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  THE HUNGER

  An Urban Fantasy

  By

  Doug Dandridge

  “What the hell are you?” he screamed as the weapon clicked on the empty chamber. He reached frantically into his jacket, trying to fumble another magazine, then tried to ram it home. But as his hands shook the new magazine refused to go where the old one still resided.

  Lucinda took off in a sprint toward the man, moving faster than humanly possible, faster than the swiftest sprinter. She lowered her shoulder and took Carlos in the ribs, feeling the bones crack as she lifted him into the air. The man struck his right shoulder and arm against the wall, grunting out his breath. Lucinda was past him and into the living room as he slid down the wall to the floor, the machine pistol falling from nerveless fingers as consciousness fled.

  Lucinda pivoted on her right foot, turning toward the family room, as more bullets whizzed past her, the sound of cracking plaster and breaking porcelain sounding to her sensitive ears. One large man, with the mass of a football player, came straight at her from the glass doors, lowering his shoulders and reaching his arms out into a classic tackle. Lucinda leapt into the air and brushed the ceiling as she flew over his form, which was falling to the floor after not meeting the resistance it had been preparing itself for. The vampire did a turn in the air, as she thanked herself for the gymnastics lessons her mom had insisted that she take, and landed lightly on her feet.

  She could sense that the door before her was locked, and she didn’t have the key. So going into a crouch and out again she sprung toward the double doors and crashed through the glass, leaving jagged hanging splinters behind her. Women screamed as she propelled her naked form across the flagstones. One man dropped his drink and made a grab for her, but a strong backhand lifted him from his feet and into the pool. By the time he hit the water with a splash Lucinda was speeding across the grass lawn, reveling in the cool passage of the night air over her bare skin.

  From ten feet out she went into a quick crouch and sprung into the air, her feet clearing the ten-foot privacy fence as more rounds cracked past her. Dogs barked at her as they struggled to catch her and were thwarted by the fence. Her feet hit lightly onto the grass of another lawn and she sprang ahead, swerving to avoid another large dog that was coming at her across the lawn.

  Lucinda leapt into the air again, spreading her arms as she arched up to twenty feet. She willed the transformation again, feeling her limbs shorten and the fur thrust out through her skin. She gave a screech to the night as she flapped her wings and disappeared into the darkness.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Hazel Angelina (Roy) Dandridge, 1920-2009. You believed in me when others didn’t.

  Copyright © 2011 Doug Dandridge

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contact me at [email protected]

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  Books by Doug Dandridge

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  Doppelganger: A Novel of Refuge

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  Chapter 1

  The hunger gnawed at her, a craving that suffused her very being. Lucinda had to have it soon. She wouldn’t die without it, not immediately, but she would wish she were dead. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, the cramps in her stomach, the quivering of her muscles. Without it she would go mad, and her actions would make the rest of the world wish she were dead. Make them try to make her dead, for real this time.

  Lucinda looked down from the roof of the building to the man standing across the street. Her target for tonight. A tall, muscular black man, the streetlight glinting from his shaven head. His girls were walking the street around him, looking for the men who would give them the money they needed to support their own habits. The men who would keep their lord and master from beating them within an inch of their lives.

  Lucinda remembered, looking at the man with the heat of hate rising from her gut. Remembered the nights when she had not done enough Johns. Had not made enough to score what she needed, and keep heavy hands from beating her into the ground. Until the night they had beat her to the brink of death, and cut her throat, leaving her to bleed out.

  “Come here, bitch,” she heard the man call, breaking her out of her thoughts of the past. A white woman with stringy blonde hair framing a pale face came running toward him, her mouth and eyes twitching with terror. Lucinda could smell her from here, the musky scent of fear that made the saliva drip from her mouth.

  “What the hell you doing, bitch?” Leroy McKinnon yelled as he grabbed and jerked her arm behind her, twisting her around as his other arm came around her neck. “You need to shake that ass, bitch. How the hell you expect to suck the Johns if you don’t give them something to lust after.”

  The woman nodded her wide-eyed head as she went still in his grasp. Her lips moved as she tried to speak, to say the right thing to keep the big man from hurting her.

  “And you want your rock, don’t you bitch?” growled Leroy. “You better shake your ass if you want your rock, cause it don’t come for free.”

  Leroy released his arm lock around her throat and pushed her away. The woman scrambled to keep her feet. Failing, she fell to the hard concrete of the sidewalk. She lay there for a second, her breath coming ragged. Leroy took a step and raised a leg to kick at her. The woman pushed herself to her feet and walked quickly away, blood oozing down the scrape on her right knee. She staggered away from the big black man, looking over her hunched shoulder to see if he was following her. Then with a resigned shake of her head she started to shake other parts of her body, trying to draw in the flies to her honey. The flies that would pay to sample her honey. And pay for her next fix.

  Lucinda felt the hunger grow as she watched, threatening to make her mad. A mother pushing a baby carriage walked on the sidewalk directly below the building. She felt the pull of the hunger, the thought of young baby blood, and the vital energy it contained, coursing through her veins. The dark side of her soul trying to drag her back into darkness. Shaking her head and pushing the dark side to the back of her mind, Lucinda brought her concentration back to the crack dealer/pimp across the street, ignoring the mother who must live in such a rundown area of town.

  Another woman came up to the man, a black woman as thin as pipe stems. She whispered something to him and Leroy nodded, a smile coming to his lips. A smile tha
t did not go as far as his eyes. He motioned to the alley across the street and the woman led the way. Lucinda’s eyes followed them as they entered the semi-darkness of the narrow space between the buildings.

  Lucinda pushed her hearing up to hyper, listening in as the deal was being made. She knew she didn’t have much time, as these kinds of deals didn’t last long. Going over the top of the rooftop she placed her fingers on the rough brick and scrambled like a lizard onto the wall. With a quick motion of arms and legs she moved silently down the five stories of wall into the end of the alley, coming to stand behind some barrels filled with the foul smelling remnants of people’s lives.

  Her eyes focused and the darkness faded in front of her. She could clearly see Leroy and the skinny black woman concluding their deal. Money went into the dealer’s hand and a small package of foil was placed in the woman’s. She nodded and smiled, then ran out of the alley, to head home and blast her sorrows from her tortured mind. Leroy watched her go, waited a moment, and then started to walk out himself.

  Lucinda came around the barrels then, into clear sight of the dealer. Her hair was now long and stringy, her body thin, looking the part of the crack whore in search of a fix.

  “Hello, sugar,” she said in a husky, seductive voice that pulled at the lust inside of all men.

  Leroy spun around very quickly for a big, muscular man. A gun appeared in his hand, a heavy .40 caliber automatic that an instant before had been stuck in his waistband.

  “Easy, honey,” purred Lucinda, no fear in her voice, only pure seduction. Her eyes looked into Leroy’s, and she could see the blank glassy look that came into his gaze as she gained control. She walked slowly toward him, and the gun dropped to his side.

  Leroy shook his head for a moment as he shoved the gun back into his waistband. His eyes remained glued to her face, but he had broken some of the spell.

  “I only want a little of what you got to sell,” said Lucinda, moving closer to the man.

  “Who you work for?” asked Leroy, lust for a new piece of meat taking control of the man.

  This is not going to be as easy as I thought. Lucinda looked at the man and realized that her hypnotic spell was not taking charge. But it will happen.

  “I’m an independent,” she replied, moving closer to the man. “I work for myself.”

  “The streets is dangerous,” he said. “You need someone to protect you.”

  “I’m safe enough,” she replied. “I just need some of that good stuff.”

  “Bitch,” growled Leroy. “These streets is mine. No one works them without coming to me.”

  Leroy swung a hand toward her face, animal lust and anger shining in his eyes. Lucinda brought up an arm in a blur of speed, stopping Leroy’s blow like the swing of an errant child. The hunger swelled in her chest, and the deceptive appearance of human fell from her face.

  “What the hell are you?” screamed Leroy, trying with all his strength to pull his arm out of Lucinda’s grasp. His other hand reached toward his waistband, closing onto the grip of the gun. With a twist and a flick of her arm, Lucinda sent Leroy flying through the air and into the barrels at the end of the alley. The pimp hit hard, in a clatter of metal hitting concrete and brick.

  Fear kept Leroy conscious. And fear made his movements swift. The gun came out of the waistband and swung toward Lucinda. His finger squeezed the trigger quickly, over and over, sending death streaking through the foul air of the alley.

  The first bullet missed, cracking through the air close to her ear. The second went through her chest, continuing intact after meeting no resistance. Baring her elongated canines she walked to stand over the now shivering man.

  “What the hell are you, bitch?” screamed Leroy. “What are you?”

  “Your worst nightmare,” hissed Lucinda, reaching down and pulling the man up to his feet. Leroy struggled, trying to get away, but Lucinda held him like a child and pulled him close. She could hear voices at the opening of the alley now, people talking about what they thought was going on in the passageway. But no one brave enough to do anything. The faint sound of sirens told her that it wouldn’t be long before people showed up who would be brave enough to try the alley.

  Stretching her jaws wide, wider than humanly possible, Lucinda plunged her canines into her victim’s neck, puncturing his jugular vein. Jerking the teeth out of the holes she sucked at the pulsing blood, feeling it slide down her throat. Feeling the life force that the blood symbolized flooding into her body. To feed the hunger within. Within minutes she had drained the energy from the now lifeless body. Still holding it up with one hand, she pulled a long knife from a sheath on her back.

  Never again, she thought, as she swung the knife with all of her strength, aiming the blade at the corpse's neck. She would never leave another of the scum intact, to come back from the dead and hound her. The blade sliced through the neck with the inhuman strength behind it. The head flew from the body as the last bits of blood in the corpse splashed into the alley. Lucinda tossed the body through the air with a one armed push, to smack limply against an alley wall.

  “This is the police,” called a voice from the alley entrance as the beams of flashlights stabbed into the darkness. “Stop what you’re doing and put your hands up.”

  Lucinda ran swiftly to the blocked end of the alley as shots rang out and bullets struck brick walls with showers of sparks. She stopped at the far wall and turned back, her undead eyes showing her the trio of cops coming up the alley with drawn weapons. She bared her fangs as her instincts bid her to attack.

  Not these, she thought. These were not her enemies, though they would think themselves such.

  She reached her arms into the air and felt the pleasure of change come over her. Limbs shortened, body shrank in on itself, as clothes were absorbed and short fur grew from every pore. Flapping her wings in the cool air, screeching her call to the night to generate the sound needed to sense surrounding objects, the vampire flew into the sky, leaving the alley far behind.

  * * *

  Tampa Police Department tried to wave him away. A push of the badge out the open window of the Mustang had the cops shaking their heads as they waved him into the crime scene. He pulled between a police cruiser and a forensics van and got out of the car as another uniformed cop, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves, hurried over to the car.

  “I know you don’t want me here,” he said in his best Ivy League accent to the tall, white police sergeant. “But I am claiming jurisdiction in this one, sarge.”

  “Since when is the FBI interested in a local homicide?” asked the sergeant.

  Agent Jeffrey DeFalco ran a meat hook of a hand through his short brown hair, and looked the sergeant in the eye. He wasn’t as tall as the sergeant, but he figured he definitely had him in the muscular development department. DeFalco was proud of his body, with his heavy shoulders, chest and legs, joined by a narrow waist. He used his athletic image many times to cow the local boys, while his Law Degree from Princeton was enough to gain the respect of the non-law enforcement professionals he had to deal with.

  “If this murder has the earmarks I think it has,” said DeFalco, “there’s a chance this was performed by the same killer who has left a trail from Boston to Atlanta.”

  “OK,” said the sergeant. “But you need to talk to Lieutenant Smith. He’s the officer in charge here.”

  “He was,” said DeFalco. “And where can I find him?”

  “Where the action is,” said the sergeant, gesturing toward the alley where the shadows of people moved in the powerful lights set on stands around the scene.

  “OK,” said DeFalco as he walked toward the entrance of the alley. He looked over to where plain clothes cops were questioning some street scum and pointed at them as he walked. “Don’t let anyone go until I have a chance to see their statements. I might have some questions you haven’t thought of.”

  DeFalco swaggered into the alley to the sound of loud voices arguing. He saw a wiry man as blac
k as night standing over a headless body, arguing with a man wearing a blue vest, Forensics lettered on the back.

  “There’s not enough fuckin’ blood,” yelled the forensic tech, pointing a black light at the wall. At a gesture the tripod mounted spots dimmed to darkness.

  “Look here,” said the tech in a loud voice, pointing to the splatter of glowing red on the wall. “Here’s the blood from where the body hit. There should be a shit load of it, not a couple of small spatters.”

  “And here,” the tech said, pointing the light toward the floor of the alley. “Here’s where the blood from the decapitation poured out before he was flung against that wall. There’s not enough.”

  “And here,” he said while pointing the light to another section of alley wall. “Here’s the splatter from the blade taking the head off, and flinging blood into the brick. A little better than the others, but still not enough.”

  “Shit. So what are you telling me?” asked the black detective as the light came back up to reflect from the shaven head. “Someone took the blood out of him before they cut his fuckin’ head off. Is that what you're telling me?”

  “Did you find any puncture marks in the neck?” asked DeFalco, walking up to the men.

  “And who the fuck are you?” asked the detective in a voice brimming with anger.

  “Are you Detective Smith?” asked DeFalco.

  “I asked first,” growled the detective.

  DeFalco raised his ID for the man to see and waited for a reply.

  “Yeah, I’m Jamal Smith. Lieutenant of Homicide in this beautiful sun drenched city. What the fuck has the FBI interested in a local murder? I could see the World Inquirer. But the FBI”