Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  A shadow collided with the creature.

  A throaty snarl that made Lauren’s skin crawl echoed in the factory. She turned quickly, pushing to her feet and grabbing her gun. As she angled it at the shadow, she watched as it grew to nearly twice the height of the creature. The creature slashed out with the gnarled, tool-entrenched hand. Grasping the creature’s arm, the shadow lifted Winston into the air.

  Taking a step toward Lauren, she recognized it immediately. She had seen it on the highway with Montgomery. It had saved her from the lake: the monster that desired to be a man.

  It was Dominic in wolf form.

  Standing there, holding the thrashing maniac, he looked enormous. He did not look at Lauren, but instead opened his mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth. The movement was quick; his jaw snapping around the smaller man’s neck and then the creature was no more. Briar Winston’s foray into insanity was ended in a moment.

  Dominic stood, chest heaving.

  Dark eyes watched Lauren as she stared, gun still extended toward the pair. Winston lay at the werewolf’s feet. Arms splayed and legs curled underneath in a manner only consistent with death, when flexibility mattered no longer. The black threads that held together his incomplete metamorphosis hung loosely, elasticity diminished.

  “Dominic.”

  He continued to watch her as he bent, his form collapsing. The majesty of girth and silken fur replaced with a half-naked man covered in sweat. Cerulean eyes looked at her once more and his fists flexed, angry lines of muscles tracing their way up and down his arms.

  Her voice returned to her slowly.

  “I can’t believe…”

  Dominic took a step forward. “I had to end it. I began this cycle of pain, of sadness. Too many have died because I was selfish. I wanted something that I know now I cannot have.”

  She lowered her gun finally.

  Pulling off her outer jacket, she extended it to him. He wrapped it around his shoulders. Though too small, it adequately covered the necessary parts. “I would have found a way. You didn’t have to…”

  Dominic grabbed her hand gently, looking deeply into her eyes. “You are hurt.” Looking back toward the darkness, his head tilted. He smelled the air. “Montgomery will be here soon. You will have that wound tended to.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “You saved my life.”

  “I never had another choice. The instant that we met I knew that I would give anything to stand beside you, to share a moment with you, no matter how brief. And for that I am grateful, Lauren.”

  A bewildered look crossed her face.

  “Brief? What are you talking about?”

  He let go of her hand, his face slipping back into the shadow. “They will always need the monster, Lauren. I am not forgiven. Briar Winston is dead. The creature he became is erased from this world, but his deeds are not. I bear responsibility for those deeds.”

  Lauren shook her head.

  She could feel him slipping away.

  “That isn’t true. He is responsible. Not you, Dominic.”

  “Would you blame a rabid dog after it has been put out of its misery? Or would you search for what bit it, ending the cycle? That is what they will want next. Maybe not Montgomery, but someone will seek to fix what I have done.”

  There were footfalls in the distance, the sound of excited voices. Dominic turned as he heard them. Lauren sensed his desire to flee, his posture that of a frightened animal.

  “No, I don’t want you to leave. I…”

  He moved forward quickly, his movements smooth. Touching her face, he pressed his lips against hers gently: the last kiss they would exchange. She closed her eyes, kept them closed even after she felt him move away. Continuing beyond the sound her coat made on the floor and then his fleeing footsteps. She touched a finger to her lips, pressing it firmly when his lips had just been.

  A part of her sunk into misery.

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw the coat laying over Briar Winston. Montgomery’s voice rose from the distance. “Agent Westlake.”

  His voice was near breaking.

  She did not respond.

  Instead she bent down, retrieving her coat slowly and examining Briar Winston. He had truly been a masterpiece of horrific proportions: a living nightmare.

  A breathless Montgomery snaked through the stacks, his gun drawn. He slowed to an abrupt halt as he came upon the body of Briar Winston. He deposited his revolver back into its holster along his waist.

  “Agent Westlake, are you okay?”

  Lauren wished to tell him no; that it could never be okay. She had begun to feel something with Dominic, something powerful. A deeper connection than she had felt in her life. And now it was gone. The circumstances that had brought them together had become their undoing.

  “A minor wound,” she spoke coldly.

  He knelt too, producing a pen and pushing back the flap of skin that had been sewn into Winston’s face. It had already begun to unravel; the bruised and infected flesh beneath was the color of desert sand.

  “What a thing,” he marveled.

  She nodded and stood as more men stormed in. They carried heavy shotguns. Lights filled the room as someone had flipped a master switch somewhere deeper in the building. One of the officers came forward, only to be repulsed by the sight of Winston, or perhaps the smell.

  There was vomit nonetheless.

  Standing, she looked down at the coat and grimaced. With a graceful swing, she placed it upon Briar Winston’s body, covering his face and torso as best she could. “I suppose all your murders will be of the normal variety from here on, sheriff. Drunks and the such.”

  Montgomery crossed his arms. He heard the edge in her voice, the irritation. “Did I miss something, agent? Is this not a cause for celebration? We got our man.”

  Lauren stalked away, Montgomery quickly at her heels. Her veneer had returned: cold Lauren Westlake, here for the job. “We did indeed. But at the cost of a great many lives.”

  He did not argue that point. He had lost a dear friend in the deputy. “What about your rug? The wolf man? Where is he at? Flew the coop?”

  She restrained the strong desire to be less than cordial with the sheriff. “He felt it was in his best interests to move on.”

  Montgomery could not hide the relief in his face.

  “Good riddance.”

  Lauren did not respond and continued to walk on, past the throng of officers and workers who had re-entered early for their shifts. There was commotion and questions of the strangest sort, but she had seen enough that night. The cold early morning air slapped her face briskly. All she wanted to do was to get her wounds treated and return to the relative comfort of her hotel bed.

  Chapter XXIII

  When the sun rose a few days later, Lauren was already up. Dressed and hair pulled back into a ponytail, she sat on the edge of her bed. Her thoughts were collected, organized. The case had been closed. Creature dispatched and mystery solved, yet it did not feel completed; it was quite the opposite.

  She touched the bandaged area of her shoulder and grimaced. The wounds on her back and shoulder would heal, but the one left by Dominic would not. There was a lingering, shooting pain that radiated down her arm, but she would endure.

  The screeching brakes of the sheriff’s patrol car rang in the early morning. The hotel was deserted save for a few sleeping residents. There was little sound except the breaking cold as ice gave way under enormous weight in the distance. Her bags were packed. Carrying them with her good arm, she shuffled toward the door.

  The brisk morning stung her eyes. The sun had risen in the distance, a spectacular visual feast that she had not witnessed since first coming to the sleepy little town. Now, her time was done. She had returned her keys in the drop box when it was still dark out, while Locke still slept.

  Montgomery was half in and half out of the squad car. Gloved hands, missing fabric in some places, gripped the top of the door. “You ready to get
out of Locke?”

  She opened the back door of the cruiser and gingerly placed her bags inside. “I think it is time for me regardless of wanting to get out. My cell has been inundated with calls from back home. Certain cases that need to be investigated. As strange as it sounds, this was a vacation.”

  They sat together in the car for a moment, the engine sputtering in the cold. He looked at her and she looked ahead. Montgomery sighed and buckled in, moving the shifter with his other hand.

  Backing up, Lauren watched the barren town pass her by, struck suddenly by what was buried beneath the calm and serenity of Locke. What other madness lay dormant? “He feared what the world would do to him,” she said after a time.

  Montgomery looked at her sideways. He knew very well who she was talking about: Dominic. “Is that the last thing you want to talk about with me before you leave Locke? Last thing we say to each other?”

  Lauren looked out the window, watching the cold earth pass beneath. “No. I wouldn’t.”

  Montgomery cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Nice of Erickson’s to fly you out of here though.”

  She nodded bleakly.

  Montgomery turned the car onto the road leading up to Erickson’s. Without the blowing snow and blanket of night, the massive building appeared as it truly was. A well-paved road snaked around the back of the main building.

  He maneuvered the cruiser onto it.

  There were snowbanks pushed back and a small-engine plane sitting in an open field of cement and painted lines. Montgomery parked a distance away, shutting off the engine. He reached into the back seat as Lauren grabbed the handle of the door, opening it so that the cold wind outside crept in. “Wait a moment, Lauren,” he said.

  She turned back, one foot out the door.

  He held a brown package in his hand. There was neat black writing written on the front. It was addressed to Agent Westlake via the Locke station.

  “What is this?” she queried as she took it from him.

  He shrugged. “Came in a couple days ago, Mrs. Meadows didn’t think about it until this morning. It was addressed to you from a field office in California.” He paused, thinking. “Thought you were commissioned out of the Midwest somewhere?”

  Lauren touched the packaging, reading the return address. It was from an office in San Francisco. Not a federal office, but a private one: no name, just an address.

  “You don’t know anything about this?”

  Montgomery shrugged. Lauren pushed open the door, retrieving her bags from the back seat. The sun was in full array, wide arcs of sunlight licking the last remnants of the lingering night. The engine of the plane hummed in the distance.

  Montgomery leaned against the car.

  “I guess this is goodbye then,” he spoke slowly.

  Lauren set her bags on the cold ground, laying the package on top of them. Taking a few steps, she gave the sheriff a hug. Montgomery’s eyes were glossy. Everyone became either a son or daughter to him these days. Pushing her back with a wry smile, he cursed himself for being an old sentimental.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, sheriff.”

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  “Think nothing of it. Wish I had a few more like you up in these parts. It’d make being a sheriff easier. I should thank you for coming all this way to help. Hell of a thing you did. I won’t forget it.”

  Lauren smiled wanly.

  “I suppose it is my turn to say think nothing of it.”

  They both laughed. Lauren looked at the plane, stairs descended, and a well-bundled stewardess waiting for her. Montgomery looked as well.

  His heart felt heavy.

  “If you are ever back this way…”

  She smiled tightly. “I will certainly look you up. Hopefully, it will be under happier circumstances.”

  And again they stood, uncertain of what to do next. Lauren grabbed her bags and Montgomery shifted, crossing his arms once more. Nodding at him, she started forward.

  Up the stairs, the stewardess smiled broadly. Lauren did not look back. The interior was nicer than any flight she had ever taken. Plush seats adorned each side of the aisle. She sat into one, grateful for the cushion. The stewardess grabbed her bags with another manufactured smile and disappeared into the back of the plane.

  The package sat on her lap. Lauren traced her fingers over her name and then the address. She didn’t know anyone in San Francisco. Turning it over, she slipped a finger between the seal and broke it. There was a manila folder, clips and bindings holding bundles of sheets together.

  Placing the empty brown envelope beside her, she opened the folder. The stewardess came back past, asking about a drink before take-off, which the agent politely declined. There were glossy photos of grisly crime scenes.

  Page after page of typed reports narrated a vicious crime. But, it was three words that jumped out at her: vampiric activity, bloodletting. Closing the file, she sat back into the seat as the plane began to taxi. Perhaps a trip to California would not be such a bad idea after all.

  Drained

  I

  The hotel resembled an Andy Warhol painting. The colors were bright and the décor was clearly meant to convey more than a passing resemblance to the 1960’s motor lodges that were shelters to middle-class families looking for the American Dream on the open road.

  Lauren set her suitcase on the bed, opened it, and sighed. There was something about the symphony of braking cars, staggering voices, and the rhythm of the city that put her at ease. As she was taking the taxi from the airport, she could not help but be relieved by the steady parade of lights that greeted her––rain-drenched and sparkling like constellations in the night.

  Her suitcase was mostly empty. The trip to Locke had been sudden and her meager wardrobe reflected such a kneejerk decision. Leaving her clothes undisturbed, she took an opened brown envelope out of her suitcase and slid out its contents. She had looked at the crime-scene photos and crisply written reports several times on her private flight to Minneapolis, and then her connecting flight to the Bay. More than once a fellow traveler had looked over her shoulder to see what she was reading, only to be disgusted and revolted by the grisly photos and cryptic narrative of the crimes.

  The package’s return address still caught her attention.

  She had never been to San Francisco and knew no one in California, save for an aunt she rarely talked to who lived in San Diego on the beach somewhere. Not being familiar with the city, she walked over to the room’s nightstand on top of which sat a trendy lamp––which was painted a garish green that obscured the muted light.

  Opening the drawer, she found a folded and refolded city map, a testament to a time before computers and navigation software. Pushing her suitcase aside, she spread the map out on the bed and read the address on the envelope to herself: 865 Union Street. Tracing a long finger across the faded map, she found the motel’s location along Fillmore Street. Following the street back to the long line that represented Union Street, she tapped an indistinct place corresponding to the return address.

  She headed for the door and grabbed her coat from a hook to the left of it. As she wrapped the coat around her shoulders, she adjusted the firearm in her side holster, ignoring the lingering feeling in her stomach that she might need the weapon during the night’s excursion.

  Fog stung the night air.

  And cold condensation covered the metal railings of the staircase and the fence that separated the walkway from a central area where the still waters of a swimming pool and a slightly swaying hammock waited for the light of the day.

  Reaching into her pocket, Lauren pulled out a wool cap. The air was not as cold as it had been in Minnesota; her mood sunk as she recalled Dominic and the macabre killer who had stalked the cold woods of Locke. Pushing the thoughts from her mind, Lauren lowered her chin under the collar of her coat and walked briskly up Fillmore, then turned the corner onto Union.

  THE OVERPASS THAT SEPARATED the yuppie, hipst
er youth of the city from its poorer denizens was indistinguishable from any other place in the city.

  Benny squatted under the comfort of its concrete shelter to avoid the light drizzle that had replaced the evening fog. His grizzled features and unkempt salt-and-pepper hair might have been construed as charming if he were not several shades of crazy and hungrier than a feral cat. He remembered when he could wink and say a few smooth words and a beaming waitress might swoon––regaling her with stories about his gigs around the city and the promise of a little danger.

  In the late 70s Benny had fancied himself a musician, playing the tall bass with a few friends; it was tough for Benny to think of them as friends now. What passed for a friend on the streets was someone who would not steal your blankets or chase you out of a rat-infested hole with a taped-together shiv made from broken bottles and pieces of fenders from stalled-out cars.

  The 70s had not been kind to Benny. Cocaine had gone from recreation to lifestyle to death-style. As his other bandmates started lives, as accountants and family men, Benny spiraled deeper into despair.

  His friends lost his number.

  It was not long before he did not have the money for electricity, and then he lived his life in darkness. From there it was a short hop to not being able to pay rent and the streets became his home. After enough time wandering the cold pavement, he became too volatile to bunk in the homeless shelters.

  He had become a creature of the streets.

  He made a strange sort of existence for himself under the overpass. Newspapers were arranged like a well-manicured lawn. Boxes, crushed and water-damaged, were the wings of his great destitute estate. The barrel at the center of it all, burning brightly like a lighthouse on rocky shores, was full of the wisdom of Western society: newspapers, magazines, and various novels.