Drop Dead (Tess Skye Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  Drop Dead

  Tess Skye (Book 1)

  D.N. Erikson

  Copyright © 2021 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.

  Published by Watchfire Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  Watchfire Press

  www.watchfirepress.com

  www.dnerikson.com

  Cover design by eBooklaunch

  www.ebooklaunch.com

  Drop Dead/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.

  v1.5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  One

  It’s not your time to die, Tess…

  My eyes snap open. “Hello?”

  The gravelly whisper fades from my ears without a response. I blink hard and a grungy motel room blurs into focus. First thing I notice is the blood.

  So.

  Much.

  Fucking.

  Blood.

  Like an avant-garde painter got loose and left a legacy for the ages.

  Pain jackknifes through my shoulder as I prop myself up against the bed’s plywood headboard. I swallow a yell and snake my fingers up to the edges of a torn leather sleeve, finding the jagged edges of a bullet hole.

  Breathing heavily, vision swimming, I take stock of my surroundings.

  The smoky aroma of gunpowder duels for supremacy over the cramped room against the scent of dust and sweat. Gray dawn oozes through yellowed, ancient blinds, bathing the bed in a dingy haze. An old tube TV near the door crackles with the weather report. Clear skies, no clouds. Red droplets slide down the shattered glass. A silver case sits atop a rickety dresser beside a digital alarm clock that reads 6:07.

  I start to push myself off the bed. But instead of my hand finding a threadbare blanket, it touches clammy flesh. I recoil and glance to my right. A dead vamp lies face down next to me.

  I nudge the body with my elbow. It doesn’t move.

  Dead.

  Cold metal digs into my thigh as I roll to the opposite side of the bed. I don’t have to look down to recognize the Glock 22. Standard issue service weapon for law enforcement personnel. From its weight, I know the fifteen-round magazine is half empty.

  I know all that.

  But I can’t remember what I’m doing in this fleabag motel.

  I search the darkest corners of my mind for my name. Wait for it to surface.

  Nothing stirs.

  I groan as the room spins and fight the urge to close my eyes again.

  Then the bed groans, too.

  Only it’s not the bed.

  Fangs shimmer in the nascent dawn. A pale hand lunges for my throat.

  I draw the pistol. Raise my arm. Pull the trigger.

  The vampire’s head snaps back, adding a decorative red accent to the peeling paint. A plume of dust drifts through the air as his body crashes back to the threadbare comforter.

  Apparently he wasn’t as dead as I would’ve liked.

  My ears ring from the gunshot.

  Panting heavily, I keep the pistol trained on the vampire’s heart. Then I punch him with my good hand to make sure he’s shuffled off this mortal coil.

  He doesn’t move.

  No third act here.

  Still, I squeeze the trigger again. Just to make sure.

  A quick rummage through the vamp’s pockets reveals no clues as to why he’s trying to kill me.

  Like my name, or what I’m doing in this room, it’s something I can’t answer.

  Not everything is gone, though.

  I can still tell you who the president is.

  Hell, I even know it’s the sixth of June.

  A Monday.

  And I obviously know my way around a gun. All evidence points toward me being the particular artiste responsible for this dive motel bloodbath.

  But beyond that? Anything before the last two minutes is a black hole.

  I check my own clothes for ID. Not too many pockets in this leather catsuit I’m wearing, though. My search is basically over before it begins. But there is a phone tucked into my boot. I check the text messages and call history.

  One text from a Javy Diaz.

  The Silver Stallion. 9 AM. Bring the evidence.

  Bar downtown. Hangout for supernatural creatures. Javy? There’s a moment of recognition, but I can’t put a face to the name.

  As for the evidence?

  No idea.

  I grimace as I stagger off the creaking bed. The silver case atop the dresser seems like the place to start searching, but it’s empty. A sturdy shake reveals no false compartments.

  Rifling through the dresser drawers proves equally pointless. Unless by evidence this Javy Diaz was referring to old takeout menus and a pre-millennium phonebook.

  I scan the room for any evidence I might’ve missed. But it’s empty, save for the body.

  And the blood.

  Can’t forget the blood.

  Only place left is the bathroom. Door’s closed.

  I’m about to investigate when a shadow catches my attention through the half-drawn blinds. From the speed, I know it’s yet another vampire. A little bright to be traipsing around at dawn. Someone must really want me dead.

  The motel’s front door rattles.

  Nightstand, rickety dresser. No good cover positions other than the bed.

  But I only have half a magazine. More than one vamp and ammo’s gonna get tight.

  I rush to the bathroom. Hopefully there’s a back window.

  Moldy tile flickers in and out of focus as I bash the flimsy door open with my good shoulder. A cockroach skitters beneath the cracking sink. Even he’s ashamed to be caught in these accommodations.

  And…no fucking window. Total dead end.

  But there is another vamp in the bathtub. This one’s got his head blown clean off, with a silver-dollar-sized bullet hole through the heart for good measure.

  A sawed-off shotgun lies on the tile.

  I check. One shell left. Better than nothing, I suppose.

  The front door groans as the vampire leans into it. The deadbolt holds.

  For a second, at least.

  Then the cheap wood crumples inward, smashing the TV against the wall.

  And I dive behind the toilet for cover as bullets spit through the air.

  Two

  Sparks and smoke pour from the TV’s ruined chassis like a sparkler on the fourth of July.

  But this is far from a holiday.

  The mystery vampire’s revolver spews lead into the bathroom as I hunker behind the toilet. Porcelain chips rain down around me, clinking against the moldy tile.

  Then I hear the tell-tale click of an empty chamber.

  I pop up, steady my hands on the seat, and unload the rest of my magazine. Seven shots hit him center mass.

  Tight grouping.

  A perfect ki
ll.

  Or what should be, at least.

  Instead of the silver-cored slugs turning his chest into liquified vampire jam, he just grunts as the bullets vaporize into a purple ether courtesy of a bullet ward.

  Half-vampire, half-warlock. All asshole.

  Should’ve realized with him traipsing around at dawn.

  I pull the trigger one last time, but I already know it’s futile.

  Click.

  I’m empty, too.

  The vampire warlock snarls in the swirling dust, “I told that rich moron not to trust you, Tess.”

  Despite the danger, my ears perk up. Tess. That’s my name. The voice that woke me up a few minutes ago was real. “Trust me about what?”

  “You were never gonna break bad after you got canned from the force. Too convenient.” He snorts. “But you know billionaires.”

  Cop. I’m a cop.

  Was a cop.

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “They don’t listen to the rank and file too well.” The vampire clears his throat. I hear the empty case clang against the bedroom dresser, and he swears. “Where the hell is it, Tess?”

  “Where’s what?” I ask. Gotta keep him talking. This is all good info he’s sharing. Ex-cop, worked for a billionaire. And I had terrible taste in co-workers, judging by this jackass in the other room.

  The other reason I need him to keep talking?

  I still need a plan to get the hell out of here in one piece.

  “What you stole from Mr. Rillo this morning,” he says.

  “Narrow it down a little for me,” I say. “I might’ve swiped a couple granola bars from the kitchen.”

  “You’re pretty glib.” The vampire warlock chuckles with a detached coldness. “For a dead woman.”

  “And you’re pretty cocky,” I call back, “given the state of your two friends here.”

  “Tell you what, Tess.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You tell me where the serum is within the next minute, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  The serum must be the evidence Javy Diaz’s text was referring to.

  “I don’t think you understand how negotiating works,” I say.

  “It’s a good deal.” I hear him start moving toward the bathroom. “Because otherwise, you’re gonna die slow.”

  “Fucking warlocks.” I pop into the bathroom doorway and hurl the Glock at his chiseled face.

  The barrel glances off his temple, and he stumbles backward. No wards guarding against that.

  “You can do better.” Sharp fangs snap out, glinting in the dusty haze. A long, slender finger wipes away the blood trickling down his cheek.

  I retreat behind the toilet and pull out the sawed-off.

  I aim it at him, but don’t pull the trigger.

  A smirk creases his lips as we stare one another down. His cold gray eyes twinkle, trench coat flowing around his lean body. The top of his collared shirt is unbuttoned, displaying a smooth chest. He’s a natural blond, looking like he stepped directly out of a fashion ad into whatever hell my life has become.

  “I’m done playing, Tess.” His voice turns into a low, guttural growl. “Tell me where you hid the serum.”

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll give you one thing.” He unleashes a cold laugh and takes a deliberate step forward. “You always were a good liar.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” My gaze bounces around the bathroom, looking for a way out. With the bullet wards, the sawed-off is nothing more than a glorified baseball bat.

  “Wrong?” He arches an eyebrow, looking bemused. “Enlighten me.”

  A metallic glint catches my eye in the mirror’s reflection. A hunting knife shimmers like a desert oasis just beneath the bloody bathtub water’s surface, dangling from the dead vampire’s hip.

  I return his smirk and say, “I’m not fucking lying. I really don’t know.”

  I drop the sawed-off behind the toilet. Then I race forward, kick the flimsy bathroom door shut, and dive toward the tub.

  Boom. He crashes against the plywood.

  The door sags inward, but stays attached to its hinges.

  The water is lukewarm.

  I reach for the knife’s hilt.

  The door buckles.

  A strong hand tightens around my shoulder and flings me out of the tub. Water streams from my eyelashes as I hit the flaking wall.

  I bounce off, ignoring the pain in my shoulder.

  We’re feet apart. The vampire warlock’s cold eyes are ablaze with vengeful fire.

  He’s unarmed and out of bullets, but he has a hundred pounds on me.

  I rake his forearm with the hunting knife.

  Vampires may be fast, but they’re not as fast as the ones from the movies. You know, that quantum leap shit, where they’re teleporting across the room in a millisecond.

  More Olympic sprinter than superhuman.

  “Some weak-ass magic,” I say. “Can only block bullets.”

  The vampire smiles. Then he takes one of those slender fingers and tastes his own blood.

  I lunge at his ribs.

  He sidesteps the blade and punches me in my bad shoulder.

  The pain makes the bathroom spin. The knife clatters to the grungy tile.

  The vampire follows the first blow with a quick jab.

  I slip the punch and answer with one of my own. My first smacks against the sinewy, lean muscle in his torso. He barely flinches as he responds with another blow to my wounded shoulder.

  The pain almost makes me pass out.

  I lean against the toilet, panting heavily.

  He’s blocking the doorway. Everything is blurring in and out of focus.

  I need that knife. But it’s all I can do just to stay standing, let alone reach for it.

  “Better than I thought.” A smile sneaks across his lips. “You could’ve really been an asset, you know that, Tess?”

  “A real tragedy.”

  “Iron sharpens iron, as they say.” His fangs glint. “Too bad you were playing us the whole time.”

  “You look more plastic than iron, pretty boy.” I tighten my right fist, rush forward, and launch it at his jaw.

  But he catches my wrist with ease. I try to jerk free, but his grip is like a shark’s jaws. And then his other hand is around my windpipe.

  I kick weakly at his shins, but he doesn’t flinch.

  His eyes are little gray stones of nothingness. There will not be mercy or a long speech. “Such a disappointing end for our intrepid little disgraced detective.”

  “I’d hate to disappoint you,” I rasp out.

  An echo of a memory—or maybe just the flickering hallucination of a dying brain—whispers to me as the world darkens.

  A man with a kind face and generous smile. Hippie-like thinning gray hair, tied into a raggedy ponytail. The room is nondescript and almost empty, aside from the desk where I’m sitting. The man leans on a cane and holds a case out to me.

  “What’s this?” I say.

  “Our way out.”

  I shudder and go slack.

  The vampire’s hand relaxes. Just for a moment. But it’s all I need.

  I bite down hard on his thumb. He screams. More like a bat’s screech than anything human.

  His grip loosens and I drop to the tile, gasping for breath that won’t come.

  The knife glints beneath the bullet-perforated sink.

  I feel the vampire’s arms around my leg, and I catch him right in the jaw with my boot.

  I lunge for the knife. Have it within my fingers.

  He drags me across the floor.

  I feint high with my empty hand, toward his head. He blocks the strike.

  Then I jam the knife into his neck with my other hand, darkening the grout with his blood.

  Three

  Sirens wail in the distance as I stumble to my feet.

  I put my boot on the vampire warlock’s chest. Blood spills ove
r his smooth chest as he coughs. His arms reach weakly for the blade still lodged in his neck, trying to pull it out.

  “I wouldn’t do that. You’ll bleed out.”

  “F…fuck…you.”

  “That’s the spirit.” I dig through his coat and fish a badge out of his trench coat. “Detective Carter Price. Ragnarok PD.” I whistle. “No wonder I couldn’t hack it on the force with crooked assholes like you around.”

  The sirens are growing louder. Maybe four blocks away. That gives me about ninety seconds before I spend the rest of my days in a cell. “They’re…coming for you, Tess.”

  I press my boot down harder into his chest. A thin trickle of blood drips down his pale skin. “Tell me what this serum is.”

  A bitter laugh escapes Carter’s lips. He whispers something.

  I can’t hear him, so I lean down.

  He lunges up with his last burst of energy and bites my arm.

  “Son of a bitch.” I punch him in the face. Twice.

  He groans from the pain, but wears a satisfied expression nonetheless. “Just finish the damn job.”

  I glance through the ruined doorway. The ruined TV is still throwing off sparks. Smoldering embers crackle, igniting little fires on the dirty carpet.

  “Last chance,” I say through clenched teeth, leaning against him with my elbow. I rub the bite. It’s not deep. And luckily, turning from vampire bites is just folklore: vampirism is inherited, not made.

  But it still hurts.

  His mouth opens to answer. But then a voice outside screams, “Oh my God!”

  My neck whips toward the open door. A maid with a pushcart stands in the doorway, hand on the knob, staring at me through the swirling smoke. She’s wide-eyed, phone already to her ear.

  Shit.

  I lift my weight off Carter’s chest. He gasps. I sprint out of the bathroom, vault over the small fires, and dart out the door.