Vampires: The Recent Undead

by Harris, Charlaine; Russell, Karen; Kiernan, Caitlin R. ; Smith, Michael Marshall; Armstrong, Kelley; Caine, Rachel; Sizemore, Susan; Vaughn, Carrie; Black, Holly

  Before he could speak, the waiter brought her soup, promising to return at once with the wine; for the moment all aspects of her story were set aside in favor of the meal.

  Mid-way through the duck, Solange was able to return to the matter that had brought them there; she began to ask the Count questions about the bodies and their ties—if any—to the Blood Center. “Some so-called experts have speculated that the man is close to the investigation, and that is making the police nervous. My aunt’s husband is a cop, and he said he feels as if he’s under suspicion.”

  “Do you find your aunt’s husband reliable?” the Count inquired. “Some policemen are more so than others.”

  “Conroy is a model of rectitude,” said Solange, and decided the wine was going to her head—she would rarely use the word rectitude, especially to describe Neal Conroy; she did her best to soften her meaning. “Dependable, honorable, hard-working, responsible.”

  “Commendable qualities in any man,” the Count approved.

  “Yes. He let me know he has questions about the state of the investigation, including similar ones to the reservations expressed by the expert. He’s a bit worried about the kind of questions being raised in the press, as well. He wants everything in the case to be above doubt.” She was delighted with the meal, in part because it allowed her to spar with the Count while she had this excellent repast.

  “Do you recall which expert said the things that bother your aunt’s husband—about the killer being close to the investigation?” the Count asked, unperturbed. He studied her face. “Did your aunt’s husband have any opinions on the current uncertainty?”

  She pondered for several seconds. “Not about the investigation, not directly, no. The expert isn’t a cop: I think it was Fisk; the crime scene tech: he’s been talking to the media recently.”

  “No doubt he has,” said the Count, a suggestion of a frown forming between his brows.

  Now Solange was alert. “What do you mean?” She had the uneasy suspicion that the Count, not she, was guiding their conversation, and so she prepared a number of lines of inquiry to pursue.

  The Count shrugged. “Unlike Fisk, I am no expert, but I find it strange that a man who is so responsible for the quality and preservation of the evidence in this case should call so much of it into question. He has an obligation to keep an open mind, but from what I have read, Fisk is doing more than that.” He took the bottle of wine and poured her a third glass.

  Much struck, Solange gave this her consideration. “He is only living up to his function, and gathering evidence impartially—evidence is just that: evidence. It has no opinions, only existence.”

  “That may be, but Doctor Fisk certainly has opinions,” said the Count. “He impugns his own work at almost every turn. Had an arrest been made, I would have thought Fisk was a member of the defense,”

  To give herself a little time to think, Solange took a long sip of the wine, then remarked, “When you put it that way, I see what you mean.”

  “Is there anything in his past to account for his behavior? Did he give testimony in a trial that was found to be—”

  “That could be it!” Solange exclaimed. “He used to work in Moose Jaw, or so he says. I’ll check with the cops there.”

  The Count held up his hand. “I can understand wanting not to appear too much a part of the prosecution instead of an investigator, but this man Fisk has—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Thanks for the observation. You have a point. I’ll look into it.” Drinking more wine, she had to resist the urge to call Baxter at once; instead she asked one of her mental lists of queries, “Do you think the murder has taken away any of the community benefits the Blood Center promises?”

  “For some, no doubt it has,” said the Count. “But once the murders are solved and the guilty party brought to book, then the Center will quickly show its value.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit too optimistic?” She cut a little more duck. “This is very good. I’m sorry you can’t enjoy it.”

  “That’s kind of you,” said the Count. “No, I don’t think my optimism is unrealistic. But time will tell, and time is often the test in these cases.”

  “Then you’re thinking in the long run?” Solange asked.

  “For a man in my position, it is the only perspective that makes sense,” he told her as she went on with her dinner.

  Applause burst out in the city room as Solange sauntered in, twenty-six days after her first dinner with the Count. She went to her cubicle, but stood outside it to curtsy three times, smiling proudly. “Thank you, thank you. You’re all too kind.”

  Baxter, who had hung back, now came up to her. “Don’t be modest, Barendis,” he advised. “Conroy says you were the linchpin in their investigation.”

  “I’m not being modest,” she said. “I know how much luck had to do with catching the guy.”

  “You put them on the scent, and you kept at the story,” Sung said from his office doorway. “You could have followed the rest, hassling the cops for not getting the guy, but you went after Fisk, asking about his reluctance to do anything to break the case. The thing about saying animal blood and human blood could not be separated enough for a valid DNA profile. Very good.”

  “Thanks,” she repeated. “It seemed a good place to begin.”

  “Did you think it was Fisk?’ Hill, who covered building and expansion, made his question sharp.

  “I didn’t know who it was,” said Solange, delighted she had accomplished so much. “I just thought it was odd that Fisk kept running down the evidence he himself was collecting. A crime scene tech needs to be skeptical, but what Fisk was doing was well beyond skepticism and leaning toward subversion.”

  “Well, you helped bring him to justice, and you’re a credit to the paper,” Baxter approved, then went on, “Everyone back to work. You don’t want to have to chase the paper tonight.”

  The celebratory mood vanished at once, and the night staff of the Vancouver Print and Media News Corporation returned to their tasks.

  “Management is preparing a bonus for you, Solange,” said Baxter, lingering in the opening of her cubicle.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  After a short silence, Baxter said, “So what are you looking at now?”

  “I got a lead on a smuggling operation. Not drugs, but high-quality antiques,” she told him, unfamiliar hesitation in her response.

  “What about the Count—the exile?” Baxter prompted. “The one with so much money in the Blood Center.”

  Her smile was slow and had a sensuality to it that Baxter had never seen before. “He’s a gentleman of the old school—no real story there, except that he still exists.”

  Baxter pounced on her remark. “Something going on there that I should know about?”

  She shook her head. “Only dreams.”

  “Those kind of dreams?” Baxter asked her.

  “None of your business, boss,” said Solange.

  Baxter chuckled. “So long as it doesn’t get in the way of your work, dream away.”

  She contemplated his profile. “It was something the Count said that got me thinking about the smuggling scheme.”

  “He fed you information?” Baxter seemed surprised.

  “No; not even enough to qualify as an unnamed source—he mentioned something a week ago, about trouble his shipping business was having. I decided to ask around, to see if his problems were isolated.”

  “And I gather they’re not,” said Baxter and slapped the side of her cubicle. “Well, keep me up-to-date on your project.” He started away from her cubicle.

  “You can depend on me, boss,” she responded, and began to work on her new story, all the while anticipating the late-night supper she would have with the Count, three hours from now. Grinning inwardly, she promised herself she would have particularly delicious dreams tonight, as a reward for her tenacity, and the result of her rendezvous with the Count.

  No Matter Where You Go

>   Tanya Huff

  Tanya Huff lives in rural Ontario, Canada with her partner Fiona Patton and, as of last count, nine cats. Her twenty-six novels and sixty-eight short stories include horror, heroic fantasy, urban fantasy, comedy, and space opera. She’s written four essays for Ben Bella’s pop culture collections. Her Blood series was turned into the twenty-two-episode Blood Ties (which premiered on Lifetime in March 2007) and writing episode nine allowed her to finally use her degree in Radio & Television Arts. Her latest novel is The Truth Of Valor. A sequel to The Enchantment Emporium is also planned. When not writing, she practices her guitar and spends too much time online.

  Huff’s Blood books (five novels and a collection of short stories) mixed vampires, mystery, suspense, and romance. Blood Price (1991) introduced Vicki Nelson, a homicide detective forced to retire when her eyesight fails due to Retinitis Pigmentosa. Vicki teams up with Henry Fitzroy—a 450-year-old vampire and bastard son of Henry VIII who now writes historical romances—and becomes a private investigator. The other man in her life is Detective-Sergeant Mike Cellucci. The series is set in Toronto. The three books of her Smoke and Shadows were a follow-up to the Blood books. Tony Foster, one of Fitzroy’s ex-loves, is the series protagonist.

  We catch up with Vicky, Mike, and Tony here in “No Matter Where You Go,” which was published just last year.

  “I overheard a couple of uniforms talking today.”

  Her head pillowed on Mike’s shoulder, palm of her right hand resting over his heart, Vicki made a non-committal hmm.

  “There’s been some vandalism in Mount Pleasant Cemetery the last couple of nights.”

  She tapped her fingers on sweat-damp skin to the rhythm of the rain against the window, wrapping it around the steady bass of his heartbeat. “You don’t say.”

  Mike closed his hand around hers, stopping the movement. “Someone dug a small firepit on a grave and cremated a mouse. The officers responding found wax residue on the gravestone, chalk marks on the grass, and evidence of at least four people.”

  “Uh huh.” Vicki rose up on her left elbow so that she could see Mike’s expression. He seemed to be completely serious. Although the pale spill of streetlight around the edges of the blind provided insufficient illumination for him to see her in turn, his eyes were locked on her face, waiting for her to draw her own conclusions.

  “You think some idiot’s trying to call up a demon.”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “And you think I should . . . ?”

  He shrugged, a minimum movement of one shoulder. “I think we should check it out.”

  “We?”

  His fingers tightened, thumb moving down to stroke the scar on her wrist. “I don’t want you there alone.”

  She had a matching scar on the other wrist, a pair of thin white lines against pale skin, a reminder written in flesh of a demon nearly unleashed on the city by her blood. But that had been years ago, when Vicki Nelson, ex-police detective, not particularly successful private investigator, had only just discovered that creatures out of nightmare were real.

  “Things have changed.” Turning her hand in his, she stroked in turn the puncture wound on his wrist, already healing even though it had been less than an hour since she’d fed. “I’m pretty sure vampire trumps wannabe sorcerer.” When he didn’t answer, merely continued to look up at her, brown eyes serious, she sighed. “Fine. A vampire and an exceedingly macho police detective definitely trumps wannabe sorcerer. Worst case scenario, it won’t be much of a demon if all they’re sacrificing is a mouse. We’ll check it out tomorrow night.”

  Dark brows rose. “Why tomorrow? It’s barely midnight.”

  “And it’s pouring rain. They won’t be able to keep their fire lit.”

  “So tonight . . . ”

  Vicki grinned, tugged her hand free, and moved it lower on his body. “Well, if you’re so set on not sleeping, I’m sure we’ll think of something to do.”

  Mike Celluci had spent most of his career in Violent Crimes. One night, back before the change, when alcohol had still been able to breach the barriers Vicki kept around her more philosophical side, she’d called the men and women who worked homicide the last advocates of the dead—bringing justice if not peace. Over the last few years Mike had learned that, on occasion, the dead were quite capable of advocating for themselves. That knowledge had added a whole new dimension to walking in graveyards at night.

  By day, Mount Pleasant Cemetery was a green oasis in the center of Toronto, the dead sharing their real estate with a steady stream of people looking for a respite from the press of the city. At night, when shadows pooled in the hollows and under the trees and clustered around the hundreds of headstones, the dead seemed less willing to share.

  “Isn’t this romantic.” Vicki tucked her hand in the crock of Mike’s elbow and leaned toward him with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You, me, midnight, a graveyard. Too bad we don’t have a picnic.” She grinned up at him, fingers tightening over his pulse. “Oh, wait . . . ”

  Mike snorted and shook his head but he understood her mood. It had been too long since they’d worked a case together. And okay, a cremated mouse and some wax residue wasn’t exactly a case but it was more than they’d had for a while.

  He tugged her off the path, following the landmarks from the original police report. “It was this way.”

  As they moved further from the lines of asphalt and the circles of light that barely touched the grass, Vicki took the lead.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked. With no moonlight, no starlight, and, more importantly, his flashlight off so as not to give away their position, he stayed close.

  “I can smell the wet ash from their fire. The candle wax.” She frowned. “Smells like gardenia.”

  And then she froze.

  Mike froze with her. “Vicki?”

  “Burning blood. This way.”

  He knew she was holding back so he could match her pace, his hand wrapped around her elbow as he ran full out, trusting her to steer him around any obstacle. They headed into the older part of the cemetery where ornate mausoleums housed the elite of the early 1900’s. Clutching at her outstretched arm as she suddenly stopped, he nearly fell but found his balance at the last minute. They were close enough together, he could see her turning in place, head cocked.

  “There.” A mausoleum set off a little from the rest. “I hear four heartbeats.”

  Not for the first time, he wished she could return to the force. They had a canine unit, they had mounted unit, they had a mountain bike unit for Christ’s sake—why not a bloodsucking undead unit? Her abilities were wasted within the narrow focus of her PI’s license.

  He could see a flicker of light through the grill in the mausoleum’s door as they moved closer.

  Teenagers. Peering carefully through the ornate ironwork, Mike could see four—three watching the fourth as she chanted over the smoking contents of a stainless steel mixing bowl set between the four white candles burning on the marble crypt in the center of the mausoleum. A triple circle about six feet in diameter had been drawn in what looked like sidewalk chalk on the back wall—a blue ring, then a red ring, then a white ring. In the center of the innermost circle was a complex scrawl of loops and angles.

  Mike knew better than to equate youth with an absence of threat but nothing about the kids looked dangerous. Two of them—a thin white female and a tall East Indian male—were all but bouncing out of their black hightops. One of them—white male, shortest of the four—stood with his shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his hoodie’s pockets, looking a little scared. The body language of the girl doing the chanting suggested she wasn’t going to accept failure as an option.

  He glanced down at Vicki and mouthed, “Demon?”

  She shrugged and lifted her head to murmur, “I have no idea,” against his ear.

  Whatever it was they were doing, they hadn’t done it yet. Teenagers, he could handle. Demons . . .

  H
e could, but he’d rather not.

  Pushing his coat back to expose the badge on his belt, he pushed open the door. “Tell me,” he snapped in his best voice-of-authority, “that you’re not raising the dead because that never turns out well.”

  The scared boy made a sound Mike was pretty sure he’d deny later. The other two froze in place, mouths open. The chanting girl stopped chanting and turned—white female, pierced eyebrow, pierced lower lip. She had what looked like a silver fish knife in one hand an impressive scowl for someone her age. This close, he doubted any of them were over fifteen.

  “Ren!” Scared boy took a step toward her. “It’s the cops.”

  “I can see that.” She shoved a fall of black and white striped hair back off her face. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done!”

  “What’s done?” Vicki asked.

  Mike hadn’t seen Vicki move so he was damned sure Ren hadn’t. In all fairness, he had to admire her nerve—if he hadn’t been watching her, he wouldn’t have seen the flinch as she turned to find Vicki smiling at her from about ten centimeters away.

  “The ritual.”

  “I don’t see a demon.” Vicki peered into the bowl. “Unless it’s a very small demon. Another mouse,” she added, glancing over at Mike.

  “Demons.” The bouncing boy rolled his eyes. “As if.”

  “That’s so last millennium,” the girl beside him snorted.

  Ren’s gaze skittered off Vicki’s face but, with the Hunter so close to the surface, Mike gave her points for the attempt. “If you must know,” she said as pride won out over a preference to keep the adults in the dark. “I’ve opened a portal.”

  “A portal?” Mike repeated, glancing around the mausoleum.

  “Might be a very small portal,” Vicki offered.

  All four teenagers looked over at the circles chalked on the rear wall.

  “It takes time!” Ren said defensively. She set the knife down forcefully enough that the metal rang against the stone then moved around the crypt so that nothing stood between her and the wall.