Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  The siblings quieted and exchanged pensive looks.

  “We need to find out where the victims spent their time,” said Lauren after a few moments. “What we do know about vampires is that they are tribal by nature. The bloodline that we think is hunting these streets will have familiar territory.”

  “So you think they are territorial?”

  Billy snickered.

  Both Lauren and Lawrence glared at him.

  “I was thinking of that part in Jaws when he talks about territoriality and the chief just pours a glass of wine. Classic.”

  Lauren shook her head and continued. “So what now?”

  Lawrence looked at her as he opened his hands demonstratively. “We check out where they worked, where they played…”

  “No,” she began. “What now about all this?”

  “Ah, you mean the vampires here in San Francisco and your brother posing as a federal agent.”

  Lauren nodded.

  “I still have more questions, and I wonder about the efficacy of an investigation that includes your brother,” he replied. “However, even if I don’t believe what you’ve said, there’s still a strong connection among these murders that even a skeptic would be hard-pressed to ignore.”

  She felt relieved––or as comfortable as anyone could feel when confronted by a murderous clan of supernatural creatures and potential federal charges against her brother.

  “Let’s go see a man about a drink.”

  VIII

  Chloe sat in front of a small café in a plaza across from one of the Academy of Arts universities scattered around the city and frowned at the printed pages in front of her. She was having trouble concentrating amidst the midday bustle. People crisscrossed the plaza like a schizophrenic manically clicking through the channels. A young man in a parked Lexus shouted to a young woman leaving the café, the entire conversation in Arabic, while a middle-aged woman with heavy thighs and calculated breathing scuttled by––preparing for a marathon in the near future if her sweat-drenched t-shirt was any indication––and Art students wearing copious amounts of plaid and punk hurried past carrying pictures tucked away in leather cases.

  Puzzling over the details of the investigation, Chloe looked at a grainy photo of Lauren Westlake––the only remaining lead in her investigation into NeuroTech. Her inquiries into Agent Westlake had been fruitful but left much to be desired.

  Chloe had learned, after a few phone calls to Westlake’s home office, that Lauren was not here on Bureau business and that she had recently taken a leave of absence. Further inquiry revealed that Westlake had arrived from Locke, Minnesota, where she had been linked to a murder investigation. Scratching her head with a pen, she could not get a pair of questions out of her thoughts.

  Why was Lauren Westlake in San Francisco? And what was her connection with NeuroTech?

  Her attention was distracted by the arrival of a barista, who plopped her coffee on the table and left without a word.

  Sipping the hot java, Chloe contemplated reaching out to Lauren, but neither the San Francisco field office nor the Midwest field office was willing to provide Westlake’s cell number. She clicked her pen irritably, wondering how she could get Lauren’s number.

  Then it came to her.

  She jerked out her smart phone and after a few jabbing touches and a long dial tone, the nasally voice of a desk sergeant of the SFPD grumbled warmly. “Homicide.”

  “I’m looking for a federal liaison officer working with the SFPD. She was…”

  The male voice on the other end of the line interrupted her. “Lawrence?”

  “Westlake is the agent’s name.”

  He seemed irritated by the entire exchange. “Detective Lawrence is liaising with Agent Westlake. They’re not available. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Chloe contemplated the best way to go about this.

  “I’d like to leave a message for Agent Westlake.”

  “You can leave a message for Detective Lawrence.”

  “Fine. My name is Chloe Richards and I’m a columnist…”

  He cut her off. “Press? You know the rules. Contact our press secretary and submit a formal media request.”

  The desk sergeant hung up before she could ask another question.

  Sitting there sipping her coffee, she smiled.

  Now, she had a name.

  THE EXTERIOR OF THE SPIRITS EMPORIUM WAS covered with colorful stickers and acid-etched gang signs that were indecipherable in the steadily dwindling day that slid behind the tops of the apartment buildings surrounding the drinking establishment.

  Lauren turned up her collar and shivered. Even though she had spent time in northern Minnesota, where cold took on a whole new meaning, the subtle bite of the ocean winds gave her a chill.

  The interior of the bar looked like a hollowed-out cave. Its old, stone walls were spray-painted with impressionist art: murals of swirling colors, misshapen heads, and unreal landscapes. The bar was mostly empty, its few patrons scattered around the room.

  The bartender, a scruffy-looking hipster with a gray flannel, pressed his hands into the bar. “What can I get you?” His voice had the quality of an intermittent smoker, the kind who only smokes when he drinks.

  Lauren flashed her badge, the motion reminding her of the first time she walked into the Locke police station. “We’re investigating a murder in the neighborhood. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  He smiled. “Only if I can get you a drink.”

  Lawrence was wandering around the room, looking at the tables and the walls. Billy had disappeared. Had he even entered the bar? She couldn’t recall. There was a slight pull in her chest, a sense of anxiety, as if he were eight years old again and she was supposed to be looking after him.

  The bartender was still looking at her expectantly.

  “Let’s start with a name and an Old Fashioned,” she replied.

  “Kyle.”

  She pulled out some photos of the three murder victims and placed them on the bar in front of Kyle as he began to peel an orange to go into the bourbon. “Have you seen any of these men?”

  He stopped for a moment and scanned the images.

  His shrug lacked assurance. “Maybe.”

  Lauren noted how well lit the front area of the bar was. “Do any of them look more familiar than the others?”

  Having finished making the Old Fashioned, Kyle slid a dark black napkin in front of Lauren and placed the drink on top. He leaned forward and scrutinized the photos. He touched the one in the center––Marlowe’s. “This guy. He was in here a couple nights ago.”

  “What about him?”

  “Tall, well dressed. He seemed a little out of place here.”

  “Do you remember him talking to anybody suspicious?”

  Kyle shrugged and busied himself about the bar. “A lot of people come in here. It’s tough to keep track of who was talking with whom….”

  Lauren smiled at the attention to grammar and knocked on the counter. Picking up her Old Fashioned, she walked over to Lawrence and plopped down into a rickety chair next to him. Now out of earshot of the lanky bartender, she grimaced. “This place is kind of a shithole.”

  Lawrence nodded and sat down across from her. He wiped his hands over the top of the table and brushed the flakes off on his pants. “Par for the course, I’m afraid. Learn anything useful?”

  “The pretty boy over there makes a decent drink,” replied Billy, referring to the bartender.

  “Anything case related?”

  Lauren shook her head and took a long drink. It warmed her face and chest. She was by no means a heavy drinker, only enjoying an occasional glass of wine or cocktail when she was out with friends.

  “Our victim, Marlowe, was here. Kyle…”

  “Who?”

  Lauren pointed back to the bar. “The bartender.”

  Lawrence nodded.

  “He saw him come in, remembers him because he was so well dressed. Doe
sn’t recall who he was talking to or who he might have left with.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  She looked around. “Have you seen my brother?”

  “No, I imagine he found something shiny.”

  Lauren smiled tightly, but could not argue the point. Billy was impulsive and brash––reasons that had often gotten him in, and out of, trouble on more than one occasion.

  “We wait.”

  “Huh?”

  Lauren finished her drink and signaled Kyle for another. “Someone must have seen something. This seems like the kind of place where the regulars pile in every night and trade rumors about secret shows for their favorite bands and complain about corporations.”

  Lawrence fixed her with a quizzical glance.

  “I don’t care what their politics are, Lawrence. I only care that they care about it so strongly. It means a corporate shark like Marlowe wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.”

  HAPPY HOUR HAD COME AND GONE without luring a crowd into the Spirits Emporium. It seemed that the allure of inexpensive drinks was not sufficient to attract the bar’s youthful patrons. By 10, the bar was full. Vests, poorly maintained moustaches, and discussions about world affairs were soon the soup du jour.

  Lauren and Lawrence were working the room from opposite sides, while Billy was lost in the crowd, flirting with doe-eyed hipster girls wearing handmade shawls and yoga pants.

  Lauren approached a portly fellow with greasy hair, long and slicked back, who was leaning against a support beam near the back wall. His blue eyes swam as he saw Lauren coming toward him. He gave her a cheesy smile as he adjusted his look with as much care, and as little abandon, as he could muster.

  “Hey, bright eyes,” he slurred.

  Lauren could smell the alcohol from his breath. She smiled tightly. “What’s your name?”

  “Everyone calls me B-Mic,” he managed.

  “B-Mic?”

  He leaned in closer to explain. “Brian Michaels, but no one calls me that….” He hiccupped and covered his mouth, a gesture for which Lauren was quite thankful. “You look like a cop.”

  “I am a cop, a federal agent.”

  His eyes steeled and then softened, as if a fleeting moment of sobriety had rung a bell of comprehension––but was quickly drowned out by a wave of alcoholic stupor. “You look like a cop,” he repeated.

  Lauren held up the picture of Marlowe.

  “Do you recognize this man?”

  B-Mic got in close and squinted his eyes. “That’s the guy who told me I should drink less. Who is he to tell me that? I mean….”

  Lauren waited, but after a few moments it became clear he was not going to say anything else. “Did he talk to anyone here? Maybe leave with a woman? A man?”

  The man looked around and then back at Lauren.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  B-Mic turned and raced toward the bathroom, bumping into a series of people––some of whom seemed unperturbed and others who glared at him indignantly. Lauren sighed and started toward the throng of young people creating a cacophony of muddled musings.

  Billy emerged from the crowd with a woman on each arm. They were both wearing tight halter tops with a larger shirt covering it. Over the shirts, the taller one was wearing a leather bomber jacket, while the other wore a wool coat that featured the entire color wheel. Their dark black hair and oversized glasses hid their facial features.

  “Lo, meet Daphne and Susan,” began Billy.

  Lauren smiled, though she felt irritation creeping to the surface. Even though her twenties were not that long ago, she felt old among the woefully directionless youth around her. “Nice to meet you. Can I have a moment, Billy?”

  Billy smiled and kissed Daphne’s hand, and then Susan’s. “Ladies, I will be but a moment. What is a moment when compared against the infinite and unyielding…”

  Lauren yanked on her brother’s arm, his sonnet punctuated by a gulping sound. The surprise on his face dissolved into a smirk. “Poetry? I thought we were soldat? I thought we were supposed to be hunting this rare clan of you-know-what?”

  “That’s what I’m doing. What’re you doing?”

  “Investigating.”

  “Well, clearly, we have different methods, Lo.” As he continued, Daphne and Susan wandered back into the crowd. “The Fragminis are beautiful. Male or female, they’ll be the most attractive people in the room.”

  “So we’re looking for models?”

  “Yeah, of a sort. Every woman here is ninety percent hipster and ten percent I-have-daddy-issues-and-I-might-strip-to-find-myself. We’re looking for someone with unnatural confidence who’s playing it a bit coy.”

  “Fantastic.”

  The two siblings surveyed the bar again.

  Most of the patrons were as Billy had described.

  As the night crawled on, Lauren could feel her patience being stretched thin, while Billy seemed very much at home, getting numbers from a few boozy women; even Lawrence seemed to be enjoying himself as he chatted up a tall young man with a wide smile and dreadlocks.

  Nursing her third Old Fashioned, Lauren watched the sea of bodies roil back and forth, their voices and the ambient noise joining to create a jagged symphony without rhythm or melody.

  Then, she saw it.

  A woman––tall, statuesque, and underdressed for the weather outside––emerged from the crowd. Her blonde hair, messy by design, danced between different faces as she moved through the ocean of plaid and flannel. Lauren pushed a young man aside as she started to follow the woman through the tangled mass of arms and legs.

  As Lauren passed Lawrence, she tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, not taking her eyes off the blonde woman who was making her way for the exit. They sidestepped and shuffled toward the door, snagging Billy away from the throng of women who surrounded him. He followed reluctantly as they emerged onto the street.

  Huffing, Lauren looked left and right.

  “What’s going on?” queried Billy.

  Lawrence stood behind them stoically.

  Seeing a wisp of blonde hair turn the corner just ahead, Lauren dashed down the street in pursuit. She could hear her breath in her head as she raced past industrial buildings intermingled with neighborhood markets and signs that warned against drugs; the rush of blood in her veins warmed her as a cold wind slapped her face.

  As Lauren rounded the corner, her eyes darted up and down the street, searching for the blonde-haired woman. But she was nowhere in sight.

  Lauren slowed her pace and paused in front of a ramshackle building that was several stories tall. She turned her head from side to side, sweeping the mostly deserted street with her eyes. Farther up the street, she could make out several people loitering around a dimly lit building. Ignoring them she looked back the way she had come expecting to hear Billy’s and Lawrence’s footfalls. But no one was following her. She sighed. Had she plunged ahead without back-up again?

  Memories of Locke returned to her: the forest and the cabin.

  Shaking the memories away, she breathed in deeply and focused her senses.

  Suddenly, she heard creaking footfalls in the building looming behind her. She looked up and saw a glint of golden hair through a broken second-story window. Drawing her weapon, she moved to the building’s entrance and ducked her head as she negotiated her way through its obstructed doorway.

  Her weapon trained in front of her, Lauren paused and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. There was little light on this side of town; and even less filtered through the building’s boarded windows, forming broken shafts of light that made the shadows into muted Picasso paintings. She heard sounds in the distance as the wind whipped through the dilapidated structure, shaking its wooden rafters and rattling its walls. She proceeded with caution, inching forward down the hallway toward the stairs at the end. As she ascended the creaky stairs, she wondered where her brother and Lawrence were. Had this thing doubled back and gotten to them?

 
Having reached the second-story landing, Lauren called into the darkness, her voice quavering slightly. “I just want to talk.”

  She heard something skittering in the room to the right of the stairs.

  It sounded like rats.

  Lauren entered the room. In the far corner a sliver of light came through an open window. A figure stood just at its edge.

  “I’m a federal agent. Step into the light.”

  The figure did so and Lauren immediately recognized its face. It was the woman she had seen in the bar. Entranced by her beauty, Lauren could not keep herself from staring. The woman had the clearest eyes she had ever seen and her long legs and porcelain skin made her look like a living doll.

  “We’re not your enemy,” the woman spoke in a husky voice.

  Lauren lowered her weapon ever so slightly and cocked her head. “Let me be the judge of that. Do you know who I am?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alexandria.” She paused. “Father calls me Alex.”

  Lauren took a deep breath and showed Alex her weapon. “I’m going to extend some trust here, Alex.” She holstered her weapon and stepped closer to the woman. “Why did you run?”

  The younger woman looked out the window.

  “You were chasing me….”

  Lauren pressed her hands into her hips and pushed back her coat. “I was chasing you on a hunch. One that seems to have paid off. Do you know what I am?”

  Alex nodded. “Soldat.”

  Lauren nodded. “Seems you know a bit more than I do. If you know that much, then you know why I’m here.”

  Alex nodded again.

  “I’m a federal agent as well. It’s my job to investigate murders, supernatural or otherwise.”

  The younger woman fidgeted at the use of supernatural.

  Lauren continued. “Are you Fragminis?”

  Alex ducked into the shadows and Lauren saw that her figure bloated and changed horrifically. Lauren drew her weapon, adrenaline ruling her senses.

  “What just happened?”