Erikson seemed confused. He placed his drink on the bar and fumbled with his pocket. Balam placed his hand over Erikson’s. There was a tiny digital recorder in the man’s pocket. Balam took it from Erikson’s slackened grip and grasped his elbow. “I’ll show you where I’m parked.”
His Jag was across the street. He hustled a compliant Erikson into the passenger seat and took off. Inside the car, the scent of the shifter swirled around Erikson. If he was right, this nice man was going to take him right to the panther he’d come to find. But first he was going to be properly seduced. Balam lifted the glamour spell.
Erikson’s eyelids fluttered. “Where am I?”
“Darling, we’re going back to my home. Don’t you remember?”
“Your house? Why?”
“I promised to show you my collection of Mayan artifacts. You seemed so interested.”
Erikson’s gaze sharpened and he stared at Balam. “I am interested. What kind of artifacts?”
“I possess many sculptures of pre-Columbian art, some older than Christ. I also have several tablets with Mayan inscriptions, a jade sculpture of King Pacal and a mosaic depicting the sun god, Kinich Ahau.”
“You have a bust of Pacal?”
“Yes, I would love to show it to you.”
Erikson leaned back against the leather seat and seemed to relax. Not only did he have a bulge in his pants, but one under his arm. Balam smiled as he drove. Guns were no danger to him. Let Targ Erikson feel safe with his weapon. Chan Balam was his own weapon.
After driving right into the garage and dropping the door behind his Jag, poor Targ was trapped. The man squirmed in his seat, his face a picture of confusion. Balam read fear in his rapid heartbeat. When he closed his eyes, he could smell the life blood of his chosen. Targ would be number nine. His sacrifice would be to the Sweepings Demon, Ahalmez. Ahalmez and his partner, Ahaltocob, the Stabbing Demon, hung around in the dark, unswept corners of people’s homes waiting for them so they could stab them to death.
Balam would make an offering to each of the Mayan gods of death so he could pass through Xibalba, the place of fear, and go straight to heaven. Being a vampire and a demon in his own right did not worry Balam. Death, blood and killing were all regular parts of Mayan life. He laughed at the modern concept of heaven and hell, good and evil. There was only one way to get to heaven and that was to pass through hell first. Every man had to pass the tests and placate the gods of death. It mattered not how good one was while alive. The concept of the purity of the soul was foreign to him. Mayans believed in power and strength, and as a vampire, Balam possessed more than enough power to buy his way into heaven.
When he opened Targ’s door, the big man lunged out of the car and pushed Balam against the wall of the garage. “I’m not gay,” he said as he fumbled in his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, flipped it open and punched a button.
“Are you calling your shifter partner?” Balam asked in a silky voice.
Erikson’s eyes glassed over and Balam sighed. He’d so hoped to seduce this gorgeous man without glamouring him. But there were levels of glamour spells and he was powerful enough to maintain Targ at the lightest level. He wanted Erikson’s response to him to be natural. Who wanted to fuck a zombie?
“What’s a shifter?” Targ asked.
“Put the phone away and come into my home. Remember, I was going to show you my collection of Mayan artifacts. You wish to see them, I know.”
Targ’s gray eyes lit. “Yes, the bust of Pacal. But remember, I’m straight.”
Inside the house, Balam took Targ’s hand in his. “Of course you are. Come.”
The taller man followed him through a hall, the kitchen and into a large living room with glass doors overlooking the lake. The view from the windows was spectacular. Targ was captivated. For a few moments, he stared at the dark water, sparkling with lights from the homes along its shore and the waterfront. Then he turned toward Balam, tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Where are your artifacts?”
Balam waved his hand to indicate the walls and tables of the living room. “All around you, just look.”
While Erikson wandered the space examining jade sculptures of Mayan gods, mosaics and stone artifacts, Balam made drinks. He offered an apple martini to Targ. “Just have one drink with me and then I’ll drive you back to the bar.”
Balam had slipped a healthy dose of muira puama, the bark of a tree found in the Brazilian rain forest, into Targ’s drink. In a very few moments, there would be no need to glamour Targ Erikson; he would be hot and hard and wanting it as much as Balam did. Beneath Targ’s frightened exterior dwelled a gay man. Balam read it in Targ’s every gesture, his vulnerability and his confusion. His home life was probably a mess, and Balam doubted if the man had ever had an active sex life. No doubt, he had a laundry list of reasons things never worked out for him. But there was really only one—Targ liked men.
They sipped their drinks, Balam glancing over the rim of his apple-tini, watching Targ examine a bust of Pacal resting on an end table. When he knelt down to get a closer look, Balam set his drink down and moved close behind Targ without making a sound. He slowly began massaging the huge muscles of Targ’s shoulders. The aphrodisiac in the drink had relaxed Targ. He sighed and leaned back to enjoy Balam’s expert massage.
When he stood up, they were inches apart. Balam had to look up to see Targ’s expression. “I like women,” Targ whispered.
“As do I, but there’s nothing wrong with two men enjoying each other’s company. Men have been loving men since the beginning of time.”
Targ touched Balam’s hair. It was pulled into a ponytail at his neck. Balam loosened it and shook it out. Targ stroked it and Balam’s nostrils opened to inhale the scent of Targ’s blood pulsing softly right beneath his skin. They were close enough for Balam to feel Targ’s huge erection pressing into his stomach. The Muira puama was doing its job. Balam knew men judged a sexual partner by the strength of their physical reaction. If their dick’s hard, all they think about it sticking it in something.
He reached behind Targ’s head and pulled the taller man’s mouth to his. Targ was stiff and unyielding at first, but suddenly responded with a passion that took Balam’s breath away. He grabbed Targ’s shirt and tore it off, tracing the powerful muscles of his chest with a possessive strength. “Let’s go into my room,” he said.
Targ’s voice was thick as he replied, “Okay.”
Chapter 7
Jax tried Targ’s phone again. It rang once and went straight to voice mail. Where the hell was he?
He rolled out of The Stamen, a gay bar he’d been cruising, and walked down Broadway, looking for Targ. He came to the alley where the last vic had been found, walked in and circled. He stopped beside the Dumpster, tilted his head, sniffed and squatted to examine the ground. He smelled something, something ancient and foul. A vampire had been here.
He stood up and circled the spot again. An old vampire had been in this alley recently. He followed the faint aroma of dusty flowers underscored by the stench of rotten meat. It led into the Blind Owl, the bar where the most recent vic had last been seen. The hair on the back of his neck rose and his tongue touched an elongated fang. The vampire had been in here and so had Targ. This was the bar he’d planned to visit first.
After a thorough search, including both bathrooms, he knew Targ was no longer there. When Jax walked outside and saw Targ’s Jeep parked half a block down the street, he took a deep breath. This was bad. A vampire had been here, Targ was missing, and this was a known hangout of the killer.
He wished Martha was here but she was probably sitting on her couch, swollen feet on a cushion as she waited for the arrival of her child. He walked back into the bar to ask the patrons questions.
His first target was the bartender, a short, muscular young man wearing skinny jeans and suspenders. The red suspenders outlined a set of pecs achieved only after hours of lifting weights. The guy was a serious bodybuilder and from the
size of his legs, probably on the juice—steroids. His brown hair was thinning and when Jax glanced at his package, there wasn’t much to see. Definitely a roid body.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered cranberry juice. Shelly told him he needed to get more vitamin C. When the bartender delivered it, Jax flagged him down. The bar was busy but there were two bartenders. Roid guy hesitated and Jax flashed his badge. “I’m looking for my partner,” he told the bartender when the body-builder shuffled reluctantly to a position in front of Jax. “He should be here and he’s not. Seen a tall blond guy, big muscles, good looking—really good looking, wearing a brown sweater and jeans?”
The bartender looked thoughtful. “You guys in here looking for that crazy killer?”
“Maybe. Was my partner here or not?”
“I saw him.”
“And?”
“He was talking to a shorter man with dark skin, maybe Latino, but he looked a little Indian, too.”
Jax’s heart skipped a beat. That described a Mayan perfectly. “Did they leave together?”
The guy’s interest was piqued. “You think the Latino was the killer? Oh, man, he was right here in my bar. Yeah, they left together. Your guy didn’t seem too enthusiastic at first. When he left, he looked kind of dopey.”
Jax swallowed and ordered himself to stay calm. “Has the Latino guy been in here before?”
The bartender pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. “I think I seen him here a couple of times last week.”
“What about the night of the murder?”
The bartender shook his head. “I didn’t work that night; Jerry did.” He twitched his head in the direction of the other bartender, a prancing queen with dyed blond curls, clad in extra-tight white pants and a wife-beater.
“Thanks, man, can you grab Jerry and send him my way?”
When Jerry turned away, Jax grimaced. The guy had red underwear on under the white pants. When he minced over to Jax, he lifted carefully plucked eyebrows and batted fake lashes over his cornflower blue eyes. With one wrist bent, hand beside his face, he smiled at Jax. “You’re cute,” he said with a well-defined lisp.
Jax looked Jerry straight in the eyes. “Sorry, got a partner. I need to ask you some questions.”
Jerry giggled. “All the good ones are taken. Shoot.” More giggling.
“Did you see a tall, blond guy in here earlier? Your friend there said he was here and he left with a Latino.”
Jerry pouted. “If you already know he was here, why are you asking me? I have customers.”
Jax nodded. “I know, I’ve been watching you. I’m asking you because you work the other side of the bar and I was hoping you could tell me more about the guy he left with.”
Jerry sighed. “Hot, very hot. Longish black hair in a ponytail, goatee, black turtleneck, expensive black jacket, drives a black Jag.”
“See, I knew you were observant. What did he drink?”
“Apple martini. He’s been in here a lot recently. Takes home a different guy every night he’s here. No regular partner. Likes men with muscles, like your guy. Was he a cop?”
“Yes, did you notice anything else about the Latino guy?”
“He wore several gold earrings. Two low and maybe three high on the top of his right ear—the gay ear. I think once when he was in here in a shirt open at the neck, I saw the top of a tattoo.” Jerry shivered. “Hot and dangerous. He had that look in his eyes.” Jerry grabbed his crotch. “Ooh, just thinking about him makes me hard.”
“Thanks, Jerry. You wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, sorry, man.”
It sounded to Jax as though Targ had run into the killer, or at least a man who sounded like he might be a Mayan, and gone somewhere with him. If he had, he was in terrible danger and Jax had no idea where to look for him. He should have called before he went anywhere with anyone.
He wandered further into the bar and bumped into a gay couple dancing. He grabbed one, the one leading. He was tall and thin with glasses and a big nose. “Hey, did you see a Latino in here with a tall blond guy?”
“No, man, and what’s it to you?”
“I’m a cop, that’s what.” He turned to the guy’s partner. “How about you?”
“Wasn’t a Latino. He was a Mayan. I danced with him once. He wanted me to go home with him but I’d already hooked up with Kyle.”
“How’d you know he was Mayan?”
“He told me. Said he was a priest or something like that. Talked about his gods and heaven. Too weird even for my taste.” The guy pushed back a flaming lock of hair and flashed a hundred-watt smile. Jax thought this guy would definitely appeal to the killer.
“Did you happen to get a name?”
The redhead shrugged. “Sounded like Balloon. Too weird for me, like I said.” He grabbed the tall guy’s arm. “I like a little weird, but I draw the line at Mayan priests.”
As he walked out the door to his car, Jax tried Targ’s cell phone one more time. Still no answer.
* * * *
Tuco watched as the tattoo artist applied the final touches to Rickie’s Sangue Cacadore tattoo. Rickie had chosen to put the snarling Black Panther on his forearm while Tuco had chosen to have his tattooed on his chest.
The twins had taken turns reading from the book and the journal left to them by their true father as they drove to Guatemala City. The order of vampire hunters known as the Sangue Cacadore—the hunters of blood—was ancient. It began in Portugal during medieval times. When Portuguese royalty, members of the cult left Portugal to settle in Brazil, they had kept the secrets and traditions. According to the journal, there were few members left. All were shifters and shifters rarely bred true. The blood ran thin and the gene pool became diluted. When human blood was added, strange results sometimes occurred.
Tuco had embraced his identity as had Rickie. But neither one of them actually believed in vampires. If shifters were rare, vampires had to be rarer. The book of the Sangue Cacadore, The Black Book—had said the cloak in the trunk possessed the scent of the vampire. This is what had triggered the change. Killing vampires was bred into them. Tuco shrugged as the tattoo artist finished Rickie’s tattoo. So if they were vampire hunters, where were the vampires?
As he was admiring Rickie’s ink, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. He almost didn’t answer, thought better of it, and hit the green button.
“Valdavar, diga me.”
“Are you Tuco Valdavar?” The voice on the other end was American. This must have something to do with his work.
“Si, I mean yes.”
“My name is Jax Sequeros. My partner left you a message yesterday.”
“My apologies, I haven’t been to my office in several days. There was a death in my family.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sequeros said. “Listen, I’m calling for the Washington State Patrol. We have a killer up here carving Mayan symbols into the chests of his victims. If I send you some pictures, could you look at them?”
“You need them translated?”
“We really need help. This guy is murdering young, gay men, carving out their hearts, mutilating their genitals and then leaving symbols carved in their chests. A consultant told us he thinks it’s some kind of countdown and another said one of the symbols is for the underworld. So far we have eight dead and a Mayan number is always the first symbol cut into the bodies.”
“One moment, please.” Tuco turned to Rickie. “Where is Washington State?”
“U.S., northwest; it rains a lot.”
“Are the pictures clear enough for me to interpret the glyphs?”
He heard a sigh on the other end. “Probably not.”
“Then I must examine them in person.”
“Can you find the time to get away from your work?”
“This is my work. I will, of course, charge you a fee. But I am very interested in this killer. He may b
e a Mayan, someone from either Guatemala or the Yucatan.”
“I’m authorized to pay whatever fees you need. This is one bad dude. We need to catch him.” Sequeros paused. “I think he has my partner. Can you get here quickly?”
“I will fly out on the next available flight. Where is your airport?”
“Seattle. Fly to Seattle, I’ll pick you up.”
Tuco thought for a moment and grabbed Rickie’s arm. “These are policia from Washington State. They are investigating a series of dreadful murders. Want to go with me? They sound like they could use your help as well and it may well turn out to be an international matter?”
Rickie shrugged. “Sure. I’ll call my boss.”
Tuco spoke into the phone again. “I’ll bring my brother. He’s a profiler for Interpol. They’ll cover his expenses. This sounds as though it may be an international problem, especially if the killer is from Guatemala.”
When Tuco hung up, he filled Rickie in on the details. “Seattle is dark and dreary,” Rickie said. “Maybe we’ll find a vampire there to kill. I’ll bring the weapons.”
Tuco snorted. “Not likely. I don’t believe they exist. But bring the weapons if you like. Just make sure you check them. I don’t think we’ll be allowed to take them in our carry-on luggage.”
Chapter 8
When Balam kissed him, Targ’s body responded in a way it never had with women. He was so excited he trembled with need and desire. What was wrong with him? This was another man. Was hanging out with Jax making him queer?
But something was working inside him that made it impossible to deny his need. It was possible Balam had slipped something into his drink. But that thought did not upset him. Whatever the drug was, it had freed his inhibitions and allowed him to respond without guilt.
His dick pounded with blood and pulsed against his stomach. He wanted to tear this man’s clothes off and—do what? He didn’t have the foggiest idea what two men did together. He’d deliberately avoided this information, afraid of the mental images he might have when in the company of Jax and his partner Shelly. In his mind, he held a vague picture that involved sodomy. But for some reason, that didn’t repulse him at all.
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