Blood Law

by Jeannie Holmes

  Her betrayal of her oath as a police officer wouldn’t go unpunished. Tubby Jordan had already paid the price for her treachery. More blood was going to be shed before this ended. That blood would be on her hands, and she could already feel it staining her soul.

  Harvey lit one cigarette from another and looked at the closed front door of Darryl’s house. He still sat in his car, gathering his thoughts.

  The paper Tasha had dropped on his desk when she’d come to see him—no, to threaten him—felt like a weight in his pocket. He snorted with the memory. She’d been the last person he’d ever expected to turn against the vamps, but apparently something had changed between her and Sabian. Whatever that something was, he wasn’t fool enough to forsake his good fortune.

  He opened the car door and climbed out. Smoke swirled around him as though he’d come from the pits of Hell. He adjusted his belt and checked to make sure his gun and handcuffs were within easy reach.

  While Harvey had been careful not to have any direct physical evidence personally tying him to the arson, he hadn’t considered Darryl’s brazenness in providing him with a Taser stolen from his own department. He’d trusted Darryl to provide an untraceable Taser and the son of a bitch had betrayed him and the HSM cause. It was the only explanation for Lockwood’s report. The Enforcers knew by now that he’d planted the Midnight in Sabian’s Jeep and would be coming for him.

  Everything was falling apart, and it was Darryl’s fault.

  Harvey mounted the stairs and stepped onto the faded blue porch boards. The screen door creaked as he opened it and knocked on the closed wooden door. Smoke from his cigarette curled upward and tickled his nose.

  “Darryl? You home?” He knocked on the door again. He listened for footsteps or some other sign of life within the house.

  Silence.

  Harvey tossed his cigarette into the yard and reached for the doorknob. His other hand rested on the butt of the Browning nine-millimeter at his hip. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Shadows shrouded the interior. Newspapers, empty beer cans, boxes, and used paper plates littered the living room. The only clean spot was along one wall, where a photo of Claire Black in her wedding gown and veil hung above a makeshift shrine. Cheap bookcases flanked the television and overflowed with an assortment of magazines, books, and forgotten mail.

  “Darryl?” Harvey called, slipping into the dim room and allowing his eyes to adjust. “You in here?”

  A noise deeper inside the house made him freeze. Cold sweat trickled down his back as he tried to identify the source. He sighed. It was just the refrigerator’s compressor. He turned his attention to the shelves beside the TV.

  Most of the mail was junk, credit card offers and advertisements. He riffled through a stack of pornographic magazines before selecting the most recent issue. He flipped through the pages, admiring the glossy photos of bare-breasted women and lingering over the more graphic shots before turning the magazine to gaze upon the glory of the centerfold.

  Disgust and horror raced through his veins. The centerfold was a buxom blond-haired woman with small fangs and eyes the color of polished brass. But it wasn’t the photo that had dampened his enjoyment.

  Someone had drawn cross-shaped stakes between the woman’s breasts and wide-spread legs and scribbled over her neck with a red marker so that it looked as if her throat had been slashed. Frenzied, handwritten words surrounded her: Slut! Die, bitch! Vampire whore!

  “My God,” Harvey whispered, and threw the magazine away from himself before looking over the shelves.

  Textbooks on forensic science, medical references, how-to manuals for carving wood, and anatomy guides lined the shelves. Bibles of varying sizes and colors were interspersed among the other books. A large scrapbook was jammed into the top shelf.

  Harvey pulled the scrapbook free and opened it with trembling hands.

  Newspaper clippings detailing Claire’s murder were pasted to the stiff black sheets. One of the articles sported a photo of Alex Sabian with a caption stating that still no arrests had been made in the case after three months. Someone—no, not someone, Darryl—had used a red marker to scribble “Fuck you, bitch” over the picture.

  Harvey turned the pages. The articles about Claire dwindled and were replaced with articles focusing on Sabian, her brother, and Crimson Swan. Every photo of the two vampires had been scribbled over with curses or drawings depicting violence. Intermixed with the articles were computer printouts about the 1968 murder of Bernard Sabian.

  Highlighted passages in some of the printouts detailed facts about the decades-old crime. A stake in the heart. Decapitated. Body dumped in a cemetery. University professor. A silver shamrock charm clutched in his hand.

  Handwritten notes in the margins revealed Darryl’s elaborate plot to exact revenge on Alex Sabian for her failure to bring Claire’s killers to justice. The recent murders mirrored different aspects of Bernard Sabian’s murder. His stomach churned, and he slammed the book closed.

  The scrape of boots on hardwood floors made him stiffen. The sound of a bullet being chambered behind him was unmistakable. A bead of sweat rolled down the center of his back. He spun around.

  Darryl stood in the doorway that led to the back of the house with a pistol in his hand, aimed at Harvey’s chest. A crazed glint shone in his hazel eyes. “Evening, Sheriff,” he drawled. “I wasn’t expecting company or I would’ve cleaned.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Darryl?”

  “Looking out for what’s mine.”

  “Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.”

  Darryl shook his head and smiled. “Can’t do it.”

  “Listen to me, Darryl.” Harvey fought to keep his knees from buckling. “You don’t want to do this. Killing me will send you straight to the state penitentiary.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This isn’t what Claire would’ve wanted.”

  “How would you know? She talks to me, Harvey, gives me signs. A man knows what his wife wants.”

  Harvey blinked and then noticed the blood staining the front of Darryl’s jumpsuit. His chest constricted, and he felt short of breath. “What have you done, Darryl?”

  “Nothing that wasn’t necessary. ‘Separation by any means necessary,’ right? I thought you of all people would understand that.” The smile faded from his lips. “Guess I was wrong.”

  Harvey’s eyes widened. “Darryl, don’t—”

  Pain seared his leg. He screamed and crumbled to the floor. Blood, hot and sticky, poured from the hole where his left knee had once been. Fragments of bone protruded from the gaping wound, and darkness crowded at the edges of his vision.

  “Sorry about that, Harvey,” Darryl said as he knelt beside him and relieved the sheriff of his weapon. “But I can’t have you running back to that Enforcer bitch and telling her what you’ve seen.”

  Harvey gasped and writhed on the floor. He watched as Darryl raised the pistol once more. “No—”

  The hot steel of the gun’s barrel struck his temple, and the world turned black.

  Fading sun filtered through the trees like a chaotic strobe light. Wind rushed past the car’s open window and brought a mixture of scents: the sharp bite of hot asphalt, the bitter tang of smoke from someone’s fireplace, and the clean smell of pine after a storm.

  Alex’s silver badge lay forgotten next to her cell phone on the passenger-side seat. Part of her knew she’d crossed a line and returning from it might not be possible, but the rage that held her in its sway was stronger than reason.

  Darryl Black was the man responsible for Crimson Swan’s destruction and had at least played a role in Stephen’s abduction, even if he wasn’t the mastermind of the plot. Instead of venting his anger on her directly, he’d targeted the one person she trusted most in the world.

  Now she was going to make him pay.

  Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played as she swerved around a pickup. Her cell phone bounced to
the floor when the car’s tires skidded off the pavement and lost traction in the loose gravel along the road’s shoulder.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, and righted the sedan. She wouldn’t be much use to Stephen if she got herself killed.

  Classical music continued to filter up from the floor, and she ignored it. She knew it was Varik. The blood-bond vibrated within her mind, its pitch high and urgent. She ignored it.

  She wanted revenge. She wanted—

  Justice, a voice echoed in her mind.

  “I’m coming, Stephen,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”

  Emily sat on the couch in her empty hotel suite, a pillow clutched to her chest for comfort, and staring at her cell phone. Dweezil lay belly-up under the coffee table, snoring softly and paws twitching, in the throes of kitty dreams.

  She envied the cat. She hadn’t slept since arriving in Jefferson. Worry for her children kept her going. She couldn’t rest until they were safely returned to her.

  And they would return to her. Both of them. She couldn’t bear considering the alternative.

  She opened one clutched hand to reveal a small plastic bag sealed with red tape. A silver shamrock charm slid along the bottom of the bag when she held it up for closer inspection. A few light scratches marred the charm’s surface, and the loop intended for a chain at the top of one leaf was broken.

  Emily reached beneath the neckline of her blouse and pulled free a delicate silver chain. A silver four-leaf clover charm dangled before her, and she held it beside the charm in the bag.

  The two were identical.

  Dread filled her. The one she wore had been the charm Bernard held in his hand when Alex discovered his body. It had been a symbol of his affiliation with the Hunters, with his being marked as a Talent.

  Had the vampire whose body was left at the high school been another Talent? Another former Hunter? There were too many questions she couldn’t answer, but the sense that Alex was in danger rooted itself in her mind and heart.

  She hid her necklace away and returned the bag and broken charm to her pocket. Clutching the pillow tightly to her chest and thinking of Alex, she sighed. “Oh, Bernard, she’s so much like you, and she needs you badly.”

  For a brief moment, Emily thought she smelled tobacco, coffee, and chalk—scents heralding Bernard’s presence—but then the moment passed, and she was left alone to stare at a silent phone and wait with only the ghosts of the past to keep her company.

  Varik listened to the rapid ringing in his ear, wishing for Alex to pick up. “Goddamn it to Hell.” He snapped his cell phone closed. “She’s not answering.”

  The driver of the Expedition took a curve a little too fast, and Varik found himself pressed between the rear passenger door and Damian.

  “Did you really expect her to answer?” Damian asked, as he straightened up and once again adjusted the straps of the bulletproof vest that barely covered his broad chest.

  “No.” Anxiety made his stomach churn, and it worsened as he watched Damian pull a pump-action shotgun from the Expedition’s cargo area and began loading it. “What are you doing?”

  “Going after a murder suspect and a rogue Enforcer.” Damian twisted in the seat once again and secured the shotgun in the cargo area.

  “This is Alex we’re talking about, Damian.”

  The big Enforcer settled in the seat once more with a .357 Glock in his hands. “She’s gone rogue. We may not have a choice.”

  “I always have a choice.” Varik stared at the firearm in Damian’s hand. He felt the weight of his own pressing against his right hip like a cancer he couldn’t excise.

  “Fine, suit yourself.” Damian slipped the Glock into its holster and secured it to his belt. “But when you get yourself shot or staked, don’t come crying to me.”

  Varik continued to stare. The memory of a vampire running away from him, rocked by a shotgun blast, flitted through his mind.

  It was supposed to have been a simple job. Track down a group of rogue vampires and eliminate them, but the information he’d been given was faulty. The rogues weren’t at the house, hadn’t been for weeks. One of their friends had come looking for them and ran when he saw Varik. The kid was innocent, scared, but Varik hadn’t known that, and he’d killed a vampire barely out of his teens. An official investigation had cleared him of any wrongdoing, but he’d never forgotten it, and it’d been his last kill.

  “Earth to Varik,” Damian said. “Get your mind out of the past and into the present.”

  Varik raised his eyes to meet Damian’s stare. “Do you really think Alex will do it? Kill Black, I mean.”

  “If it were my brother who was missing, Black would be one dead motherfucker.”

  “I know her, Damian. She’s not a killer.”

  “You’d better hope you’re right.”

  “Almost there, sir,” the driver reported.

  Alex didn’t want to talk to Black. She wanted to kill him. Varik knew that, had felt it through the bond. He’d seen Alex when she was pissed off, but the rage that consumed her now was something else.

  Enforcers don’t kill people. We uphold the law. Alex’s words rang in his ears.

  Sighing, he pulled his Glock free of its holster, released the clip, and made certain it was fully loaded. He reinserted it and double-checked the safety before securing it once again.

  He couldn’t let Alex kill Black. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt her in the process.

  Live oaks covered with Spanish moss dotted the expansive yard and shaded a large metal storage shed. Security lights attached to poles in the front yard washed the house in bluish-green light, and yet the single-story clapboard house was half covered in the new night’s shadowy embrace.

  As Alex parked behind Harvey Manser’s marked cruiser, killed the rental car’s engine, and stared at the house, a memory came to life. It’d been years since she’d been to Darryl Black’s home. Where it had once been a shining example of domestic bliss, it was now twisted into a nightmarish parody of its former self.

  The crisp white paint she remembered was grayed with age and peeling away in strips. Green shutters flanking the windows hung at odd angles, barely able to maintain their grip on the wall. Windows that had glowed with warmth were dark and cold, dead eyes reflecting the broken soul within.

  Gravel crunched under her booted feet. A breeze picked up her hair and whipped it around her face. The smell of blood and gunpowder hung in the air. Keeping a wary eye on the shed, she drew her Glock and thumbed off the safety. She cautiously approached the house steps and climbed, senses on full alert, searching for any indication of Harvey’s or Darryl’s whereabouts.

  The front door was open, and the smell of blood and gunpowder intensified. She entered the shadows of the living room, crouching low to make herself a smaller target, and swept the room right to left with her Glock held at the ready. Nothing moved within, and she eased through to the next room. Systematically she checked each room and found no one.

  Returning to the living room, she noted the shrine to Claire and the fresh pool of blood on the floor. She squatted beside the crimson puddle and dipped the tip of her finger into it. The thickened consistency told her it hadn’t been spilled more than an hour or so prior. But was it Darryl’s or Harvey’s?

  If she placed the drop on her tongue, she’d see the memories locked within it. It would be easy to determine its origin and possibly gain more answers, like where Stephen was being held.

  She wiped her hand on her jeans, cleansing it of the blood. She’d already bitten one human against his will, and she refused to compound her damnation by adding another violation to the list of Enforcer misconduct.

  As she stood, she saw a blood-splattered scrapbook lying facedown on the floor. She picked it up. Horror rocked her as she flipped through page after page of articles detailing her life, her father’s murder, and Darryl’s quest for vengeance.

  The final computer-printed article regarding her father showed his University of
Louisville faculty photo. Her fingertips trailed over it, and longing filled her heart.

  Pervasive, bitter cold pierced her. Her breath left in a rush. The world spun away. When it returned she found herself standing beside Harvey, the scrapbook in his hands instead of her own.

  Darryl faced him from across the room, a Beretta aimed at the sheriff. She watched as he squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew in slow motion and penetrated Harvey’s leg at the knee. He cried out as his legs gave way and he collapsed. The scrapbook tumbled from his hands.

  The book hit the floor, and Alex staggered back from it, returning to reality in a disorienting swirl of colors and sensations. Usually she received only vague impressions of people, places, or events when touching an object. The full re-creation of the scene she’d witnessed left her mind reeling.

  When the world stopped spinning, she was surprised to find a woman dressed in a flowing white gown standing before her. Her gaze darted from the woman to the portrait above the shrine and back. “Claire?”

  Her sorrow-filled eyes bore into Alex. Then she turned her head to reveal the vine-wrapping cross tattoo on her neck. She raised her arm, pointing to a blank wall, and returned her pleading stare to Alex. An ethereal voice permeated Alex’s mind.

  Stop him. Please.

  Claire faded into the shadows, and Alex dashed from the house.

  seventeen

  HARVEY AWOKE TO PAIN. HIS LEG FELT AS THOUGH someone had poured acid on it. A sharp stinging blow landed on his swollen cheek. He flinched.

  “Wakey wakey,” Darryl said in a singsong voice. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the best part.”

  The smell of blood and chemicals permeated the air, making him gag. He tried to sit up and alleviate the pain radiating up his leg, but his wrists were shackled above his head to a thick wooden post. He looked at the wad of bandages and tourniquet encapsulating his leg and leaned over as far as he could and vomited.