Cunningham, Pat - Legacy [Sequel to Belonging] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Pat Cunningham

  * * * *

  Jeremy ordered kung pao chicken, wonton soup, and two egg rolls. Colleen had vegetable lo mein and half of one of Jeremy’s egg rolls. Jeremy’s fortune cookie read, You will enjoy excitement in love. Colleen’s said, You will find yourself in a new position. After dinner, they went upstairs and fulfilled each other’s predictions.

  * * * *

  At the second fang bar he tried, Sully found his target. He approached the other vamp with a cringing deference worthy of an omega wolf. The stranger smelled heartier, somehow richer, than the bats Sully knew from LA. Sort of like the hot blasts the Tin Man gave off. The blood must run really meaty up in Sacramento. Someday he’d have to head up there and give some of those necks a whirl.

  The upstate vamp had a woman with him. Her glassy stare never wavered from her captor, not even when Sully sidled up to their table. The vampire’s eyes thinned to silver slits. “I do not appreciate my dinner’s interruption. Is the news you bring me worth your life?”

  “It is. You bet. You’re still looking for that woman, right? Forrester? You said we’d know her by her smell. It’d be really robust and all.”

  The upstate bat showed fang. Sully clamped his lips down over his own meager canines. Damn, those suckers were lengthy. Lebec must be one of the old schoolers. You didn’t grow fangs that impressive without having at least a century behind you. Nobody stayed king for that long unless they outlasted all comers.

  “If you have a point,” Lebec hissed, “come to it.”

  “Sure.” Sully temporarily straightened his spine. “I know where she is.”

  Chapter 15

  Wallace rolled into Sacramento two hours after sunset and started making the rounds. The city had a good-sized bat community and a wealth of fang bars. Not those fake places kids went to, to pretend at being vamps, but the real deal. His nose told him the difference. He passed by one noisy club packed with gloomy teens swathed in black and ruefully shook his head. Who in their right mind would choose this hell of a life? Scarecrow had been raised by vamps and loved them more than the living, and even he wouldn’t take the turn. That said everything right there, as far as Wallace was concerned.

  A sullen boy who looked about twelve, even with the makeup, glared at Wallace as he passed. Wallace let his eyes go red, bared his fangs, and snarled. The kid gulped and ducked back inside. Wallace snorted. Get a life, kid. A real one. He shook his head again. Shit. I’m getting old.

  He found a real fang bar and went inside. The clientele gave him the once-over, checked his scent for authenticity, and went back to their blood-based drinks. No costumes or makeup in evidence here. These bloodsuckers knew the score. Wallace strode to the bar, thankful his axe tattoo was hidden under his jacket. It wouldn’t do to tell a barroom full of bats the Tin Man was in town. Vamps had long lives, and longer memories.

  The bartender, a bored werewolf, handed over the beer he ordered without comment. Wallace sipped and waited. In an unending existence, any novelty invited curiosity.

  Sure enough, a vamp soon crowded up beside him. He also ordered a beer. They played with their drinks for a couple of minutes.

  “You’re new here,” the vampire said finally.

  “Relax,” Wallace said. “I’m not sticking around. I’m just here on business. I’m looking for a slayer called the Preacher. Word is he’s in Sacramento.”

  The vampire nearly spit his beer. “What the hell you want a slayer for?”

  “I like to live on the edge. Know where I can find him?”

  “Far from here, I hope,” the vampire said. He quickly abandoned Wallace, leaving his beer behind.

  Wallace hung in for another ten minutes. No one else approached him. He left his glass with a few swallows in it and strolled out the door in search of the next fang bar. Bats liked to gossip. It wouldn’t take long for word to hit the street about the newb with a death wish.

  Two hours and three bars later, he hit pay dirt. He’d barely walked through the door when a coyote popped up in front of him. “You the bat looking for Preacher?”

  “Whoa. Word travels fast.”

  “Slow night. Eternal life gets boring.”

  “You know where I can find him?”

  “Maybe.” He looked at Wallace expectantly. Wallace pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over. The coyote woofed in surprise. “You in a hurry to die?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really.” He tucked the bill inside his shirt. “Come back here tomorrow night. I’ll have a time and place. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “The Tin Man. I’m sure he’s heard of me.”

  The coyote hissed in a breath. His human ears actually flattened against his skull. “You’re kidding, right? Chaos, you got balls.”

  “You’ll tell him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell him.” The coyote’s yellow eyes darted away from him. Wallace also swept his glare around the bar. Their immediate proximity had just grown ominously quiet. One by one, the vampires turned to stare as word was passed along.

  “I think you just wore out your welcome,” the coyote muttered. “I’d skedaddle, I was you.”

  “Good idea.” Wallace treated the vamps to a jaunty salute and left the bar.

  Back at the van, he checked the time. He still had hours of nighttime to kill, and Sacramento had just become dangerous. A change of scenery was in order.

  The van’s GPS guided him out of the city, along northeastward-aiming roads to the hamlet of Lamont. The place was the size of a postage stamp, fortunately just large enough to support a 24/7 gas ‘n’ go. The drowsy clerk roused himself long enough to answer Wallace’s questions. Sure, he knew where the old commune had been. The whole town knew that story. Apparently, the rousting of the hippie-terrorist-religious-freak lesbians was the most action Lamont, California, had seen since its founding in the Gold Rush days. Wallace took a Slim Jim, paid with a twenty, told the clerk to keep the change, and drove off.

  Three hours before sunrise, he reached the turnoff described by the helpful clerk. He maneuvered the van up a rutty, weed-choked, dirt track that had long ago lost its claim to the title “road” and now qualified as a nature trail. Clearly, no one had used it in years. He wrestled the van up the track until a chain stretched across it rendered such wrestling moot. Wallace parked and hiked the remaining quarter mile into the Woods and the Waters.

  It didn’t live up to its rep or even Colleen’s descriptions. Like the track, this place hadn’t seen any use in a long time, probably not since the raid. Signs of human settlement were still evident in the form of cleared paths and avenues, even if they weren’t as weed-free or precise as they must once have been. His vampiric night vision picked out the remains of buildings, first charred by fire, then warped and weathered by the northern California climate and long fallen in. There wasn’t as much trash around as he’d been expecting. Maybe Lamont didn’t have enough teenagers to make the abandoned commune a party place.

  He prowled up what had once been the main drag, alert for signs of life, or un-life. Evidence of the forest’s population assailed his senses—tiny, rapid heartbeats, the endless rush of blood, an owl’s hoot, the pungent odor of coyote scat. As he neared the end of the street, something big crashed through the brush. A deer, he figured, probably confused by his undead scent but not of a mind to take chances.

  No humans, though, and no vampires. They weren’t reusing this as their hideout. That idea had been a long shot anyway. Vampires never returned to any place a slayer had torched. Even he, the hardened, reluctant bat, had hunched his shoulders and tugged his bomber jacket tighter without even thinking about it. Vampires had died in this place, and the stink of their ashes screamed at him to stay away, even over the twenty-year void. He’d find nothing here but bad memories.

  Had there been any good ones? He tried to picture the place as Colleen would have known it, peaceful greens and dappled sunlight and birdsong and fresh air. Children playing among intact buildings w
hile their mothers worked at crafts or tended garden patches. Pale young women drifting through their captivity in a dreamy haze brought on by blood loss and vampiric control. No, no happy memories.

  His own memories sparked one razor-tipped vision in spite of his efforts to stop it. He tried to see her as she’d been, but his traitorous imagination showed him what she must have become—her rich blonde hair now brittle, her Malibu tan faded to pallor from the constant drain of blood, her bright eyes dull, a faint smile on her vapid face. How long had they kept her? How long had she suffered here? Had one of those children been hers? Had her captors forced her to bear a daughter to replace the son they’d killed?

  “I didn’t know,” he said aloud. “I thought they’d killed you, too. I swear to God, I didn’t know. I’d have come to get you, baby. I’d have burned the whole fucking place down myself. I let you down, Elisa. I’m so sorry.”

  Silence answered, an emptiness devoid of even the sounds of the forest. Whatever nocturnal beasts were about had fled the immediate area and the creature that had invaded their space.

  He lifted his head. He sensed the dawn coming. He’d considered sleeping the day away here, but not now, not with the ghosts of this place, and that one particular ghost, pressing in on him. If he floored it, he could make it back to Lamont before sunrise. Wallace was pretty sure one of its scanty establishments had been a motel. He headed back to the van at a brisk trot with only one searing regret.

  He would find the bastards, and they would pay. Bet the bank on that.

  * * * *

  The following night, Wallace arrived at the fang bar shortly after full dark. He’d barely stepped inside before the coyote grabbed his arm and hustled him back onto the street.

  “I wouldn’t go in there,” the were said. “Word’s out on you, Tinny. You’re persona non grata in Sacramento. I was you, I’d wrap up business and fly away home.”

  “The drawbacks of having a spectacular rep. What about the Preacher?”

  “He’ll see you. There’s an elementary school about five blocks from here.” The coyote provided directions. “Preacher will be there. You’re not here to kill him, are you? You don’t look that stupid.”

  “Gee, thanks. No, I’m just here to talk shop. You’ll still have a job when the night’s over.”

  “That’s a relief. This economy sucks.” The coyote ducked back inside the bar.

  Wallace found the school without any trouble. He vaulted the chain-link fence and paused to get his bearings. This stank of a setup, and a damned well-thought-out one. A thin drift of fog obscured visibility. The thick smell of children and all their attendant odors—greasy fast food, bubble gum, soda, and dirt—clogged up his nose like a head cold. Just enough traffic whizzed by on the street to mask any stealthily approaching footsteps. Where was he supposed to hide? On top of the swing set? The jungle gym? Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. Times like these he missed his .45s.

  At least Scarecrow was safe. He and the chick were probably fucking each other blind right now. A half-smile touched his mouth. Colleen. He wanted her. He didn’t have to question it or struggle to admit it. She’d slithered into his life and coiled herself around him like a snake in a sleeping bag. She and Scarecrow clicked like a son of a bitch, which made it icing on the cake. Whatever she was, human or otherwise, Wallace really didn’t give a shit. He’d take her as she was, and Scarecrow, too. They could be a family. A flock.

  If he made it through this screwed-up mess—hell, if he made it through tonight—there’d be some definite changes. More listening, less snark, more shows of affection. And a helluva lot more sex.

  Okay, bat-boy. Head in the game.

  According to the coyote, the Preacher should be somewhere around. The fact Wallace hadn’t detected him yet said a ton about the slayer’s prowess. He snorted briefly. A vampire slayer turned vampire meeting with a vampire slayer, object cooperation. If that wasn’t the definition of awkward, he’d eat his dictionary.

  There. The faint breeze carried a fainter whiff of human scent. The whole playground reeked of sweaty six-year-olds, but this was adult, and fresh. If he hadn’t been on the alert, he would have missed it. Wallace winnowed out the traffic noises and snatches of loud music from cars and finally caught the thump of a heartbeat. Either the slayer knew those weird Eastern breathing tricks that kept his heartbeat steady, or he was one cold bastard. Given that he was a slayer, probably both. Wallace turned toward the sound of the heartbeat and waited.

  With the jig up, the slayer stepped out from around the corner of the school. He made no more sound than the breeze, or a vampire himself. He said nothing, so Wallace got the ball rolling.

  “You the Preacher?”

  The man nodded curtly. His rumpled, dark hair contrasted with skin white enough to rival any vamp’s. He looked younger than Wallace had figured on, early to mid-thirties, maybe. No shock. This wasn’t a job for old men. The rest of him was swallowed up by his shin-length, black duster. Wallace kept a wary eye on it. The street said he had enough of an arsenal under that coat to put away a whole nest of bats. No point in finding out the hard way.

  “The legendary Tin Man,” the Preacher said in a low, raspy voice that sounded like someone had once tried to slit his throat, and succeeded. “I’m surprised you’re not dead.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not taller.”

  “You didn’t chase me down to exchange pleasantries. What is it you want?”

  “Information on a bat gang from thirty-odd years back. The Woods and the Waters.”

  The slayer showed no surprise. “I heard they were active again. I’ve been looking into it.”

  “Me, too. My interest’s personal. I knew one of the victims.”

  “You have her with you now?”

  “No.” That look the slayer was giving him bordered on way too intense. He fought an urge to circle, as he would an attacking vamp. Christ. Didn’t this dick ever blink? At that thought, Wallace smiled to himself. Sometimes the blink of an eye was all the time a vampire needed. The slayer was just being cautious. With reason. “Let’s just say I’m a concerned citizen, and let it go at that.”

  “Do you know what they wanted the women for?”

  “If I did, we wouldn’t be having this delightful chat.”

  “Then pay attention. Not all of the flock was slaughtered. Some of the vampires escaped. So did some of the women. One of the victims took refuge at a Catholic church. The priest took her confession. Luckily for both of us, he needed to share with someone other than God, so he kept a detailed journal. Fascinating reading.”

  “If you’re into that sort of thing. What did she confess to?”

  “That she was a broodmare. All of them were. The commune was only the latest incarnation. The bloodlines stretched back for centuries.”

  “Long-term blood bank,” Wallace said. “We figured that.”

  “Not a blood bank. Maybe as a sideline. They wanted more than blood from their captives. They were looking for a way to make the species compatible, so they could interbreed.”

  “Interbreed with what? Not with vampires. That falls under ‘when Hell freezes over.’”

  “Not necessarily. Surely you can see the advantages. Picture a soldier, or a spy, with all a vampire’s powers but none of the weaknesses. Superhuman senses, strength, and speed but able to move about in daylight, with a taste for human blood and an inborn inclination to hunt. Female for controlled breeding to perpetuate the species, and a vampire’s heightened allure. I wouldn’t want to have to fight something like that. Would you?”

  “Whoa, hold up. Back to my original objection here. A human-bat combo can’t happen. Bats don’t reproduce. We can’t. We’re dead. We can’t even get it up without the blood lust. How many centuries you say they been at this and they still haven’t figured that out? Jesus H. lap-dancing Christ. I knew bats were stupid, but that’s epic.”

  The Preacher smiled thinly. “I’ve heard stories about you, Tin Man. There are ways aro
und that little glitch. I think you know what they are.”

  Bullshit. There was no way around a dead dick. The Preacher didn’t know squat. But Wallace did know, and he realized, with a slowly sinking gut, it could just remotely be possible. Hell, he himself was the poster boy for what a vampire’s undead body could do, if given the right stimulus. “Bat blood.”

  “It does a body good.” He stopped smiling. “The priest was so impressed, or horrified, he quoted the woman at length. She talked about how they fed her vampire blood, how they’d been feeding it to their broodmares for generations. Altering their genetic structure, making them compatible with their vampire lovers. She talked about how it made her feel. Invincible. Indestructible. Incredibly horny. They fed it to the studs as well, to make them fertile again. I’ll bet date nights in the compound got pretty boisterous. Not to mention loud.”

  “No. You’re screwing with me. You feed a human bat blood and they turn. That’s how it works.”

  “Only if they’ve been drained and are on the verge of death. These were healthy women, and the doses were small. Like snake venom. Receive enough low-level bites and over time you develop a tolerance. These bloodlines had been nurtured since the 1800s. Breeders have created new strains of dog in far less time than that.”

  “Didn’t happen. Never happen. It can’t.”

  “It did. Of course, it takes time to create a new species of human, or vampire. At least twenty years to make sure the child survives and has the traits you want, another twenty to see if those traits breed true. They had a few minor successes here and there, but never anything lasting. The hybrids were deformed, or unstable, or sterile. Plus they had to deal with the constant interruptions from slayers eradicating their kennels. Finally, though, their efforts came to fruition. There were eighteen children at the Woods and the Waters. Eighteen viable offspring, sired by vampires. Some of them escaped the slaughter as well.” His ironic smile reappeared. “Of course, by now, they’re not children anymore.”