Drop Dead (Tess Skye Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  “Sure. You first.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then I guess we have ourselves a standoff.” I don’t mention, of course, that I have no idea where the serum is. Maybe even less of an idea than he does.

  But in poker, when you have a shitty hand, you don’t run around telling everyone.

  So I just keep my mouth shut. The car ba-bumps as we transition to driveway gravel. We’re getting close to Rillo’s compound. Or estate. Or wherever weird billionaires live these days.

  Finally, Carter says, “You really want to know how I survived?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Because I’m not weak. I’m not fragile like a human.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  His shoulders stiffen and he growls, “What’d you say?”

  “A vampire might be strong, but you die and bleed all the same.” I stare at his scratch-less face. “No, I think it’s PEDs.”

  “PEDs?”

  “Yeah, you know, like steroids in baseball.”

  He bristles, like I tried to take his man card. “I know what PEDs are. It’s not—”

  “I mean, those bullet wards were impressive.”

  Carter puffs up like a peacock at the compliments.

  But I keep going.

  “But that’s all standard stuff. See, I’m thinking someone—something—patched you back together. Because not even the best fucking magic in the world could’ve brought you back this quickly.” I kick his seat. “Or at all.”

  “You’d be surprised at what years of training can accomplish.”

  “Whatever you say, man.” The car slows as we approach a gate gilded in gold. We’re at the bottom of a hilltop mansion with a sprawling green lawn that must take a small river’s worth of water to maintain. “If this isn’t an argument against the 1%, I don’t know what is.”

  “And the serum?” Carter cranes his neck out the window, staring at a retina scanner. It chimes and the gate slides open.

  “What about it?”

  “I told you what happened to me.”

  “I hid it in your trunk.”

  He growls. “Stop playing around.”

  “You lie to me, I lie to you.” We roll forward and start climbing up the endless green expanse toward what is presumably Rillo’s house.

  My knees slam against the back of his seat as the car jerks to a halt. “Two rules, Tess,” Carter says, leaning into the back seat to stare at me face-to-face. “Rule number one is know when to shut the fuck up.”

  I don’t say anything.

  He glances in the rearview. “Are you listening?”

  I give him the side-eye. “Just following rule number one.”

  His hand is around my throat before I can react. I flashback to our fight at the motel. The stone-like firmness of his grasp makes me realize I got lucky.

  He underestimated me then. Got sloppy.

  But there’s something different, too. If anything, he’s stronger.

  Or maybe my mind is making shit up due to oxygen deprivation. My breath burns in my raspy throat as his cold eyes stare into mine.

  “And two is that there are fates far worse than death.” Carter wears a horrific sort of charismatic leer that’s probably lured a woman or two to their grave. “Which you’ll discover if you forget number one ever again.”

  His fingers relax slightly on my throat, but he doesn’t release me.

  I suck in a sharp breath and glower, still silent.

  He shakes me like a wolf would a rabbit. “Say yes if you understand.”

  I wait too long and his fingers tighten.

  I gasp, “I understand.”

  “Good.” Carter’s fingers slide off my throat and he adjusts his shirt collar. “Then it’s time to meet the boss.”

  Eleven

  Carter parks the sports car in a driveway the size of a football field and gets out. “Let’s go.”

  Throat still dry, I follow without any additional instruction.

  As we summit the mansion’s imported marble stairs, the double front doors swing open automatically.

  Dominic Rillo is expecting us.

  The inside of the estate manages to be more ostentatious than its outer trappings. That old chestnut about money not buying taste comes to mind. But I keep my opinions to myself. Carter’s threat isn’t an empty one, and I know he’s telling the truth: a rematch isn’t weighted in my favor.

  A butler greets us in the cavernous foyer, looking like a lumberjack stuffed into a tuxedo. His eyes glow a feral type of amber. From his gait and general size, it’s clear he’s a werewolf.

  I expect his voice to be rough. Instead, it’s gentle and kind.

  “Hello, Sir Carter,” he says, then nods toward me. “Ma’am.”

  He follows this up with an actual bow.

  I give him a small return nod. No words, though. Don’t want to violate Rule Number One.

  At least for another minute or two.

  “The Master is studying in his suite. Could I offer you some tea?”

  Carter waves the notion away like it’s absurd. “What am I, an eighty-year-old woman, Einar?”

  “Something stronger then, sir?”

  “The usual. Neat.”

  “As you wish. And the usual for you too, ma’am?”

  Carter answers for me. “She’ll have nothing.”

  I want to say just how I like it so that Carter doesn’t get the final word, but I hold off.

  This no talking thing is a bit rough.

  “Very well. It is good to see you again, ma’am.” The wolf and I share a glance before he trots away. His gaze is filled with sorrow and regret.

  I break my silence. “Wait.”

  Einar stops and turns. “Ma’am?”

  I want to ask him what I did here.

  But Carter yanks me down a nearby hallway. “The boss is waiting.”

  A few twists and turns later and we’re in a study. Bookshelves two stories tall ensconce a seating area dotted by a handful of leather chairs. Stale cigar smoke and bourbon linger in the musty air, trapped forever by all the paper.

  Contrary to Carter’s claim, Dominic Rillo is nowhere to be found.

  Carter sinks deep into one of the chairs and sighs. Instead of grabbing a cigar from the box, I see him remove a small floss-sized packet from his coat and shake out a couple pills into his hand.

  Einar returns and sets a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler on the table. He gives it a heavy pour and hands the glass to Carter, which the vampire warlock downs in one gulp along with the pills.

  The werewolf crosses his hands in front of his waist. “May I get you anything else, sir?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  A minor expression of disdain, well hidden from practice, momentarily graces Einar’s lips. “I can prepare something, then. Steak, perhaps?”

  “I was thinking the…private stock.” Carter licks his lips as the words fall from his mouth.

  “You are certain, sir?”

  The half-vampire shoots Einar a withering glare. “You’re not paid to ask questions.”

  Einar’s face tightens. His strong frame flexes beneath his tuxedoed torso. But instead of lunging at Carter’s throat, he bows. “Very well, sir. The private stock.”

  He exits the study, leaving me alone with Carter.

  The vampire warlock pours himself another finger of whiskey. The leather squeaks as he leans back and props his feet up on the table.

  “Something’s been bothering me.” He peers at me over the glass, sizing me up.

  I don’t respond, still steadfastly adhering to Rule Number One.

  He swirls the whiskey before taking a long sip. I realize he wants me to play along and ask a question. So I say, “What’s that?”

  “You’re different.”

  “Maybe you’re just a poor judge of character.”

  “You come up as cops together, you get to know someone.”

  “Everyone at the precinct know
you’re in a billionaire’s pocket?”

  “People see what they want to see.”

  “Point proven, then.” I fold my arms and turn toward the endless bookshelves.

  “I’m not talking about secrets.” Carter gestures at me with the glass. “Everyone has those. You’re different.”

  Despite my best efforts, I can’t stifle the shiver. If he knows that I can’t remember a damn thing, then where does that leave me?

  Useless.

  And dead, if I had to guess.

  Carter eyes me up as he goes for another refill. “Where’s that patented Tess Skye fire?”

  “Just trying to follow Rule Number One.”

  He smirks, looking smugly satisfied about the fact that he actually managed to rattle me. “Remember what you told me the first day at the station after we graduated?”

  “It was a long time ago. Why?”

  He’s wearing a grin, but there’s no joy. “It’s not something you’d forget.”

  The cavernous study suddenly feels very cramped. My cheeks flush. The temperature has seemingly spiked twenty degrees in the span of seconds. “It’s been a long day, man, come on.”

  “It’s not even ten in the morning yet.”

  “And I’ve already been shot, half-suffocated, and jailed.”

  Carter’s heel taps against the mahogany table. “Okay, fine. An easy one. When was our first day?”

  “Aren’t we here to meet your boss?”

  “He’s your boss, too.” Carter’s gaze remains fixated on me, hunting for any sign of my poker face crumbling. “Mr. Rillo will be here soon. Indulge me.”

  I rack my memory. Back in the Groves, I’d been working with Javy for a year. If I had to guess, he was my first partner. He seemed like the old hand, and I was the green one.

  After all, he smelled the ambush from a mile away. While my dumb ass waltzed right into it.

  But I would’ve started as a beat cop before making detective.

  How long would that promotion take? Small-ish town, so the process might be fast-tracked a bit.

  I’m debating between three and four years as a beat cop before he says, “It’s an easy question, Tess.”

  “Maybe I’m just trying to follow your rules.” I grip the leather chair to keep my hands from shaking.

  “I think you’re stalling.”

  I decide on three years and say, “We started back in 2017.”

  It’s the best guess I have.

  Carter looks genuinely surprised. But then the surprise melts into hardened resolve. “Month.”

  “Let me check my calendar and get back to you on that.” I give him the finger. “We done with the interrogation?”

  “The month.” Carter cracks his neck and rubs his smooth chest where the top button is undone.

  “I’m done with this game,” I say with more fire than I’m feeling.

  “Just answer the damn question.” He pounds the rest of the whiskey and pours another.

  “Might want to slow down, chief. It’s early.”

  Carter smirks and ignores me. “I know my limits.”

  “Didn’t this morning.”

  The glass shatters between his fingers. He leaps to his feet, looking ready to tear me limb from limb.

  Someone clears their throat in the hallway.

  A strangled grunt emerges from Carter’s throat. He hides his bleeding hand in his coat pocket.

  “Tess is right, you know.” A bald man comes into the study. He’s short, thin, and not at all imposing. But he has presence, a magnetism that makes me hang on his every word.

  Eyes turned toward the floor in chagrin, Carter says, “Sorry.”

  “Keep drinking like that and your physical gifts will dissolve into the ether.” The bald man doesn’t walk so much as float, his sandals silent across the hardwood. His jeans and sweater are both tailored.

  Dominic Rillo, I presume.

  He looks more like a hip tech CEO than someone I should fear. He offers me his hand. His grasp is warm and inviting. “It’s good to have you back with us, Tess.”

  “Gotta say, the feeling’s not mutual, Dom.”

  “That’s Mr. Rillo—” Carter protests.

  Dom waves him off. “That’s quite all right. Names are but a label. Isn’t that right?”

  The way my name lingers on his tongue tells me that he senses the same thing Carter does. That there’s something different about me.

  His gaze is fully focused on my eyes, but I can tell that he’s calculating a million things behind the scenes. Being in the same room as him triggers snippets of news articles and media clips bouncing through my brain. A true out of nowhere phenomenon, totally unknown before 2021. But that was the year of Dom Rillo. Vaunted bio-magic-chemist. His private company soared in valuation from millions to billions as he started churning out life-changing supplements.

  VampBoost. Stay up all night without side effects or fatigue.

  Wolf’s Mane. Build the muscle and speed of an alpha wolf.

  There are others. Ostensibly, Rillo is a glorified vitamin seller. Except his supplements actually work, fueled by the company’s proprietary research that balance the magical with the scientific.

  But that wasn’t why his company’s valuation was soaring through the roof, and he was appearing on magazine covers everywhere.

  Rumors were, he was on the cutting edge of something that would change human performance forever.

  The little serum I stole, perhaps.

  “What’d you say?” I ask, lost in thought.

  “Names are but labels. Not the essence of the thing itself. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Can we just get this over with?”

  Dom cocks his head. “Over with what?”

  “Torture me, kill me, whatever.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “For stealing your serum.”

  “I’m not a murderer, Tess.” He tents his fingers together in a very murder-y fashion. “Besides, I think I know where the Vitalysm went.”

  That must be what he calls the serum I stole. Catchy wordplay. On the nose enough to hit the mass market, but enough wordplay to satisfy the intellectual demographic.

  If he knows where it is, then it sounds like my utility is dipping. So I’m not sure I like where this is going. But I say through gritted teeth anyway, “I’m listening.”

  “The case in the motel room was empty.”

  “Indeed.” I give him my best you’re shit out of luck look.

  “And my men are very good at what they do.”

  “And here I thought you weren’t a murderer.”

  “Every company has security.”

  I picture the two dead bodies and the knife sticking out of Carter’s neck. “Debatable label.”

  “You would have had no warning. No time to hide the Vitalysm before they were on top of you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” I shrug, still playing it cool.

  “And your current state suggests that, much like Carter here, you would be dead—absent some super-pharmacological intervention. Coupled with extreme magic.”

  “Not sure what Carter has to do with it,” I say.

  “Simple. He bit your arm, did he not?” He points to my torn-up sleeve.

  Son of a bitch. No wonder the vampire warlock recovered from death’s door so fast. My blood is the serum—and apparently, this stuff is the fountain of life itself.

  Doesn’t explain why Carter’s looking fresh as a daisy on an untouched mountain riverbank and I’m still feeling half-dead. But might be some differences in the pharmacological reaction between a Soulwalker and vampire.

  “If you’re thinking you’re gonna trick me into sharing where it is, it’s not gonna work.”

  “I don’t think the answer is in your head,” Dom stands up and walks slowly over to me. With great deliberateness, he sits down in the chair next to mine. Then, with the most terrifying kind smile I’ve ever seen, he says, “Because I think you took the serum.”
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  I try to laugh, but he’s so serious that I can’t. Besides, I know he’s right. Even if I can’t remember a damn thing.

  Still, I manage to say, “You’re crazy.”

  The smile remains plastered on Dominic Rillo’s face. “Let’s find out, then, shall we?”

  Twelve

  Becoming Dom Rillo’s next test subject sounds extremely subpar. But it’s not like I have a choice. As I’m gathering my thoughts and plotting an improbable and highly imaginary escape, Einar returns with a silver platter.

  “Your private stock, sir.” The wolf butler sets the platter on the table in front of Carter and removes the lid.

  “What the fuck?” I say, even though it’s a clear violation of Rule Number One, after all. But when there’s a severed human arm being served on an actual platter before you, it’s hard to keep quiet.

  Dom takes it in stride as Carter reaches for the fleshy forearm. “A creature must be fed his native diet.”

  “Sounds like a dog.”

  The vampire warlock’s fangs snap out.

  Einar strategically breaks the tension by asking, “Do you need a knife, sir?”

  Carter waves him off and the butler vanishes.

  Then the vampire warlock slashes open a vein with his fang and drinks. I cringe at the spectacle.

  “It’s not just the blood, but the marrow, the tendon, the fat that gives a vampire sustenance,” Dom explains, like this is a nature documentary he’s narrating for the Discovery Channel. “Only human flesh contains the optimal balance of nutrients. Carter can sustain himself on a human diet given that he’s fifty-percent warlock. But the creature within would go unsated.”

  “Delightful.” I’ve gotta get out of this sick place.

  Carter snarls as blood drips down his pale chin.

  Dom rises from his chair. “Come. You look ill.”

  The vampire warlock barely notices as we exit the study. I have half an idea that now is the time to run. But I find myself trailing behind Dom, out of the study, and down the endless winding corridors.

  I follow the billionaire into a greenhouse-like space, with towering ceilings and a seamless glass wall that overlooks the sprawling estate. It gives the illusion—like an infinity pool—that the room is boundless, with the interior and exterior fused as one.