The Vampire Hunters: Book I of The Vampire Hunters Trilogy

by Scott M. Baker

  “Sounds good to me.” Bill stood up. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  Jessica finished her wrap as she thought of the questions she wanted to ask Jason. She would have to keep them to the point since she had no idea how much time she would have to talk with him. She could worry about that later. Right now she had to make an important phone call.

  * * *

  THE EDDIES OF BLUISH-WHITE smoke swirled around Drake’s head for several seconds before being carried by the breeze across the enclosed balcony and out the window. He took a deep puff on his cigar, then exhaled another eddy of smoke. It swirled around the tail end of the first eddy and followed it out. As he watched the smoke make its slow escape, he picked up the tumbler of Baker’s Bourbon and took a drink. It burned slightly going down, causing Drake to cough. As with his cigars, the bourbon excited his senses and reminded him how good it was to be alive. It had become a ritual after every hunt. To sit out on his balcony in a lounge chair, his feet up, enjoying a stiff drink and a good smoke. What better way to reward himself after battling the undead.

  This time he poured himself a double shot of bourbon. He needed it. Last night’s encounter had been unsettling, though he refused to admit as much to the rest of the team. Those concerns had nothing to do with the size and strength of the vampire, or with the difficulty they had in taking it down. Given the thing’s enormity, that was expected. What bothered him was the way in which last night’s encounter seemed to have been precisely orchestrated. The snuffy they had run into on the Mall deliberately led them to the underground parking garage and the biker vampire.

  Why?

  Despite its size and strength, the biker vampire was no match for Drake’s team. Did the vampires intend to scare off Drake? Unlikely, for his team had run up against tougher and more terrifying creatures before and had yet to back down. Maybe the vampires were breeding a new weapon, breeding a race of uber snuffies to combat the hunters? Possible. But why introduce them piecemeal and forfeit the advantage of releasing them against Drake’s team all at once? It made no sense. All Drake knew for certain was that the vampires were up to something. What he could only guess at. It did not bode well. Maybe if…

  Drake glimpsed the movement in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. It raced onto the balcony and lunged. Drake moved to sit up. Before he could react, it landed on his abdomen. Bourbon sloshed out of the tumbler onto Drake’s chest and burnt cigar ash flittered to the floor. Drake froze. It turned to face him, its nose twitching.

  “You scared the hell out of me.”

  Val Helsing raised his ears and tilted his head. With a tiny leap, the rabbit landed on Drake’s chest and inched forward with his front paws, flattening his head and upper body. The large brown eyes stared up at Drake, begging for attention. Placing his tumbler on the floor, Drake took the lop ears between his thumb and index finger and gently massaged. Van Helsing closed his eyes, and within seconds was gently grinding his teeth in satisfaction, making a clicking sound that sounded almost like a cat’s purr.

  The ringing of Drake’s cellular phone shattered the quiet. Van Helsing’s head popped up and his ears lifted to the side as he looked around for potential danger. Drake gently patted Van Helsing’s behind to reassure him. Convinced that nothing threatened him, the rabbit lay back down on Drake’s chest. Drake resumed massaging his ears, and with his free hand picked up the cellular phone and pressed the talk button.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.” The female voice had a sultry quality to it, with a hint of a Midwestern accent. “Is this Drake Matthews?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Jessica Reynolds. With The Washington Standard.”

  “Thanks. But I’m not interested in a subscription.”

  “Please don’t hang up. I’m not selling subscriptions.” Jessica spoke rapidly. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  A hesitation. “About the Night Stalker affair in Boston. And about similar incidents here in Washington.”

  “Similar incidents?” Drake feigned ignorance.

  “Since arriving in Washington you’ve been arrested several times, but have never been prosecuted. You operate a consulting business that doesn’t have clients. Or we could talk about your joy ride through Washington the other night that ended up in burning out half the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.”

  “I never burned down anything in Boston.”

  “Really? What about the Old South Church?”

  Damn, this woman has done her homework. Drake warned himself to be careful what he said around her. “You seem to know a lot about me already, Miss…. I’m sorry. What was your name again?”

  “Jessica Reynolds.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me. I don’t know what more I could tell you.”

  “Quite a bit, actually.” A rustling of papers came across the line. “You could start with the Night Stalker affair. At the time…”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t give phone interviews.”

  “That’s fine.” Jessica tried to sound amicable. “We can do this at your office. Or we could arrange something down here at the paper.”

  Drake smiled. He admired her persistence. “Miss Reynolds. You seem nice enough, and I hate to be rude. The truth is, I don’t give interviews. To anyone. Nothing personal.”

  “Don’t you want people to know the truth about you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  A momentary pause as Jessica contemplated her response. “Why not?”

  “Because of the kind of work I’m in. The fewer people who know about me, the easier it is for me to conduct my business.”

  “And what type of business would that be?”

  “Protecting the world from evil.”

  “Really?” For the first time, a hint of frustration edged Jessica’s voice. “That’s an extremely vague job description.”

  “That depends on your definition of the word ‘evil’.”

  “And how would you define…”

  “Now, now, Miss Reynolds.” Drake cut her off in a firm but friendly manner. “If we keep this up, you’ll wind up getting an interview out of me after all.”

  “That was my plan,” she replied lightheartedly.

  “Good night, Miss Reynolds.”

  Drake disconnected the call. He placed the cellular phone back on the table and picked up his cigar. Shit. The embers had died out. He could relight it, but that would require moving Van Helsing, which he refused to do. He had continued petting his companion throughout the conversation, and now Van Helsing demanded his undivided attention. Drake massaged Van Helsing’s ears again, and was rewarded with a loud satisfied clicking.

  “Well, boy. Let’s hope this Jessica is as pretty as she sounds, because I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of her in the future.”

  * * *

  ION MOVED THROUGH Rock Creek Park like a phantom, staying near the edge of the path so as not to be seen. The night was crisp and clear. The usual overhanging haze had given way to a starlit night and a waxing gibbous moon that cast a dim light across the park. Not that Ion needed light to see, for he relied on his sense of smell to detect enemies or prey. Not tonight, however. The burden of leading the coven was wearing him down, and he needed to get away for a few hours. To unwind. To think. To get away from that infuriating bitch Toni.

  Veering off the main path, Ion turned down a narrow lane. The overhanging trees blotted out the sky, plunging the lane into near total dark. It reminded him of the way the world used to be way back when. Before the suburbs. Before electricity. Before modern civilization.

  When Ion was turned over seven hundred years ago, the world had been much smaller and considerably more violent. What little law and order existed had been granted by local rulers known more for their unbridled capriciousness than any moral considerations for their people. Violence was commonplace. Entire towns would be slaughtered because they prayed to the wrong god. Men were tortured and slain
on the whim of a warlord. Women were raped at will and sold into slavery. Children and the elderly were cast off by families who could not afford to feed the extra mouths. In a world of such institutionalized barbarity, Ion and his coven thrived.

  Back then, vampires ruled the night. The coven openly prowled at will because it cast terror into the villagers and made them submissive. Entire villages would lock themselves indoors at sunset, isolating themselves and becoming easy prey. Superstition and ignorance kept them docile, and neighboring villages were too terrified to offer assistance. Occasionally, a local warrior or holy man would surmise the danger and rally the people behind him. The agonizingly brutal death of their leader, however, would inevitably erode the mob’s resolve. When an area finally had been drained of its choicest food, or on those rare occasions when the coven faced annihilation, the vampires joined up with a conquering barbarian horde and changed hunting grounds.

  Ion sighed. Those days had long passed. As the Dark Ages gave way to the Age of Enlightenment, so had superstition given way to scientific reasoning. Rather than cower in terror, the humans began to fight back. Many a master and vampire fell in battle. As society grew larger and became more modern, the coven limited its activities and restricted its feeding to the dregs of society, the vagrants, addicts, whores, and criminals whose death went unnoticed. Caution and stealth became the coven’s tenets, for it could ill afford any publicity. A single missing person resulted in unwanted attention and massive manhunts, and the discovery of a corpse drained of blood generated a media circus. Publicity attracted hunters.

  Most of the hunters Ion had encountered over the centuries were insignificant little men, more of a nuisance than anything else. They worked alone or in small groups. In a few instances, the coven had confronted a team of hunters, well-equipped and highly-trained, and more often than not funded by a church or mosque. Once, in the Ukraine, they faced an entire government. In each case, they defeated the hunters or escaped to new territory. In seven centuries, Ion could remember only twice facing a hunter who posed a serious threat to the coven’s existence. Most notable had been Dr. Nathan Cushing, a particularly adept and enthusiastic hunter whose personal dedication and Christian devotion to eradicating evil transcended death.

  And Drake Matthews.

  Toni failed to comprehend this. She envisioned herself as queen of a vampire kingdom that still ruled the night, while ignoring the modern vagaries of their existence. For Toni, nothing had changed since the fifteenth century. She could not understand why the coven did not take the battle to the streets of Washington.

  Ion blamed himself. He knew when he sired Toni that she was too immature to be a master. Instinct had told him to feed off of her physically and sexually, then kill her. But he was captivated by her beauty. By her vitality. By her submissiveness. When she begged to become one of the undead, he readily obliged. For centuries things went well. Toni made an ideal mistress for the coven, proving as vicious and terrifying as any master he had sired. Even her taste for depravity had been insatiable, with many a maiden sharing Toni’s bed before meeting an untimely demise.

  Yet Toni had not adapted with the times. She began to see his efforts to protect the coven as a sign of weakness and temerity. She viewed him as decadent and incompetent, denouncing the same traits that once attracted her to him. The bitch even had the audacity to accuse him of failing to provide leadership and of allowing the coven to become sloppy, ignoring the fact that her own challenge to his authority had emboldened the coven to act as it pleased.

  Toni had boasted to the coven that she would confront Drake Matthews, and that she alone would rid them of the hunter. The fantasies of a foolish girl. She knew how to fight, but so far had only faced inferior foes. She had a lot to learn. Most importantly, that you could not confront an opponent’s strength and hope to win, but needed to exploit his weakness instead. Toni had not yet discovered Drake Matthew’s weakness.

  But Ion had.

  In a few days, when Toni failed at her attempt to kill Drake Matthews, and had discredited herself in the eyes of the coven, Ion would finish the job and solidify his leadership. A new scent wafted through the night air. Ion sniffed. He knew it well. Adrenaline. Excitement. Anticipation. Someone was hunting him. He did not know who or how many, and as of yet could not see them. But he could smell them. The musky scent of a violent creature of prey confident of an easy kill. Ion kept his pace steady and his eyes straight ahead. He would do nothing to shatter their confidence.

  At least not yet.

  After several minutes, his pursuers rushed in for the kill. Three sets of running feet closed in behind him. A deep voice menacingly cut through the night.

  “Wait up, motherfucka.”

  Ion kept on walking. He moistened his lips in anticipation.

  A large figure raced past Ion, then turned and blocked his path. Ion could just make out the features of a black man, bald, a shade over six feet in height, with a muscular chest and arms clearly defined underneath a tight t-shirt. The man reminded Ion of a Nubian slave he had taken for a lover back in Jerusalem. For an instant, Ion wondered how suppliant a partner this man would be. But the hateful sneer on the man’s face told Ion that such a thought would remain a fantasy.

  The Nubian raised a switchblade in front of Ion’s face and opened it with a metallic click. “Who the fuck do you think you are walking away from me?”

  Ion glanced over his shoulder. Two men stood behind him about three feet back and to either side. The man to his right, a stocky Hispanic, pushed aside his jacket to reveal a .38 caliber revolver. The other assailant, a skinny white kid with long hair and a scraggly beard, held a hunting knife down by his leg.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, motherfucka.”

  Plunging the knife forward, the Nubian sliced it across Ion’s right cheek, making a deep incision that did not bleed. Ion looked back at the Nubian and smiled.

  “Jesus Christ. What the…”

  Ion grabbed the Nubian by the shirt with his left hand and placed his right behind the Nubian’s head, reaching around to cup the chin. With a single motion, Ion twisted the man’s head around. The cracking of the Nubian’s vertebrae gave way to a gurgle as the dying man tried to cry out through his ruptured larynx. Ion released the shirt. The corpse swayed for a moment, then collapsed to the path with a dull thud.

  The Hispanic removed the revolver and aimed, but never had a chance to use it. Ion swooped around and grabbed the Hispanic’s wrist in his left hand, grasped the gun in his right, and twisted up and to the right. The Hispanic cried out, drowning out the sound of snapping bones. With a single rapid motion, Ion grabbed the revolver from the Hispanic’s hand and shoved the barrel into the man’s mouth, knocking out several of his front teeth. The Hispanic gagged on fragments of enamel and blood, but only for a second. Ion pulled the trigger. The back of the Hispanic’s head exploded, showering the third assailant in gore. Still holding the Hispanic’s wrist, Ion flipped his arm to the side, discarding the body into the grass.

  Ion stepped over to the skinny white kid who trembled in terror. Urine flowed down his right pants leg and formed a pool around his feet. Ion scooped a bloody piece of brain matter off the kid’s face and popped the morsel into his mouth, then licked his finger clean. The kid dropped his gaze and began sobbing, struggling to pray through deep breaths.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace.”

  Ion placed an index finger under the kid’s chin and lifted his head. Their gazes met. Ion smiled reassuredly.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  The kid sobbed deeply and stuttered out the word, “Y-yes.”

  “That’s a shame, because you’ll never meet him.”

  Ion morphed into a vampire and snarled. The kid became paralyzed with fear, mouthing a scream he could not vocalize. Ion held the kid in place by his shoulders as he plunged his fangs into his throat and drank deeply.

  After a few seconds, the kid overcame his shock lon
g enough to attempt to scream. He inhaled, trying to suck in air, most of which escaped through his ravaged neck. Sinking his fangs in deeper, Ion twisted his head from side to side until he tore a chunk of flesh from the kid’s throat. The body thrashed around before dropping to the ground. Ion spit the mouthful of flesh at the corpse. He used his fingers to wipe the blood from his lips and mouth, then sucked his fingers clean. The human might have made a disappointing feast, but once reawakened as the undead would make an excellent vampire.

  6.

  DRAKE SAT AT HIS DESK, his feet propped up on an extended drawer. With a Macanudo clenched between his teeth and the keyboard resting on his lap, he had been surfing the Internet for over an hour. More accurately, he had been searching The Washington Standard’s website to find out everything he could about Jessica Reynolds. Sadly, the effort was a waste of time.

  Taking a long draw on his cigar, Drake removed it from his mouth and placed it in an ashtray, then blew smoke into the air. He reached for his iced coffee and took a long drink. With a frustrated sigh, he continued reading. Despite over an hour on the Internet, he found very little to judge her by. Jessica’s biodata page listed little more than her date and place of birth, the colleges she attended, and the other newspapers she worked for. He checked out their websites, but most were small local newspapers that did not maintain archives if they even had a homepage. Even The Washington Standard’s official photograph of Jessica failed to do her justice. Or at least he hoped so since it looked like the reflection from a funhouse mirror.

  Picking up his cigar, Drake took another drag. Fortunately, the website had archived all of Jessica’s articles. Mostly reports on political corruption or the sexual indiscretions of the rich and famous. Not a very impressive portfolio, but Drake reasoned that resulted more from the low editorial standards of The Washington Standard than her own abilities. The quality of Jessica’s writing impressed him. And more importantly, the extent of her research. She had a knack for digging deep into a story and for getting people to talk to her, which more often than not led to them revealing the one fact that blew open the entire scandal. To Jessica’s credit, none of the facts she reported had been disproved. Drake felt she could hold her own on any of the city’s major newspapers if given the chance. Which he did not find reassuring. Now that Jessica had begun snooping around their hunting of vampires, it would not be long before she uncovered the truth.