The Hunger Page 8

  “You will have your silver,” agreed Tribune Marcus. “But if you betray me you will suffer their fate.”

  Marcus had followed the traitor with a single cohort of foot troops, and all of his Equestria. They had waited on a nearby hilltop, using the forest as their cover. And the Gauls had come. He could still hear the sounds of their setting up camp. He could still hear their shouts and screams as he led his five hundred horsemen into the clear, striking down running men and torching tents. He could hear the cries of alarm over the swirling sounds of slings, as the fleeing Gauls ran into the shield wall of the Cohort he had run them into.

  The traitor had received his five hundred pieces of silver. Marcus remembered looking up into the man’s face as he was tied onto a cross with the surviving leaders of the Gauls, sharing their fate. He had no use for traitors beyond what they could do for him in the here and now. The man had delivered on his promise and outlived his usefulness. So he had become another casualty of the campaign. He looked down on his soldiers as they threw crude dice, gambling for the pieces of silver that had been cut from the man’s belt pouch.

  Marcus could smell the new whelp even as he heard the deep rumble of an engine as a car pulled slowly down the street. He turned to look into the eyes of a big black man sitting in the passenger seat of a new Lincoln. He saw the man sniff the air, as his eyes went wide and he whispered something to the driver. The car sped up a little as it continued down the street.

  Marcus walked quickly into the shadows, completing the transformation as soon as he was sure no one could see him. His sense of smell heightened, and he could scent the hundreds of people out on the street and in the nearby houses. He could hear the conversations going on at the murder scene, as the people discussed the unusual nature of the assailant. He bared his teeth in anger, then ran out of the shadows, his four paws carrying him through yards, leaping over fences, as he raced to head off the Lincoln. I will have my anvil, he thought. To flush my enemy toward and smash her upon.

  * * *

  “Goddamn,” screamed Marvin as he hit the brakes of the Lincoln. Tires squealed on the asphalt as the vehicle slowed to a halt.

  Tashawn braced his arms against the dash as he turned his head to the front. He bared his fangs as he saw the massive wolf in the center of the road, white and black fur raised as it snarled at the car. He sniffed and bared his fangs again as he scented that which the wolf really was.

  The wolf changed in front of them within seconds, shifting bones and muscles until a short man stood before the car. The man wore a faint smile as he brushed at his dark blue windbreaker.

  “He’s one of you, ain't he?” whispered Marvin, panic rising in his voice. “You can take that little dude, can’t you man?”

  “No,” said Tashawn. “There’s more to him than you see.”

  The man smiled again and walked toward the car, angling to come around to the passenger side window. He placed his strong hands on the side of the car and leaned into the window.

  He’s a soldier, thought Tashawn. The man moved with the inborn assurance that Tashawn associated with his dad, the ex-drill sergeant, ex-Ranger who had ruled young Tashawn’s life. Whatever you may be now, you started out as a soldier.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said the man in a smooth, unaccented voice. “This neighborhood to your liking?”

  “Yeah man,” said Marvin in a nervous voice. “We like it here just fine.”

  “Shut up, motherfucker,” said Tashawn, glaring at his friend. He looked back up at the man looking down at him and tried to compose himself. “Can I help you, master?”

  “What the hell you calling him master for,” hissed Marvin. “We ain't no slaves, man.”

  “Shut up, man,” whispered Tashawn.

  “Yes Marvin,” said the man. “Do shut up before I decide you make better food than you do a minion.”

  Tashawn could feel his friend stiffen in the driver’s seat, as he whispered to himself for Marvin to shut the fuck up.

  “I have no love for you, mistake,” said the man in a pleasant voice. “I would just as soon end you here as smell your stench.”

  Tashawn felt anger rise in him. The desire to get out of the car and break this man in the street. But he could feel the presence of the vampire lord, the strength radiating from the man. And realized that his existence depended on how he handled himself with this man.

  “I see you have some control, whelp,” said the man. “That is good in one so young and inexperienced. I think I may be able to use you, after all.”

  A general, thought Tashawn. Whatever he is now, at one time he was a general.

  “I have led more men in more battles than you can imagine,” said the man. “Yes, I can sense your thoughts, whelp. So do not try to deceive me, or you will die in a manner you cannot imagine. Hell will be a relief from your torment.”

  “What do you want with me, man?” asked Tashawn, feeling his voice crack with his unmanning fear.

  “I know you too seek her,” said the man. “And I know you too feel the frustration of always being two steps behind her. I think that maybe together we can achieve our mutual goal.”

  “I know what I have against her, Lord,” said Tashawn. “But what could she possibly have done to you.”

  “She makes us too, visible, to the world at large,” said the man, his eyes changing from green to red as his anger grew. “Soon she will unleash the hunters who will make our existence a hell. Who will soon end our existence altogether.”

  “Bring em on, man,” said Tashawn, trying to cover the uncomfortable fear that was rising in his breast.

  “The bravado of youth,” said the man. “After you have lived for a time as one of us you will realize how strong they are in their numbers. I have seen tens of thousands of our kind destroyed through the millennia. Only a few actually make it to any kind of age.

  “Do you want to be one of those few, whelp?” asked the man, his hands clenching on the side of the car. Tashawn heard the crunching sound as the metal bent under the man’s fingers.

  “Yeah,” said Tashawn, looking up at the man’s eyes and seeing them grow colder. “I mean, yes master.”

  “Good,” said the man, a smile touching his lips. “You may be able to survive for a decade or two. At least you have survived this night. We will meet again, to discuss our strategy.”

  “Wait,” cried Tashawn, as the man released the car and turned to walk away. “What’s your name? How do I find you?”

  The man turned around and stared into Tashawn’s eyes. Tashawn felt as if his soul were being drawn toward the man, and that the man would feed on the essence that was Tashawn.

  “You can call me Marcus,” said the man. “And do not fear. I will find you.”

  The man called Marcus raised his arms to his sides and transformed into a bat. The flying rodent flapped its wings and rose into the air, disappearing into the night.

  “Goddamned,” said Marvin, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand.

  “Yes,” said Tashawn. “I think we are.”

  Tashawn continued to stare out the window into the night sky as the car pulled down the street, wondering what the future held for him now that he was no longer a free agent.

  Chapter 4

  “What the fuck?” said Detective Lieutenant Jamal Smith as the videotape ran in the office. Detective Sergeant Emile Sanchez, Detective Justine DeBarry and FBI Agent Jeffrey DeFalco sat in the chairs around the table of the smoke filled room, watching the same tape. Even though only Smith and DeBarry smoked there were enough burning or smoldering butts in the room for everyone.

  “I told you,” said DeFalco. “Now do you believe me?”

  Smith shook his head in the negative, trying to deny with his eyes were telling him. Tapes can be faked, he thought. But this tape had been pulled from the security room of the Giovani house as soon as the police had arrived. There was no way the tape could have been switched by one delusional FBI Agent, was there?
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  “It can’t be,” mumbled Smith. “It just can’t be.”

  DeFalco raised the remote and ran the few minutes of tape in question back. He stopped as the living form of Lucian Giovani moved on the bed, his hands moving in the air as if he were caressing some unseen person in the bed with him. His erection grew, and the men glanced nervously at Justine.

  Lucian’s neck was bent back, then holes appeared in the skin and blood ran out. The blood seemed to outline, something. Then the something went away and Lucian seemed to mumble some unheard words. The something appeared at his neck again, as blood flowed from the wound. Then he lay limp on the bed, until his dead head started to twist backwards, looking into the mattress, then beyond, until flesh started to rip. The head came free from the body, hovered in the air for a moment, then flew toward the camera. The image then went blank.

  “It can’t be,” said Smith once again.

  “Anyone else see a perp here?” asked DeFalco, his Brooklyn accent coming out in his excitement. “Or is our boy being killed and beheaded by his imagination? Vampire’s do not produce an image. On mirrors or recording devices.”

  “But Carlos said he saw the woman in the screen of the security room,” argued Sanchez. “Clear as day.”

  “He saw her live over the TV,” said DeFalco, gesturing at the TV with the remote. “I’m not sure why that happened. But it’s readily apparent to whoever has a bit of gray matter in his head that something killed Lucian Giovani in his own bedroom. And that someone did not turn up on the tape.”

  “Assuming this is some kind of undead monster,” said Justine, “just what are we supposed to do to catch her. Go looking for her lair and pound wooden stakes in her heart?” The Detective looked around the room, making eye contact with all the men. “I mean, don’t you think a judge is going to love us asking for a search warrant to go into a suspected vampire lair? Or that internal affairs might take a dim view on our staking a suspect without attempting to take her into custody first?”

  “I’ll take whatever heat comes from this,” said DeFalco, staring at the TV screen while he played with the remote. “Everyone in my Agency thinks I’m crazy anyway.”

  “I know,” said Smith, staring at the younger man. “I talked to the Charge of Office here in Tampa. She told me you’re known in FBI circles as The Fox. As in the guy named Fox from the TV series.”

  “But they let me alone to work my cases however I want,” said Jeffrey DeFalco in a voice loud with anger. “Because I get results.”

  “Yeah, she said that about you too. Unorthodox, but as good a prosecution record as anyone in the Agency.

  “OK, Agent,” said Smith, looking around the room at his team and seeing them nod toward him as he made eye contact with each. “We’ll buy into this, I guess. But I’m not sure what you expect us to do about this woman?”

  “Just follow my lead,” said DeFalco, waving cigarette smoke away from his face. “I’m playing it by ear myself, though I might have some tips on how to trap and kill her.”

  “No chance of capture?” asked Sanchez.

  “I don’t know how,” said DeFalco, shaking his head. “I can’t think of any way to hold her, at night at least. No, we take her out.”

  “So far,” said Debarry, pulling another cigarette from the pack on the table, “All we’ve seen of her is after the fact. To catch her we’ve got to be there when she goes after someone. Not clean up the pieces after she’s left. And I’m still not sure if I buy this vampire shit.”

  “You don’t have to buy it, Detective,” said DeFalco. “All you have to do is follow instructions and cover your ass.”

  “So how’d you get involved in all this in the first place, DeFalco?” asked Smith after lighting up another smoke himself. “Why the interest in vampires?”

  “We were doing surveillance on a major player in Philly,” said the Agent with a faraway look in his eyes. His accent was all Ivy League, all the Brooklyn gone from it. “We heard screaming over the tap and decided to close in. We got there as she was going out the window. A window I might add that was twelve feet up the wall of the warehouse, and she jumped up to it.”

  DeFalco looked around the room, then down at his hands.

  “Later, also in Philly, I interrupted her at a feeding. She didn’t have time to finish her victim like we’ve seen her do before. I came in with a group of agents as she was completing her feeding, or enough of it at least to stop the heart of the victim, one Tashawn Kent. I think you’ve heard of him. He used to be a defensive end for the Eagles. And she had bent him back over like he was a child. We fired at her and she took off before she could take the head off his shoulders.”

  “Later I learned that Tashawn walked out of the morgue three days later, after killing two attendants.”

  “But you said our girl killed him?” said Justine, a puzzled look on her face. “And he was in the morgue?”

  “Yes,” said DeFalco. “He was dead. And he was lying in a chilled cabinet in the morgue because no one wanted his punk ass body. But she had fed on him, killed him with her bite. And three days later he rose from the dead to become undead himself.”

  “So you’re saying she takes off the head so she won’t create more vampires,” said Emile with a frown. “Why would she do that? I thought vampires liked to make more of their kind, like some kind of plague carriers. Or at least didn’t care how many they left behind them.”

  “Salem’s Lot, Emile?” asked Smith with a chuckle. “David Soul taking on the horde of vamps. I think he fled to Mexico in the end, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know why she is so careful to not leave rising victims behind her,” said DeFalco. “I do know that I’ve been down to your morgue to check out some bodies over the last couple of days. Bodies that were found drained of blood, with twin punctures in their necks.”

  “So they’re going to rise as vampires?”

  “No, Detective Sanchez. Because I put a blessed wafer of unleavened bread in their mouths. A host, from the Church.”

  “So that’s one of her weaknesses?” asked Smith.

  “She’s susceptible to anything holy,” said DeFalco. “Crosses, Stars of David, Holy Water, the works. Anything that is blessed or is a symbol of faith is anathema to her. So I would make sure you have one of these at least before you join the hunt.”

  DeFalco pulled a golden cross on a chain from under his shirt and showed it to each of the Homicide Detectives.

  “Get one. And we’ll meet back here a couple of hours before sunset,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I know I need a little sleep, and I suspect everyone else does too.”

  DeFalco got up from his seat and walked to the door, opening it and leaving the room without looking back.

  “What the fuck, Lieutenant,” said Sanchez. “You don’t really buy this vampire shit, do you?”

  “What did you make of the tape?” said Smith, looking back and forth between Sanchez and DeBarry. “And the testimony of all the witnesses at Giovani’s house. Fact: A naked woman killed three strong men, ran from a house with a half dozen men shooting at her, and leapt, not jumped up, grabbed the top and swung herself over, but leapt a ten foot fence. I don’t know about you, but it seems pretty damn unlikely to me that a normal human being could do that.”

  “So does that make her a vampire?” asked Sanchez, rewinding the tape again to Giovani’s murder.

  “I don’t know what it makes her,” said Smith. “But a decorated law enforcement officer has a theory that seems to fit all the facts. And I don’t think any of us can make that claim. So unless you have something better we’ll go with the vampire theory.”

  Smith stood up and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the table, glaring at Justine as she tried to snatch the pack herself. The big Lieutenant stretched as he groaned, then walked to the door.

  “I’ve got some paperwork to do,” he told his partners. “I suspect both of you do as well. And then I know I need some sleep if I’m going to wrap my head around this thi
ng.”

  Smith closed the windowed door behind him as he walked out of the room, leaving the two detectives to look at each other in wordless confusion.

  * * *

  Lucinda sat in the chair of the second bedroom of the house she had rented. The computer was humming in front of her as it displayed web pages for her perusal. A loud roar of a departing plane came to her through the walls, a departing early morning flight from MacDill.

  George Padillas, she thought as she looked at the man’s picture on the net, looking out with a smile on his face from the Padillas Shipping Company website. She swore in frustration as she switched pages with a mouse click. She could find the address of the company offices down at the Port of Tampa. But there was no listing of Padillas’ home phone or address.

  As if a man like Mr. Padillas, billionaire shipping magnate, would post his address on the net. She has already looked through the online phone book, but his number had been unlisted. Other searches had resulted in no hits.

  Lucinda felt the weariness come over her that portended the approach of dawn. She needed to sleep today, to replenish all of the energies she had used tonight in the pursuit of Lucian Giovani and the escape from his house.

  Lucinda turned the computer off and walked from the room to the short hallway. She grabbed the cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled down the folding stairs. Walking up the stairs she crouched over as she entered the attic, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and bringing the wooden coffin into focus. She pulled the stairs back up with a creak of springs, then shot a bolt to hold it in place.

  Too bad about the water table, she thought. Then they could have proper cellars like the civilized states. But then again, she thought as she climbed into the coffin and lay on the soil of her resting place, it’s probably safer here than in a cellar. The cellar is always the first place they look.

  Lucinda closed her eyes and faded into sleep as she felt the sun coming over the horizon.

  * * *