The night’s kill was not at all what he craved. But the meal had been substantial. His hunger satisfied, Jonas covered the ravaged carcass under twigs and brush.
Deep in thought, he took the long route out of the park.
Back in the hotel suite, Jonas was surprised to find Rosie sprawled across the bed. One arm rested at her side, and the other was flung over the edge of the bed. There was no rise and fall of her chest, and her feeble heartbeat was barely perceptible.
“She’s dying!” Jonas gawked at Rosie in astonishment.
“No, she’s resting. Gathering her strength. In another hour or so, she’ll awaken and she’ll be fine,” Zac said.
“How do you know?”
Zac shrugged.
“This is lunacy, Zac. How could you do this to her . . . right here in the hotel? She’s not an anonymous stranger. The room is in her name, for God’s sake. Are you trying to get us both arrested?”
“Get a hold of yourself; she’s going to be fine,” Zac’s said, his voice quivering with anxiety. The cheeks of his pale face were tinted scarlet, and Jonas wasn’t sure if the burst of color was from embarrassment or Zac’s overindulgence in drinking Rosie’s blood.
Jonas gazed at Rosie and listened intently. “Her heartbeat is faint. Look at her! She’s not taking a nap; she’s unconscious, and she’s not going to make it if her blood isn’t replenished.”
“What should we do? I don’t know the ways of this modern world.” Zac sounded helpless, like a frightened child.
“We could drop her off at a hospital. The doctors will know in an instant that she needs a transfusion.”
Zac rubbed a blood-tinted cheek. “But the police . . . The police will question her when she comes around. And they’ll come after us—with guns!” Zac said anxiously, deliberately playing on Jonas’s fear of guns.
The idea of being brought down by a hail of bullets caused Jonas to shudder. He couldn’t endure another untimely burial. He had to get to Miami to reclaim his humanity, and he wouldn’t allow Rosie or anyone else to stand in his way.
“Perhaps there’s another method we could use to revive her.” Jonas recalled the vampire myths and said, “Why don’t you feed her your blood?” It seemed like a ridiculous suggestion, but was worth a try.
Zac stiffened and frowned in revulsion. He was slow and hesitant in his answer. “I . . . I don’t . . . Giving her my blood will turn her into a vampire. And vampires are completely untrustworthy. I can’t read their minds,” he said, shaking his head regretfully.
“You don’t have a choice; we have to save her.”
“I don’t want a vampire mate. I want Rosie to remain human, at my command to continue doing my bidding.”
As if called from the grave, Rosie’s eyes suddenly popped opened. In near-delirium, she moaned and clumsily tried to sit upright.
“Lie down. You need to rest,” Zac said, feigning compassion for the mortal woman as he brushed away errant strands of hair that had fallen in her face.
“I can’t rest; I have to take care of you,” Rosie uttered. Though weak and feverish, she propped herself up on a shaky elbow.
Rosie lifted her chin, and in her weakened state, her head lolled awkwardly to one side.
Jonas gasped at the sight of the multiple punctures and the red and bluish bruises on Rosie’s neck.
“Come on, Zac; bite me again, baby,” she whispered in a raspy voice, the words sounding both vulgar and sensual at the same time.
Zac spoke to Rosie in a gentle, lover’s tone. “Not tonight, Rosie. I’ll bite you tomorrow.”
“Promise?” Rosie asked dreamily, her glassy eyes slowly fluttering closed.
“I promise,” Zac vowed. Glancing at Jonas, Zac’s eyes flashed in triumph.
CHAPTER 19
Keeping Angie on ice had worked for a short while, but soon her rotting flesh had become indigestible.
At first, he replaced her with live pigs that he bought from the slaughterhouse that was down the road a piece from his onion fields. Those squealing pigs kept the hunger at bay somewhat but didn’t satisfy his craving the way human meat did.
Walter had always been a prominent member of the community, but this live meat-eating habit of his was causing him to lose his high standing. Tongues had started to wag with regard to the way he kept turning up at local slaughterhouses, buying live pigs one day, and baby calves the next. Rumor had it that his onion business was in deep trouble and that Walter was hacking up slabs of meat and selling them as a side job.
Though annoying, he could live with the rumors and withstand his decline in popularity. It was the gossip that he’d personally created about Angie that was starting to get to him, making him feel less than a man.
Angie’s church friends had come calling, inquiring about her whereabouts. Their combined scents gave him a powerful craving, causing his eyes to well from the unbearable yearning. Keeping a safe distance from the Bible-toting parishioners, Walter wiped the tears from his eyes and insinuated that Angie had ran off with one of his strapping, young migrant workers.
“I’m a forgiving man, and I’m praying that she’ll come back to me,” he had told the church members in an overly emotional voice.
Rumors about Angie leaving Walter for a younger man—an exotic type—spread like wildfire.
Angie’s sister, Gladys, who lived up north, had been ringing the house phone off the hook and leaving desperate messages, pleading for Angie to get in touch with her and let her know that she was all right.
Weary of Gladys’s unceasing phone calls, Walter yanked up the receiver and bellowed into the mouthpiece, “After all I’ve done for her, your whoring sister upped and left me for a worthless field hand!”
Gladys drew in a deep intake of breath. There was a ring of truth in Walter’s claim. After all, he’d met Angie at a farm convention that he’d attended fifteen years ago in Cincinnati. At the time, she was working as a hooker.
“But she’s been deeply religious for years; I thought she’d gotten those heathen ways out of her system,” Gladys said regretfully.
“Leopards don’t change their spots,” Walter said vehemently. “I should have never walked that hooker down the aisle.”
“I’m so sorry, Walter,” Gladys said. “When I hear from Angie, I’m going to give her a stern talking to. She’s probably going through some sort of phase. She’ll be back.”
“I don’t want her back! Your sister is dead to me!” he shouted, sounding infuriated. Feigning indignation, he hung up on Gladys.
It wasn’t that Walter was completely heartless. He missed Angie and regretted what he’d done to her, but the hunger was stronger than his concern for the dead. Life goes on.
His biggest regret was letting that Haitian con man, Alain, talk him into getting on that refugee boat in the first place. He should have followed his gut and left the comatose boy exactly where he’d found him. He should have never fooled with someone under the influence of a botched spell. Walter’s wife would still be alive today if he’d never gone after that free zombie labor.
Some zombie! From what Walter had heard, the typical Haitian under the influence of zombie poison merely walked around in a daze and did whatever they were told. They worked free until the poison wore off, and then they came back to their senses. Never had he heard of a Haitian zombie biting and attacking folks.
Worse than a case of rabies, that refugee’s bite had poisoned Walter’s system and had changed him into a ravenous animal. That shiftless, lazy Alain was to blame for Walter’s troubles. Instead of devouring his poor wife, Walter should have fed on Alain.
The Haitian hadn’t gotten along with the other workers; he was always complaining and stirring up trouble. Alain was a boat man and working in the fields eight hours or more a day, clipping, bending and lifting in the oppressive Georgia heat made him a surly, mean-ass, son of gun. On top of being antagonistic, Alain was lazy . . . the slowest worker Walter had ever set eyes on. That worthless Alain had brought a h
orrible curse upon Walter. And now Walter couldn’t get revenge. The beady eyed con man had fled the onion fields immediately after getting his first week’s wages.
At the end of the workday, Walter sat in his cool, air-conditioned truck observing the sweaty migrant workers. He took notice of one of the new men, a curly-headed Latino named Raul. Raul was an illegal with no family ties that Walter was aware of. Like many of the workers, Raul spoke limited English.
Eating animals simply wasn’t doing it for Walter anymore, and so he appraised Raul through calculating eyes. He needed one more taste of a live human being. Just one more, he promised himself.
Raul was short in stature, but was thick and burly. Taking him down might not be easy; the man looked as strong as a bull.
As the workers piled into the back of an old, dull-gray truck that would take them back to the rooms they rented in town, Walter sneakily wagged a finger at Raul.
Raul walked briskly over to the truck
“Hey, Raul. How’s it going, buddy?”
“Si, senor?”
“Uh . . . I wondered if you were interested in doing some overtime.”
“Eh?” Raul inclined his head, uncomprehending.
“More work-o?” Walter said, struggling to communicate. Damn, he needed the foreman to interpret for him, but that wouldn’t be a wise idea. He looked up in thought. “Okay, look . . . you do mucho work-o, and I’ll pay you mucho dinero.” Hell, after all these years of hiring Hispanics, I should be able to speak a little Spanish.
Frustrated, Walter looked around for another victim, but all the workers had already piled into the beat-up truck.
The driver fired up the loud, rumbling engine and Raul looked over his shoulder in alarm.
“No worries,” Walter stated. “I’ll drive you home.” Realizing that Raul didn’t understand a word he was speaking, Walter cut to the chase. He pulled out a stack of money that was fastened together by a sparkling silver money clip. “Mucho dinero for work-o.”
This time Raul gave a radiant smile of understanding. Nodding eagerly, he said, “Si, senor!”
Walter nudged his head toward the passenger side. Raul climbed in; a happy smile was plastered on his face.
Headed for a main road, the truck bumped along over the field. Walter handed Raul a flask filled with bourbon.
“Gracias,” Raul said and took a swig. He drank deeply and then passed the flask back to Walter.
Walter shook his head and gestured with a wave of his hand. “Drink up. Enjoy!” He patted Raul on the shoulder, encouragingly.
Raul tossed his head back and took another long swig.
“I used to drink a pint a day, but my taste buds done changed on me and the thought of drinking it makes me sick,” Walter said, turning down the corners of his mouth. A whiff of Raul’s rich, human scent put a faint, sinister smile on Walter’s lips.
By the time they reached his home, Walter could tell by Raul’s goofy smile and the way he slightly staggered, that the Latino was already hammered.
“Have a seat, Raul.” Walter pointed to his favorite chair, a large, custom-made leather recliner with Walter’s monogram on each side.
Raul sank into the oversized chair. Looking proud, he placed his hairy arms on the armrests. Walter’s eyes roved from Raul’s beard down to his arms.
With slowly accumulating disgust, Walter wondered if Raul’s back and chest were as hairy as his face and his arms. That would be intolerable. Angie’s skin had been hairless. Smooth and tender. He’d be bitterly disappointed if his next human eating experience reminded him in any way of a fur-covered animal. Walter wondered if he should try and talk Raul into shaving off his body hair before he feasted on him.
Impressed by the size and the attractiveness of the house, Raul sat swallowed in the huge chair, rambling in Spanish, his eyes gleaming at his boss’s fine possessions.
“Be right back,” Walter told Raul and raced to the kitchen, taking a six-pack of beer out of the fridge. Hopefully, mixing beer and bourbon would slow down the Hispanic’s reflexes—rendering him putty in Walter’s hands.
Raul was guzzling beer almost as fast as he was snapping open each can. After the fourth can of beer, Raul indicated that he needed to use the restroom.
Walter regarded Raul thoughtfully before responding. After the mess he’d made with Angie in his bedroom, he decided that any room with carpeting was off limits. The kitchen, with its ceramic tile flooring, would be easy to clean. Satisfied with his decision, he beckoned Raul, leading him to the bathroom that was right off the kitchen.
Walter ran upstairs and grabbed his shaving equipment. When Raul came out of the bathroom, Walter gestured for him to take a seat at the kitchen table. He sincerely hoped that he’d get over the desire to eat people if he fully and completely indulged himself one last time.
Walter plied the drunken worker with more liquor. He used gentle tones and gestures to get Raul to remove his shirt. As suspected, hair covered Raul’s torso like a thick rug.
Walter gestured that he wanted to shave Raul and the worker didn’t protest. He was too intoxicated to care. Tickled at being personally groomed and pampered by his boss, Raul giggled as Walter used an electric razor to remove his body hair.
Nearly crazed by Raul’s musky scent, Walter broke into a sweat. His hunger was agony. Still, he fought the ever-growing desire to drop the razor and devour Raul . . . body hair and all.
Finished with Raul’s chest, Walter grasped the man’s thick arms. His anxious fingers tingled as he urged Raul to turn around. Raul’s rapid pulse seemed to welcome him. Delirious with desire, Walter groaned with such fervor, the buzzing razor slipped from his hand.
Raul jumped at the sound of the electric razor hitting the floor.
Overcome by the scent of bare skin and warm blood, Walter drooled as he lunged for Raul.
Wild-eyed and swinging in self-defense, Raul fought to keep Walter away from him. His senses dulled by alcohol, he threw clumsy, ineffective blows.
Hands clawed, Walter gouged Raul’s chest.
Raul cried out in pain and shock; his own hand flew to his chest, covering the horrendous wound. Walter swatted Raul’s hand away. And with his mouth wide, he bit into the center of Raul’s chest, crunching through the writhing man’s ribcage. Teeth that were unreasonably strong tore a ragged path to Raul’s thudding heart. Biting soft tissue and guzzling blood, Walter fed so greedily, he nearly choked on the migrant worker’s blood.
CHAPTER 20
Having transportation, Zac had already gone out to feed before Rosie was scheduled to arrive. Zac fed on Rosie so frequently, Jonas was surprised that she hadn’t succumbed to an illness due to blood loss. Jonas noticed that Rosie’s complexion had changed from its original healthy pallor to a sickly shade of gray. And she was losing weight.
Being utilized as Zac’s late-night snack was taking an awful toll on Rosie. And she wasn’t Zac’s only regular source of nourishment. There were others that Zac kept alive for his personal pleasure.
Jonas wasn’t exactly sure how Zac lured humans, but he thought it might have something to do with his mesmerizing gaze. On more than one occasion, he’d witnessed Zac staring intently into his victim’s eyes, holding them spellbound.
Zac was a gluttonous vampire. Some nights he went out two or three times. It wasn’t hunger that drove him out into the darkness repeatedly. The blood of the first victim of the night was enough to satisfy his appetite. Zac enjoyed the sport of killing. After every kill, he returned to the hotel wearing his victim’s clothes, and his wardrobe was becoming quite impressive.
He gifted the clothing and costume jewelry of his female victims to Rosie. Diamonds, gold, silver and other ornaments of value went into the hotel safe.
Zac had finally given Jonas the money he’d promised—six hundred dollars—more money than Jonas had ever held in the palm of his hand. A portion of the money had been placed in a stamped envelope, addressed to his mother. He’d spent some of his small fortune on ba
dly needed new clothes and a small nylon backpack. The remaining funds would pay for transportation to Miami and also for Madam Collette’s services.
Rosie entered the hotel suite wearing a new accessory. Hiding bites and bruises, a fashionably knotted scarf was draped around her neck. By now Rosie should have known that Zac was a vampire, yet Jonas got the impression that Rosie considered him overly passionate and a bit kinky. She didn’t seem to have any conscious memory of the bloodsucking sessions.
Having had small meals throughout the day, Jonas could easily tolerate Rosie’s presence. They chatted politely until Zac came in a few moments later.
“I ended it with Hugo,” she announced as she passed Zac a bundle of money.
“Who’s Hugo?” Zac asked.
“The bouncer at the bar.”
“Oh, that guy,” Zac said absently as he counted the money.
“He’s pissed. Says he’s not going to help me move the packages anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything left.”
“Are you serious? What are you gonna do for money? This place isn’t cheap . . .” Her eyes wandered around the plush rooms.
“I’m pretty handy; I should be able to find some night work,” Zac said with a teasing smile.
“Night work, huh?” She squinted in thought. “There’s a bartending gig at Tulley’s. Six at night ’til two in the morning.”
“Six?” Zac shook his head emphatically. “Can’t do it. Too early for me.”
“I’m cool with the owner; maybe I can talk him into letting you start later. Would seven or eight work for you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Zac murmured, more focused on counting money than having a conversation with Rosie.
“You don’t need any real bartending experience. The clientele at Tulley’s doesn’t drink those fancy umbrella drinks. All you’d have to do is crack open bottles of beer and pour shots.”
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