Mauro Moretti was on the hunt, butt planted in the leather seat of his black limo. A dark-tinted divider window cut him off from his driver, but the intercom was open. The stretch limo's passenger area was shielded by more tinted windows. If caught out after dawn he'd just have to stay put, the driver coming into the back until nightfall freed them to continue on.
Like Mauro's clothes, the expensive car was bait for easily impressed, young females. He liked the runaways best; their underage blood had the best flavor, generally free of pollutants from a lifetime of bad habits, and rich in hormones. Fear would add the final tang he desired.
He didn't have to worry about his driver seeing too much, speaking out of class, or engaging in blackmail. Mauro had sired the man, bringing him across to the world of the undead. Vampires were loyal to their line, relieved of all the stress that once came from human morality. As a vampire, the only real sin was bringing unwanted attention to the brethren.
Getting OPSCURO involved could turn messy as hell. The Optimum Preternatural Security and Covert Unit Response Organization did have their uses, keeping the preternatural world safely in the shadows, but the agents thought they were god. The Latin word OPSCURO meant obscured, veiled, eclipsed. Their shadow teams were the most dangerous threat Mauro could imagine.
It's best to keep a low profile even though there are plenty of human serial killers running around to take the blame.
He'd been pretty discrete, until her. He frowned, thinking of the girl that hadn't stayed dead, the one that got away. He'd never been able to trace Ravyn to her lair. As her sire, he should have been able to will her attendance, but his thoughts ringed out into the night without touching her. He didn't understand how that could be. He knew she was in range; she was often seen in the Sacramento streets after dark, asking after a murderous fiend she intended to kill.
That had been funny the first time he'd heard it. however, now that the tale was reaching more exalted levels of the vampire community, the humor had run dry. At least no one knew about the nanotech project he'd financed with embezzled funds. Or about the researcher who'd stolen the experimental technology to use on his dying son.
I can still fix this. Just need a bit of luck in finding my prey. Just need…
They rolled past Madeleine's House, a three-story Victorian painted soft Easter-egg colors: pink, azure, sea-foam green, lilac. The Bridgeport women's shelter stood beside a wrap-around corner storefront where the residents volunteered. Proceeds from the thrift store helped support the women, giving them back a little pride. The store was currently closed, windows dark as despair.
The sidewalk was bare except for a teenager who fumbled lighting a cigarette. The burst of light painted her young face, drawing out the color of her coral pink lipstick and flaxen hair. A street lamp came on, adding more color. Her lipstick matched her jacket and boots, contrasting to a black tee and skirt. She drew in a lungful of smoke and tilted her head back, venting the smoke into the grasping wind, a cool move she'd probably seen it in a movie.
He called to the driver. "Go back. I've got a bit of a thirst."
The vehicle circled the block and cruised slowly along the curb, pulling up near the girl. Mauro opened his own door this time, easing out. He wore Italian loafers and a navy, two-thousand-dollar, tailored suit. His shirt was crisp white, starched. The white handkerchief in his breast pocket was ironed. His tie was a soothing maroon. White gold cufflinks glinted at his wrists. He wore an expensive watch and a gold ring with a ruby face. Completing his look, his black hair was carefully sculpted. For dramatic effect, a single curl dangled against his forehead.
He looked an athletic thirty-two. The truth was more like four hundred years. He'd come to America just after Queen Anne's War ended between the French and British. Living in Virginia, becoming a vampire, inventing many identities over the years, he'd hid the fact that he did not age. Under one alias, he signed the Constitution of the United States. He'd moved through history, playing many roles: bounty hunting runaway slaves before the Civil War, making a hefty profit selling munitions during the War of 1812, attending the Yale Medical College in 1813, becoming a doctor, and running bootleg liquor during Prohibition.
Einstein's theory of relativity in 1905 ignited a love of science. Later, with great interest, he'd followed the medical experimentation of the Nazis at the Ravensbrück Concentration Camp where bone, muscle, and nerve regeneration had been attempted—with little success, or anesthesia.
A mere seventy years later, when Med-Corp offered him a position to try for better results, he'd jumped at the chance even though it put him under the aegis of others of his kind, ending his run as a free agent.
He shook himself out of reverie, becoming aware that the teenage girl was staring at him a little doubtfully. He smiled at her and held up a flyer showing a runaway girl. "Excuse me," his voice was honey smooth. "I wonder if you could look at this flyer and tell me if you've seen my daughter. She's been missing for months and…" he let his voice break just a little, "I just want to know if Ravyn's all right. There's so much bad that can happen on the street."
The girl shook her head, not looking at the picture being waved around. "I don't think I can help you. Sorry." Finishing her smoke, she dropped the butt and ground it out with her shoe sole.
Mauro sighed deeply, slumping under the burden of despair. He let his hand fall to his side, the flyer slipping away into the wind. "She's about your age and a little Goth. Has a blood disease." Vampirism. "I just want her to have proper medical attention."
I'll take her apart one bloody chunk at a time, without anesthesia.
He put a little desperation in his voice. "You don't have to tell me anything about her if you know her." He pulled out his wallet and a wad of hundreds. "Just help her. And yourself. I've money here for you, too."
Where the flyer gathered little interest, the money compelled the girl's attention. Involuntarily, like a sleepwalker, she drifted closer. He lifted the money, pulling her gaze higher. Their eyes locked. He let his stare burn bright red, razing her resistance.
He smiled, showing a bit of fang. "Come here, child. There's nothing to fear. The pounding of your heart is excitement. Get into my limo. Let's go for a ride, shall we? The night is calling. We'll talk about so many pleasant things. You want to make me happy." It wasn't a question.
She came closer, her eyes vague, unfocused. With a gentle hand on the small of her back, he guided her into his limo and followed her in. He closed the door. The vehicle pulled away. Mauro called to his driver. "Take us someplace deserted where we can have our fun, some place where screams won't matter."
"Yes, sir."
Mauro helped her out of the pink jacket and let it slide onto the floor. Her arms were thin and white, a stark contrast to her black tee. He trapped one of her small, delicate hands in both of his. His fingertips found her pulse. It beat slowly under her icy calm. He heard her wisp of a breath, and the blood surging through her. He turned her hand palm up and lifted her wrist to his lips. His kisses were light as they moved along her forearm, toward her inner elbow.
He muttered, "Pain is pleasure, and I am your sweetest ecstasy. No matter what is done to you, you will die loving it; you have no choice." Teasing, he scraped her arm with his fangs.
A shudder went through her. Some buried part of her rational mind fought through darkness, surfacing. "Please … please…"
"Oh, yes," he said. "You do please me, and you will do so—until death parts us, my dear."
He bit her, fangs puncturing muscle, drawing blood. He sealed his mouth over the wound, letting the rich iron of her blood slide across his tongue. He swallowed, feeding with restraint despite the hunger searing him from the inside out. The beast—that took the place of his soul—screamed for more, but unbridled consumption would have to wait. He wasn't about to mess up a company car with human blood. Besides the troubling questions he'd face, the seats were fine Italian leather.
* * *
In the cavernous expanse of his office, Graeme Collier stood inches from the wall of windows with the night just beyond. With the room lights off, he didn't have to confront his reflected image, something increasingly harder, night after night. The horizontal steel shutters—kept closed during the day—were retracted to the ceiling. The remote control for the motor was in the right coat pocket of his charcoal suit.
He stared down into the city streets where humans thronged the night with reckless abandon. He'd been one of them, once, and still did his best to remember what that had been like.
Memories define a man. We are what we remember. When we allow ourselves to forget, the beast takes over, mistakes are made, and we are all put at risk.
Across the empty space behind him, a door opened, spilling a shaft of white light across a burgundy-gray carpet. The light hit him from behind, turning the window into a mirror that threw his image back at him. He could have passed for an aging Hollywood star with chiseled features, piercing cobalt eyes, and hair as dark as his sins, and a rangy, athletic build. He'd stopped aging at forty-five, when he'd married Gloria, when her family had brought him across death to new life, bringing him in to run their corporation.
He'd had a son from another marriage. Graeme hadn't wanted Bryce turned, but the boy had discovered too many secrets and needed to be controlled. He'd been brought-over as an alternative to being killed. Graeme sighed.
I'm still not sure that was the best decision.
"Mr. Collier?"
"Over here, Jayne."
Using the dimmer switch, she turned up the light, keeping most of the gloom. Her high heels were soft on the carpet, but he heard them clearly, along with her breathing. She stopped behind him. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but that man is here."
He turned. "Bentsen?"
"Yes, sir. He says you're expecting him. I also have the latest sample from the Hematology Lab." She held up a plastic bag. It looked like any bag a blood bank might use to hold donations—if the donor was Martian. The plasma gleamed jewel-bright, an acid green that looked anything but appetizing.
He took the bag from her hand. Unlike fresh-drawn blood, it felt cold, much colder than his undead hands. "Looks like antifreeze. Are you sure someone's not trying to poison me?"
"No one would dare." She smiled at his joke, her hazel eyes meeting his gaze without restraint, her pale face framed by smoky red hair in a pixie cut. "The lab thinks they have it this time: nutrition and flavor. If you don't want it, I'll take it back."
He studied the plasma bag with its bio-hazard warning label and handling instructions. "No, this will give me something to show the Elders, to justify the money we spend on R&D."
It's not a cure for vampirism—not that we want one—but it may be a way to survive should we ever be exposed in a worst-case scenario. If we can take humans off the menu, humanity might accept us. With this, we can leave the shadows of legend and rule directly by right of unnatural superiority.
He lifted his gaze to Jayne, the ever-faithful guardian of his secrets. "So, we haven't lost any more test subjects on this batch?" They used survivors of vampire attacks, rogue vamps outlawed by vampire society, and the occasional volunteer hoping for status in the corporation. There were containment facilities in a secret sub-basement with very comfortable cages. Most subjects just got a little sick after feeding. A few had extreme reactions and died—again, and for keeps. Those dangerously damaged, with broken minds, were humanely put down.
Science doesn't advance without small sacrifices.
She said, "No casualties. Vampire speed and strength are undiminished two weeks into the trials. We're not even getting the mild stomach cramps that sometimes popped up before."
"Fine. Send Bentsen in." Jayne turned and headed out. He went to his desk. He used his remote to raise the light level a little more, a courtesy for his human guest. Graeme tossed the green plasma bag on his desk top and swung his feet up there too. Except for a pen set, with quills and ink reservoir, and a built-in clock, the desk was plain, empty. Waiting, he steepled his fingertips against each other. Dangling from the cuffs of his suit, his hands looked like big white spiders doing a push up on a mirror.
A thin man in a navy pinstripe suit and sky blue shirt came into the office. He carried a briefcase. His hair was black. So were his eyes, behind gold-wire framed glasses. He wore a watch—also gold—as a status symbol. Little diamonds glittered where numbers ought to be. The face under the sweeping, gold hands was midnight-blue. The slight man stood at attention.
Graeme waved him to a well-cushioned leather chair. There were two in front of the desk, both smaller than the CEO's wingback chair. Bentsen dropped into the indicated chair, sitting on edge, briefcase in his lap.
Graeme said, "I understand you have a report for me?"
"Yes, sir. I've investigated the recent deaths in the community over the last few months. Getting information was a challenge. The police and the Coroner's office are sitting on the details. They believe a serial killer is working the area, the same one that committed those atrocities in Atlanta, last year, and in Boston the year before that."
"Do they have any suspects?"
"No Persons of Interest, at this time."
"Do you have a suspect at this time?"
Bentsen hesitated.
"Out with it," Graeme ordered.
"Canvassing areas near two of the attacks, I discovered a possible lead. A large black limo was seen, but no license plates were remembered."
Graeme nodded, putting on a look of deep concern. "If the killer is a man of wealth, he may have political or corporate protection. The police may not be searching where they need to for this villain."
"Probably not. Sir, if I may ask…?"
Graeme turned his chair, showing his full face to the private investigator. "You want to know my interest, why I'm spending so much to know the details?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suspect I know who the killer is, and he is placed to bring my company some rather bad publicity."
Bentsen's eyes widened. "We should go to the police!"
Graeme's eyes flared red, hazing the air over his desk. He reached for the human's unprotected thoughts. "Leave the briefcase. Go gather all the notes on this case you still have and destroy them, along with any computer files on this investigation. Once you have done this, I want you to forget that I ever paid you in cash, or that we've ever met. If asked, you'll deny ever hearing of Med-Corp or myself. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then go."
Bentsen dropped the briefcase on the floor and stood like a sleepwalker. Eyes empty, he swayed a moment, then plodded out of the office, heading for the elevator.
Jayne came in. "Do we need to deliver another payment?"
"No, Jayne. We no longer employ Mr. Bentsen. Remove all record of him from our system."
"I'll see to it at once. Will there be anything else?"
"Yes, company representatives were sent in recent years to various medical conventions and seminars where serial killings took place. Get me a list of any of our people who were in Boston and Atlanta at those times, who are here now. Pay particular attention to those with access to company limos. And be cautious. Your life may depend upon it."