by Lisa Jackson
The only one who responded was JustO: Mine. Who else’s?
Kristi grinned. “How about that.”
None of the other chatters was responding but Kristi wanted to keep this alive. Following JustO’s lead she typed: My own.
The other vial wearers were strangely silent until they, too, answered along the lines of JustO. Were they reticent to tell the truth, or like Kristi, liars with their own agendas?
For the first time since logging on, she sensed she was getting somewhere and could barely contain herself. She bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood as she thought. Kristi was certain JustO was cyber-texting about blood. So who was she or he? How, if at all, was he or she connected to the cult? Kristi tried to imagine who JustO was. Someone in Dr. Grotto’s class? Someone she saw every time she stepped into the classroom? Was his or her name, like Kristi’s, for the purpose of this chat room all about blood? Was JustO’s blood type O?
Kristi felt a rush of adrenaline and could barely sit still. She felt certain this person was female, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. She just had some sense of it. Almost like a memory.
Could it be that JustO really did wear a vial of her own…Oh, God! It hit Kristi then. She did know who this person was! She was sure of it. Hadn’t she heard of a student at All Saints who went by one initial. Just “O”?
Kristi’s own father had mentioned the girl. He’d interviewed “O” while investigating a homicide a couple of years earlier. It had been one of the cases that had been linked to Our Lady of Virtues, the abandoned mental hospital located a few miles outside of New Orleans. One of the victims of that particular nutcase had been a student here, at All Saints.
Detectives Bentz and Montoya had driven to Baton Rouge, where they’d interviewed students, family, and staff. One of them had been a girl who had worn a vial of her own blood around her neck.
Feeling almost dizzy with the connection, Kristi stretched her arms over her head, hearing her spine pop, but still she kept her gaze fastened to the conversation on her monitor. Her mind spun backward as she remembered the conversation that had taken place in her father’s living room. She hadn’t been living with him then, but she’d been visiting. Olivia hadn’t been home, but Bentz and Montoya had been discussing the case and Montoya mentioned something about the “weird Goth girl” wearing her own blood. She hadn’t wanted to be called Ophelia, her given name. She’d told the detectives to call her “O” or “Just O”.
There was a girl named Ophelia in Grotto’s class, a sullen, quiet girl who always sat at the back of the room. Kristi hadn’t actually met her face to face, hadn’t been close enough to notice if she wore a chain around her neck and a tiny vial of her own blood.
But that was about to change.
Even though the idea of anyone taking the time to draw blood, seal it in a tiny bottle, then wear it…Jesus, that was really out of the boundaries of normal.
The screen flickered and JustO logged out of the chat room.
Kristi felt a sense of disappointment. She knew she was on the verge of something important, though she wasn’t certain what. She glanced at the clock on the computer screen and groaned. It was nearly two and she had an early morning class. Besides, she really needed to think about what she’d learned online. Process it. It was probably just as well that JustO had left the conversation, which seemed to be rapidly going downhill. Even Carnivore18 gave up the ghost and logged off.
Her eyes burning from lack of sleep and staring at the monitor, Kristi closed out all of the open screens and thought about how she would approach O, the quiet girl, how she would get her to admit that she was JustO. If the vial were visible, that might start the conversation, but Kristi would have to pretend to be someone else because ABneg1984 had bragged about wearing her own blood and Kristi couldn’t fake it. If the people wearing the vials were part of a cult, there was probably a certain vial they used, maybe a certain necklace on which it hung, some sort of conformity that would make it immediately evident if she came up with a fake. Maybe the vials were a certain shape, or etched, or dark glass or…Oh, she couldn’t think about it now.
Yawning, she stretched again and envied the cat, who was already back in his hideaway.
She wasn’t certain of the significance of what she’d just discovered, but it sure looked like it had a lot to do with Dr. Grotto’s vampyrism class. Maybe the cult Lucretia had mentioned was a subject of the class.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m definitely getting closer to something…something that’s going to make one helluva book,” she said aloud as she switched off the computer and watched the screen turn black.
Why in the world would anyone wear a vial of their own blood? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the girls who had vanished?
She walked to the window overlooking the campus.
Somewhere out there, was a predator, someone preying on students who took a particular combination of courses. “So who are you, you sick bastard?” she whispered. “Just who the hell are you?”
It was hours after midnight and Vlad felt an insatiable hunger, a craving he could no longer fight. The need to kill thundered through his brain as he drove ever closer to New Orleans, the tires of his van singing along the pavement, the traffic at this late hour thin and spotty.
All the better.
It was wrong to hunt tonight.
Dangerous.
He could easily make a mistake.
And then who could he blame?
Only himself.
This he knew. Yet Vlad could wait no longer. He knew there was a protocol, a reason to wait for the killing.
And yet, he found it impossible to tamp down his urge, and for that, he had the “lessers,” the women who would suffice physically if not intellectually.
And there were issues to deal with. A naysayer who had to be quieted, a guilty conscience that had to be silenced or all would be lost, and he couldn’t allow that.
His head began to throb.
He was empty. Hungry. Yearned for the thrill of the kill.
Could no longer hold back.
And he rationalized that this, tonight’s kill, would be a sacrifice to her, the one to whom he was forever linked, the one to whom he was fated.
And perhaps this unplanned killing of another lesser would throw the police off, send those who suspected on a wrong path in a different city.
Don’t do this. If you succumb to temptation, if you kill, you could be exposed, your mask stripped from your face.
His hand began to tremble as he considered turning around, resisting the urge that was a living breathing thing within him, a need so fierce he was its slave.
A willing slave.
He swallowed hard and felt the emptiness within. His hand steadied on the steering wheel as he saw the bright lights of New Orleans washing up against the night sky in the distance.
There was no turning back.
He knew the one he wanted…the perfect woman. Her skin was near translucent, her neck a long, welcoming arch, her body firm and ripe. His skin flushed, his own flesh heating at the thought of taking her.
Alive…oh, she needed to be alive, to know that theirs would be a hard, night-long union of passion and lust where she could satisfy his every need. And then she would give him the ultimate gift of her lifeblood.
Oh, how he would take her tonight.
He felt a throb of anticipation heat his veins at the thought and savored what he would do to her. Before. And after.
From deep in his throat came a soft growl of anticipation. Of need. He heard his own blood pumping through his veins, felt his pulse jump in expectation of the night ahead.
He closed his eyes for the barest of seconds, felt his erection hard and strong and straining. Which was good. Necessary. He needed the edge, the relentless resolution, the sheer testosterone-driven will that kept him sharp, cunning, and ruthless.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirr
or and smiled at his transformation. His disguise was complete. No one would recognize him. Eagerly, he took the off-ramp he wanted, then wound through the city, driving carefully, under the speed limit on the empty streets. He knew where to park, where to wait.
He’d planned this one for a long time, knowing that at some point he would give in to his needs and search for a lesser one who would satisfy him for the next few days. Until the next.
The street on which he parked was nearly deserted, in a section of the city where the hurricane’s wrath had been mighty. There were a few parked cars, some abandoned and tagged, a few others occupying stretches of the battered street. He rolled down the driver’s window and breathed deep of the cool winter air. Even here, in a desolate section of the city, the Louisiana night felt alive. He heard the sound of insects buzzing, the whirr of bat wings in flight, and he smelled them all, a rat scurrying into a sewer hole, a raccoon searching the street for garbage, a snake slithering up the side of a tree.
Far off was the muffled sound of traffic on the freeway. Every so often headlights cut through the night and a car rolled past.
His nostrils flared and he drank it all in, his eyes easily adjusting to the dark. Lust was his constant companion. It had been since he’d been eleven or twelve, maybe younger….
He leaned back against the cushions of the driver’s seat, his hands tapping on the steering wheel. There were several lessers he wanted, those whose lives would be given without the elaborate rituals of the entitled, ones he’d earmarked for just the purpose of the letting of their blood. This one, the woman he would sacrifice tonight, would not be missed for several days. In that she was perfect.
He knew she would come. He’d watched her before, had met her several times, here in New Orleans. She was beautiful, her body toned, but she had no interest in improving her mind. And that was her mistake. Her soul could not be elevated. She was not royal, only a servant.
As are you, that nagging voice in his head chided. Are you the master? Of course not! You gave your free will over long ago and here you are, adhering to rules that you find restraining. Whether you admit it or not, there is a chain around your neck, one that is always kept taut.
He closed his mind to such arguments, knew they were blasphemy. He saw her then, walking alone, the friend who was sometimes with her missing. Good. She strode briskly in her high heels, her footsteps sharp and hard. Determined. Trademarks of a strong woman.
A dancer.
Who called herself Bodiluscious, but whose real name was Karen Lee Williams.
Wearing a short miniskirt, crop top, and jean jacket, she walked alone on this desolate street, heels clicking on the pavement. She probably knew better than to walk this way, but it was the quickest, straightest shot to her small house.
And a perfect place to become lost.
He waited until she was nearly a block away and then he slipped noiselessly from his vehicle. There were no lights, no alarms, just a soft little click of the door.
Though it was dark, with his eyes he zeroed in on her. He walked swiftly, hiding in the shadows, keeping near the empty buildings. Hard to believe any woman was stupid enough to take a shortcut and walk home after a night of writhing around a pole for money. Money used to support a habit instead of her child.
She deserved to die.
And she was lucky he was here to save her from her lowly existence.
He’d heard her complaints about her life, the unfairness of what fate had cast her, but she hadn’t wanted to change. It was all just idle chatter, used to garner his sympathy.
Smiling to himself, he followed her, then took a shortcut through a few vacant lots where, with his heightened vision, he could avoid the rubble, rats, and scavenging dogs.
Tonight, he thought, his blood singing through his veins, he’d release her from her misery.
Karen was edgy. Nervous.
And sick of the mess that was her life.
It had been a bad night, she decided as she clipped her way home on high heels that were beginning to hurt. She was walking through a part of the Big Easy where she’d once felt safe but now was a little nervous. But she had no choice: this route was the quickest way since her car had broken down a few weeks ago and she couldn’t afford a cab.
Besides, she needed a little time to breathe some fresh air and think. Get away from the throbbing music, hooting customers, and smell of stale beer and cigarettes. The club had gone downhill, too. The night was a little chilly, but the further she got from Bourbon Street, the quieter and calmer it seemed. She even imagined she could smell the river, which was probably just her imagination.
She had danced until eleven, when she’d been forced off the stage by Big Al’s latest “find,” a girl who wasn’t a day over sixteen unless Karen missed her guess. But the girl, Baby Jayne, with Kewpie doll makeup, long blond pigtails that nearly swiped her tight little ass, see through baby-doll outfit, and boobs that would make Dolly Parton envious, had all the customers streaming in for the after-midnight show. Even though she was awkward with the damned pole. Karen had watched a lot of the younger woman’s act, spent time lurking near the door, observing Baby Jayne’s pornographic moves. There was no seduction in her dance, no allure, just the obvious.
Now, it was late.
Nearly three in the damned morning.
It just wasn’t fair.
To think that at thirty, she, Bodiluscious, had been demoted. Her tips a few years back had been incredible—on some nights she’d made enough to pay her rent and buy a bit of nose candy—but now, after the storm had nearly wiped out the town and Baby Jayne had strolled into the club, Karen was lucky to have enough money to pay the bills each month. Which was probably good. If she had extra money, it tended to find her nasal passages. She’d been clean for over two months and she intended to stay that way. She was gonna put her life together. Hell, she couldn’t dance forever.
She kept angling toward her little house, which had miraculously suffered only minor damage in the storm. For that, she’d been thankful.
She cut across the street and felt as if someone were watching her, which was ridiculous. For God’s sake, that was her career, to have men ogling her, the more the better. She knew what that felt like.
Click, click, click. Her footsteps kept right on hitting what was left of the sidewalk. And she kept her eyes ahead of her, afraid to make a misstep on the cracked concrete and end up turning her ankle. What then? Her career would definitely be over.
Maybe it was time to patch things up with her mother and kid, move back to San Antonio. At least that way she could see her daughter more than once or twice a month. She smiled to herself when she thought of Darcy; now that girl would go far. At ten she was already at the top of her fourth-grade class and the piece of art she’d made for Karen last Christmas was incredible. The kid was a genius even if she had a no-account father doing time for possession, and a mother who danced on a stage, making love to a metal pole six nights a week.
A car rolled slowly down the street and Karen just kept walking. New Orleans had become dangerous, and if the press were to be believed, the crime rate sky-high. But she was careful. Never headed out alone without her small pistol tucked beneath her jacket. If anyone tried to mess with her, she’d be ready.
The car passed without incident, but she still felt edgy. Something wasn’t right. Something more than Baby Jayne stompin’ all over Bodiluscious’s turf.
The feeling that she was being observed, maybe even followed, hung with her. She hazarded another quick glance over her shoulder and saw nothing…or did she? Was there someone just out of her line of vision?
Her skin crawled and a spurt of adrenaline shot through her, spurring her on. She was nearly running in the damned shoes now.
Don’t go crazy. You’re letting your imagination run wild.
But she opened the flap of her purse, where she could grab her pistol, cell phone, or canister of mace in one quick movement. She looked over her shoulder again, a
nd saw no one.
Good. She was only three blocks from home now, approaching a safer area where the flood damage had been minimal and cleaned, the streetlights working, at least a quarter of the homes occupied, another quarter nearly cleaned and renovated.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
She was walking so fast she was nearly breathless, and that was something she prided herself on: how fit and strong she kept herself with the dancing. She made it into the pool of light cast by the first strong street lamp along her route and she drew in a calming breath. She looked behind herself once more, then realized, standing in the circle of light, she was an easy, visible target.
You’re almost home, girl. Just keep walking. Fast.
She saw her house on the corner, then cursed herself for forgetting to turn on even one light. She hated walking into a dark house, but at least she was home.
She raced up the new walk and newly fixed front steps, her key in her hand. On the porch, she opened the still-squeaking screen door, then unlocked the dead bolt and shouldered open the new, heavy front door.
Inside, the smell of fresh paint assailed her as she flipped the dead bolt and reached for the light. The house was silent. Strangely silent. No hum of the refrigerator. No whisper of the air from the fans. She flipped the switch.
Nothing happened.
The entry hall light remained dark.
Scraaaape.
The sound of a shoe against the floor?
Oh, Jesus, was someone inside?
Her heart fluttered wildly with fear as she flipped several switches. No lights. She fumbled into her purse for her pistol with one hand, while the other scrabbled on the door for the dead bolt.
A hand clamped over hers.
Harsh.
Strong.
Brutal.
It crushed her fingers and she started to scream, only to have another hand cover her mouth.
Oh, God, no! She squirmed wildly. Writhed. Bit the leather covering her lips. Kicked at his legs, but his grip only tightened.
“Slow down, Karen Lee,” he said in a voice that was as seductive as it was frightening.
