I TRUDGED FROM the water and rested against the giant wooden posts that held the pier. I was weary and in need of food. I hadn’t noticed the storm rolling in, but the thunder in the chill night air reminded me that Florida wasn’t always sunny and warm like the postcards led one to believe.
A cold gust whipped across the sands and I fought the wind back to where my truck was parked. A deafening crack behind me caused me to freeze and I caught the reflection of someone standing behind me in the window of the truck.
I spun to find Grigori giving me a very dissatisfied stare.
“You failed. Again.”
“Aren’t you Captain Obvious.” I didn’t intend to be snide, but he brought out the best in me. Besides, I’d learned the hard way that sarcasm is lost on these feathered assholes.
“I am not a captain. I am a simple messenger.”
I hefted my bag into the backseat and sighed, my shoulders felt like I had just taken off a five hundred pound weight. Why not screw with him a bit before he dressed me down like a five year old. “Gabriel is a messenger, too, yeah?”
Grigori’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “He is the messenger of God, Himself.”
“So, you’re both messengers.”
“Gabriel is an Archangel. To say that he is a simple messenger…”
“Is he or is he not?” I leaned against the truck and watched him stammer.
“To say that Gabriel is a simple messenger is like saying that Michael is a bringer of peace.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“No.” He stepped back, his face anxious. I was liking this game, even if I knew it was just a way to put off his rubbing my failure in my face. “Gabriel brings messages like Michael brings peace.”
“So, they’re both errand boys.” I smirked as his face blanched.
“No! Michael brings peace by killing those who would bring turmoil. Gabriel brings messages that usually involve the beheading of the recipient.”
I hiked a brow at that one.
“So, Gabe is really just a hired killer. Like me.”
I didn’t think his eyes could bug out any more than they were, but I was wrong.
“No!” His voice boomed now and I secretly hoped that he was about to out himself to the world.
“No.” He lowered his voice and his face was stoic once again. “I am a messenger. I deliver simple messages. Gabriel is sent directly by God when someone refuses to accept His will. Michael is sent to destroy those who would move against His plan.”
I opened the door to the truck and nodded. “Got it. You’re a messenger and you came to tell me I screwed the pooch again. Got it.” I slammed the door and twisted the key, listening to the big block engine roar to life. “Better luck next time, right?”
He reached out and touched the door of the truck. I was disheartened but not surprised to hear the engine die. He leaned closer and his voice was barely a whisper. “Your contract is being cancelled. It has become obvious that you are not the right person for the job.”
I ground my teeth and stared at him. “You aren’t cancelling my contract.” I pushed the door open and stood toe to toe with him. “A deal is a deal. I told you I’d kill Loki and I will make good on that statement.”
Grigori shook his head, his face unreadable. “You have tipped your hand to the lesser god. He knows that you are on him now. He will not resurface.”
I smiled, doing my best to appear menacing. “It won’t do him any good.” I tapped my chest. “I’m a hunter. I always get my prey.”
Finally! A reaction. He raised a brow and stared down at me. He glanced upward to the thickening sky and nodded. “You are given one last chance.”
I reached out to poke him in the chest, to inform him that I had all the chances I needed until Loki was under my blade. But in the space of a blink, he was gone. Literally. Like, one moment I could smell the sweet scent of his skin and stare into those huge, light blue eyes and then >POOF!<…thin air.
I shook my head as I climbed back into my truck, thinking whatever voodoo he did to kill it had better not be permanent. I twisted the key and was relieved to hear the engine again.
I was really beginning to hate the Jewish carpenter’s minions.
I DRAINED THE last bag of blood and sat on the end of the worn out bed, staring at the empties littered across the room. It wasn’t like going on a bender. It was more a replenishment. There was something about facing Loki that just seemed to sap my strength. I could have saved the last three bags for later, but I felt I needed to load up, that something big was just around the corner.
Maybe it was hopeful thinking. Maybe it was being prepared. Either way, I would have to find another source of blood before the week’s end.
I flipped open my phone and dialed my supplier. He could get it for me in a matter of hours. He just wasn’t sure he could ship it to Florida overnight. Instead, he would make a few calls to people he knew in the South and see if any of them could get me a quick refill. Better safe than sorry.
I hung up and fought the urge to throw the phone out of frustration. Instead, I pulled Loki’s file and dug through it again.
Of all of his meat sack’s holdings, where would I “go to ground,” as Grigori said. If I were him, I would definitely want to be some place I was comfortable; where I knew all of the ins and outs. A defendable place.
My eyes settled on an estate in South Carolina. It was an old plantation northwest of Charleston. It was private, secluded, defendable, and close. Just the place. I scratched at my chin while I tried to put myself in Loki’s place. Although he was wounded, I doubted seriously that he would stay that way for long. He was, after all, a god. A lesser one, but still.
I closed the file and shoved it into my bag. I had some driving to do and a lot of recon before I dared attempt to strike again.
I REACHED THE general area of the plantation before noon. The heat was already stifling thanks to the ungodly humidity. It reminded me of the few times I had come to the coastal south to feed. One advantage to being dead…or undead, or unliving, whatever you prefer to call it, is that the insects that make life a living hell for humans don’t seem to care for us.
As much as I hate to admit it, the days of slavery made life much easier for a vampire. We could pick and choose from the laborers; if one came up missing, they would either be written off as a runaway or a victim of a predator. There were things out there every bit as bad as me. People often fell prey to large cats, alligators, or the wide assortment of venomous creatures that walked, slithered, slid or crawled this land.
Things had changed greatly since those days. No longer was man confined by the boundaries that nature herself had put in place. These days, men leveled mountains, rerouted waterways, built levees and drained swamps to create new land where once there was none, yeah, almost like God. Sometimes I’m convinced I was put here to cull the infestation of humanity or at least to keep certain aspects of it in check. It makes one sort of pleased with oneself.
I slowed the truck and stared out at the area surrounding the plantation house that I hoped Loki was hiding in. The mansion itself wasn’t viewable from the road, but the giant wrought iron gate was locked up tight and the fence surrounding the grounds was topped with cameras.
This wouldn’t be simple.
I drove slowly down the road that skirted the property, my eyes soaking in the views, my mind constantly searching for chinks in the armor. I stopped at the end of the road; I was faced with either going left, away from Loki’s, or going right, which possibly circled to the rear of the property. Straight ahead was the main entrance to a grand old house. It looked strangely familiar. A large, arched stone entrance with a lion on either side stood facing the road. The gate stood slightly ajar, and I found myself traveling back in time. My memories took me to a time and place I wasn’t proud of. It was the first time I had been “hired” to kill.
Chapter 8
SOUTH CAROLINA WAS beautiful in its day. I had found myself stuck
between my homes in Boston and New York. I actually came across another vampire while hunting the slums of a place called Baltimore. We shared a meal of ladies of the evening, and he told me that he intended to head south the following night.
There was something about this young vampire that intrigued me. He was slight of build, but you could tell that he was brilliant. His mind was always working, doing his best to stay three steps ahead of whoever he was dealing with.
His name was Brock Jennings, and he had a southern accent. He bragged that he had stayed alive for more than fifty years since being turned and he offered to teach me the ropes. I didn’t tell him that I had been a vampire for centuries; I knew I would learn more about him and our destination if I let him take the lead. After all, this was uncharted territory for me. If I hadn’t slept the day away aboard a train, I wouldn’t have found myself in the unfamiliar town with no simple way to return to Boston.
As we walked the unsavory streets together, he talked. Usually about himself or his conquests, but there was always an air of embellishment to his stories. He liked to speak of how he could get in, feed, and get out of an area and never raise suspicion. How he could best ten men in a brawl, always winning the girl. Of course, he’d eat her afterwards, but that was beside the point.
I allowed Brock to escort me back to the train yard and he pulled the door open on a box car. “I’m going to South Carolina for a job. You’re welcome to join me.”
I paused, unsure that I had heard him correctly. “A job?”
He smiled and jumped easily into the rail car. “Sure. A certain young man would like his father to come to an untimely demise.” He hooked his head toward the shadows and disappeared inside.
I was intrigued. I jumped onto the train and followed him to the rear portion of the mostly empty rail car. “Tell me more.”
He sat comfortably, his nails picking absently at the wooden floor.
He smiled in the darkness, and I knew that whatever he said, it would be up to me to pick through the chaff and find the grains of truth. He patted the floor and I sat across from him, some strange pull causing me to actually want to hear his explanation.
“I was in a bar, looking for the drunkest patron to remove from the breeding pool when a young man approached me.”
“He knew what you were?”
Brock shook his head. “Of course not. He was just a young man visiting family away from the heat and stickiness of his father’s home.” Brock stretched his neck and settled in for the story.
“So I’m sitting at the bar, looking for my lunch, when this young man sits next to me. He’s obviously distressed about something. I actually considered making him my next meal, but he struck up a conversation.”
“And you befriended him?”
Brock snorted a derisive laugh. “Not exactly.” He stretched his legs out and leaned against the back wall of the rail car. “No, this young man was in love. With a Negress, of all people.”
I’ll admit, at this point I hadn’t quite made the connection. I knew that slavery existed and was more prominent in the southern states, but I hadn’t known the extent. Nor did I understand how people of different colors were treated. In a naïve way, I thought of it more like indentured servitude. Once you had served your time, you were done, you went about making a life for yourself, and it was as if it had never happened. Not so for people of color.
“So this young man begins to drink, and weaves this tale of woe. He tells me how he practically grew up with this young girl and how he had always secretly cared for her. It wasn’t until puberty hit him, like it does so many, that he realized that this girl, who was once a friend who washed his clothes and tidied his room might possibly mean more to him that he originally thought.” Brock is practically laughing as he retells of this young man’s heartbreak.
“Go on.” I urged, wanting him to get to the point.
“Eventually, he says, ‘I wish the old bastard would just hurry up and die.’” Brock smiled again. “I asked the fellow why he would say such a thing. He tells me that he is the only heir, and that if he were in charge, he’d free all of their slaves, sell the plantation, and run back to the north with the girl of his dreams.”
I nodded, realizing where he was going. “And you offered to help make that happen.”
“Exactly.” Brock hooked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, his mind reflecting on what he intended to do to the father. “I offered my services. Although he was a bit skittish at first, he agreed.”
“And what is he paying you?” Yes, my curiosity was piqued.
“He claims that his father owns a house in town where he often stays when he conducts business.” He turned and gave me a wicked smile. “It’s mine once the job is complete.”
I started to argue, but held my tongue. “What would prevent him from denying any knowledge of you? Sell the property rather than sign it over to you?”
Brock’s smile turned evil. “He knows better.”
I simply nodded. I had to admit, there was a certain logic to the plan. If the grieving young master decided to leave for the north, then there was little to no chance of anybody suspecting that Brock was the hired assassin. He was just an out of town buyer that took advantage of a situation.
“And the father? Do you intend to drain him or simply kill him?”
Brock shrugged. “Maybe both.” He opened his eyes and the intensity of his gaze gave me a start. “From what the son told me, the father is a cold-blooded tyrant. He enjoys bringing pain to his slaves.” He shook his head. “I’ll be doing the world a favor by sucking the bastard dry.”
I settled in and tried to absorb the situation that Brock had laid out. When the rail car lurched, we both knew that it was about to pull away. I made no effort to leave the car and he took it as an agreement to travel with him. I can’t imagine that he assumed I would assist in killing the father.
“I could use your help.” His eyes remained closed and we rocked to the gentle sway of the rail car moving us farther south.
“What would you have me do?”
He shrugged again. “If nothing else, you could be a look out. There are a lot of people living at the house. I could use another set of eyes.” He opened his and stared at me. “I can’t allow anybody to see me. If they do, they will also have to be removed.”
I nodded absently, realizing that he intended to make his mark in Charleston.
“I’m sure I could do that.” I turned and faced him. “But as soon as you complete your task, I need to return to Boston.”
He nodded firmly. “As soon as the old man is finished.”
WE ARRIVED IN Charleston in the early evening. Neither of us dared leave the rail car until it was completely dark. We could hear workmen loading and unloading freight. The smell of animals and grains waiting to be loaded caught our attention. It wouldn’t be long before they reached our car. We stared at the slight crack of light entering through the end of the door. The sunlight was fading, but the men were rushing to use what light was left to their advantage.
They were but one car away from us when Brock finally slipped from the corner and went to the opposite door. He tugged it open and motioned to me. We slipped out, allowing the rail car to block the dwindling twilight. We rolled under a still train on the other track, and could hear the men pulling the door open to the car we had just been riding in.
I looked to Brock, who only grinned. It was obvious that he liked to cut things close. “Where to now?”
He motioned with his chin then took off. I fell into step behind him. The land was rough and beautiful; the terrain rocky and unstable.
We wound our way into town; Brock walked confidently, as though he had been there many times. He nodded to people we passed along the route, many just out for an evening stroll. I was surprised at the number of people still active once the sun went down. I had been under the impression that once the sun set, Southern towns sealed up and nobody ventured out. But the truth was, the fading hea
t gave many a renewed sense of vigor.
We strolled along the main street to a tavern; Brock walked in as though he owned the place. I half expected someone to greet and embrace him as a returned friend. We settled in at a corner table and Brock ordered two ales.
After an hour, I grew restless. “What are we doing here?” I half expected him to tell me that the father came into the establishment every night to get intoxicated before returning to the family home and begin the beatings.
“We are simply waiting.” He pulled a pocket watch from his vest and glanced at it. “Just another hour.”
I nodded.
When the time was right, Brock stood and dropped some coins on the table. “We’re off.”
I followed him into the darkness and he strode with purpose. I noted that there were far fewer people out now, though the lanterns were lit in the restaurants and taverns. The few on the streets appeared to be sailors, stumbling about, wenches on their arm.
Just outside the commercial district we crossed two broad, well manicured yards then came to a street made of cobblestone. He pointed down the road. “Where this road butts out, we find our man.”
We walked the long road, remaining silent lest anyone notice us–two strangers in a strange land, blood in their eyes.
It didn’t take long to reach our destination. A stately plantation home with columns reaching up from the wide front porch to hold up the massive, second floor veranda. There were oil lamps mounted to the front of the house that lit the entrance with a warm, flickering glow.
We approached the property and stood at a tall, arched stone entryway, the gate unlocked. A stone lion was perched on either side of the gateway.
Brock pulled me aside and lowered his voice. “Any money found in the house is yours if you assist me.”
I stared at him, unsure what he meant. “What of the son?”
Brock stifled a smile. “He’s still in Baltimore. He’ll have to return to settle his father’s estate, but…whatever happens here tonight is none of his concern.”
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