There was a sound like an explosion. The vampire that May had been fighting was thrown into the air like he’d been launched from a trebuchet. He tumbled tail over teakettle into the air and hit the ground in the middle of the street, hard enough to crack the pavement.
May dusted off the front of her shirt as she stalked towards the downed vampire. He squirmed, trying to rise, but May speared him through the shoulder with her sword. He howled in pain, but he lay still.
The female vamp lay at my feet, her black eyes grayed with pain. She made weak, pathetic noises like a newborn puppy. I was unimpressed. I left my last shreds of sympathy for the vampires in the Guyanese jungles.
I grabbed the downed vampire by her collar and slammed her—not gently—against the hood of a nearby parked car.
“Why are you trying to kill me?” I said. I scared myself with how calm my voice sounded.
“We’re not,” she said. “We’re really not. He doesn’t want you dead.”
“‘He?’” I growled. “He who? What are you doing here?
Her eyes flicked towards the van. Krissy was still sitting in the driver’s seat. The sliding back door was open, and Avalon hunched down in the shadows, watching the scene with cool disinterest. Otherwise, the female vampire gave no sign that she was going to answer my questions. The vampire on the tip of May’s sword moaned in pain, and my vamp looked over in concern.
Ah. There was an idea. “May,” I said. “Kill her friend.”
“With pleasure,” May said. She moved the tip of her sword towards the hollow of the vampire’s throat.
“No!” the vampire screamed. “I’ll tell you anything.”
“May, wait.” To the vampire, I said nothing, just gazed down at her, patient as a tiger.
“There’s no time right now,” she said. “The sun will be up soon.”
She was right about that. The first rays of the morning were already lightening the sky. It would be a few minutes before they made their way down to street level, though—enough so I could get some information out of her before we had to drag her into the shadows.
“Then I guess you’d better talk fast,” I said.
“Fine,” she said. “We’re working for Roberto—”
“AIEEEEEEE!” The pained scream interrupted my interrogation. The vampire at May’s feet had burst into flames. A stray sunbeam must have taken an unfortunate bounce off of one of the towering building’s windows and hit him.
“No,” the female moaned. “Please no.”
My shadow got a little longer as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The light hit the female vampire. Her skin brightened for a moment, like a lobster in a boiling pot. Then it blackened like a steak in a fire. I hopped back, narrowly avoiding the flames that licked the vampire’s skin.
The vampire screamed as she died.
Fortunately for her it only took a few seconds. When it was done all that remained was a pile of gray ash. The other three vamps ended up the same way. Sunlight has that effect on vampires. Even ones that are already dead. One stiff wind, and there’d be no sign that four undead soldiers had ever laid on this street.
The sun was up on my first day as a captain. I was off to a stellar start.
May and I made our way back to the van. No one said anything. May and I got to work changing the tire. Krissy kept looking from me to May, something like terror in her eyes. I rolled my shoulders and let her stare. This was what she’d gotten herself into. Better if she saw it for what it really was now.
As I sat down, the tire changed, Avalon looked at me with something like... satisfaction. “Welcome back to the Knights of the Round Table, Captain Carver.”
I snorted and leaned my head against the cool metal of the van’s door. Captain Carver. It really did have a nice ring to it.
Now if I only had any idea who this Roberto was, and why he was trying to kill me, I’d be off to a really great start.
Chapter 7
The sun was fully up by the time May drove the van out of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Another day was beginning in New York City. The streets were already beginning to clog with the beeping, stinking, polluting traffic. God, I loved that town. From there it was a short drive to Long Island City.
May turned a corner onto a small, unobtrusive block, and it was like she’d turned back the clock. As we cruised along, the streets were quiet and nearly empty. A lone bus rumbled at the end of the block, turned right, and was gone, leaving us as the only moving vehicle in motion. No one said anything as May pulled into a little parking lot. Morning was in full swing, but there were no people in sight. Unusual for anywhere in New York. I wondered if the Table had chosen this neighborhood for its local headquarters because of the weird quiet, or if the solitude was a side effect of exposure to my network of sword-swingers. Probably a little of both, I decided.
The building itself didn’t look like much, which of course made it a perfect choice for the offices of a secret society. Squat with a brick exterior, it looked just like its neighbors. Thick, dark curtains covered the windows. There were two other vehicles in the three-car lot: a red Mustang and an old Toyota. The only touch that gave the building any personality was a little sign mounted on the wall next to the door: a cartoon mouse, lying flat on its back with its little legs in the air and Xs for eyes. The caption read “Kill ‘Em Dead Pest Control.”
I snorted. What were the Knights of the Round Table, really, but a bunch of high-end exterminators?
I hopped out of the van with Krissy. Avalon stayed where he was, and May opened her window.
“Aren’t you two coming in?” I asked.
Avalon shook his head slowly, as if it were the dumbest question imaginable. “We have an important meeting to attend in London. Captain Strain will be briefing the Commanders Council on the progress of the war in Eastern Europe.”
I quirked an eyebrow at May, who smiled and looked at the steering wheel.
“Your orders,” Avalon said, “are to investigate the murder of Jack McCreary. You will discover what happened to him. My recommendation would be to begin by speaking with the vampire ambassador. As you may know, he had been residing in this city since the war began.”
“Are you crazy? He’s a vampire. He won’t tell me anything.”
“Ambassador Flavian has assured the Pendragon that he harbors no ill will towards us. He is a neutral party in this war and there is no reason that he should refuse his help to you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “No reason at all—except, oh wait, he’s a vampire.”
“Dave.” May’s voice was a quiet warning.
Avalon’s eyes narrowed. “Not all vampires are recalcitrant maniacs, Captain. Flavian and his people wish to see this war end as bloodlessly as possible.”
“He’s a vampire,” I said. “This is a mistake.”
“No, Captain. It is an order.” Avalon leaned out of the van. “And you would do well to remember that I am your commander. Bill Foster may have allowed his subordinates to question his orders, but I am not Bill Foster.”
I held his gaze long enough to let him know he didn’t scare me before stage-whispering, “Sorry, Commander. I’m an American—I guess I get kind of antsy when a Brit tries to tell me what to do.”
In the corner of my eye, Krissy slapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Avalon smirked, but it was a dangerous smile, a snakelike expression. His pearly whites shone as he leaned back into the darkness of the van and slid the door shut.
May looked apologetic. “I’ll be right back here after the briefing. Hopefully by tonight.”
I nodded. “Thanks, May. For...well, you know.”
She smiled, but she looked embarrassed. Without another word, she put the van in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. As her taillights disappeared around a corner, I realized how alone I was. They say it’s lonely at the top, and I was beginning to see just how true that was. Trouble was, I still didn’t know exactly what it was I was going to be on top of.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Let’s do it.”
I climbed the steps up the short stoop and tried the door. It was locked. “Huh,” I said. “That’s weird.” Since the Table’s primary mission is helping people who find themselves plagued by supernatural problems, we needed to be accessible to the community just in case some lost teenager showed up with a banshee problem or a zookeeper accidentally awakened a Black Dog. We couldn’t do that if the office door was locked. Something was wrong.
I knocked. The door was a heavy, solid piece of oak. Definitely not unbreakable, if it came to that, but it would at the very least slow down an attacker.
It took a few moments—longer than I’d expected—before a gruff voice answered my knock. “Yeah?”
“Uh, hi.” I frowned. This was strange. “I’m Dave Carver. I...I guess I’m your new boss.”
A deadbolt clicked on the other side of the door. It opened a crack, but I could see it was still chained. “Let me see the hardware, please.”
I pulled the medallion from my collar and handed it through the cracked door. Dark-skinned, calloused hands took the little shield from me and disappeared. I waited a few moments before the man apparently decided my badge was legitimate. He opened the door.
There was a tiny entrance hall behind the front door. It was too cramped for all three of us in there, so Krissy instinctively waited on the stoop. There was a flight of stairs going up to the second floor, and an open doorway that seemed to lead to the main office space. Between me and either of those things, though, was a man with a sword.
It was a curved-bladed Arabian scimitar with yellow jewels in the hilt. The man holding it was a year or three younger than me, and he was eyeing me with the wariness of a street fighter sizing up an opponent. His hair was shorn so short it was basically shaved. He was a good two, three inches taller than me, and the muscles in his shoulders and chest stretched out the cotton of his Marine Corps T-shirt.
The man handed me back my badge. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Elmore James. I apologize for the security, but after the last couple of days everybody’s a little jumpy.”
I pinned my badge back to my collar and shook the man’s hand. “No worries, Lieutenant. Dangerous times and all that. And you can call me Dave.”
The big man looked worried. Not surprising, considering the state of affairs in the world. Most of the fighting in the Third Vampire War, as they were already calling this conflict, had been contained to South America and Eastern Europe, but Jack McCreary had been killed in his own city. All bets were off. No wonder even the monster hunters were locking their doors.
He nodded, a hair more relaxed. “Dave. I’m Earl.”
“Is the whole office here?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” Earl said. “After what happened to Captain McCreary...”
“Stick together. Got it.”
Earl James led us into the office. It didn’t look like the headquarters of an elite monster killing organization. It looked like a paper company. The carpet was a dull gray and the walls were off-white. Most of the floor was divided into cubicles, but only two of them were currently occupied. A man and a woman each sat at desks, both of them looked to be in their late forties or early fifties and scribbled at some kind of paperwork, pretending not to stare at me.
A pretty young thing sat at a desk near the door. She looked up and smiled nervously, pushing bubblegum pink hair away from horn-rimmed eyes.
“This is Madison Coburn,” Earl said. “The office secretary.”
“Receptionist, Earl,” Madison said. “And that’s not all I do. Sometimes I think I’m the only person in this office who can read.”
“That’s true,” Earl said. “Madison's a killer researcher. She’s the one that knew your badge was legitimate. We couldn’t do what we do without her.
“Over there,” he continued, “are Knights Rob Haney and Kim Larsen.”
The latter name was familiar to me, and I couldn’t place why. She’d put no effort into hiding the gray in her hair, which gave her a bearing of aging with dignity. Her face was just starting to show wrinkles. I subtracted the gray hair and about ten years, and I knew how I knew her.
“Kim,” I said, “you may not remember this, but—”
“But we’ve met before?” Her voice was warm and soothing, like a cup of tea. “Bill Foster brought you in here when you were a dirty, seventeen-year-old street kid with nothing to live for. I remember, Captain.”
“You brought me a cup of coffee.” The day I met Bill had been a dark one in my life. That hot drink had been the one good thing to happen to me in what had seemed like a long time.
“I always expected to see you again,” Kim Larsen said. “Congratulations.”
I nodded my thanks, feeling like a shipwreck survivor who’s just found a life raft.
The other knight, Rob Haney, gave me a nod, a conspiratorial gesture, but he didn’t look impressed with me. I figured I knew why not. Jack McCreary was the legend of the Knights of the Round Table. He’d been fighting supes for close to a decade by the time I was born. He was in the same weight class as Bill Foster, and I knew how I’d have felt if some punk kid had tried to fill Bill’s boots.
I took a deep breath and said, “I’m not Jack McCreary. I only met him once, when I first got back to New York six months ago, but that was enough to tell me that he was a great knight. I’ve heard of him, of course: he was an amazing, powerful warrior, and you all should feel honored to have worked with him. There are entire generations of people who are alive today because of his efforts. He was a hero.
“I can’t help that I’m young. But I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure that I live up to his example of what a knight of the Round Table should be.”
No one applauded or anything. I guess I’d expected some claps or something to acknowledge that I understood their position their loss. I wanted them to know that I respected their fallen leader.
Rob Haney nodded again, this time more respectfully.
“Okay,” I said. “So let’s find out who killed him. I’ve been advised we should start with the vampire ambassador. Anybody know where he’s holed up?”
Rob raised his hand. “I’ve met with him a few times.”
“Okay, Knight Haney,” I said. “Grab your sword. We’re gonna go interview a vampire.”
Chapter 8
If you haven’t seen a vampire nest (and the statistics suggest you haven’t) then you probably have a couple of images in mind. For the last couple of centuries pop culture has been pushing the idea of vampires who live in huge castles overlooking foggy moors. They don’t do that kind of thing anymore. The other popular image of a vampire nest is more recent, but no more correct: a sweaty, thumping, strobe-lit nightclub full of young dancers and mysterious figures in black gliding around like sharks.
Both of those images have roots in reality, but neither of them are anywhere near the most common location for vampires. You have to remember that vamps aren’t human, despite their appearances—they’re animals. Typically, they like to lurk in places that are out of the way, dark and secure and near a reliable source of food.
Flavian lived in an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn.
The morning sun wasn’t at its midday height yet when Rob parked his Mustang on the side of the street in front of the warehouse, but it was plenty hot enough to charbroil any vamps unlucky enough to be caught wandering around outside.
From the outside the warehouse didn’t look like much. It was huge, taking up most of a city block, and it towered over its neighbors. It had a suspiciously intact flat roof and huge metal doors. The windows, up near the roof, were either boarded over, spray-painted black, or both. It wasn’t exactly Castle Dracula, but I guessed it was the best thing available in Brooklyn.
“As far as I know,” Rob said, “Flavian’s been here since the war started. There are a couple d
ozen vamps in there with him. He’s nervous about some amateur hunter taking a shot at him.”
Rob looked like somebody’s cool, middle-aged uncle. He had chin-length brown hair that was beginning to show signs of gray and a soul patch under his mouth. He wore a tight T-shirt and jeans. His eyes, though, were hard and unforgiving. I wasn’t surprised by the anger there. Not a lot of knights make it to Rob’s age without gaining at least some bitterness.
“Do me a favor and circle the block,” I said. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any guys stashed away watching us.”
“You got it boss.” Rob put the Mustang in gear and pulled out into the street. The engine rumbled (a little too conspicuously for my tastes), but Rob knew to keep the RPMs down. He cruised down the block before hanging a right onto a one-way street. The older knight knew what he was doing—he drove slowly, but not so slowly that we’d attract attention from passersby or cops.
Not that there was much attention to attract. The whole block was empty. No cars, no open shops, not so much as a panhandler or a street musician. This vacancy wasn’t like the one at the Table’s headquarters. That had been like a small town plopped down in the middle of Queens. This, though, was like a forest after a band of poachers had moved in.
If Brooklyn ever seceded from the rest of New York City, it’d be one of the most heavily populated cities in the U.S. Two and a half million people were crammed like salted fish into a space of about seventy square miles. There shouldn’t have been this much empty space in Brooklyn. If Flavian and his retainers had been set up in the warehouse for the last six months, it went a long way to explaining the lack of people. Vampires, like a lot of large supe predators give off bad vibes. For most people it’s an unconscious response, like an instinct, but when there are a lot of vampires in an area, people get out. Think of it like a herd of elk—when a new wolf pack claims territory, they’re gonna get gone.
I wasn’t much worried about the bodega owners and residents of the neighborhood. They’d have gotten out, probably pretty quickly after Flavian set up shop. But the homeless people? It’s a sad fact, but most homeless people have mental illnesses, some of which could interfere with the people’s ability to detect the danger posed by vampires. If they’d stuck around, unaware of the risk, they’d have been turned into a buffet.
Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood Page 5
