The Vampire Evolution Trilogy (Book 1): Death of an Immortal:

by Duncan McGeary

  Carlan hurriedly packed up to go home. It was three o’clock in the morning. He’d have to convince the motel not to charge him for the night, but flashing a badge usually did the trick.

  One good thing had come out of the waiting. He’d been thinking about Jamie and her family. His mind kept returning to Jamie’s younger sister, Sylvie. When Carlan had first started dating Jamie, the girl had been only a teenager. Now she was legal: twenty-one or twenty-two years old, something like that.

  Sylvie was an even more beautiful woman than Jamie, with the same kind of purity that had drawn Carlan to Jamie. More purity, actually, since she was that much younger and less experienced. Jamie had been soiled by the time Carlan got to her––she’d lied to him, and it was only after slapping her in the face a few times for her lies that she’d told him the truth. She hadn’t been a virgin for years.

  Carlan had been willing to forgive her, before she ran off. But inside, he had recoiled.

  The more he thought about Sylvie, the more certain he was that Jamie’s death had kept him from making a big mistake. The younger girl was so much more appealing.

  He’d solve this case and present it to her like a gift. She’d be grateful, he was sure. She wouldn’t be like Jamie, who hadn’t known when she had it good.

  Yes, Sylvie had been the right one all along.

  Chapter 8

  The Hardaway residence was on the trendy west side of Bend, only a block from the Deschutes River. The house was small and had probably been owned by the family for generations. Updated bungalows surrounded it, but it still had its original plywood siding, warped by the infrequent rains.

  Terrill cruised past the house. Through the window, he saw a big-screen TV that seemed to take up half the little living room, a couple of old couches, and an older couple on opposite sides of the room, ignoring each other. It was nearly midnight, too late to knock on the door. There was no sign of the daughter.

  He felt restless. He drove out into the High Desert east of town, feeling vulnerable because of the lack of cover, trying to get used to the openness of the terrain in this part of the country. He got back to the motel room as dawn was breaking, the sunlight ready to stab down on him.

  It was mid-October, but the sun was shining brightly. Terrill chose the queen-size bed farthest from the windows and tried to get some sleep. He’d be up at the break of dusk. His internal clock would wake him automatically, honed by centuries of needing to feed at first possible moment.

  He turned onto his side, remembering Jamie.

  #

  They were naked on top of the bed, one of her legs and one of her arms draped over him.

  She was languorous. Something about her had appealed to him. He had decided to please her, to make her want it. In return, she was confiding in him, and for some reason he was willing to listen to this girl who had almost no experience of the real world. She had a kind of wisdom, though, a perspective that came from some deep well of goodness.

  Jamie talked glowingly about Bend, and especially about her younger sister.

  “Sylvie will get the chances I didn’t,” she said. “She’s incredibly bright––good at math and science and all that stuff that I never could understand. She just needs a break.”

  “That’s why you’re here?” he asked. It seemed more diplomatic than “That’s why you’re a whore?”

  For the first time, Jamie seemed a little defensive. Until now, she had seemed, if not happy in her work, at least content… or if not content, at least resigned.

  “I’ve already put five thousand bucks into her college fund,” she said testily. “That never would’ve happened if I’d been working at Burger King.”

  She was so young, so unspoiled. He’d sensed right away that she was just a wide-eyed girl in the big city. That’s what had attracted him.

  “It’s not too late for you, surely,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  Terrill knew America was full of young people in dead-end existences. Most weren’t aware of it, but for some reason, Jamie had already scoped out the future and decided it was hopeless. He wanted to object and to tell her anything was possible. But he knew that she hadn’t even finished high school, that she had no practical skills and had to rely on her beauty. Even that was beginning to wear off, though she was in her early twenties. Where could she go? What could she do?

  Her grammar and diction were adequate, nothing more. Her clothing sense was that of a girl playing at being a sophisticated woman. She would be limited even in her chosen profession; at best, forced to pick up strange men in bars, at worst… he shuddered.

  Once he had fed on such dregs of civilization, knowing they wouldn’t be missed. But that way of existence was behind him now. Maybe he could help this innocent girl, make up for some of his past. It would be a small step, but in an immortal life, such small steps could add up. Already, he had quietly used his wealth to help other humans in return for small kindnesses.

  “Go home, get married, have a life,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I attract the wrong kind of guy. Always have. I’m not going to be like my mother, marrying five times, each guy worse than the last…”

  Terrill said nothing. If she survived her dangerous and unhealthy profession, she would probably end up exactly like her mother––marrying the men who paid attention to her, not questioning their motives, excusing their bad behavior, secretly believing she didn’t deserve any better.

  “Sylvie doesn’t have to end up like that,” Jamie continued, as if reading his mind. “She can go to college, get a good job. Wait for the right man to come along.”

  He must have been frowning, because she playfully patted him. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all this. But if you ever met Sylvie, you’d know why I talk this way.”

  He didn’t answer. It was the rare human who could pull themselves out of their designated fate. But something about this young woman’s faith in her even younger sister was inspiring. He’d help make it happen, he decided. At least give them the chance.

  Terrill lay in bed with Jamie in his arms, the warmth of her body waking memories long forgotten: of life, of love and family and everyday existence. It was strangely comforting. For once, his hunger left him. Or so he thought.

  #

  The windows glowed from sunlight one moment, then darkened the next. Terrill awoke instantly at the cusp of dusk as the ambient light shifted.

  He got up, surrounded by empty mirrors. If ever he was tempted to forget his nature, he need only rent a motel room, in which mirrors often served as decor. An empty room surrounded him and empty mirrors reflected it; it was as if he wasn’t even there. He only existed in the darkness and the shadows, which meant he was invisible, night or day.

  In truth, he was unlikely to ever forget that. He woke every evening hungry for blood. For many decades, he had been prudent enough to wake alone. The one time he had forgotten––the one time he had felt comfortable enough to let the human stay with him––had ended badly.

  Now he was on this strange trip to a part of the country he’d never intended to visit, with this crazy idea of approaching strangers, risking his life… all for a girl he’d barely known, with whom he’d planned a simple sex-for-money transaction.

  But she had not treated him that way. She’d treated him like a human being. It was the first time in a long time that anyone had done that.

  Terrill dressed in a conservative suit, something that hopefully wouldn’t stand out too much in a small town where most people dressed informally. It was the best he could do. He’d never owned a flannel shirt, as far as he could remember, and had never even tried on a pair of jeans. In part, he dressed formally because old-fashioned, classic clothing offered him more cover. Hats, gloves, vests, coats, long-sleeved shirts and trousers: all gave him a small advantage over sunlight.

  His wardrobe was also a result of his long existence. Clothing styles came and went, and he didn’t even try to keep up
with them.

  Terrill stuck his hand in his pocket and felt a burning pain. He cried out and withdrew the stinging object. He dropped the crucifix but held onto the silver chain, which hurt him, but didn’t burn like the cross did.

  He stared at it curiously. He’d always been confused about why crosses had this effect. He had no opinion about religion. He didn’t believe in an afterlife––well, other than the type he was experiencing, anyway. It was all mumbo jumbo to him. Why should a cross, or holy water, or silver, or any other of the many folk wards against vampires have any effect on him at all?

  On the other hand, why question it? Were any of these superstitious talismans any less likely than the fact of his own existence?

  Terrill touched the crucifix again, and though it hurt, he found that he could stand the pain. It burned a few centimeters of the surface of his skin, but went no further.

  Without thinking, he swung the chain over his head. The cross bounced off his chest and then settled, and he staggered and cried out. The silver chain cut into the back of his neck, and he had an image of his head detaching and bursting into flames. He reached up and found that the chain had dug into the surface of his skin, but stopped there.

  The cross burned into his chest and stuck, his skin fusing with it. The area continued to ache, but the initial sharp pain subsided. He could stand it, he decided. He removed the chain, because the wounds it was inflicting were visible. The crucifix remained fused to the skin of his chest.

  He’d once fed upon a priest who, it was revealed when the outer layers of his clothing were removed, had been wearing a hair shirt. The mortal’s skin had been mottled and covered with rashes, his back flayed by self-flagellation. As Terrill remembered it, the priest hadn’t been a righteous man, but a vicious schemer who had used the Inquisition for his own benefit, so it had surprised Terrill to see that the man apparently had a genuine religious side.

  Or perhaps a sadomasochistic side, since the sadism was more than manifest in his official duties. A torturer who tortured himself.

  Terrill winced as he put on his shirt. He didn’t ask himself why he left the crucifix burning into his chest.

  He drove to the Hardaway house the minute it became fully dark. He’d probably catch them at dinner, but so be it. It was important that they all be home.

  He still wasn’t sure what he would say. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he’d simply hand over the check and walk away. That’s what he should do. Anything else wasn’t safe, either for him or for them.

  But as he sat in his car, staring at the house, he knew he wouldn’t leave without talking to Sylvie.

  Chapter 9

  Vicky waited for the paperboy. He was late, as usual.

  She would pretend to be impatient, but secretly she was delighted. The last time, she had seen how Mr. Horsham had looked her over, as if trying to see how she looked with her clothes off. She had just been waiting for another excuse to be alone with him.

  She had read everything about him there was to read, had followed him to nightclubs, and had even snuck into a few of them, watching from a distance as he handed out tip money like it was water. He liked the girls, that was for certain. Tall, willowy blondes. Such as herself. Well, such as herself after going to the salon every two weeks to keep the blonde hue in her hair.

  She checked herself out in the mirror of her compact. The Horsham estate had almost no mirrors––actually, none that she’d ever seen. She had a few too many dark roots to be perfect, but not bad: blonde and beautiful and young.

  Mr. Horsham was older than his official biography, she’d decided. Not that he showed it. No, he had one of those tall, lean bodies that never got flabby, and dark, lustrous hair that never greyed or grew thin.

  But the news stories went too far back for him to be only forty years old or so.

  He had to be lonely, possibly even depressed. He never left the house until after dark, and he slept all day. It was time he had a woman take care of him full time.

  The paperboy––actually a middle-aged man––finally showed up.

  “The truck was late,” he muttered, and she believed him because he’d obviously been running, sweat dripping off his fat face.

  “It best not happen again if you want your bonus,” she snapped. Mr. Horsham paid bonuses that were bigger than a month’s wages if you pleased him. She planned to please him very much indeed.

  He wasn’t up when she got to the kitchen. His meal was laid out, but there was no light coming from under the bedroom door. Vicky looked around at the curtains. Wouldn’t it be nice if they were open when he got up, catching the last vestiges of the day’s light? she thought. She went to the window, but she couldn’t see anything that would open the curtains. They seemed almost permanently attached. How strange.

  “What are you doing?” The voice was guttural, unlike the smooth tone she was used to hearing from Mr. Horsham.

  He was in the shadows, wearing a bathrobe. He seemed to have an erection. She flushed. Vicky had thought she was prepared for anything, but now that the moment had come, she felt uncertain. His silhouette wasn’t quite right, as if he was wearing something on his face, something that protruded.

  Nevertheless, she pirouetted prettily, a move she’d practiced a hundred times in the mirror at home. She had a great body, and she knew it.

  “You have the perfect body.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’d dreamed of him saying that, but not like this.

  “Why thank you, sir. It is at your service.” There. She’d said it. A little more bluntly and crudely than she’d planned, but then again, she hadn’t expected her boss to be already aroused.

  He stepped into the light. He was wearing a mask, a fright mask of some kind. Not funny at all. He seemed to be running toward her; why would he be doing that? She tried to plaster a smile on her face and opened her arms.

  As he got within a few feet, Vicky saw that he wasn’t wearing a mask after all. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She felt herself being slammed against the dining table and falling to the floor.

  Then he was on top of her, ripping her clothes off. Violating her. She had dreamed of this, of being ravished, but there was nothing sexy about it. He was grunting or something, nuzzling her neck. Biting her. She tried to push him off. She’d changed her mind. She didn’t want sex after all. She didn’t want to be here. She’d sue him for sexual harassment, she decided. Maybe even file charges.

  But she could barely raise her arms. He continued to bite her, and she felt liquid flowing down her neck and chest. Had they spilled the orange juice? He was sloppy, disgusting.

  He reared up as he came, and she saw his face one last time, the face of a monster leering down at her. He cupped her breast, then leaned over and took a bite out of it. The pain was somewhere in the distance, happening in another time and place, to someone else.

  The light dimmed, and she could no longer see him, only feel him––eating, eating.

  #

  Vicky had the perfect body. Just the right proportions of meat and fat. Horsham tried to hire servants who were built that way, figuring it never hurt to have a walking pantry full of meat for emergencies. She also had no family and few friends. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been working for him.

  When he was finished, he took what was left of her and stuffed her down the special disposal chute he’d installed in his kitchen, which went directly to an incinerator in the basement.

  He’d warned her. She’d been skulking about for months, even stalking him on his nightly rounds. She’d almost been his meal several times, but he preferred not to kill anyone who could be connected to him.

  But this had been necessary. She had broken one too many rules of the house. She’d dared to research his past. It had only been a matter of time before he disposed of her, one way or the other. This had been nice. It was a little early to feed again, only a few days since he’d returned from Scotland, but sometimes he needed a little booster.


  It wouldn’t cause any problems. It had been years since he’d eaten an employee. Didn’t want to do too much of that; the other servants tended to notice. But no one would doubt he had fired Vicky, and no one would miss her; she had been a little bitch to everyone around her.

  Horsham turned on his laptop, washing down the taste of her with orange juice. A red flag immediately popped up. He read it and picked up his cellphone.

  “Sanders. Get Twilight ready for a trip to America. We’ll stop in New York tomorrow and fly on to the West Coast the next day. That’s right. No, not California. Portland, Oregon.”

  #

  Less than an hour later, Horsham settled back in his seat in the private plane called Twilight. Its windows were permanently shuttered, since a jet could fly from darkness to light in minutes. At long last, a hint of Terrill’s location, he thought with satisfaction. It was nothing more than a hint, but it was more than he’d found in decades.

  It didn’t matter how long it took. Terrill would pay for what he’d done.

  #

  “They are food, Horsham. Nothing else. Don’t forget it.”

  They had waylaid a stagecoach, taking the money. That’s all that would’ve happened if one of the men hadn’t gotten foolish and taken a shot at them. The bullet hit Terrill in the shoulder, and they both fell upon the occupants of the coach in seconds, ripping them to shreds. It was a snack, nothing more, both of them having fed the night before.

  One of the humans was a little girl, and Horsham hesitated, just for a second, remembering his own daughter at that age. Terrill tore into her, and she was dead in moments. By the time he was done with her, his bullet wound was completely healed.

  “Don’t you remember being human at all?” It was possible that Terrill didn’t remember, since he was many hundreds of years older than Horsham. Since the disappearance of their Maker, Michael, he was perhaps the oldest vampire on Earth.