by Kallysten
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Alinar Publishing
www.alinarpublishing.com
Copyright ©2008 by Kallysten
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Carte Blanche
Kallysten
Copyright © 2008 Kallysten
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The right of Kallysten to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published February 2008
First Edition
All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Edited by Mary S
Cover by Kallysten
ISBN
1-906023-48-4
978-1-906023-48-5
To Mistress Phoenix,
with my gratitude and appreciation
Chapter 1
"She's in the dungeon, if you can believe that."
Grace struggled not to let her instant dislike for the police officer appear on her face and merely nodded as she passed by him, ignoring his chuckle. One of first things Hugo had impressed on her was that she would have to work closely with the police and would rely on them for many things. She couldn't afford to antagonize anyone, not even an idiot who found anything funny in the present situation. A woman was dead. Respect shouldn't have been optional.
"Straight through the living room,” he indicated when Hugo came up the alley. “The staircase is by the kitchen."
"Thanks Johnny,” Hugo replied. He stopped to shake the policeman's hand. “How's that baby of yours? She's what, six months, now?"
Not interested in that discussion, Grace moved on, rolling her shoulder to adjust the strap of the leather bag she carried. Her high-heels shoes clicked on the polished wooden floor, and she instinctively looked behind her to check that she hadn't marred the surface. She hadn't, but she stepped as lightly as she could after that. If she were to judge by the living room, the owner of the house had had expensive tastes. The real wood on the floor matched the decorative trims around doors and windows. A lavish rug at least half an inch thick sat in the middle of the room. A sofa and two armchairs were placed around the marble coffee table in its center. It all looked straight out of a design magazine, from the grandiose fireplace taking up most of one wall to the carefully arranged pictures decorating another one.
A look back toward the entrance showed that Hugo and his friend were still talking. Grace wanted to be annoyed—the officer deserved far less attention than he was receiving, as far as she was concerned—but it was hard to be impatient when she knew what lay ahead. She had seen dead bodies before: perfectly coiffed as they rested in their coffins, untouched by the mourners around them. She had never seen firsthand the victim of a vampire.
Unwilling to go forward by herself, Grace walked over to the wall of framed pictures. She soon noticed that the same woman appeared in all of them: the owner of the house, she supposed. At the base of each wood frame, a thin brass plaque gave a date, place and names. After reading a few of them and examining the pictures, Grace realized that the victim had to have known a lot of influential people in Blackwood Falls and Washington if she had been on a fishing party on the Potomac with the mayor, had hunted with two senators, and appeared in fundraisers with political nominees of all persuasions.
"Found something?” Hugo asked when he finally joined her.
She indicated the pictures. “Just that her funeral will probably be well attended."
Hugo made a small sound in his throat that usually meant he was unhappy about something. When Grace looked at him, he was shaking his head.
"That's no good,” he said gruffly. “They'll be on our back ‘til we can say for sure that we dusted the vamp."
Still grousing, he led the way out of the room and to the door that opened on the basement staircase. Unlike Grace, he showed no qualms about the scuffmarks his right boot left on the floor. Usually, his limp was barely noticeable, but it worsened when he was tired. The gray-haired Special Enforcer ought to have retired years earlier. Grace was glad he hadn't. She had learned as much about vampires in the five weeks she had worked as his assistant as she had in almost two years at the academy.
"You've got the bag?” he asked for the third time since they had left the agency as he took his first step down the staircase.
She grinned at his back. “I've got the bag.” She knew his repeated question didn't mean he doubted her. Instead, it reflected just how attached he was to the bag and its contents. In thirty years of hunting vampires, that bag had saved his life a dozen times, he had told her, and she was sure he hadn't been exaggerating—at least, not much.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase, Grace needed to stop for a second to take in her surroundings. She understood now what the officer at the door had meant by ‘dungeon.’ Her heart was suddenly pounding wildly in her chest, and she knew that in a few moments her panties would be soaked. It was just her luck to stumble on something like this when she was working. How was she supposed to remain focused now?
"Grace."
At the call of her name, she snapped back to attention and hurried after Hugo. He had reached the far end of the room already, and was talking to another police officer and two women from the coroner's office. The four of them stood out sharply in front of the black wall. Only when she came closer did Grace realize that the walls weren't painted jet black as she had first thought. Instead, they were covered with a heavy fabric that, from its sheen, looked like velvet. The metal hooks, chains, and various instruments that hung on the walls around the large basement seemed to gleam a little more brightly in this new knowledge. The feel of velvet at one's back while shackled to the wall had to be—
Grace forced herself to abandon that train of thought and tried not to look around anymore. She felt like a child who had to walk through a toy store to reach her school. What had been the odds that her first vampire death scene would look like this?
"Grace, this is Lieutenant Howell. You've talked to him on the phone before, haven't you?"
She nodded and offered Howell her hand, smiling politely.
"Nice to meet you, Lieutenant."
The officer appeared taken aback, and he only shook her hand after staring at her for a couple of frozen seconds. He had to be in his forties, Grace guessed, returning his look. His crooked nose hinted that it had been broken in the past. His suit fit him perfectly well, giving him the air of a lawyer rather than the police officer the badge at his belt indicated. She noticed the glance he gave her left hand and felt acutely aware of the tan mark still visible on her ring finger.
"The pleasure is all mine,” he said, maybe more warmly than the situation warranted. “When Hugo said he had a new assistant, I figured it was a kid fresh out of the academy."
Grace suppressed a snort. At thirty-one, she was hardly a kid, but she hadn
't been when coming out of the academy eleven years earlier either.
Oblivious to Howell's light flirting, Hugo continued the introductions and indicated the medical officers. “And these ladies are Dr. Porter and Dr. Mullen."
The two women and Grace exchanged greetings. Both of them were wearing medical coats, but while Porter's stood brightly white in stark contrast to her brown skin, the color of Mullen's seemed faded, graying like her hair. Porter gave a discrete eye roll in Howell's direction, clearly showing she, at least, had noticed his game.
"And this,” Mullen said, indicating a sheet-covered form on the king-sized bed to the side of the room, “is Dorothy MacAlair. Puncture wounds to the neck, no blood on the bed.” She paused, clearly hesitating. “At least, not recent blood.” She cast a glance around the room and shuddered, obviously uncomfortable. “You won't see a thing with the naked eye, but when we turned on the black light, this place lit up like a birthday cake."
Grace bit her tongue before she could point out that in a place like this, the light was probably picking up traces of something other than blood.
"The bag, Grace?"
She handed out the bag to Hugo. He rested it on the floor and put a knee down next to it. As if on cue, Howell, Porter, and Mullen headed out for the staircase.
"Five minutes?” Howell asked on his way out.
"Make it ten,” Hugo called back. “Grace's going to do that one; she might need a bit more time."
Coming to stand next to Hugo, Grace suddenly regretted having dressed in a skirt that morning. Until that day, Hugo had kept her in the office to do research. In his defense, there hadn't been any case like this one in months in Blackwood Falls. To see that he trusted her with the spellwork on her first case filled her with trepidation. She could only hope she wouldn't mess up.
"Why did they leave?” she asked as she gingerly knelt on the linoleum floor. The black and red pattern had to be easier to clean than wooden floors. “Their presence wouldn't have affected the spell."
Hugo's smile made his moustache twitch and added wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. “I know that. And you know that. But they don't."
She started pulling bags of herbs from the bag he had opened for her, only glancing at him to give him a questioning look.
"They ask too many questions if you let them stay,” he explained. “Don't know about you, but my spellwork gets on the shoddy side when people yammer at me."
She nodded, understanding his point, then started focusing on the task at hand. It had been more than ten years since she had done this. She had reviewed the theory recently, but her practice might be a little rusty. She was thankful suddenly that they were alone—alone with Dorothy MacAlair, that was, she remembered with a jolt.
Three kinds of herbs thrown in a bowl, a pinch of ritual salt, a few murmured words and the flame of a match: magic wasn't difficult per se. The biggest challenge was to possess the ability. On that front, nature had been generous with Grace. She'd never be able to cast some of the most advanced spells, like glamours or defensive magic, but every tool routinely used by Special Enforcers was well within her capabilities.
"Nice,” Hugo murmured, approbation thick in his voice as he looked around the basement. “Mine are never that clear."
Around them, the spell had suddenly filled the room with colors. It was designed to show if a vampire had been invited into a home. From what Grace could see, their victim had had at least five vampire guests. She wouldn't have expected it after seeing the wall of fame in the living room. Then again, nothing upstairs had hinted at what they found here.
"Thirty seven years,” Hugo sighed, “and I still don't get why people invite vamps in their homes. I've got nothing against being friends with one, mind you. I've got a couple of fanged pals myself. But I wouldn't let them inside my home, not for anything. And I'd have thought she would have known better as well."
"You knew her?” Grace asked, surprised.
"No, but I knew of her. She used to be a councilwoman. I voted for her a couple of times. She had pretty good ideas about how to control vamps."
Grace didn't reply. She knew what he thought of vampires, and while she found his position a little extreme, it was also common for Special Enforcers. She had never given it much thought herself, for the most part because she had never met a vampire outside a couple of instructors at the academy. She had always wanted to be a Special Enforcer, but it had more to do with her desire to save lives and punish wrongdoers than a particular dislike for vampires. She could just as well have become a police officer. In the police, though, she wouldn't have had the opportunity to practice magic.
"Want to do the reveal one now?"
"Sure.” She searched the leather bag for the ingredients of the second spell. “Are there many marked vamps in town?"
"Almost thirty now. The town council passed an ordinance ... Oh, it has to be five years back now. Anyone working for the town or wanting a license of any kind needs to get marked. It cuts down on our work when we've got killings.” He gestured at the small bottle in her hand. “Another drop. That's it."
The spell was ready. All Grace had to do was say—"Reveal"—which she did, feeling that there ought to have been more to it. It was, after all, a fairly advanced bit of magic that would indicate if any of the vampires Hugo had marked with the complementing spell had entered the room.
When, after a few seconds, nothing had happened, Grace looked at Hugo, biting the inside of her cheek.
"Do you want to do it over?” she asked, a little uncomfortable.
Hugo stood with a little groan. “No need. No one marked came here, that's all. It'd have been too easy if they had."
He stepped over to the bed while Grace took her time putting away the supplies. She heard the soft whisk of the sheet being drawn off the victim's body. She took a deep breath; the herbal scent of the two spell preparations she had just made jumped at her, and she sneezed. She took a little longer to close the bag than was needed, trying to prepare herself. By the time she was standing again, there was a block of ice in the pit of her stomach. It only grew with each step she took toward the bed.
The woman was lying on her back, her blonde hair spread out like a halo around her head. Her make-up was flawless even now, eyeliner framing her glassy eyes and pearly red lips set on a pout. She had been bit on the jugular.
"It wasn't an accident, then,” she said, her voice uneven.
"No, it wasn't. That vamp knew exactly what he was doing."
"He? How do you know it was a man?"
Hugo gestured at the body before turning away. “Just a guess. I'm thinking she wouldn't have dressed like that for a woman."
Grace had to tear her gaze off the seemingly innocuous small holes in the woman's neck to look at her body. She doubted those people on the pictures upstairs had ever seen Dorothy MacAlair in this red and black leather corset and miniskirt, with fishnet stockings and six-inch heels. Or if they had, they'd certainly not admit to it. From what Hugo had said, MacAlair hadn't been a councilwoman anymore, but Grace didn't think ‘dominatrix’ had been on her resume.
She drew the sheet back over the body and turned away, ready to point out that they couldn't exclude female vampires from their suspects, not until they found out more about MacAlair's preferences in partners. Hugo was talking to Howell by the staircase, however, and the two medical officers caught her before she could join him.
"We're all done here,” Porter said. “Mind giving us a hand bagging her?"
"Of course,” Grace answered at once. “No problem."
She would much rather help them than have them need the help of the policeman, who had let her and Hugo in earlier and who was now standing in the middle of the staircase, looking around with wide eyes and a twisted smile.
"About Howell,” Porter said, sotto voce, as she opened the body bag. “You might want to know he flirts with everything that wears a skirt but always goes home to his wife in the morning."
Grace snor
ted and threw the man a glance. “Thanks for the tip."
The three of them quickly but gently lifted the cold body off the bed and onto the open bag on the gurney. Something caught Grace's eye, dangling from the belt of the skirt, and she reached in for the plastic card hanging from a clip.
"Wait,” she said, and pulled the card free before Mullen zipped the bag shut.
"What is it?” Porter asked, looking at the object curiously.
"I don't know,” Grace lied. “But it might help our investigation if I figure it out. Mind if I keep it?"
Porter shook her head. “As you said, it's your investigation, your clues. We'll send you our report by tomorrow. Welcome to Blackwood Falls."
They shook hands and the two women wheeled the gurney away, asking the still gawking officer for help carrying it and the body up the stairs. Still standing by the bed, Grace turned the card between her fingers. She had never seen one before, but she knew what it was. The size of a credit card, it was white on one side, save for the initials CB engraved in a corner and a magnetic strip running lengthwise. The other side was a deep red, without any apparent writing, but with a little friction and heat ... She rubbed her thumb hard in the center of the card and words appeared, as she had thought they would.
Girls. Electricity. Knives. Needles. Scat.
Hugo had been right, then, she thought as she watched the ink fade out again. MacAlair hadn't been into girls; her killer had probably been male.
As she picked up the spell bag, she looked around the dungeon one last time. Carefully lined up whips, riding crops, floggers, and paddles of various sizes took almost an entire wall, each hanging from a metal hook over the velvet. Chains hung from the ceiling in a couple of places. More toys and accessories were spread out around the room, each, it seemed, in its proper place. It didn't look as though MacAlair had had time to play before dying. She could hardly have been a beginner on the scene. People had to have known her, and as was often the case, they would know whom she was dominating. She had been comfortable in inviting her killer inside her house, so she must have known him.