they beat as one.
All conversation stops the moment I cross the threshold of the small, cramped trailer space that serves as the headquarters of the Union of Ship Haulers and Plastic Fitters. Outdated and peeling prounion posters are tacked to the paneling alongside dusty calendars featuring half-naked women with improbable-sized busts. The male faces in the room wear various expressions of shock, surprise and hostility.
“Holy shit,” breathes one man, his blue eyes widening visibly as they travel over me.
“Sheila, come on in. You’re just in time,” calls Tommy, entering the office through a second door. “Sal’s finishing up with the ballots and should be out any minute.
“I believe you guys have heard of the newest addition to my private security team,” he drawls with the smug look of a young boy showing off a new toy.
“This is Vinny, a friend a mine,” he says, using Mob language to signal that Vinny is a made man.
“What is this, some kinda joke?” says the scowling Vinny, all dark eyes and thick wavy hair. “Did the suits at headquarters give you Soul Sister for a partner?”
A round of derisive male laughter fills the trailer.
“This soul sister holds a black belt in tae kwon do and is a crack shot,” bites out an angry Tommy, springing to my defense. “She can split the hairs on your ass with a nine. I’d trust her with my life!”
An uneasy silence grips the room in the wake of his outburst.
Tommy’s normally placid brown eyes are hard as stone, and I can see by the men’s faces that they’ve been reminded that Tommy is no low-level Mob soldier to be taunted with impunity. He is a top capo with a kick-ass reputation and the power to make or break any man in the room.
“Hey, take it easy, paesan. You know Vinny ain’t been right in the head since high school, when he got knocked out during the championship game,” teases a handsome young man of medium height.
“Fucking goombah,” responds Vinny with a half-smile and a toss of his head.
“Welcome to the family,” adds the teaser, coming forward with a warm smile and a glint of pure male appreciation in his hazel eyes as they drop to my breasts encased in a corset-style, laced black leather jacket.
He catches my eye on the way back up. “Nice…gloves,” he says with a grin.
I hear heavy footsteps approaching and turn my head toward the door at the far side of the trailer. Moments later Sal lumbers through carrying a box marked OFFICIAL UNION BALLOTS in his beefy hands and a half-lit cigar clamped between his teeth.
“Alright, it’s done. The ballots have been counted and the winner declared,” he mumbles around his cigar.
“Hey, Sal, you make that adjustment?” A guy in the crowd laughs.
“Stutti zitto!” Sal yells, waving the cigar angrily. “You think the walls don’t have ears? You’re going to bring the feds down on us, opening your big mouth!”
“Let me help you with that,” says Tommy with a speaking look around the room. He deftly hands the box off to me and I slide it into a heavy canvas backpack.
“Aspetta momento!” Sal calls out as I open the door to leave. “Tommy, I just remembered. I got some other business to discuss with you. Youse better stay a while longer.”
“Sure, Sal,” says Tommy affably, waving me back in.
“No, no, in private. I mean, family business, capisce?” explains Sal with a falsely apologetic look toward me.
“It’s no problem. I can handle this job alone,” I tell Tommy.
“Alright,” he finally sighs in resignation. “But I won’t be long. I’ll be right behind you. And remember, make the delivery directly to the Doctor.”
I notice the glare of headlights behind me as I’m heading out on my bike back to the main road leading out of the pier. The vehicle slowly trails me but doesn’t come close enough to ring any alarm bells. After a few minutes I idly dismiss it as some of Sal’s boys who’ve also left early.
Most of my concentration is on finding my way back through the thicket of rusted, metal cargo containers and old shipping crates that litter the area. My bike’s tires struggle for purchase on the pockmarked road surface, caked with years of oil and grease. I take a firmer grip as my back wheel abruptly slides hard to the right.
The sound of the revving motor is my only warning before the vehicle behind me suddenly speeds up, bearing down with predatory intent. It is so close that I can clearly make out the individual points of the spiked, metal grille mounted on the front of the large, dark SUV. Dark-tinted windows cloak the face of the driver.
The sharp edges of the spikes inch ever closer, ten feet, six feet—now three feet. I hang a quick left around a hulking metal container, my wheels fishtailing wildly as they slip on oily residue. They find traction just as the SUV swings around the same curve. I’ve gained precious seconds but I can’t outrun him here as I could on the open road. The paths are too short and dangerously near the river. I have to stay away from the water at all costs.
I duck around a line of waist-high crates, the SUV still prowling behind me. Suddenly it roars into my peripheral vision, keeping pace with me on the other side of the crates. We race along separated only by a few feet of wood. Up ahead I can see the telltale gleam of moonlight on water. I turn the bike in a tight three-sixty curve, speeding back the way I came. The SUV swings wide to block my path, hitting an oil patch but quickly correcting. We are now on a head-on collision course, players in a dangerous game of chicken.
The seconds tick by with dizzying s
peed as I calculate and weigh my narrowing options. On one side is a gauntlet of heavy crates, on the other are the life-stealing waters of the sea and ahead are three tons of metal charging toward me with pulverizing force.
Seconds from impact I swerve, sending the bike skidding across the pavement and my body catapulting through the air. I crash onto the hood of the SUV, arms and legs flailing as I grope for a hold.
On the other side of the tinted windshield the driver wrenches the wheel, sending the car careening across the roadway. I bear down with all my strength, one hand clinging to the edge of the hood while the other grips the handle of the driver’s side-view mirror. My incisors slide down as rage blooms inside me. The thin veneer of civilization is ripped away by my murderous frenzy. My fist smashes through the tinted glass, startling the driver into releasing the wheel. With a low growl, I wrap my gloved fingers around his throat and drag him out, hurling his body through the air with inhuman strength. I leap off the hood and the SUV speeds on its path, splashing off the pier and into the murky water.
The man on the ground coughs weakly as he turns his head. “Fucking mooley, I’m gonna kill you! You got no business here and we don’t want you!” sneers Vinny. “Sal’s gonna get rid of you! I’m gonna whack you myself.”
I stand over his prone figure, looking down at him and struggling to master the killing rage screaming at me to tear him limb from limb. From my vantage point I can clearly see his broken leg, the knee twisted at what looks to be an excruciatingly painful angle. Vinny won’t be driving again any time soon.
He stares up at me in mingled horror and fascination, blinking in disbelief and swiping a hand across his face.
I smile wider, letting him see my incisors.
“S-s-spooky fucking bitch, you’re gonna put the malocchio on me!” he stutters, crawling away, using his hands to pull himself along against the weight of his injured leg.
“I’m not going to give you the evil eye. I’m a vampire, not a witch,” I say, moving so fast he doesn’t have time to scream before I sink my teeth into his neck.
A faint gurgle deep in his throat is all I hear as I take my fill, the rich blood sinking into me, my rage draining away on a wave of satiation.
By the time Tommy reaches the Doctor’s house, I have been careful to erase all traces of my encounter with Vinny. The only clues left are the tears and rips in my black gloves, but those have been thrown away and replaced with an unmarked pair. When Tommy arrives I am in the garage polishing the chrome on my bike, my motions calm and unhurried.
“Hey, Sheila, did you see or hear anything strange on your way out?” says Tommy as he walks in. “Vinny was jumped as he was leaving the Navy Yard. They broke his leg and stole his car. The guys found him down by the docks, talking out of his head about witches and vampires.”
“Everything was quiet when I left.” I shrug. “How’d things go with Sal?”
“You know Sal, he wanted to know why outsiders were being allowed into La Cosa Nostra,” says Tommy, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “He’s just an old-timer who wants things cut-and-dried like they were in the good ol’ days of Prohibition when the Italians ran one neighborhood and the Irish ran another. I told him Meyer Lansky was one of the most famous Mafiosi ever and he was Jewish. How’s that for racial fucking diversity?” He laughs.
The intercom on the wall crackles to life: “Tommy and Sheila, please come to my study,” requests the Doctor.
“On the way, Doc,” answers Tommy.
“I’ve just gotten word that we’ve lost a fourth courier,” says the Doctor in greeting as we enter the room. “The other families are starting to ask questions, suggesting we can’t handle our end of the trade and we’re becoming a liability. There’s rumors the Commission may bring this matter up and use it as a reason to vote against letting Tony Jr. be made.
“I want this killer stopped. The family can’t afford to lose the confidence of the Commission,” he adds from his seat before the fire, a brandy snifter held casually in one hand.
“This job is now priority one. I want them stopped. I don’t care what it takes. And, Tommy, when you find the person responsible, take care of the problem—for good,” he finishes tightly, his professional mask slipping to reveal the ruthless Mob boss underneath.
The foul air in the alley has not improved. Even the cold air doesn’t completely dispel the stench. The level of garbage spilling from the forgotten trash Dumpster is the same and the lone streetlight continues to shine fitfully, threatening with each flicker to fade altogether. The only change in the forlorn landscape is the torn line of black-and-yellow police tape that now litters the ground, mute evidence of murder.
Tommy’s police-issue black sedan is brazenly parked in front of a fire hydrant when I arrive.
“This where you found the vic?” he asks, shining his flashlight on a dark smear of dried blood in the rear of the alley. Standing nearby, smoking nonchalantly, is Dmitri, his blond hair and parchment-pale skin starkly illuminated under the gaze of the full moon.
He greets me with a cool glance from ice-blue eyes, his face wearing its habitual closed expression. The tall, Soviet-born Dmitri Federov was a former KGB agent and member of the Russian Mafia known for his silence and his skill with weapons. The doctor had hired him for both reasons.
“This is where I found Enrique,” I answer. “But the lookout was killed closer to the street. He was ambushed from behind with a knife and the body dragged here.”
“It makes sense. Kill ’em quick and then dump the bodies somewhere they’ll blend in with the rest of the trash,” comments Tommy. “It’s not what I’d do but it’s not a bad plan for an idiot perp.”
“Alright, so we got a perp who’s good with a blade and likes to attack from the back,” he theorizes. “Everyone fan out and look for anything that sticks out, anything odd or out of place that can give us a clue to this guy.”
Without a word, Dmitri obediently wanders off, flashlight in one hand, cigarette in the other, his eyes diligently scanning the ground behind the Dumpster.
I stake out an area near the far wall, every so often swinging the flashlight in a careful show of industriousness. My superior night vision allows me to easily cut through the shadows and zero in on small objects invisible to the two men, but I keep up the pretense of using the light for the sake of appearances.
The faint gleam of moonlight on metal catches my eye. I crouch down for a better look and see the earring half-buried under dirt and debris. I’m ready to dismiss it as simply a lost trinket, but then my mind flashes back to the images captured by the killer’s blade, the man looming over Enrique, a flash of blood dripping from the killer’s torn earlobe before all is swamped by pain and fear.
“Sheila, you got something?” calls Tommy.
“I think Enrique managed to rip this from the killer’s ear before he died,” I say, holding up the small gold hoop. “If he was wounded and bleeding, we might be able to pick up his trail.”
“We’re damn lucky you found anything in this darkness,” he says, reaching out to examine the earring. “This place is a hell-hole in the daytime and it’s ten times worse at night.
“After two days, we’ll need a shitload of luck to pick up his trail,” he adds, rolling his shoulders under the weight of his gun holster and jacket.
“You never know,” I murmur, rising and walking back to the street, haphazardly directing the flashlight along the sidewalk, kicking aside broken bottles and discarded beer cans while casting around for telltale signs of blood undetectable to the human eye.
“The killer was on foot and heading west,” I say, spotting a ragged but steady trail, the fallen blood like neon markers, each droplet a ruby-red snowflake, delicately beautiful with an intricate latticework design that called to me in a wordless language.
“He can’t have gone far on foot,” says Tommy, as we turn the corner and veer off toward an overgrown lot. “He must have been headed to someplace within walking distance.”
“It stops here,” I say, coming to a halt before a rusty, metal manhole cover. The area is surrounded by overgrown bushes and weeds but the manhole’s rusted metal surface is relatively clean.
“Fucking rat went underground,” spits Tommy, but without any real heat in his voice. He gives a resigned sigh and leans down, grunting as he lifts the heavy manhole cover aside, revealing a ladder descending into a narrow tunnel, the walls covered in mold and fungus.
“Ladies first,” says Tommy with a wicked grin.
After a few feet the narrow tunnel opens onto several overlapping train tracks. I climb down, Dmitri close on my heels. The air here is close and warm from the heat generated by the passing subway trains. It is also saturated with the smell of decades of decay, wet mold and the excrement of thousands of rats.
“Sweet Baby Jesus! This is disgusting,” exclaims Tommy, descending behind Dmitri, his flashlight on a seething mass of rodents nesting at the bottom of a nearby wall. “How the hell are we going to track him down here?”
“He can’t be far, it’s too dangerous to walk on these tracks for long,” I say. “The third rail is carrying enough voltage to light up a small town.”
“Shit,” moans Tommy, gingerly stepping across wooden railroad ties.
Squealing rats mark our progress as we plow through the inky darkness. There are no drops of blood to light our way. I must instead rely on my keen sense of smell to track the killer’s path. After two days the scent is faint and nearly buried under the chemical tracks of others. Like a weaver with a basket of different-colored threads, I examine each one until I isolate his smell, sending my senses on a quest for any lingering traces.
“Damn, it’s hotter in here than hell on the Fourth of July,” mutters Tommy, wiping his forehead. “This place is a fucking cesspool. Only a crazy person would live down here.”
“Shhh…” I hiss suddenly, holding my hand up for silence.
Half a dozen figures carrying glass-covered lanterns slowly shuffle into view. There are no visible signs of weapons.