Mid-stroke of the keyboard, my phone begins to rumble in my pocket. I wait for it to subside, but it continues to shake, begging to be answered. I dig down into my pocket and pull it out, the Caller ID not indicating who I’d hoped to be on the other side.
“Hello?” I say, my voice, grainy from waking my resting vocal chords. I rub my eyes with my free hand as I swivel in my chair, my phone lazily pressed against the side of my face.
“Agent Rivers?”
“Speaking. What’s up, Patrick?”
“I-I know you’re busy, so I’ll make this quick. I didn’t mention it to you before, but it could be relevant to what’s going on.”
“Yeah?” My attention perks up. “Out with it.”
“In regards to Kaitlyn’s body, I didn’t know if it is something I should have told you before—”
“Go for it, man. The weirder the better. Do you need me to come over there, or—?”
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just that Kaitlyn had fairly recent exposure to cocaine and heroin.”
“Yeah, you told me. She had a Speedball.”
“Correct, well, maybe. That or something else. There’s a new drug that’s been starting to pop up on occasion. It resembles a Speedball but it consists of other additives that vary by case. It may or may not be relative to your cause, but I thought I’d pass it along. Maybe you or your coworkers are familiar with it. It’s called Sphinx.”
Sphinx. I’ve heard of that drug before…after I dealt with Woodrow, those dealers near my motel tried to sell me some. “I’m familiar with it. Thanks for the info. I’ll be sure to call you if I need anything else.” I hang up on Patrick, knowing good and well that he was just looking for an opportunity to prove himself. I’m not concerned with the drugs around here. He’d have to get in touch with a real agent for something like that. All it boils down to is, that at one point, Kaitlyn had taken drugs and vamps that were posing as her friends used her weakened state against her. Typical predator behavior.
The day draws on and I dive deeper into my work. Once it’s well into the night, I decide it’s time to go out into the field. After pulling up everything I could that was relevant to Kaitlyn and the vamps, I had decided to do some preliminary footwork on tracking Krowe, the witch that Eugenie had informed me of. Finding elusive individuals is the name of the game, but between Darius and Krowe, I managed to choose a pair that clearly mastered the art of being unseen.
At least I have Roc in my corner for one of them. Roc still doesn’t know about Darius, and I plan on keeping it that way.
After I shut my laptop, I’m not any closer to finding Krowe’s whereabouts, which is unfortunate, but he’s not a primary objective at the moment. I can devote more of my energy towards him once I’m done with the vamps who killed Kaitlyn. I really shouldn’t have killed Eugenie as quickly as I did. I’m paying for it now. I shouldn’t have let him get to me. I made it too easy for him.
I make my way back into town and hit up the first of my stops for the night. Club Writhe.
Writhe was a place Darren and Kaitlyn used to frequent, and that’s pretty much all I know outside of the type of club-goers that are drawn to this type of place. Edgy guys and girls who tend to dabble on the (casual) dark side. The commercial version that’s celebrated as a fashion statement as opposed to the reality of things. Everything’s an industry in the states, it seems. It is what it is.
I stand outside the club, waiting in line to get in. I do my best to blend in, but I don’t quite make it. Darker colors are what I usually use when I go out, but nothing in my wardrobe involves spiked collars, eyeliner, or mesh tees. As I wait in line, I eye the bodyguard whose checking for weapons at the door. I did a pass of him earlier to see if he had a metal detector of some sort. He didn’t then, and he doesn’t now. All he does is a lazy pat down on occasion, at his discretion. Cool beans. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a scenario like this. My dagger’s tucked away towards my back, covered by my denim jacket. My Berettas each have a designated spot in my ankle holsters in each leg, both of which that are covered by my black jeans. I don’t plan on shooting anyone in a populated setting, but I need options to ensure my personal safety in case something unfolds. The line moves slowly, but in time, I finally make it to the bouncer.
“Arms up and to the side.”
“Of course.” I do what he says and spread my arms while looking at him in a non-threating manner. Flat, would be more accurate. My way of showing him that he’s wasting his time without causing a scene. Sailor would have gotten through without a problem, which always worked in our favor when we did recon in club settings. She was better than me at getting in and extracting information from people of interest, especially males. We’d enter separately and leave separately, but we’d play the same field from different angles. I had her back and she had mine. Always.
The bald-headed bouncer runs his hands over both of my sleeves and then down my sides. He moves in closer and squats while his hands reach just below my pockets.
“Okay, you’re good to go.”
I say nothing, but instead fix the way my jacket lays as I walk past him. Upon getting past him, there’s another delay, my next obstacle. The guy next to him, checking IDs. Everyone seems to be going through this guy. With all the fines they’re giving out for serving drinks to underage club-hoppers, they really can’t afford to skimp out on the protocol for this one.
“Sup man? ID?”
“Yeah.” Upon his request, I pull out the designated fake for the case, spliced from the actual real one I got when I was of age. The only thing real about it is my picture.
The doorman looks at the ID, then at me, then back at the ID again before handing it back to me. He then wraps a bracelet around my right wrist and lets me proceed.
I step past him and I’m instantly one of many in a dark room where everyone either has a drink in their hand or is dancing the night away. The first thing I do is make my way to the bar. I push through the crowd, ignoring the pounding techno beats and strobe lights that occasionally strike me blind with their orange rays. From what I can see of the club, it’s thematically, a modern rendition of Hell, that is, if Hell was a dance club. The blood-red lights with orange undertones strobing in between, the caged go-go dancers in latex, the pocket of ravers hopped up on their choice of escape while they flail. Yeah, I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t be a potential target in here. The whole club is basically a dance floor. Ease of access, dark vibes, and low security. But then again, that’s like half of the nightclubs in the country. Brushing my apprehension to the side, I take a seat at the bar; one of the few spots not taken by the club’s clientele.
“What can I get for ya?” a bartender asks me just as he finishes making another customer’s drink. He’s a peppy guy with a fauxhawk. The guy either really loves his job or he’s got that whole customer service thing down to a science. Either way, I’m not sure if it’s against club protocol to actually smile. No one else who’s on the payroll seems to be, and that includes the bigger guy working the other half of the bar area.
“Water, please. I’m trying to start off slow while I wait on someone.”
“Sure thing. Comin’ right up.” I watch him as he works. There’s a pep to his step as he vibes to the beat. I almost catch myself doing the same.
The bartender hands me my drink and I raise it up to him in a gesture of gratitude. “Thanks.” After that, I twist my body on the stool in order to get a better view of the happenings of the club.
There’re all sorts of characters here, such as with any social event. The atmosphere brings the crowd, but everyone brings their own sort of flair to the venue. After people-watching for a bit you tend to be able to spot who’s with who and where they stand in the bigger scheme of things. Social circles. On the surface, it’s easy to see who’s out here looking for a good time. There’s throngs of people roped off with their friends or lovers enjoying themselves, having a ball. The music’s flowing and they’re in their own l
ittle world, but then there’s the lone wolves, the ones who are a bit harder to peg, in terms of why they’re here. From what I can see, they’re scattered about, all looking for different things. Some are trying to score with the locals, while others are against the perimeter of the room, looking at the bodies twist and flail at the pace the DJ sets.
I leave the serving area and make a trek through the crowd, soaking in the surroundings as I weave my way to the other side. Cutting through the dance floor doesn’t yield favorable results. The music’s too loud to pick up on anything happening nearby and the pulsing strobes aren’t doing me any favors. Eventually, I make it through to the perimeter and find myself a decent spot against the wall. I bob my head to the music while fake-obsessing over my phone, occasionally stealing glances of the environment as the night rolls on.
As the night grows longer, people come and people go. A variety of types. The ones that I’d been watching, leave with the same people they came with or by themselves. No one seems to be in the process of being kidnapped either. Not that they would. Vampires are subtler than that. They have common sense. Overall, the first stop of the night seems to be a bust. Nothing even remotely vampiric catches my eye.
Darren didn’t say anything about strange happenings at Writhe, but I had to make sure for my own sake. Vampires have a tendency to stalk their prey. Their encounter at Vermillion could have been premeditated. It’s hard to tell. Everything after that was for sure, no doubt.
I stay for a bit longer, watching the scenery, but the venue keeps the same energy. Virtually everyone is living their best life while I’m looking to pick a fight with a supernatural entity. I don’t plan on dying or getting bit, but I can’t help but notice the stark contrast to my actions. Before Sailor’s death, I ran into trouble with her by my side. Now isn’t any different. I’ve been hunting by myself for a while now, but for some reason, being here in this exact moment in time gives me a glimpse into the emptiness I’ve been doing so good at suppressing. A slight tremor, not nearly as loud as the blaring music, but strong enough to feel nonetheless. The thought lingers, but I’m quick to cast my feelings aside.
If I don’t do this, who will? I remind myself.
The vamps responsible for killing Kaitlyn are doing whatever they please, unchecked. They’ve either hid their operation extremely well or killed anyone who’s tried to stop them. The second option is the most realistic. Hunters die every day.
I head out of the club and make my way back to my car. The streets are busy with life, again, nothing of the vampiric variety. It’s a lively night. College kids and new couples abound. It’s bittersweet and it hits me harder than I’d like to admit. I miss her; the woman who opened my eyes to this life and made it bearable.
I people watch just a little bit longer and start my engine before pulling off to drive to the next stop. They really have no idea how lucky they are or how quick the world can take it all away.
It must be nice.
Chapter 8: Relics
For some reason, my night seems off, but I don’t let that take me away from the task at hand. The clock’s ticking, and there’s a good chance that Kaitlyn wasn’t the only one they were using for blood. A vampire can drain a person to death in one session if they feel like it. To sustain multiple vampires, there has to be at least a handful of prisoners. Since they’re harvesting them for blood and not outright turning them, they can actually get more from them, provided they provide some sort of nourishment to keep them alive. That’s how it goes in places like that. Camps. Dens. Prisons. Whatever you want to call it. The vampires rotate you in and bleed you dry.
They let you recuperate while they focus on another group of prisoners, then they put you back on the assembly line once the other group’s tapped. In Kaitlyn’s case, they put her down like an animal once they were done with her.
I park about a block away from Vermillion and take a shortcut through an alley so that my approach seems more natural to wandering eyes, in case the vamps happen to be nearby. I tuck my head down and keep my hands concealed in my jacket as I walk at my own pace, trying my best to blend in with the crowd of the sparsely populated sidewalk. Rather than going directly into the club, I walk across the street and stop at a dive bar. I do a quick scouting of the scene before ordering a glass of water, which I bring with me to an open table for two next to a window that just so happens to catch a decent view of Vermillion. It’s not perfect, but it serves its purpose. Recon. Parking out in front of the club would give me away. By grabbing a seat in a local pub, I write off a lot of attention. This is of course assuming vampires aren’t lurking here as well. I’m not here to make friends, so there’s no chance that one’ll swindle me. And to be honest, playing the dating game in hopes of finding a vampire isn’t a safe bet, either. So many things can go wrong.
I take another glance at the interior of the bar, soaking up everything that the atmosphere provides. It’s loud. Busy. Everyone’s doing their own thing to the classic 80’s rock playing in the background. There’s a game playing that everyone seems to be obsessed with. A classic rerunning of something that was apparently major in the history of football. I couldn’t care less though. Even before I started to hunt the paranormal, sports weren’t something that interested me. There’s a reason I wasn’t Mr. Social at parties. My dad wouldn’t have minded if I played in high school, but my mother was against contact sports of any kind. To her, playing the sport wasn’t worth a lifetime of injuries. She’d always cite how a lot of famous retired athletes are in poor condition due to how they handled their bodies in their youth. Hunting isn’t much different.
I sip from my glass and shove the thoughts of my late mom and dad into the back of my mind. I then redirect my focus back to Vermillion, which has a steady flow of people coming in and out. From what I can see, no one seems to be connected to anyone else on the inside. The doorman treats them all the same. The two vamps that Kaitlyn and Darren bumped into were in the area, so there’s a possibility they could have come from this spot prior to making their way to Vermillion. In fact, they could have been doing exactly what I’m doing right now. I should have been more forward with Darren… It could have helped. I’m virtually going off of nothing and the vamps in the area aren’t making it any easier. I look to my phone and contemplate calling him but decide not to. He’s probably sleeping. It’s long past calling hours, and to really get a good read on what he has to say, I’d have to arrange a meeting with him anyway. Instead of giving him a late night wake up call, I vacate my table and head across the street to Vermillion. I don’t have the time to be as leisurely as I want to be with my approach. For some reason, the doorman notices my approach and his eyes meet mine. I casually nod, acknowledging his gaze and don’t let it get to me as I move forward. The doorman is a heavier guy, but it isn’t due to bulging muscles. There doesn’t seem to be much muscle mass on him at all. I hand him my fake ID before he can say anything. He leans forward a bit on his stool and glances to me and then the photo, then me again. I smirk at him, and notice the black earpiece coming from his right ear and into his pocket, which points me to another object of interest. The holster on his hip.
He hands my ID back to me and I step inside the venue. It’s more relaxed than Writhe, but it’s still high energy and hella dark. It’s already getting late so I don’t waste any time in finding a spot that can get me a better perspective. I make my way through the crowd and post up against one of the side walls near the dance floor. Vermillion doesn’t look like a dungeon straight from Hell, but it does have a grimy, dark atmosphere that carries an industrial feel. If Writhe was the dungeon, Vermillion was the sweatshop you worked in before they threw you in.
I scan the venue from my designated spot, trying my best to identify key players. Sailor sometimes had luck chatting with the bartenders whenever the opportunity presented itself. I have my days, but my success rate was never as good as hers. Bartenders, however, do happen to be the pulse of most nightclubs and other late-night venues.
They see what goes on and who does what. They know the locals and the hierarchy of the social scene. Every bartender acts differently than the next, which is something to be considered. The one from Writhe was friendly, but it was easy to see that he was green to the industry. He was just doing his job, which isn’t a bad thing, but it didn’t seem like he was at the point where he was making any lasting connections. Or it could have just been a bluff and I read him wrong. Either way, it was my mistake for not engaging him as much as I should have. I won’t make the same mistake twice in a night. For this one, I’m playing the field a bit differently.
I’m not going to interact with anyone, but instead spectate from afar as the night unfolds.
An hour or so drifts by before I see any action. There’s a few false alarms that warrant my attention, but they fizzle out. This one, however, seems to be a bit different. It’s not just his mannerisms, but something about him seems oddly familiar. As corny as it sounds, I’m drawn to him.
A few minutes ago, I noticed him waltz out of VIP. I never saw him go in, but that doesn’t mean much in this scenario. I can’t catch everything that goes on. It’s just me out here. Nothing is inherently wrong about what he’s doing, but just his presence warrants my suspicion. He sets his drink on an empty tray adhered to one of the club’s support beams near the bar and immediately takes another from the hostess walking towards where he just left with a tray of shot glasses. He says something to her, downs it, and smiles. She laughs and he places the empty glass on her tray before she continues on her path. He watches her as she leaves, but only for a moment. He then resumes walking, saying something to a group; two girls and one guy, in passing. One of the girls laughs and he slows his strut before coming to a complete stop and inserting himself into their group.
Blaze Monroe and the Tattered Heart: A Supernatural Thriller (The Hunter Who Lost His Way Book 3) Page 6