Emily Shadowhunter 4 - a Vampire, Shapeshifter, Werewolf novel.: Book 4: DAY WALKER

by Craig Zerf

  Two seconds later the three combat experts lay on the floor. Blood pooled beneath their dead bodies like spilled engine oil. Slow, dark and viscous. Their heads all faced the wrong way, limbs stuck out at impossible angles and rib bones poked through their clothing like dry twigs sticking up from newly tilled soil.

  ‘I warned you,’ whispered James. He cocked his fist and snapped a short sharp punch at the commander’s nose.

  And the last thing that Woolford registered before he blacked out was the sickening sound of his own nose shattering.

  James turned to the other two vampires that he had brought along to assist. ‘Clear up. Leave no evidence that we were here. See if you can force those bodies in the trunk. Come on, let’s move.’

  ***

  Black.

  Gray.

  Consciousness returning.

  He was sitting on a chair. Wooden. Steel. Utilitarian.

  He tried to move his arms. Duct tape around his wrists and his ankles. Strapped to the chair.

  He looked up. In front of him stood a young man. He wore dark maroon leather trousers, soft black boots. He was shirtless and his upper body looked uncannily like an anatomy chart showing the muscular system. Every detail and striation standing out in stark relief under skin that was so pale as to be corpse-like.

  The man snapped his fingers, and a female walked over and held a glass of water to the commander’s lips.

  Woolford drank greedily, frantic for liquid, desperately trying to get as much down as he could before she took the glass away. But the female let him have his fill, only removing the glass when it was empty.

  ‘My name is Nathan Tremblay,’ said the anatomical chart man. ‘Obviously I know who you are so please refrain from the whole, do you know who I am, you’re in big trouble sort of thing. It’s tedious and inaccurate. Now, I am going to keep things simple. I need a complete rundown of all the criminal gangs in the London area. Names of members, addresses, hangouts, what they do, when they do it. Everything. Do you understand?’

  Woolford shook his head. ‘No. What are you? Who were those men that took me? How, in God’s name, did they move so fast?’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ snapped Nathan. ‘Now, what do you need to fulfill my request? Pen and paper, or would you prefer a computer?’

  ‘Neither,’ said the commander. ‘Because I am not giving you one piece of information. Who the hell do you think that you are? I am the commander of operations for the London police. I demand that you let me go this instant.’

  Nathan smiled. He could glamor the commander into obeying him but that sometimes resulted in false information as the human that had been glamoured did everything that he could to make Nathan happy. Even lie. No, information was always best when garnered the old fashioned way. Through either reward or punishment. And punishment was so much more fun.

  The new Capo put his face close to the commander’s and pulled his lips back, allowing his fangs to grow. Then he extended his talons and held them in front of Woodford’s eyes, so close that they were almost out of focus.

  ‘I seriously advise you to cooperate, mister Woolford,’ whispered Nathan. ‘To resort to mixed metaphor, you are extremely out of your depth and I think that your ability to tread water would be vastly impaired if I used these talons to pluck your eyes out.’ Nathan leaned yet closer and his tongue flickered out, licking the commander’s neck. Lingering on his jugular. ‘Or perhaps I shall simply tear your throat open and feed on you.’

  Woolford looked into Nathan’s blood-red eyes and all that he saw was the Abyss…looking back at him.

  ‘If you give me access to a computer, I can print off everything that you need.’

  Nathan stepped back and bowed.

  Chapter 18

  Nathan sat in a leather wingback chair. In his hands were the printed pages that the commander had given him regarding the various organized crime gangs and families in London and surrounds.

  The new Capo had his feet up. Resting on the cooling corpse of Daniel Woolford, Commander in Chief, London Police, Organized Crime Unit. As soon as the commander had reached the end of his usefulness, he had been relegated to the level of food. And furniture.

  Nathan was pleased with what he was reading. The notes were organized, succinct and to the point. In fact, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t start his campaign that very night. There were still quite a few hours until sunrise and the sooner the better.

  He decided that he would start low down on the ladder, take a short time to familiarize himself with the streets. He took his five Nightwalkers with him and got one of the familiars to drive them to Piccadilly Circus. They alighted under the statue of Anteros and then simply walked the streets for a while.

  ‘We’re looking for bottom-feeders,’ instructed Nathan. ‘Split up. Use your superior eyesight, hearing, whatever. I want pickpockets, pimps, prostitutes, muggers.’ He glanced around the area and then pointed. ‘You find someone and then you bring them to me. I’ll be in a small alleyway off Babmaster Place. There, down Jermyn Street. No one ever goes there. It’ll be a good place to question people. Right. Do it.’

  Nathan walked off, leaving his bodyguards to carry out their mission.

  Ten minutes later three of them had already found him, each dragging a petrified person with the, Two men and one woman, obviously a prostitute. The Nightwalkers lined them up in front of Nathan, at the end of the dark alleyway. The Capo stared at them for a few seconds before he pointed at the first male. ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Pickpocket, Capo,’ answered Greg, one of the Nightwalkers. ‘Good at it. Saw him get a watch off a guy’s wrist without the guy noticing.’

  Nathan nodded. ‘And this one?’

  ‘Attempted mugging. Behind Wittards. Used a knife to hold up a couple of tourists.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Questioned the mugger. ‘You dudes cops, or what?’

  Nathan smiled, allowing his fangs to show. ‘I’d say that we fit more into the “or what” category,’ he said.

  The mugger shrank back in fear at the sight of Nathan's oversized canines.

  ‘Do you work alone or are you freelance?’ Enquired Nathan.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I asked politely,’ continued Nathan. ‘The next time that you answer one of my questions with one of your own I am going to damage you rather badly. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Now, do you work alone?’

  ‘I work alone but I pay homage to Mister Stopes.’

  ‘Homage?’

  ‘Yeah. Half of what I takes I give to Mister Stopes.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Nathan. ‘What if you don’t give him half? How would he know?’

  The mugger shrugged. ‘You obviously don’t know Mister Stopes. I wouldn’t dare. He would know. Somehow he always does.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Nathan. ‘His name was in the commander’s report but not his address. Where could I find this Mister Stopes?’

  ‘Dunno,’ admitted the mugger. ‘I gives my homage to his man, Ben. Big Ben, they call him.’

  ‘Where and when does this happen?’

  ‘Community Sports Center in King’s Cross. Every Wednesday and Saturday night. Six thirty of the PM. Please, mister. Don’t tell him I grassed him up. He’ll hurt me real bad.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ reassured Nathan.

  ‘Thanks, mister.’

  ‘You see,’ continued the Capo. ‘You can’t hurt the dead.’ And with a flash of movement he snapped the mugger’s neck.

  Both the prostitute and the pickpocket gasped in shock. But their gasps turned to shrieks of terror when Nathan lunged forward and tore open the mugger’s neck, drinking greedily as he did so.

  Nathan looked up from his snack, his lips coated with blood. ‘Shut up,’ he commanded.

  Both of the minor criminals stopped their shrieking. The pickpocket went silent, and the prostitute whimpered softly.

  Nathan pointed at the pickpocket. ‘Mister S
topes?’

  The criminal shook his head. ‘I’ve heard of him but I don’t make enough to show up on his radar.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Nathan. ‘You can go.’

  ‘Really? Thanks.’

  Nathan laughed. ‘Joking.’ He gestured to Greg who leaned over and broke the pickpocket’s neck with an audible snap.

  Then Nathan looked up to see a group of six men coming down the alleyway towards them.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted the one. ‘What you doing with Darlene?’

  Nathan looked at the prostitute and raised an eyebrow. ‘You Darlene?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Go away,’ said Nathan to the six men. ‘I’m busy.’

  The man who had shouted his question shook his head. ‘Listen, posh boy,’ he said as he drew a revolver. ‘You obviously have no idea who I am. Now, if you and your toffy little mates are polite, then I might let you live. If not, well who knows?’

  The prostitute shook her head. ‘Parkinson,’ she bleated. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘Shut up, bitch,’ he yelled. ‘I tell you what to do, you don’t tell me. Now,’ he continued as he pointed the gun at Nathan. ‘On your knees.’

  Nathan shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, a slight grin on his face. ‘I think that you had better shoot me.’

  Parkinson waved the revolver. ‘I’m being serious. On your knees or I will shoot you.’

  ‘I’m also being serious,’ said Nathan.

  ‘Should I kill them all, Capo?’ Asked Greg.

  ‘No,’ replied Nathan. ‘I’m having fun. And it happens so rarely now I wouldn’t want to ruin it.’

  ‘I’m going to be doing the killing here, not you,’ yelled Parkinson. ‘What, are you mental?’

  Nathan shrugged. ‘Perhaps. How can one ever be sure? Now, it’s your turn. Time to shoot me because I’m definitely not kneeling for the likes of you.’

  Parkinson gritted his teeth and then, with a final wordless scream, he pulled the trigger.

  The .38 special round hit Nathan in the center of his chest and exited between his shoulder blades in a gout of blood. The vampire looked down and shook his head. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I should have taken my shirt off first. Now it’s ruined.’

  The shirt was indeed covered in blood but most of it was from the dead mugger. However, there was no sign of a wound on Nathan’s chest as his phenomenal metabolism had already healed him.

  Parkinson did a double take and then fired again, pulling the trigger until it clicked down on an empty chamber.

  Nathan smiled. ‘My turn.’ He jumped forward, ripped Parkinson’s right arm from its socket and hit him on the head with it, striking hard enough to crush his skull.

  ‘Always wanted to do that,’ he commented.

  Parkinson’s dead body hit the floor and, as he did, his associates turned and ran.

  Nathan gestured towards them and two of his Bloodwraiths blurred in front of them and herded them back with ease.

  ‘Now,’ said Nathan. ‘Who do you reprobates work for?’

  The group avoided eye contact and shuffled their feet. No one wanted to draw attention to themselves lest it be terminal.

  Finally one spoke ‘We pay tribute to Mister Stopes, sir. So I suppose that we work for him.’

  Nathan shook his head. ‘No. From this day forth you work for me. And you shall refer to me as, Capo. Are we clear?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Yes, Capo.’

  ***

  The next night was conducted in the same vein as the previous one. Nathan and his Nightwalkers combed the streets and educated. Some miscreants were killed as examples; others were set free after they had sworn allegiance to the Capo.

  By the end of the third night the Nosferatu had killed over twenty people and converted a similar number to their fold.

  And when they went visiting on the fourth night, the word on the street was well out. Allegiance was sworn the moment that any of the Nightwalkers accosted someone and Nathan only had to kill one person.

  But in all fairness that was a tourist, and he was hungry.

  Now that the word was out it was time for Nathan to start talking to the upper echelons of the crime world. He would wait a couple of days and then it would be he would go a visiting, and he would teach them why they should be afraid of the night.

  Chapter 19

  Insanity had been visited on London.

  Dead bodies littered the streets and, worst of all, the Chief in charge of the whole thing had gone missing, probably kidnapped. As had three unarmed combat experts that had been with him at the time. The current theory was that the three combat specialists had gone rogue and taken the Chief. But so far there had been no contact. No ransom notes. Nothing.

  Now the biggest gang war ever was taking place in and around the center of London’s tourist area and the responsibility for sorting it out had fallen to a combined task force consisting of the London Police under temporary assistant commissioner Ian Clark and Jack Jackson, chief superintendent, Scotland Yard. Strictly speaking, Commissioner Clark outranked chief superintendent Jackson but Scotland Yard was famous for never considering themselves to be outranked by anyone.

  So, at the moment, the joint task force was more like two separate task forces attempting to pull rank over each other while at the same time ensuring that their team got more access to the crime sites and spent more time in front of the relevant media.

  In other words, it was the usual government circus in that more time was spent ass-covering than actually investigating.

  Chief Super, Jackson, stood outside the crime scene tent and wondered if it would be inappropriate to light up a cigarette. Strictly speaking he had given up yesterday. But then he had given up the week before that. And the week prior to that week. So he had established that giving up was easy…sticking to it was difficult.

  One of the forensic scientists exited the tent. He looked like a budget Teletubby, pale yellow onesy, paper booties, hood, mask, gloves. He walked over to the chief super. ‘Jack,’ he greeted.

  The chief nodded. ‘Simon. What gives?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. Nothing makes sense.’

  ‘Well then, tell me what you can,’ urged Jackson.

  ‘Fine, but don’t quote me on this. Not yet at any rate. I need more time to think. Firstly, it’s not a single perpetrator, so no maniac serial killer. It’s quite obviously a group or gang. Now, this is where it gets weird. Some of the injuries are consistent with massive trauma from a blunt object. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that some of the deceased were struck with a fist, but that’s impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘The strength of the blow. No human being could ever strike anything that hard. They would shatter their own bones as well as the victims. So I must assume that they were struck by some sort of mechanically driven, fist shaped weapon. Like a steam hammer. Now, secondly, some of the victims were savaged by an animal of some sort. Not sure what. Not a dog, more like a really large rat.’

  ‘How large?’ Asked Jackson.

  Simon took a deep breath. ‘The size of a person.’

  ‘Oh come on, Simon. Get serious.’

  ‘I am. That’s why I said not to quote me yet. But there’s more, two of the victims have been almost totally exsanguinated.’

  ‘English, Simon. What does that mean?’

  ‘They had no blood left in them,’ answered the forensic scientist. ‘It had been removed.’

  ‘How?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘If I had to say, I would venture that it had been sucked out by the giant rat.’

  Jackson snorted in disgust. ‘Good lord, Simon, I beg you not to tell anyone else these ludicrous theories of yours. Man alive, the Yard would become the laughingstock of the force.’

  ‘Hey, I can only tell you what the evidence shows,’ retorted Simon.

  ‘Fair enough. Keep working on it. Meanwhile, what the hell am I going to tell the press?’
<
br />   ‘Tell them it’s a turf war. Russian mobsters moving in on the local crime families. Ritual killings sort of thing.’

  Jackson nodded. ‘It’s not great, but it beats “Giant Rat Sucks Tourist Dry”. Thanks, Simon. We’ll talk again later.’

  ***

  The tall young man stood alone in the crowd. A light rain misted the air, and the alleyway was bathed in shadow. It was almost sundown. When the man moved forward to get a better look, the crowd parted before him, leaving an area of open space wherever he walked. Like a shark swimming through a school of bait-fish.

  He noted the crime scene tents, the scores of forensic scientists and the many uniformed officers. He sniffed the air. But there was no sign of them. The rain had washed away their scent. He left the crowd and walked swiftly north, to the backstreets of SOHO and surrounds. As he walked the sun sank below the horizon and true night fell. Minutes later he heard the fluttering of a cloak and a series of soft footsteps behind him.

  ‘Sylvian,’ he greeted the newcomer.

  ‘Troy,’ the man returned the greeting. ‘Anything?’

  The young werewolf shook his head. ‘Not at street level. Maybe now that the sun is down. But I would be able to smell them on their familiars. Not even a hint. There are no vamps or familiars here.’

  ‘Let’s go high,’ suggested the Bloodborn.

  ‘May as well,’ conceded Troy. ‘There’s nothing happening at street level.’

  They both cast quick glances around to ensure that no one could see them and then they literally scampered up the side of the nearest building, making the roof in mere seconds.

  The two of them ran from rooftop to rooftop, covering the whole of the SOHO area and then moving on to Covent Garden. Sometimes they used the streets but mainly they traveled above them, moving with an ease that would have turned any professional Parkour runner green with a case of terminal envy. However, they eschewed the fancy forms. Not for them they dissipated energy of Kong Vaults, Safety Taps and Tic Tacs. They simply went from one place to another place as quickly as possible. Sixty foot gaps between buildings were jumped with ease and twenty foot high walls scaled with a single leap. Every move at least doubling and sometimes tripling the current Olympic long jump and high jump records. Let alone the fact that both were running at a speed that would have left Usain Bolt stumbling along at the rear like a toddler with his legs tied together.