Blood And Stone: A Novel in The Atalante Chronicles

by Nicholas W King

  “Zombies. Right.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “Not quite,” I said. “Zombies are low-level necromancy. I could raise some were I inclined. Ghouls are something else, something worse. You take a spirit of hunger and force it into a recently deceased corpse.” I shivered as I spoke. “No moaning or slow movement. They hunt in packs. Take down prey and feast. Lester and I found a nest. There were eight of them. Largest pack I’d ever come across. Three officers died taking them down.”

  “How many went in?”

  “Five.” I closed my eyes. The screams of those three officers being eaten alive echoed in my mind. I remember one of them, Deputy Donald White, pummeling a ghoul with his fists while it pulled out mouthfuls of his intestines. He kept punching right up until the thing started in on his liver. “Lester and I barely made it,” I said. “The two of us spent six days in the hospital.”

  “Trying to scare me off?” she asked. I opened my eyes and stared at her. Angela’s jaw was set. There was defiance in her eyes.

  “A bit,” I admitted. “Preparing you as well.” I took a breath and decided to lay it out for her.

  As we drove, I explained the significance of the tattoo and as much as I could on the Iscariot bloodline. Finally, I said, “We’re going to see the Lord of Tampa, Manuel Vega.”

  “Never heard of him,” she said.

  “By design,” I told her. “He and I have had some arrangements in the past.”

  “Illegal?”

  “Don’t ask questions unless you want answers. Saves me having to lie.”

  Without hesitation, she veered off the street, nearly clipping the car coming up the lane with her rear bumper. She pulled into the empty parking lot of a mini-mall on Kennedy Boulevard, slamming the brakes and putting the car in park before turning to face me.

  “One time I’ll say this,” she said. “Nothing illegal happens when I’m around. You do anything illegal and I’ll arrest you so fast you’ll be in lockup before you realize what’s happened.”

  There was nothing I could say. She gave me nothing to fire back on, no room to whip out a remark. Her eyes searched mine for any signs of protest. Not wanting to back down, I leveled my gaze and stared right back. In my experience dealing with Sentinels, staring into a wizard’s eyes can be disconcerting. The cliché about the eyes being the windows to the soul is somewhat true. A wizard or witch’s eyes always have little fireworks in them. If Angela saw something like that in my eyes, she certainly didn’t show it.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Avoiding questions about my past would help.”

  We stayed silent for a bit after she pulled back onto Kennedy. After a minute or two, I asked, “Learned anything about who our victim is?”

  The deputy sheriff waited until we reached another stop light before reaching into the backseat and producing a folder. “Ran fingerprints this morning,” she said. “Name’s Cecilia Sumner. Went by CeCe. A few arrests, mostly for dealing meth.”

  I skimmed through CeCe’s arrest record and focused on her photo. The picture was old, taken three years ago. Her face was shallow. She had pronounced cheekbones, pock-marks on her forehead and around her mouth. Her blonde hair was damaged and hung flat against her face. From the looks of her, she used as well as dealt.

  “Last arrest was three years ago,” I said. “What’s she been up to?”

  Blackwell managed her way through downtown, opting to take Nebraska Avenue straight to 7th Avenue instead of taking us by the Aquarium and up Adamo Drive. Dusk had passed and the night was in full bloom. Surprisingly enough, the sidewalks were quiet. The road is notorious in Tampa for illicit couplings, but there wasn’t a streetwalker in sight.

  “She went through court-mandated rehab,” said Blackwell. “Got out and stayed clean, apparently.”

  I ran the scenario through my head. Manuel was not well-known for charity in the supernatural community of Tampa. He seemed to take his cues from the harsher aspects of the old Trafficante family that had ruled Tampa’s underworld for decades. While I’d never seen anything myself, rumors had always persisted that he dealt swiftly with usurpers. CeCe’s record showed seven arrests in a five-year span for possession of meth. She’d been a two-bit worker, probably too high on the product to be an effective saleswoman. Most of her arrests had occurred in Plant City.

  Manuel’s base of power was and always had been the greater Tampa Bay area. How CeCe had managed to land on the radar of Vega or any of his vampires was the first question I intended to ask.

  “What’s on your mind, Nico?” she asked. Traffic was light and we were nearing Ybor.

  I laid out my thoughts to her. She nodded along, picking up the pieces even though she didn’t buy the whole supernatural side of things.

  “Sounds like Vega wouldn’t have anything to do with her,” Blackwell said finally. “So, vampires? What’s the deal?”

  “Depends on the bloodline,” I said. “There’s about eight in the world. Each of them has certain characteristics. The old-world vamps, the ones in Europe and Russia, are more feral and wolf-like. South American vamps have strong ties to spiders.”

  “What about U.S. vampires?”

  “Hodge-podge, mostly. Most of the major cities have a Lord or Lady from the Old World running the show. American vampires are unique, though. They’re the only ones who catch fire in sunlight.”

  She looked at me for a second and then focused on the road again. “Thought that was true of all vampires,” she said.

  “It isn’t. Most vamps are just weaker in sunlight.”

  “How much weaker?”

  I shrugged. “Asking that is like asking whether you want to get shot or beaten to death with a club. They’re not as fast, not as strong, and not as durable.”

  “What flavor is Vega?”

  I smiled involuntarily. “He’s Cuban,” I said. “Been here since the fall of Bautista. Caribbean vampires are closely connected to snakes.”

  Blackwell shivered and gripped the wheel tighter as we drove up 7th Avenue. The Columbia Restaurant was on the far side of Centro Ybor, the club district. Over the last ten years I’ve in lived in Tampa it’s been slowly converted into a boutique shopping area. At least a few blocks of it have been gentrified.

  As we passed the largest shopping center, my mind went back to the last time I’d been there, a month before. One Tampa police officer died that night. Another was still in the hospital with his injuries, probably wouldn’t walk right once he recovered. And there was one dead gargoyle, which sat waiting in the city morgue for three days before someone burned the remains. Oscar Cardenas, the Tampa PD detective I often worked with, had told me the gargoyle was catalogued as a victim of intense, sadistic plastic surgery.

  We turned the corner at the Columbia and parked a block east of it. The restaurant is one of the oldest in Tampa. It opened back in 1905 and had been of Babe Ruth’s favorites when the Yankees came here for spring training. Over the decades, it’s expanded substantially, now taking up an entire city block.

  Parking in Ybor is a chore as one gets closer to the weekend. The middle of the week, like tonight, was much easier. The lot behind the Columbia was only half full.

  Once we were parked but before either of us could get out, I produced the two vials from one of the pockets inside my coat. “Drink this,” I said as I passed one to her.

  Angela held the small tube and stared at it. “What is it?”

  I drank mine down like a shot, which helped with the horrid taste. Think about a liquid, somewhere above Everclear but below battery acid, and you’ll get the general idea. “It’s a potion I came up with,” I said. “It’ll counteract the effects of vampire venom.”

  “Venom?” she asked. The concern on her face made her freckles darker.

  “Caribbean vamps inject a paralytic toxin into a victim,” I said. “It doesn’t kill you. Just makes it easier to feed.”

  Hesitantly, Blackwell uncorked the tube and drank the potion. The face sh
e made was priceless. “Gah,” she said. “You couldn’t come up with a better flavor?”

  “The alternative’s worse,” I said.

  As we got out of the car, I noticed the Glock 19 GEN4 she wore in a hip holster. We started walking toward 21st Street and the railroad tracks. Beyond those was our dinner date with a vampire lord.

  Fun times.

  Chapter 6

  I released the cantrip once we entered the restaurant. One of Manuel’s guards recognized me and escorted us back to the Sancho Dining Room. The Columbia was bustling. Servers moved back and forth from the kitchens with single-minded zeal. The ever-present hum of mingled conversations filled my ears.

  The Sancho Room is one of the private dining areas in the restaurant. A single long table stood in the center of the small room. The wall on one side was beige brick. The rest of the walls were painted a close approximation of the same color. Paintings from obscure Spanish artists dotted the walls. Despite coming here for meetings with Manuel off and on over the past few years, I hadn’t bothered to learn much about the decor. One painting that always caught my attention was a woman in a red and white dress sitting against an idyllic backdrop. She always struck me as lonely, the rustic vista behind her notwithstanding.

  With my magical senses no longer under lock and key, I was able to get a taste for the ambient energy of the room. The table was full except for two seats on either side closest to Manuel. All the people seated at the table were vampires. Around them were mortal attendants, a mixture of nubile young men and women. Not a single one of them was unattractive — or older than 25.

  “This is just creepy,” I heard Blackwell mutter under her breath.

  All the vampires turned to face her. I could see mild irritation on some of the faces. Others had the blasé expression you’d expect of a creature that’s see a few centuries pass. And then there was Manuel, at the far end of the room, smirking confidently. He had the air of a man with few cares. I knew differently.

  Manuel stood and beckoned me to come join him. He was about the same height as I am, with jet black hair cut short and styled back. His eyes were fiery coals. Vega was not a svelte man, but he was nowhere near as broad-shouldered as me. A small scar ran down his right cheek to his chin, but otherwise he had an attractive, angular face. Blackwell flushed a little looking at him. I couldn’t blame her. I did as well.

  I motioned for her to follow and sit next to me, putting me between her and Vega. Unfortunately, that put her between me and another vampire, an ugly lump of flesh who looked primed for violence. As we sat, I saw the deputy slide her hand down to her side, undoubtedly tickling the Glock in her hip holster.

  Manuel smiled and leaned down to plant a kiss on my cheek. His lips were warm and flush. He’d fed earlier tonight. I caught the lingering scent of blood on his tongue, rough and metallic. The kiss lasted for a second or two longer than one would give a simple friend. My face flushed even more and my heart began beating faster. I cast a quick glance to Angela, who took in the exchange with a raised eyebrow.

  “My apologies for disrupting your evening, Lord Vega,” I said after Manuel had resumed his seat. I made sure to keep my voice respectful and neutral. With this many vampires in one space, a little respect saves you a lot of fangs.

  In his rich baritone, Manuel asked, “It’s been months since I’ve enjoyed your company. Are you here about that job you worked today?” Vega had been a resident of Tampa since the early 1960s, but he still held onto his Cuban accent. It made his voice both commanding and incredibly seductive.

  Blackwell shot me an accusatory glance. I gave her a plaintive look, which did not change her expression.

  I slowed my heart rate with a few deep breaths. “I’ve missed you, too,” I said.

  His smile almost made it to his eyes. “But not enough to visit,” he said.

  “I have other business interests.”

  “Yes,” he said with a chuckle. It sounded cheerful and a little menacing. He ushered an attendant over, a cute redhead with glassy eyes, who presented him with a hand-sized manila envelope. Manuel gave this to me and I placed it in one of the pockets of my coat. “I’ve been told you’re quite the...what’s the phrase Americanos use...jack of all trades.”

  I winced and avoided Angela’s eyes. Most of the supernatural community in the Tampa Bay area went to Manuel for his blessing on their schemes— if those schemes were large enough for the Lord of Tampa to get a cut. For criminal enterprises run by supernatural creatures, that blessing is a requirement. Vega had spent the last few decades cultivating contacts throughout the region. From time to time I’d found it necessary to work for Manny. The jobs weren’t always... harmless.

  “The rent’s gotta get paid,” I said. I gestured with my head to the deputy. “This is semi-official, though.”

  It was Manuel’s turn to be surprised. He never let it show in his face, but his eyes were practically dancing with the possibilities. He clapped his hands without taking his eyes off me and Blackwell. All but the two vampires closest to Angela and I left the room, their attendants following after.

  I watched everyone leave. The humans were thralls, little more than walking blood bags. From the shambling gait many of them had, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d been kept on a steady supply of depressants. They wandered aimlessly, like someone who just woke up from a long sleep. The low-level vampires, the ones Manuel kept under his direct control, shot me venomous glares. Meeting a vampire’s eyes isn’t advisable, even for a wizard like me. I returned the glare with a cold stare of my own, but my eyes aimed for their foreheads or noses. No words were spoken. My message to each of them was loud and clear.

  Once we were alone with the bodyguards and Manuel, Blackwell pulled out the photo of CeCe. She must have snatched it from the folder when we parked. She raised it to eye level with Manuel and asked, “Know this woman?”

  “Who is this woman, Nicodemus?” asked Manuel, his words slow and thoughtful.

  Before I could respond, Blackwell produced her badge from a pocket. “Sheriff’s Deputy,” she announced.

  If the Lord of Tampa felt perturbed by this revelation, he didn’t let it show. I locked eyes with him, felt the pull of his personality as he tried to weasel his way into my mind. Images of Vega in compromising positions filled my imagination. I shrugged and smiled with a confidence I didn’t really possess.

  “She’s holding the leash,” said Vega. He laughed heartily for a moment or two. “Deputy, do you know where you are?”

  “An expensive restaurant,” she said.

  The only way I can describe Angela’s expression in that moment is a resting bitch-face. She did not care that she was speaking with the ruler of Tampa’s vampires. Part of me admired that boldness. The other parts of me understood her bravado was based solely on ignorance. She didn’t know the creature in front of her like I did.

  The vampire lord snorted. “Jeva, you have no authority here.”

  Blackwell should have been intimidated. She should even have been scared. It was like watching a lion tamer use only a whip and a chair to fend off a beast easily capable of rending her limb from limb. Angela didn’t back down. She simply swung the photo back and forth a few times.

  “Your leash has cojones, Nico,” said Manuel. His smile remained solely around his lips. The look he was giving Blackwell was the same look I give a well-cooked steak. “Is this official?”

  “No,” I said before Blackwell could answer. She shot me a cross look. “I know you well enough, Manuel. Tell her what she wants to know. There’s no harm in that.”

  “I disagree, asere.” He motioned for the ugly vampire, one of the pair who had remained, to get him something to drink. The vampire left the table. There was a commotion outside the Sancho Room. I could make out some disagreeable words in Spanish. We waited until the guard returned. A waiter soon followed with a slim glass pitcher of Sangria. He poured Manuel a glass, left the pitcher on the table, and promptly disappeared.

  A
fter Manuel had taken a long sip and paused to savor it, he asked, “What do you offer for the answer?”

  Blackwell first gave Manny, then me the same quizzical look.

  “So the jeva has not learned the rules,” Manuel said. “Explain them, Nico.”

  I sighed and faced Angela. “The supernatural world by and large works on favors and trading information. If we want him to tell us anything, we have to offer something of equal value.”

  “Cash?” she asked.

  “Money has little real value to us,” Manuel said.

  “Speak for yourself. Some people have to pay property taxes,” I said. I glanced from Blackwell to the vampire. The deputy’s expression didn’t change. In fact, it hardened. “Christ on a cracker,” I said. “I’ll pay the debt. Tell her what she wants to know.”

  Manuel only briefly weighed my offer. He knew I was good for the favor. “Agreed,” he said. “The dead woman was the paramour of one of my associates. I saw her at the last Conclave a month ago.”

  “Conclave?” Blackwell asked.

  “Monthly meeting for the vampire hierarchy,” I answered. “It’s like city council meetings, only more gets done. To Manuel, I asked, “Who’s the associate?”

  “I cannot say, asere.” Manuel said, sounding somber.

  “I need the name,” Blackwell said. Her tone was emphatic.

  “I cannot say,” Manuel repeated. His words were like stones, unyielding and heavy. Manuel shifted slightly in his seat, leaning away from the table.

  My hand found its way to Blackwell’s arm and gave it a small squeeze. She looked to me. I said nothing, but the look I gave her said we should not press our luck. I turned back to face Manuel and asked, “When is the next Conclave?”

  “Later tonight,” he answered. He looked poised to leap away from the table should violence be necessary. “Our usual meeting place.”

  I nodded and rose to my feet. “We’ll be leaving now, Lord Vega.” I let go of Blackwell’s arm and motioned to the exit.