The Ghoul Vendetta

by Lisa Shearin

  Ian started pulling up the anchor. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  9

  THE ghoul gang had robbed another bank.

  Ian and I were at our desks in the agents’ cube farm—known as the bull pen—watching the action unfold on two of the flat screen TVs mounted on sections of wall.

  An agent nearby muttered a word that would’ve gotten my mouth washed out with soap back home. I agreed with my coworker’s word choice, and silently added a few of my own.

  I glanced at Ian out of the corner of my eye.

  My partner was the embodiment of stoic—eyes on the monitor, face set on neutral. It was his cop face, his soldier face, the face that said he could handle this, that he was handling this. Nothing to see here, move along.

  I was his partner and I was close enough to see the pulse in his neck, a pulse rate that was at odds with the emotionless mask he was wearing.

  The Prime Bank’s surveillance cameras started to show what no one wanted to see—unless they were into snuff films. I knew what was coming. Thankfully, CNN cut away from the footage at that point, but they did tell their millions of viewers what had happened to the two bank guards. We all knew it was only a matter of time until a pirated version of that footage made it online. Then anyone who was sick enough or had a strong enough stomach could watch the ghouls eat those guards alive to their hearts’ content.

  SPI’s Media and Public Relations department was in full-blown crisis mode. They specialized in working behind the scenes to explain the unexplainable, turning actual encounters and sightings into simple hoaxes by those looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, or exposing them as elaborate cover-ups by any number of shadowy government agencies that were ripe for the blaming. No one made direct accusations, of course; their information was usually based on “a source close to the investigation speaking on condition of anonymity because they weren’t authorized to discuss the investigation publically.”

  And not all people in SPI’s Media and PR department worked from headquarters. They had people in the highest levels at TV networks, cable news, all across/over/throughout the web, and even in the increasingly archaic print media. Influence had been bought, paid for, and was being well used—except today apparently.

  CNN had already interviewed the department director, Kylie O’Hara. SPI was her real job, but the world at large didn’t know that. Her cover job was being a world-renowned debunker of anything and everything that smacked of the supernatural, which was ironic as all get-out considering she wasn’t even human. Kylie was a dryad, which meant she was gorgeous. Her real name was something unpronounceable with way too many apostrophes. The shortened version of her first name was similar enough to Kylie, and she used O’Hara because it was the name of the state forest near the shore of Lake Ontario in Upstate New York where she was born. And people thought her green eyes and last name meant she was Irish.

  Kylie was also front and center on TV and radio talk shows, and was accepted by respected journalists as an expert on the exposé. Heck, Syfy had been after her for years to do a series. Kylie had explained away the latest robbery with movie-quality makeup, and the cannibalism part with sick bastards—my words, not hers.

  When more than a few agents’ phones started beeping or buzzing with incoming texts, we knew exactly where we’d be going next without even looking at our screens.

  The war room.

  SPI had conference rooms of all sizes, but the war room was one of the largest. It seated over a hundred, and was reserved for all-hands-on-deck emergencies. Ghoul bank robbers eating bank guards being reported on CNN certainly qualified as an agency-wide emergency. No one said a word as we filed in.

  Alain Moreau was standing at the front of the room, waiting for everyone to get in and get a seat. If he was cursing the day Vivienne Sagadraco had told him she was taking her first vacation in a century, you’d never know it to look at him.

  Yasha was already there. Normally that would be a surprise. Briefings were usually for agents only. To me and Ian, Yasha was much more than a driver. But if he was here, then Moreau had invited him. I didn’t need to be told why. Any case that involved the ghoul involved Ian, and if it involved Ian, then as our driver, Yasha needed to be involved.

  To keep Ian out of trouble.

  Yasha had saved two seats for us. He said nothing to either one of us, but gave Ian a solemn nod, which I took to be werewolf/manspeak for “I’ve got your back.”

  Alain Moreau picked up a remote from the podium. “Agent Foyle? If you’ll close the door, please. Ladies and gentlemen, last night seven ghouls entered the Prime Bank on Madison Avenue and its vault via a portal. The method of entry and exit is unconfirmed, but seeing as no alarms were triggered, and all doors were locked, we’ll operate under that assumption. The ghouls took the contents of two safe deposit boxes, and rather than exit the vault with no one being the wiser until this morning when the vault was opened . . .” He turned to the screen mounted on the front wall and clicked the remote he held.

  The security footage showed the closed vault door. Slowly, the wheel in the center of the massive steel door began to turn, then deadbolts—I didn’t know what else to call them—the size of my upper arm slid smoothly from the vault’s wall. No one was outside the vault; it was being unlocked from the inside, by ghouls. It was one of the creepiest things I’d ever witnessed in my life.

  The screen split to show two security guards at their desk, watching the monitors. The eyes of one man widened as he leaned closer to be sure he wasn’t imagining what he was seeing. I wanted to scream for them to run out the front door and keep running, don’t go downstairs. For God’s sake, don’t go downstairs. They went downstairs.

  By the time the two guards got there, the ghouls had the door open and were waiting for them, the safe deposit boxes they’d emptied again sitting on the table in the center of the vault. They’d taken care of business; now they wanted some pleasure—and to be seen doing it. Once they began feeding, the six ghouls didn’t look up, but their leader stood to the side of the butchery, arms crossed over his chest, smiling up at the camera, knowing he was being watched—knowing Ian was watching.

  Ian’s expression never changed and his breathing remained even, the consummate professional objectively viewing evidence of the most gruesome crime I’d ever seen—though not that I’d ever heard of. Both humans and supernaturals were endlessly creative in finding new ways to kill each other.

  It took nearly three minutes for one of the guards to stop screaming.

  Some agents looked away, others took quick glances, and a few fled the room, retching.

  Ian didn’t so much as blink.

  The other agents had never watched ghouls eat a human.

  Ian had lived it.

  I glanced down at my hands, clenched into fists in my lap, willing the contents of my stomach to stay put. I glanced over at where Ian’s hands calmly held his phone, his text screen visible. It was Moreau’s summons—but he’d sent Ian more. He’d told Ian that he’d be showing the entire tape, what was on it, and that Ian didn’t need to attend, he would brief him afterward.

  And here Ian sat.

  Alain Moreau had offered Ian a way out of watching it, if he wanted to take it.

  I knew my partner, and Moreau did, too. If the rest of the agents had to sit through this, Ian would, too. Moreau knew Ian would refuse, but he’d still offered.

  On the screen, the lead ghoul unfolded his arms, and in his hands was what looked like a long, triangular spearhead. The video was in black and white, and while clear, it wasn’t close enough to see details. The ghoul stepped over to the dead guard closest to him and sank the spearhead halfway up its length in the man’s chest. Then he looked back at the camera and smiled. He snapped his fingers and the ghouls stopped eating, went back into the vault, and no doubt out through the same portal they’d used to gain access.

/>   Alain Moreau stood and clicked the remote to end the televised nightmare, the one we’d all be having later.

  “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we’re up against and what we must find. As you saw, those ghouls knew where those cameras were and they made no effort to conceal themselves—or alter their appearance.”

  I raised my hand to ask what Ian had to be thinking. That spearhead had to be another message for him.

  Moreau nodded in my direction. “Agent Fraser?”

  “Do we have access to that spearhead; and if not, can we get better resolution on that image?”

  “Yes, to both. Unfortunately, the first police on the scene were not our people inside the NYPD. However, we are working with our higher ranking contacts there to get access to the evidence, including the spearhead. Agent Hayashi is presently working on cleaning up the video image until we can obtain the copies of the forensics photography. As the medical examiner on the first murder, Dr. Van Daal will have access to the victims in this robbery, as well as all evidence and reports.”

  “What are the mortal police saying?” an elven agent asked.

  “They know even less than we do concerning the robbers’ motives. The two safe deposit boxes that were emptied belonged to Hunter Enterprises. The authorities know the CEO of that company as Gabriel Frontino. We know Monsieur Frontino as the head of New York’s second most powerful vampire crime family, next to the Báthorys. Like Gotham Bank & Trust, the Prime Bank was founded by and largely caters to supernaturals. When one has an extended lifespan, it’s less awkward and more convenient to bank where you don’t have to pretend to die every ninety years.”

  Roy Benoit, commander of one of SPI’s two commando teams, raised his hand and Moreau acknowledged him with a nod. “Even if they used a portal, a bank of that caliber should have wards that would have alerted not only the guards on-site, but off-site security as well. What happened to those?”

  “They do have wards,” Moreau replied. “Or they did. The mortal security measures were bypassed, and the wards and magical shields were simply destroyed. Though I highly doubt there was anything simple about the way it was done. What we have is a mage—or mages—of the highest power who wanted what was in those safe deposit boxes badly. And discovery not only wasn’t a concern, it was desirable.”

  Roy sat back and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Why? Other than to make more work for us, and especially for Director O’Hara and her people.”

  “Unknown,” Moreau said. “However, we have several leads we are pursuing.”

  Which was a polite way to say that Moreau wasn’t sharing any of them at the moment, because that reason was my partner.

  “And we now know the owners’ names of the safe deposit boxes burglarized two nights ago,” Moreau continued. “There were five boxes and three owners: Anton Tepes, Charles Ruthven—and interestingly enough, Ambrus Báthory, the uncle of Bela Báthory who was abducted from his yacht on Friday night. Neither Tepes, Ruthven, nor Báthory are cooperating with us or the mortal authorities as to the contents of their boxes. However, my efforts are ongoing.”

  10

  AFTER the meeting, Ian was deep in thought. That was hardly surprising.

  Once we were out in the hallway, Yasha pulled us aside.

  “I have a friend who can help,” he said. “He is a bodyguard for vampire families. He has worked for Báthorys in the past. They talk; he is there to hear. If he has information, he will help.”

  Ian snapped out of his reverie, and clapped the big Russian on the shoulder. “Then lead on, buddy.”

  We went to see Yasha’s friend—a Czechoslovakian vampire named Vlad. No, I’m not kidding.

  We met Vladimir Cervenka at a bar down by the Lower East Side docks. It was mid-morning on a sunny day, and the vampire was sitting in a corner booth with a steaming mug of something on the table in front of him. The booth was made to fit two people, but it barely fit one Vlad. Yasha had warned us not to make jokes about his name. After getting a look at this guy, I wouldn’t have dared. Not to mention, he had to be closing in on a thousand years old if he could be out and about after dawn.

  He stood when we approached. Whoa, Vlad was a seriously big boy. He engulfed Yasha in a hug that looked more like a polar bear attack.

  He had shoulder-length white blond hair, ice blue eyes, rugged and actually ruddy features. Either he’d just fed, was feeding (or at least snacking, judging from the mug), or he’d spent a lot of time outside before he’d been turned—or all of the above.

  Yasha introduced us and there were handshakes all around. Considering that my hand was completely wrapped in Vlad’s massive paw, I was almost surprised to get it back.

  Normally werewolves kept to themselves, and vampires did likewise, but Yasha wasn’t like most werewolves. He chose his friends because he liked and trusted them, not because they went all fanged and furry every full moon. I hadn’t met that many vampires in my time, but I sure as heck hadn’t met one that looked more like a mountain man.

  Who was smoking a cigar impaled on his left fang.

  That was an eyebrow raiser.

  Vlad noticed and laughed, a laugh that was just as big as he was.

  “I enjoyed many things when I was alive,” he said. “Good food and drink, and the pleasure of fine tobacco. Now I can only drink blood, and I no longer breathe.” He grinned in a flash of strong white teeth and two seriously imposing—and scary—fangs. “I can make myself inhale.” He proceeded to give us a demonstration, dragging the smoke into his lungs, the cigar’s tip glowing bright, and as he exhaled through his nostrils, I was reminded of a fire-breathing dragon of my acquaintance.

  “When you are dead, you take your enjoyment where you can find it. Though there is an advantage to death, I can smoke as much as I like.” The Czech vampire took the cigar between his fingers and carefully ground the flame out against the brick wall beside him. “However, I am considerate of those less dead than myself.”

  I smiled. Yasha had good taste in friends. I liked him, too. “Thank you.”

  Vlad inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Yasha tells me you need information about some of my clients.”

  “We do,” Ian said. “Though some of our questions may be what your clients consider to be confidential information.”

  Vlad grinned crookedly. “I am paid for my muscle. I am, how do you say, a deterrent.”

  “If you were guarding something,” I said, “I’d sure be deterred from trying to take it.”

  Vlad cheerfully spread his hands. “Then my job would be done.” His expression became serious, or as serious as this man probably got. “If a client tells me, ‘Forget you are seeing this,’ I forget it—unless it is needed. The laws of mortals do not matter to me, but I have lines that I will not cross for any amount. I will not violate my personal honor. I am the last of my family, so I owe no loyalty to those who hire me. I will keep the secrets of their House—unless it would bring harm to others. From what Yasha has told me, the problem you are having would qualify.”

  “We believe so, yes,” Ian said. “You’ve heard about the robberies?”

  “I have.”

  “And of course, Bela Báthory’s abduction.”

  Vlad gave us a single, dry chuckle. “That one will not be missed, even by his own family.” Another chuckle. “Especially by his own family.”

  “Do you think they might have had something to do with it?” I asked.

  “Giant octopus and fish men?” Vlad shook his shaggy head. “Too complicated, for any of the Houses. While many would enjoy seeing Bela Báthory permanently dead—and watching him suffer while getting that way—that is far too much trouble to go to. Vampires are more direct.”

  “The heads of the Houses aren’t talking,” Ian told him. “Those inner circles are some of the few places where SPI doesn’t have contacts.”

  “A
nd I have been on the inside many times.” He paused. “And have heard many things.”

  “There are advantages to being treated like furniture,” Yasha said. “I have been treated same way.”

  I glanced from one to the other. That was some seriously big furniture to ignore.

  “It’s more like an attack dog,” Vlad noted. “Until it’s needed, it’s ignored.” He nodded to Ian. “Yes, I have heard things lately. For the past eight months, I have been working for Ambrus Báthory.” He flashed a grin. “Today is my day off.”

  “What do you do for Mr. Báthory?” I asked.

  “He has personal bodyguards who are members of his family, though in my opinion, it is not in his best interests to trust them with his life. Other heads of vampire Houses do the same. I guess the old man feels safer keeping his enemies close. If so, he is doing a fine job. He hired me to keep watch over his enemies in his own family, and to oversee security when he leaves his compound. I am not of his House, so Ambrus knows I have no ties, loyalties, or obligations to those who want him gone. But most of all, he knows I cannot be bought or successfully threatened.” One side of Vlad’s mouth curled in a crooked half smile. “Sometimes he has even been known to take my advice.”

  I glanced at Ian and Yasha. They seemed to get the logic of what Vlad had just said. I didn’t. “Why would members of your own family want to kill you . . . permanently?”

  “Vampires live to be very old. Those of us who choose our risks wisely can live even longer. Those who are not in power can have a long time to wait to be in power—unless they take matters into their own hands.”

  I nodded in understanding. “And hurry things along.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But then you’d be in the same position as the guy you just conspired to bump off—constantly looking over your shoulder and trusting no one.”

  Vlad shrugged. “It is the game they play. I choose not to play. A long life can mean much boredom. The games can make your time more interesting.” He smiled. “I don’t have that problem since I am a simple man and more easily amused.”