Epilogue
I stay in the hospital for three days. I’m not sure what story Damon told them of how I got the marks, but the doctors don’t ask me many questions. My neck is stitched up, and the holes in my stomach get staples. There will be a scar where the cross burned into my skin.
Everyone but the person I wanted to see and thank comes to see me during my stay. Vincent keeps away, but I can’t help but hope that I will be able to see him again. I don’t even get any mysterious flowers that will let me know he visited my room or at least checked up on me.
I move half my stuff into Damon’s apartment, my own not feeling safe or mine anymore. I don’t know yet if I’ll stay there for good, or if I’ll rent a new place of my own. But for now, I am glad to be with Damon, to fall asleep and wake up safe in his arms. Rick finds me an instructor to help me with hand-to-hand combat, but Damon begins to train me as well, to defend myself against the supernatural. I’m not going to become a hunter, I know that much, but he wants to make sure I am prepared if the need to defend myself against what goes bump in the night ever arises again.
I go back to working as a forensic investigator, but suddenly my job seems less satisfying than before. I am still proud of my work, and I know that I do a lot of good on the police force, but something is missing. I’m not saying I want to be a superhero, and it is nice not having nightmares, but I have scars now that tell stories. I have been touched, and there is no way to return to normal after that.
Especially not when my boyfriend comes home scratched up and bleeding from some fight with the undead. He never tells me the stories but, on those nights, I can see the horror in his eyes. Damon hasn’t closed himself off from me, but he is still unwilling to share his nightmares.
I guess that’s how some relationships work—there is always something to keep hidden. I am not sure exactly what I feel for Damon, but I’ve never felt so connected to another man before. I have never felt so safe and wanted, even though he doesn’t have the time to take me out dancing.
And I hide things from him as well. There are nights when he was gone that I do sneak back over to my apartment and wait. I expect to see Vincent return, remembering how sweet his lips felt pressed against mine in front of that hospital, and the promise he made me.
FREE Gift For You!
Do you want to receive a FREE paranormal romance book? Well, Martha Woods is giving you a chance to receive a FREE copy of Daywalker’s Stone (The first book in her Second Sight Series). The book is exclusive to Martha Woods’ VIP group.
* * *
So, what are you waiting for? Click the button below and receive your FREE copy of Daywalker’s Stone today!
The Vampire’s Blight
(Book 2 of the Fatal Allure Series)
Martha Woods
© 2016 Martha Woods
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
For permissions contact: [email protected]
Chapter 1
I sigh with happiness as I raise the glass of Chardonnay to my mouth. It has been a quiet day, and I am looking forward to the crisp, clean taste of the wine.
The glass touches my lips. The liquid is a millimeter away from my mouth when a loud beeping sound shatters the silence.
“Finally!” I say out loud, maybe too loud, slamming the wine glass down. The liquid sloshes over the rim of the glass, but I pay it no attention. The beeping sounds again. My pager. It is the little bit of excitement that I need. I pick up my phone and call the station. The joys of being a forensic investigator for the LAPD. It’s never a nine to five job.
The call connects.
“Amy McCartney here. I just got a page,” I say.
I hear the dispatcher clicking away at her keyboard. I should be grateful really. I only get called out if there has been a murder. “2517 Poster Street,” the dispatcher says. “There’s a dead body.”
“Thanks,” I say and hung up.
I grab my purse and toss my cell phone unceremoniously inside. My kit is already packed and ready to go in my trunk. I hesitate and give myself the permission for a small rebellion. I turn back to the coffee table, pick up the wine glass, and take one gulp.
It tastes every bit as good as I imagined it would, but I’m not upset about missing out on my night in. I needed some action. I get into the car and start the engine. I fire the sat nav up and enter the address. It is a good thirty-five-minute drive away. I recognize the general area and am surprised to remember that it is a nice part of town. I was expecting a shady dive bar parking lot. It is Saturday night, after all. Either way, I am glad for the distraction and the potential challenge. I was sitting at home, waiting and slightly worried for my boyfriend Damon to safely come home from his hunt. At least now I can focus my energy elsewhere.
I’m glad I hadn’t made any more progress with the wine. In my line of work, I have to be ready to drop everything and go at a moment’s notice, and I can’t turn up at a murder scene intoxicated. Especially not now.
I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed my job until I was placed on leave a while back. Or rather, forced to take leave after being the target of a murderous shaman who transformed into a werewolf. But now I am back, and I’m not looking anywhere but to the future.
The roads are surprisingly clear for 11 pm in LA, and I am making good time. My sat nav indicates a turn. I make the turn, scanning up and down the street. It appears to be a business district. The buildings are offices, stores, restaurants, and bars. There are people milling around, but it seems quiet, still. And the people look well dressed, middle class.
So, maybe this will be some sort of revenge killing? Maybe a defense attorney who didn’t get a client off. Maybe an investment banker who lost a client a lot of money. It is hard to know for sure, but I am willing to bet this wasn’t a bar brawl gone too far, or anything gang related. I like to speculate a bit before I get to the scene. I’m not really involved in that part of the investigation, so it doesn’t do any harm to come up with a few theories, and I like to give myself a little pat on the back if I happen to get it right.
The voice from my sat nav tells me I am arriving at my destination. I feel my jaw drop. I am outside of a swanky looking boutique hotel. The sort of place that charges upwards of $400 a night, and then you find out the included breakfast is a glass of fruit juice and a protein shake. Not that I frequent places like this, but I’ve watched movies. I know the type.
It’s the sort of place I would have dreamed of visiting with my true love when I was a teenager. The sort of place we would honeymoon, and I would insist on people calling me Mrs. Whoever.
Now, it’s the sort of place I sneer at, in much the same way as I sneer at the romantic notion of true love. True lust maybe. But true love? Nah, it’s not really my thing. I find it hard to believe that people have a soul mate somewhere out there. The one. I mean come on, the world is a big place. Really, what are the chances of meeting that one person who’s just for you in your local Walmart? Knowing my luck when it came to love if such a person did exist, he was probably deep-sea fishing in Alaska or finding himself in Thailand. Or maybe he was part of an expedition to the moon.
It’s true that my high school sweet heart, Rob ruined my expectations for a romantic fairy tale ending. He broke my heart into a million pieces, and I knew, even then as a teenager, that if I couldn’t make it work with him, I couldn’t make it work with anybody. And that was the moment I dismissed the happily after ever, and, by extension, hotels like these. It’s i
ronic, I suppose, that when I do get to spend a night in a place like this, it’s with a corpse.
I pull around the back of the building, park, and retrieve my kit. I pull out my cell phone and send a quick text to my boss, Rick, the lead detective.
On site. Where are you?
My cell buzzes almost instantly.
Room 217.
I enter the hotel, cutting across the lobby to the nearest bank of elevators. The lobby is surprisingly tasteful – very minimalist and very white, with a lot of glass and a few abstract paintings. Not at all the gauche affair, I had been expecting.
“Excuse me? Ma’am,” a voice calls.
I am the only person in the lobby. I turn around to see the receptionist waving me over.
“Welcome to the Mayfair Boutique Hotel. May I be of any assistance?”
Clearly, I don’t look the part. In the receptionist’s defense, I know I don’t. I am wearing grey jogging pants and a sloppy white hoody. My hair is pulled back in a loose bun. I didn’t expect to be going anywhere, and the dead don’t really care what I’m wearing when I help solve their murders.
I don’t feel in the mood to explain any of this to the receptionist, and I’ve never really felt the need to defend my fashion choices. Instead, I flash her my ID card. “LAPD. This is official business.”
“Oh! My apologies, officer. Do you know where you’re headed?”
I nod. “Yes. Thank you.”
I move away from her desk, not bothering to correct the title she’s used to address me. I make my way to the second floor, stepping out of the elevator to be met with plush grey carpets and industrial white walls. Less swanky, more sterile. Is this what minimalist décor is supposed to look like? I’m more of the cozy couches and soft lighting type.
As I approach room 217, I hear a familiar voice in the next room over, so I tap on the door of room 216. Rick and a tall, dark man with distinctive jawline walk out of the room. I’m glad they’ve commandeered the second room. It’s much harder to preserve evidence when the whole team is buzzing about the room. The man I don’t recognize takes a quick glance at me and smirks. He bumps my shoulder his way past.
“What a jerk,” I say, loudly enough for him to hear. “Who was that?”
“That was James Roberts. He’s the main suspect in this case.” Rick replies.
“Double jerk. Okay, so what have you got for me? Let me guess. A classic. A giant jerk lost his temper and murdered a hooker?”
I know it sounds bad, but a sense of humor is sometimes all we have in these situations. I see the ghost of a smile cross Rick’s face, but it doesn’t last long. This is bad.
“Not exactly,” he says. “The victim is forty-seven-year-old Jennifer Lawson, a businesswoman in the city from Ohio, according to reception. Booked to stay here for a long weekend, arrived yesterday. She arranged for room service but when they brought it, they found her dead. The server is with a couple of the officers now, giving a statement. But he initially identified Mr. Roberts as a suspect.” Rick trails off, hesitating.
“What is it?” I ask. Rick’s not one to be disturbed by a crime scene, and he knows I’m not either. Whatever is waiting for me in there, I’m sure Rick and I have seen worse. In my line of work, I’ve seen it all. Mutilated, tortured, violated, the works. I’m not numb to it, of course. But I’m steeled for it.
“I think you need to see it to believe it,” he says. He looks ashen, shaken. I’ve never seen Rick this visibly perturbed by anything, even homicide.
“Okay…” I say. I can’t keep the concern out of my voice – not for what I’ll see, but for Rick.
I take a pair of plastic shoe covers from my kit and slip them on. It’s probably pointless after the hotel employee, Rick and lord knows how many others have tramped through there, but it is procedure, and I’m not going to be the one who screws up the forensics. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and sling my camera around my neck, ready to collect evidence both physical and photographic. When I’m ready, I lift out a hand and push open the door to room 217.
The first thing I notice is the smell. I can smell the acrid stench of ammonia and a thicker odor. That isn’t unusual. Lawson’s bladder and bowels would have emptied at the moment of death, possibly sooner if she was afraid enough. What does strike me as odd is the complete lack of the coppery smell that comes along with blood.
Usually, when a homicide occurs in such close quarters, the smell of blood is the first thing that hits me. It’s often so thick I imagine I can taste it.
Maybe she’s been strangled or something, but somehow, I don’t think so. Rick wouldn’t be so squeamish about that. Sure, the protruding eyes and blackened tongue aren’t pretty, but they are child’s play compared to some of what we see.
I feel the first stirrings of dread in the pit of my stomach. I can’t put my finger on why exactly, but something about this whole crime scene is off. Way off.
I take a couple of deep, calming breaths. With my head held up, I stride down the short entryway and into the main room like I own the place. I stop short when I see the body.
Jennifer laid on top of the bed, the sheets still tightly tucked in beneath her. She is naked. I take a step closer and I shudder at the thought of what may have happened here. Her expression is one of pure, unadulterated terror. But it is her body that has my attention. She looks shriveled up, dried out, like a grape turned to a raisin.
I reach out a gloved hand and touch the body. A quick scan up and down the length of her reveals what I already suspect. She has been beaten, and I believe also sexually assaulted. Terror immediately hits me, and I flash back to that metal chair in a sewer. I can almost feel Elric’s claws raking my skin. The psychopath shaman who almost killed me is alive and well inside my vivid memories.
I quickly snap myself back to reality. “I will get the bastard that did this,” I promise myself.
Rick would already have someone checking through the CCTV. Whoever did this must have left carrying something. A bag, a tarp, tools. How else would the victim’s body have been emptied of every trace of fluid without a single drop spilling anywhere? The sheets and carpet are a stark white. Any blood or fluids would stand out like a beacon, but there are none. Whatever was done to her, it either happened elsewhere or was cleaned up thoroughly.
On impulse, I check the bathroom. Sterile. White. Immaculate. I snap a couple of photographs of the position of the body, search all around it with a magnifying glass. Nothing. At least nothing useful. But then I notice a blonde hair that does not belong to the victim, and I remember that tanned jerk in the hall. Didn’t he have blonde hair? I pluck up the hair in my tweezers and drop it into an evidence bag, which I label and seal.
Now comes the worst part. I advance closer to the body, and gently, as respectfully as possible, I roll it over. I wince as the body settles on the stomach, expecting to see some signs of damage on the back of the body. There has to be some wound to suggest where the body’s fluids were drained from. But there’s nothing. Why am I not surprised?
I take a few more quick photographs.
What am I missing here? I must be missing something.
With a last glance over the body, I head back out into the corridor where Rick was waiting.
“Tell me some good news, Amy,” he says. “Tell me you saw something I didn’t.”
“How can such awful people exist in this world?” I ask.
“Did you find anything at all? Anything that could give us a clue as to who did this?” Rick asks.
I hold up the evidence bag. “This was all I found. A single hair.”
“I’ve got officers canvassing this floor to see if anyone saw or heard anything unusual. And of course, I’ve got men right now in the security suite checking over the CCTV. After that? Your guess is as good as mine.” Rick throws up his hands in exasperation. I really feel for him. It’s not so much that Rick takes things personally, but he gets very passionate about his work, about finding justice. That’s what makes him s
uch a good investigator. He won’t rest until he finds the person responsible for this and understands how they did it.
“You might as well head home, Amy. It’s going to be a long night.” Rick must be able to sense that I’ve been unnerved, even if he doesn’t know why. He can tell something has been off with me since I returned from leave, even though I’ve kept my distressing forays into the world of the supernatural to myself. “I want you to take it slow now that you’re back. Get yourself home.”
I hesitate then slowly nod. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll head home. Call me if you hear anything, or if anything shows up on the CCTV.”
“I will.” He heads back to room 216, his shoulders slumped. I know how he feels. It seems hopeless. We have nothing at all to go on. It is far too similar to the way things started for us half a year ago when we found that first mysterious mauled body. Elric’s murders are still classified as unsolved. No one knows why the horrible killings of those young women stopped when they did. No one except me. I hope to god we crack this new case soon before it becomes another spree.
I will be home before the hour is up and hopefully Damon will be too.
Chapter 2
I find myself spending more time collecting dust waiting for someone to come home than I ever have before. I’m in my own apartment tonight. My tea is boiling, and the winter night is silent, without even a breeze to let the world know the cold air is there. I’m bundled up in Damon’s sweater that is way too big for me, breathing in his scent and wishing his lips were on mine right now. Damon is the type of guy who kisses me like it might be the last time he ever does – which is not far off from the truth.
Fatal Allure Collection Page 13
