by Морган Райс
The door to his dressing room stood slightly ajar. She reached up, donned a latex glove, and gently nudged it open the rest of the way.
She had seen it all in her 20 years as a cop. She’d seen people murdered in just about every possible way, even ways she could not have come up with in her worst nightmares. But she had never seen anything like this.
Not because it was particularly bloody. Not because some horrific violence had taken place. It was something else. Something surreal. It was too quiet. Everything was in perfect place. Except, of course, for the body. He sat slumped backwards in his chair, his neck exposed. And there, under the light, were two perfect holes, right in his jugular vein.
No blood. No signs of struggle. No torn clothing. Nothing else out of place. It was as if a bat had descended, sucked his blood perfectly clean, then flew away, without touching anything else. It was eerie. And outright terrifying. If his skin hadn’t turned completely white, she would have thought he was still alive, just taking a nap. She even felt tempted to go over and feel his pulse. But she knew that would be stupid.
Sergei Rakov. He was young. And from what she’d heard, he’d been an arrogant prick. Could he already have had enemies?
What in hell could have done this? She wondered. An animal? A person? A new sort of weapon? Or had he done it to himself?
“The angle of attack rules out suicide,” Detective Ramos said, standing at her side with his notepad and, as always, reading her mind.
“I want everything you have on him,” she said. “I want to know who he owed money to. I want to know who his enemies were—I want to know his ex-girlfriends, his future wives. I want it all. He may have pissed the wrong people off.”
“Yes, mam,” he said, and hurried from the room.
Why would they pick this exact time to murder him? Why intermission? Were they sending some sort of message?
She walked slowly in the heavily carpeted room, circling, looking at him from every possible angle. He had long, black wavy hair, and was strikingly attractive, even in death. What a waste.
At that moment, a sudden noise filled the room. All the officers turned at once. They looked up, and saw that the small TV in the corner had lit up. It played footage of the night’s performance. Beethoven’s Ninth filled the room.
One of the detectives approached the TV to turn it off.
“Don’t,” she said.
The detective stopped in mid-stride.
“I want to hear it.”
She stood there, staring at Sergei, as his voice filled the room. His voice that had been alive only hours before. It was eerie.
Grace circled the room once more. This time she kneeled.
“We’ve already been over this room, detective,” the FBI agent said, impatient.
She spotted something out of the corner of her eye. She reached down, far beneath one of the slick armchairs. She craned her neck and twisted her arm, and reached all the way under.
She finally found what she was looking for. She stood, red-faced, and held up a small piece of paper.
All of the other detectives stared back.
“A ticket stub,” she said, examining it with her gloved hand. “Mezzanine Right, seat 3. From tonight’s concert.”
She looked up and stared hard at all of her detectives, who stared blankly back.
“You think it belonged to the killer?” one of the masked.
“Well, one thing I know,” she said, taking one final look at the dead, Russian opera star. “It didn’t belong to him.”
Kyle walked down the red carpeted hallways, strutting through the thick crowd. He was annoyed, as usual. He hated crowds, and he hated Carnegie Hall. He had been to a concert here once, in the 1890s, and it had not gone well. He did not release a grudge easily.
As he marched down the hall, the high collars of his black tunic covering his neck and framing his face, people made way for him. Officers, security guards, press agents – the entire crowd parted ways.
Humans are too easy to control, he thought. The slightest bit of mindbending, and they scurry out of the way like sheep.
A vampire of the Blacktide Coven, Kyle had seen it all in his 3,000 plus years. He had been there when they killed Christ. He had witnessed the French Revolution. He had watched smallpox spread across Europe—and had even helped it spread. There was nothing left that could surprise them.
But this night surprised him. And he did not like to be surprised.
Normally, he would just let his usual, imposing presence speak for itself, and push his way through the crowd. Despite his years, he looked young and handsome, and people usually gave way. But he had no patience for that tonight, especially given the circumstances. He had burning questions left unanswered.
What sort of rogue vampire would be so audacious as to openly kill a human? Would choose to do so in such a public way, leaving no other possibility but for the body to be found? It went against every rule of their race. Whether you were on the good or bad side of that race, it was one line you did not cross. No one wanted that sort of attention drawn to the race. It was a breach of their creed that guaranteed only one punishment: death. A long, torturous death.
Who would be so bold to attempt such a thing? To draw so much unwanted attention from the press, the politicians, the police? And worse, to do so in his coven’s territory? It made his coven look bad—worse than bad. It made them look defenseless. The entire vampire race would convene and hold them to account. And if they didn’t find this rogue, it could mean an outright war. War at a time when they could not afford to have one, at just the moment they were about to execute their master plan.
Kyle walked past a female police detective, and she bumped him pretty hard. To top it off, she turned and stared at him. He was surprised. No other human in this crowd had the force of will to even take notice of him. She must be stronger than the others. Either that, or he was getting sloppy.
He doubled his mind strength, directing it right at her. She finally she shook her head, turned, and kept walking. He would have to take note of her. He looked down and saw her nameplate. Detective Grace Grant. She might end up being a problem.
Kyle continued down the hall, brushing past more reporters, past the tape, and finally past a new flock of FBI agents. He made his way to the ajar door, and looked inside. The room was filled with several more FBI agents. There was also a man in an expensive suit. From his shifting, ambitious eyes, Kyle guessed he was a politician.
“The Russian Embassy is not pleased,” he snapped to the FBI agent in charge. “You realize that this is not just a matter for the New York police, or just for the American government. Sergei was a star among our national vocalists. His murder must be interpreted as an offense upon our country –”
Kyle held up his palm, and using his force of will, closed the politician’s mouth. He hated listening to politicians speak, and he had heard more than enough from this one. He hated Russians, too. He hated most things, actually. But tonight, his hatred rose to a new level. His impatience was getting the best of him.
No one in the room seemed to realize that Kyle closed the politician’s mouth, even the politician himself. Or perhaps they were thankful. In any case, Kyle stepped to the side, and used his mind power to suggest that everyone leave the room.
“I say that we all take a coffee break for a few minutes,” the FBI agent in charge suddenly said. “Clear our heads a bit.”
The crowd nodded in agreement and quickly fled from the room, as if that were the most natural thing to do. As one final step, Kyle had them close the door behind themselves. He hated the sound of human voices, and especially did not want to hear them now.
Kyle breathe deeply. Finally alone, he could let his thoughts settle entirely on this human. He went up close and pulled back Sergei’s collar, revealing the bite marks. Kyle reached up and placed two pale, cold fingers over them. He held them up and took note of the distance between them.
A smaller bitespan than he would have
guessed. It’s a she. The rogue vampire was female. And young. The teeth were not that deep.
He placed his fingers back over the bite and closed his eyes. He tried to feel the nature of the blood, the nature of the vampire that did the biting. Finally, he opened his eyes wide in shock. He withdrew his fingers quickly. He did not like what he felt. He couldn’t recognize it. It was definitely a rogue vampire. Not of his clan, or of any Clan he knew. More troubling, he could not detect what breed of vampire she was at all. In his 3,000 years, this had never happened to him before.
He raised his fingers, and tasted them. Her scent overwhelmed him. Usually, that would be enough—he’d know exactly where to find her. But still, he was at a loss. Something was obscuring his vision.
He frowned. They would have no choice in this case. They would have to rely on the human police to find her. His superiors would not be pleased.
Kyle was even more annoyed than before, if possible. He stared at Sergei, and debated what to do with him. In a few hours’ time he would awake, another clan-less vampire on the loose. He could kill him right now, for good, and get it over with. He would actually quite enjoy that. The vampire race hardly needed a new addition.
But that would be granting Sergei a great gift. He would not have to suffer immortality, suffer thousands of years of survival and despair. Of endless nights. No, that would be too kind. Instead, why not make Sergei suffer along with him?
He thought about it. An opera singer. Yes. His coven would quite enjoy that. This little, Russian boy could entertain them whenever they felt like it. He would bring him back. Convert him. And have yet another minion at his disposal.
Plus, Sergei could help them find her. Her scent now ran in his blood. He could lead them to her. And then they would make her suffer.
Chapter Eight
Caitlin woke to burning pain. Her skin felt on fire, and when she tried to open her eyes, a stabbing pain forced them shut. It exploded into her skull.
She kept her eyes closed, and instead used her hands to feel around. She was lying on top of something. It felt soft, yet firm. Uneven. It couldn’t be a mattress. She ran her fingers along it. It felt like plastic.
Caitlin opened her eyes, more slowly this time, and peeked down at her hands. Plastic. Black plastic. And that smell. What was it? She turned her head just a little, opened her eyes a little more, and then she realized. She was sprawled out, on her back, on a pile of garbage bags. She craned her neck. She was inside a dumpster.
She sat up with a start. The pain exploded, her neck and head splitting with pain. The stench was unbearable. She looked around, eyes open now, and was horrified. How the hell had she wound up here?
She rubbed her forehead, trying to piece together the events that got her here. She drew a blank. She tried to remember last night. She used all her force of will to summon it back. Slowly, it came…
Her fight with her mother. The subway. Meeting Jonah. Carnegie Hall. The concert. Then….then….
The hunger. The craving. Yes, the craving. Leaving Jonah. Rushing out. Roaming the halls. Then… Blank. Nothing.
Where had she gone? What had she done? And how on Earth had she ended up here? Had Jonah drugged her? Did he have his way with her, then deposit her here?
She didn’t think so. She couldn’t imagine he was the type. In her last memory, roaming the halls, she was alone. She had left him far behind. No. It couldn’t have been him.
Then what?
Caitlin kneeled slowly on the garbage, one of her feet slipping between two bags, as she sank down further into the pit. She yanked her foot out quickly and found some solid ground, plastic bottles crunching loudly.
She looked up and saw that the metal lid to the canister was open. Had she opened it last night and climbed in here? Why would she have done that? She reached up and just barely grabbed hold of the metal bar at the top. She worried she would be strong enough to pull herself up and out.
But she tried, and was amazed to find that she pulled herself out easily: one graceful motion, and she swung her legs over the side, dropped down several feet and landed on the cement. To her surprise, she landed with great agility, the shock barely hurting her at all. What was happening to her?
Just as Caitlin landed on the New York City sidewalk, a well-dressed couple had been walking past. She startled them. They turned and stared, mortified, not seeming to comprehend why a teenage girl would suddenly jump out of a huge garbage dumpster. They gave her the strangest look, then doubled their pace, hurrying to get as far away from her as possible.
Caitlin didn’t blame them. She probably would have done the same. She looked down at herself, still dressed in her cocktail attire from last night, her clothing completely soiled and covered in garbage. She stank. She tried her best to wipe it off.
While she was at it, she ran her hands quickly over her body and pockets. No phone. Her mind raced, as she tried to remember if she had taken it from the apartment.
No. She had left it in her apartment, in her bedroom, on the corner of her desk. She had meant to grab it, but had been so flustered by her Mom that she’d left it behind. Shit. She had also left her journal. She needed them both. And she needed a shower, and a change of clothes.
Caitlin looked down at her wrist, but her watch was gone. She must have lost it somewhere during the night. She took a step out of the alley, into the busy sidewalk, and the sunlight hit her directly in the face. Pain radiated through her forehead.
She quickly stepped back into the shade. She couldn’t understand what was going on. Thankfully, it was late in the afternoon. Hopefully this hangover, or whatever it was, would pass quickly.
She tried to think. Where could she go? She wanted to call Jonah. It was crazy, because she barely knew him. And after last night, whatever she’d done, she was sure he’d never want to see her again. But, still, he was the first one who came to her mind. She wanted to hear his voice, to be with him. If nothing else, she needed him to fill her in on what had happened. She desperately want to talk to him. She needed her phone.
She would go home one last time, get her phone and her journal, and get out. She prayed her Mom wouldn’t be home. Maybe, just this one time, luck would be on her side.
Caitlin stood outside her building and looked up apprehensively. It was sunset now, and the light didn’t bother her as much. In fact, as night approached, she felt stronger with each passing hour.
She bounded up the five-story walkup with lightning speed, surprising herself. She took the steps three at a time, and her legs weren’t even tired. She couldn’t fathom what was happening to her body. Whatever it was, she loved it.
Her good mood dimmed as she approached her apartment door. Her heart began to pound, as she wondered if her Mom would be home. How would she react?
But as she reached for the doorknob, she was surprised to see that the door was already open, slightly ajar. Her foreboding increased. Why would it be open?
Caitlin walked tentatively into the apartment, the wood creaking beneath her feet. She slowly stepped through the foyer and into the living room.
As she entered she turned her head—and suddenly raised her hands to her mouth in shock. A horrible wave of nausea hit her. She turned and vomited.
It was her Mom. Lying there, slumped against the floor, eyes open. Dead. Her mother. Dead. But how?
Blood oozed from her neck, and collected in a small puddle on the floor. There was no way she could have done it to herself. She had been killed. Murdered. But how? By who? As much as she hated her Mom, she never would have wanted her to end up like this.
The blood was still fresh, and Caitlin suddenly realized that it must have just happened. The ajar door. Had someone broken in?
She suddenly wheeled, looking all around her, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Was someone else in the apartment?
As if to answer her silent question, at that very moment, three people, dressed head to toe in black, appeared from the other room. They walked
nonchalantly into the living room, heading right for Caitlin. Three men. It was hard to tell how old they were—they looked ageless—maybe, late 20s. They were all well-built. Muscular. Not an ounce of fat on them. Well groomed. And very, very pale.
One of them stepped forward.
Caitlin took a step back in fear. A new sense was coming over her, a feeling of dread. She didn’t understand how, but she could sense this person’s energy. And it was very, very bad.
“So,” the leader said, in a dark, sinister voice. “The chicken comes home to roost.”
“Who are you?” Caitlin asked, backing up. She scanned the room for a weapon of some sort. Maybe a pipe, or a bat. She started thinking of exit points. The window behind her. Did it lead to a fire escape?
“Precisely the question we wanted to ask of you,” the leader said. “Your human friend had no answers,” he said, gesturing at her Mom’s body. “Hopefully, you will.”
Human? What was this person talking about?
Caitlin took several more steps back. She didn’t have much room left to go. She was almost flush against the wall. She remembered now: the window behind her did lead to a fire escape. She remembered sitting on it, her first day in the apartment. It was rusted. And rickety. But it seemed to work.
“That was quite a feed at Carnegie Hall,” he said. The three of them slowly approached her, each taking a step forward. “Very dramatic.”
Caitlin scanned her memories desperately.
Feed? Try as she could, she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“Why intermission?” he asked. “What was the message you were trying to send?”
She was against the wall, and had nowhere left to go. They took another step closer. She felt certain they would kill her if she did not tell them what they wanted.
She thought as hard as she could. Message? Intermission? She recalled roaming the halls, the carpeted hallways, going room to room. Searching. Yes, it was coming back to her. There was an open door. A dressing room. A man inside. He had looked up at her. There had been fear in his eyes. And then…