The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  “You are aware that for the past two weeks he’s been using his charm to destroy the life of one of the workers from my office, right? He’s gotten her hooked on meth and been feeding on her. He may also be complicit in the disappearance and murder of another worker from my office, not to mention the child slavery ring.”

  “There’s a bigger picture here.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Do you have any idea how big the AVA-vampire connection is?” Pierce looked to be losing patience. Max took another sip of coffee. “This isn’t just some pack of random vampires with shaved heads and dog eared copies of The Turner Diaries. This is the continuation of an operation put in motion by the architects of the white supremacist movement. The drugs and kids are just the bankroll for their ultimate agenda.”

  “So, what you’re saying is… if I don’t stop messing up your operation, skinhead vampires will succeed in taking over the planet?”

  Pierce took a long breath through his nose.

  Donner interjected, “We don’t expect you to drop your investigation. We just want our agent back.”

  “And there is a good chance that you can help us,” added Pierce.

  “That is exactly what I want to do.” Max nodded, wryly.

  “You’re building a case for a police raid on their compound in the woods?” When Max didn’t answer, Pierce gave him a look that said ‘whatever’ and continued. “If we can get our informant out, once you take down their operation we’ll have a plausible reason for moving Skyler to something bigger.”

  Max stared at him for a few seconds. “There’s no chance of you swooping in and taking them down?”

  Pierce shook his head. “We can’t risk the only operative we have inside the AVA for something so small.”

  Sadie almost flew over the back of Max’s chair. “They’re selling kids to vampires for sex!”

  “Yes.” Pierce made eye contact with her. “They’re doing it all over the country, and unless we stop them all at once, they’ll adapt and we’ll never stop it.”

  Donner wasn’t quite as Spartan in her expression as Pierce. The skin around her eyes wrinkled up as she looked away from her partner.

  “You’re a mother?” Sadie’s perception of such things was far more acute.

  Donner’s eyes widened when she made eye contact with Sadie. Max looked at her hands and didn’t see a ring. Single mother, he thought, Widow? No, divorced. Or never married.

  “I have a son.” Pierce looked at her and winced in disapproval. She shook her head at him slowly. “It’s all right.”

  “I have a pretty good idea where they’d take him.” Donner and Pierce looked at him. “Skyler…or whatever his real name is. They’ll keep him alive for a while. Like, months probably. As to whether he’ll still have all his fingers or functioning genitals when you extract him…?” Max shrugged. “I’m not going in there with you.”

  “We don’t expect that,” Pierce said with a nod. “In fact, we’d rather you not be involved in this. We’ll give you what we have on the local child trading operation in reciprocity. Thank you.”

  “I want something else.” He looked at the wisps of steam drifting from his coffee. On its black surface he saw Sadie’s face looking down at him, trying to hide her concern behind a mask of annoyance. Max smiled into the cup. She grinned before looking away. “I want information on the vamps. We haven’t been able to get much on them… They are rather invisible to mortal law enforcement.”

  Pierce nodded. “We’ll share what we have, within reason.”

  “And Michelle…”

  “Who’s Michelle?”

  Max squinted at him. “Yeah, the one whose life your agent almost destroyed.” He caught Sadie’s grin from the corner of his eye. She liked it when he upbraided people. “I want her put in a rehab program at your expense. And I want you to make absolutely sure that her drug problem never interferes with her career and that if she ever falls off the wagon you’ll catch her and run her through the program again.”

  “We can do that,” Pierce said with an irritated nod. “Even though it’s not really our responsibility.”

  “It was your agent who got her hooked on meth. She probably never would have touched the stuff if he hadn’t used his vampire charm voodoo on her.” He pointed at them. “And by the way, he was screwing her, and feeding on her too, and that’s technically rape, so… you’re lucky I don’t ask for his balls.”

  Donner replied, “In fairness, you did hand him over to a gang of psychopaths.”

  “He gave me a concussion.” Max pointed at his bruised head. “I’d say that makes us even, as far as the beating goes.”

  Pierce put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Just tell us where he is.”

  Max took another sip of coffee. “There’s an old mining warehouse out on Fir, at the end of a dirt path between county road two-ninety-six and two-ninety-nine. It’s on the left, and there is a gate that says no trespassing. The vampires own it. They also have a sign on a tree that says no hunting, ironically.”

  “How do you know?” asked Pierce as Donner entered that into a hand sized cell phone device.

  “I’ve been there.”

  “I mean how do you know that’s where they’ll take him?”

  “That’s where they take people to torture them.” Max finished his coffee. “At least, it will be until you rescue your agent. Best to make sure it looks like the AVA sprang him, because if they think you guys know about the place they’ll never use it again.”

  “We’ll take care of that, thanks.” A narrow eyed nod confirmed Max’s suspicion, definitely someone who preferred being in control of everything. Max bet he ironed his boxers. “But that’s it. No more favors, not even a speeding ticket. We do this—”

  “Yeah, we’re even. More or less.” Max shrugged and handed Sadie his empty coffee cup. “We’ll leave it at that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “It’s gonna rain again.”

  Boone kept his attention focused on the shiny dagger balanced on his finger. Stodder approached the bench, apparently intent on repeating himself. Boone tossed the dagger into the air and caught it by the ivory grip. The burly skinhead leaned against the park table and started twisting his moustache.

  “It’ll prolly rain all weekend,” he continued.

  Boone kept his eyes hidden behind thick, black shades. He could have slipped the shiny blade in and out of the greasy human’s neck in one quick motion. This wasn’t unusual for Boone. He generally contemplated killing everyone and everything that came within a few yards of him.

  “Thank you, Willard Scott,” Boone mumbled through his teeth. “Any birthdays to announce?”

  Stodder was probably giving him a confused look. Boone didn’t care to check, but he could feel it. Did people even know who Willard Scott was anymore? Was he even still alive? Boone tried to remember the last time he watched anything besides the History Channel.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a motorcycle engine revving up a few yards back. That of course woke the dogs, which bayed along with the rumble like they’d treed a raccoon. Boone’s enhanced senses made that quite irritating, especially with the smell of burning fuel and the hybrid roar of beast and machine.

  “Must you?” Boone shouted over the anarchist choir. Somehow Earl managed to hear him. He reduced the RPMs to a faint rumble and wiped long greasy hair out of his face. When his eyes met Boone’s, he froze. “I can’t hear my own brain over that shit.” He snapped his fingers at each of the dogs. One at a time they fell silent and relaxed in the dirt at the end of their chains.

  “Well, I cain’t do it at night. An I cain’t do it in the day ‘cause you bloodrats sleep in a’day.” He tossed a slimy wrench into a box with a rattling clang. “What other choice I got?”

  “Do it somewhere else?” Boone tilted his head and let the glasses fall from his eyes, just enough that Earl could see them. He seemed to get the message. “Or do it while I’
m not around.” Boone went back to balancing the dagger on his fingertip and watching the trailer across the way.

  Earl turned off the bike and fished a beer out of the slushy ice cooler. He popped open the top and took a seat a few feet behind Boone at the table. Boone paid him no heed and crossed his long, pale legs under his body.

  “S’pose we’re due for a pretty rough winter what with all the—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Boone slammed the dagger into the table between the dumbfounded faces of Stodder and Earl.

  The humans were quiet for a few seconds before Stodder managed to push out a humble protest, “We weren’t necessarily talking to you—”

  “You were talking near me.” He snatched up his dagger and looked away. “That’s even worse.” He balanced the dagger on his finger again and watched the cloudy sunlight reflect on its glossy finish. When he smiled, he saw his fangs reflected in the blade.

  “Why you starin’ at that ol’ bag’s trailer?” That was Earl. Boone could smell the cheap beer on his breath mixing with a lunch likely comprised of canned sausages and barbecue flavored chips. “You thinking o’doin’ her?”

  He gave Earl the benefit of the doubt on the context of that question. “I’m thinking of it, yes.”

  “Why?” Stodder asked as he leaned back to get a view of Boone’s face. “You done said we ain’t to touch her. Everyone thinks she’s crazy anyhow.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before Skyler’s dumb ass went missing.”

  “Ah, shit.” Earl laughed. “He ain’t missing. He’s just off with that purty little piece o’tail he got!” Stodder slapped the table and the two men laughed together.

  God, how Boone hated them…

  “You cock-jockeys shut the hell up and listen,” Boone said it smooth and without looking so they knew he was serious. They fell silent, save for Earl clearing his throat. He didn’t even have to use his charm on these shitheads, they knew better. “Skyler reports back in regular.” Boone grinned and looked down at his knife again. “Too regular… he texts me every time he gets that bitch to swallow. Which—” Boone tilted his head and nodded. “—is often.”

  “And he ain’t been textin’?” asked Stodder. Boone knew he was incapable of asking rhetorical questions on purpose.

  “No, he ain’t been texting, and he ain’t been calling either.”

  “What’s she gotta do to get him to call?” Earl asked.

  Boone grinned, giving them license to chuckle. “But he always answers my calls.”

  “So you think he got himself staked?”

  Boone lowered his head and put his fingers to his cool, white brow.

  “Stakes don’t kill ‘em, that’s all Hollywood bullshit,” explained Stodder.

  “Right, I know that. Just an expression. Do you think he got killed?”

  “It’s possible. Skyler is young, impulsive, and stupid…” He paused. “Incredibly stupid. Or he got caught, in which case he’s as good as dead unless he escapes.”

  “So what’s killing the ol’ lady gonna do about that?” Earl finished off his beer with a belch. Boone contemplated cutting his throat before the last fetid vapors left the biker’s smelly mouth. Instead, he slid off the table to put some distance between the two imbeciles and himself.

  “Ain’t going to do nothing about Skyler, per se…” The ivory handled dagger danced around his fingers until he sheathed it artfully in the leather holder on his belt. “But she’s one of them now.” He put his hands on his waist next to his loosened red suspenders.

  “One of them?” Earl straddled the bench and rested his hands on his knees.

  “One of his people.”

  “Who the hell you talkin’ bout?”

  “The social worker?” Stodder proved to be the brighter of the two. “Fuckshit, he ain’t nothin! What you worried ‘bout some carpetbaggin’ faggot from Joplin?”

  Boone didn’t feel the need to explain. They wouldn’t understand anyway. Maxwell Hollingsworth was something considerably more than a social worker. Up until this point, he’d considered him a minor annoyance, something he could easily delegate to Skyler to handle on his own. If he’d failed in that, it meant there was much more to the dark haired, hybrid-driving, gun-toting social worker after all.

  And he was immune to Boone’s charm. That was the first time in almost a hundred years he’d met someone who could resist his compulsion. For a vampire as old and powerful as Boone, that was quite disconcerting.

  “So you’re gonna kill her to piss him off?” Stodder asked after a pensive silence from the vampire.

  Boone licked his curled lips over his exposed fangs. It would be dark soon. It got so dark in Southwest Missouri at night, like falling into another universe. For Boone, it meant his night vision came to life and made the world stark black and white. He liked that, though. The world was simpler when it didn’t have colors.

  “Something like that,” he whispered. He leaned on the wire fence and popped his neck with a quick twist of his head. It sounded like a stick breaking. He felt the two humans wince. “You two just keep it shut. Stodder?” He looked over his shoulder at him. “Go on down to the sheds and get Luc.”

  “Y-you want me to go to the sheds?” His eyes widened. “Cain’t we just call him?”

  “No, we ‘cain’t’ just call him! Damned cell tower don’t reach out there. That’s why we put it there. Get on down there and get him.” He turned back to his examination of Soptik’s trailer. “Don’t worry about Grendel. I’m sure he’s already fed. You should be fine.”

  Boone grinned as he heard his servant stumble furtively away from the table to the woods. That’ll teach him to talk to me about the weather, he thought, what do these idiots know about rain?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The heavy rain masked their approach. Not that they needed it, vampires were naturally quiet in their movements. Even when running, they seemed to absorb sound rather than produce it. In the sopping rain, Boone and his French partners managed to sneak up to the cottage without raising an alarm.

  He didn’t trust the three younger vamps, so he sent Luc around to the back and took Remé with him. Beau had the panzerfaust strapped to his back, while the others tried to keep the bolts of their sub-machineguns dry.

  Boone peeked around the corner of the wall, almost putting his face in the splatter of rainwater from a broken drain. A chubby French resistance fighter stood under an awning, puffing away on a cigarette. Behind him in the cottage, Russian music played with cracks and pops; a phonograph, not a radio. A radio wouldn’t have been playing Russian music. Not in Vichy France. Light from the window around the corner interrupted the shadows between Boone and the guard.

  He glanced inside and saw four men playing cards at a table. A woman stood next to the phonograph. Boone couldn’t quite tell what she was doing, but she seemed to sway. He adjusted his eyes to the light and squinted until he could make her out better. She was dancing, but she wasn’t alone. She had a child in front of her, a boy no more than eleven. He stood on her feet, almost even with her shoulders. The woman was young, maybe a teenager. She had black hair under a red beret.

  The men at the table were various ages, with the oldest one being a silver haired man with a fat revolver in a holster under his arm. The others had sub-machineguns on their backs or leaning against the chairs. He examined them for a moment; two MP18s, probably left over from the first war with Germany, and a Thompson. That the silver-haired one had only a revolver spoke to him being a formidable enemy. Boone would have to keep an eye on him. Still, he didn’t see anyone in there particularly big, as Pollus had described their Russian target.

  “Damn Communists,” he muttered. That got a grin from Remé.

  Boone looked over his shoulder and saw the other three vanish around the corner. As per his instructions, Guille stayed in the rear, peeking around the edge of the building for Boone’s signal. Guille was the largest of the Fren
ch vampires, but that didn’t make him any more useful. He couldn’t shoot for shit, and he was too slow to be a good fighter. But, he could take a bullet… actually he could take about a hundred. He was a decent damage sponge, so he had that going for him.

  Guille nodded ahead and made eye contact with Boone. He held up three fingers then made a circle with his hand. Three men, sitting at a table. Boone nodded. Guille looked ahead again, then smiled and looked at Boone. He made a drinking motion with his hand and crossed his eyes. Drunk Communists… excellent! They were either stupid, or very confident. Hopefully, they didn’t have reason for the latter.

  If Boone hadn’t been staring right at him, he would’ve missed Pollus’ return. He seemed to materialize out of the darkness in a silent flash of light. The guard turned just in time to see the barrel of the suppressed Russian revolver in his face. After a quiet snap, he jerked back and hit the ground. Pollus made eye contact with Boone and vanished in the shadows. He was still there. Boone could feel his presence, and there was no flash of light characteristic of his leavings. Pollus needed to be by the door, because that was going to be his point of entry.

  Boone gave Guille a signal and drew his pistols. Guille disappeared around the corner of the building. Remé followed Boone as he spun around the corner and leapt through the window. Glass and wood panes shattered around him as he rolled into the room. In another part of the house, Boone heard a door shatter. Gunshots followed, along with swearing in French.

  The girl covered the boy with her body as Remé filled the room with automatic fire. One of the men at the table grabbed an MP18, but took three shots to the lungs before he could bring it to bear. The following burst of rounds filled the girl’s back, tearing open her dress as she screamed and hit the floor.

  Boone shot one of the younger men in the face and brought his other pistol up on the silver-haired man. As expected, he was faster than he looked. He rolled under the table, drawing his revolver and fired two rounds between the shaking table legs as he hit the ground. One round skinned Boone’s leg, barely drawing a ribbon before the wound healed. The other took Remé in the shoulder, eliciting a laugh from the younger vamp as he spun into a counter and rolled behind a stucco wall.