Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1)

by Z. Rider

  Too late, motherfuckers.

  One bee-lined to the roadie, taking him by the arm, looking into his eyes. The roadie rubbed his throat, his eyes wet, his face dark even under the security lights. He nodded at whatever the other guy asked.

  Thirty minutes later, sirens finally came up Tchoupitoulas. The cops paced the bus, walked through it with the band’s manager. Talked to the roadie who’d been choked, some of the crowd. Carl faded back, not eager for questioning.

  The bushy-haired musician came out. His manager caught him by the elbow, trying to pinwheel him back into the club, but the musician clearly didn’t want to go—didn’t even look at the manager or the club. He jerked his arm free, asking one of the cops questions, even as one of the other roadies dragged him back in.

  Music vibrated the walls, spilling through the open doors. The support act had come on.

  Two of the cop cars left, leaving one behind, its two officers standing by the back of the bus.

  The guy at the door started letting people in again—tearing tickets quickly, moving the line along with his hand. His eyes darted toward the road, the sky, as if he was expecting a storm to be rolling in.

  Carl crossed the street. He sat against the wall of a building, hugging his chest. Watching the scene. He should get out of there, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

  Where else did he have to go?

  What do you think, Soph?

  She’d have wanted him to stay and warn Dean. Maybe he already knew, just from the fact that there had been bikers here. But what if he didn’t?

  So Carl waited, hugging himself. Hoping the bikers didn’t come back.

  4.

  * * *

  A college jock backpedaled into Dean, his focus on a set of bright green beads flying through the air—or the cleavage on the barely dressed young lady who’d tossed them off the balcony over the strip club. He grinned at his friends, who clapped him on the back.

  “That’s a sign. Let’s go in,” one of them said.

  “I’m outta cash.”

  “Fuck—already?”

  After getting off the bus, Dean had gone in one door of the venue and right out another, fans calling after him out front. He’d tossed a wave over his shoulder as he headed toward the Quarter.

  The jock said, “I left some in the room so I wouldn’t spend it all.”

  “Well go fucking get it!” one of his buddies said. “I’d say it’s worth spending. Look at her.”

  “Don’t go in without me!” The jock still had the beads clutched in his fist. He tossed another look toward the balcony, and the girl up there gave him a wink.

  Dean’s veins thrummed with the earlier feed—the night seemed to bring him back to light and jangle. He’d needed space after the bus. Needed to be out in the open, moving around, not cramped into another club, hemmed in by another four walls. And he’d needed to get away from the dread. Tendrils still slid through him, but the focus had been a lot stronger at the club. Around that guy.

  He hadn’t left intending to go on another hunt, but as the jock pushed into the crowd, he gave him a twenty-foot lead before wending through the bodies, keeping his blond head in sight.

  When the jock let himself into a hotel four blocks later, Dean dropped his cigarette and jogged to catch the door. He stayed far enough behind that he didn’t look like he was following, but he caught the elevator door before it closed.

  “What floor?” The jock stumbled a little over his own foot, happy. He’d hung the beads around his neck. They flashed Christmas-bulb green in the overhead lights.

  Dean gave the number that was already lit.

  “That makes it easy then,” the jock said, grinning. “Having a good time?”

  “Oh yeah.” Dean leaned against the elevator wall, smiling with his lips closed. The guy smelled like alcohol, fresh sweat, expensive cologne. The pulse at his neck throbbed like a hard-on.

  When the door swept open, he let the jock go first, pushing off the wall to follow—hoping the guy wasn’t in the last room in the hall. That would get awkward.

  Halfway down, the guy fumbled his key from his pocket. Dean gave him a nod, started to walk on past.

  Stopped and backed up.

  “You wouldn’t have a light, would you?”

  The guy was busy unlocking his door.

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.” He shouldered the door open, held it with his foot as he reached back into his pocket.

  Dean strolled past him, pushing the door wider, walking right into the room like he wanted to have a look around.

  “Here,” the guy said, his brow creasing. He came inside holding out the lighter, a yellow Bic, his other foot still trying to keep the door open, but he had to let it go before Dean would raise his hand for the lighter.

  The door clicked shut. “Thanks.” He slipped it in his pocket.

  “Uh—I, uh, don’t know what you’re— Uh.”

  “Shh,” the biker said with Dean’s mouth, raising a finger to his lips. “They’ll hear you.”

  “Uh…” The guy looked around. “Who?”

  A bed in the next room over banged the wall.

  “Them.” Dean crossed the space between them. The guy backed up, still confused.

  He shoved the jock against the wall. Still he was confused, his brow drawn down, his mouth soft as he tried to work it out.

  “Stay still,” Dean said.

  “What?”

  Dean whipped forward, his teeth going right into the jock’s throat. Hot blood spurted from that pulsing vein.

  The guy punched him in the head, trying to pull away.

  Dean tangled his foot behind the guy’s knee, and down they went with a thud. The jock yelled. Dean shoved his hand against the guy’s mouth, wide open, his finger catching a nostril.

  The guy tried to bite, but Dean’s hand wasn’t positioned in a way he could catch it.

  Dean cupped his hand over his mouth and pinched the guy’s nostrils shut.

  He bucked. His sneakers banged the floor. He punched Dean in the head again, but there was no way his teeth were letting go, not with all that light and heat sluicing down his throat. He twisted the guy’s fingers back. Heard a crack. A yell as the guy worked his mouth free.

  Dean dug his face in harder, sucking, swallowing.

  He drained the jock until he was kicking weakly, then took a breath, and bit back into his throat to finish it off.

  He left him with a twisted neck, glassy eyes staring toward the suitcases that had been spilled onto the floor, the cheap Bourbon Street liquor cups that dotted the nightstand.

  He stopped long enough to splash his face. His shirt collar was wet, but the shirt was black: the blood wouldn’t matter, not at night, walking through the streets. Not in the few minutes it would take for him to get a clean one once he got to the venue.

  Back in the elevator, Dean glanced at his watch.

  Cutting it close.

  Thieves had probably come off stage by now, and he still had a ways to walk.

  Toward the dread, feeling it press against his chest with each step.

  That fucking guy. He should have torn his throat out instead. On the one hand, the guy from the bus had saved his life—Dean had been ready to let the biker finish him until he’d heard that door unlatch. But had he only left Dean alive because he hadn’t known what he’d become?

  Was that why the guy was back now?

  The stakes didn’t worry him—the one the guy had tried to jam into the biker’s chest snapped like a toothpick. The stupid stakes didn’t worry him, but the press of dread on his shoulders did.

  Like maybe the guy had some kind of power. Bad power.

  Bad for Dean, because the kind of feeling he had in him, it couldn’t signal anything good.

  As he neared the club, the feeling was like a half ton of concrete settling on his sternum. He took deep breaths, trying to ease it. Trying to breathe through it. And part of him was still jangles and light, his head all rushy-feeling.

&n
bsp; Most of the crowd had gone in. He didn’t bother going around the corner, just swung through the front entrance like he belonged there. No one stopped him.

  The place was packed—hot already with bodies.

  Like he’d thought, Thieves were done. Their own gear was set up, ready to go. His guys were probably pacing in the back, cursing him for holding them up. He pushed along the outer perimeter, dodging people who only at the last minute realized who was walking by, turning big eyes and gaping mouths toward him.

  He didn’t mind them. He was sated. He felt like he could fuck a girl and it wouldn’t bother him. On another night, it might be fun.

  The door to the back swung open as he approached it, Wayne wild-eyed. “Where the hell were you?”

  “Getting some air.”

  “Jesus, we’ve been looking all over. Even the cops are looking for you.”

  His back stiffened. Cops looking for him couldn’t be a good thing. Had they tied him to the couple in the basement? Or the fucking biker in the dumpster. That had been a dumb fucking move, leaving the body behind a club. “That’s a little overboard, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing’s a little overboard tonight,” Wayne was saying as he rubbed his throat like there was something wrong with it. He was about to say more when Mike seized Dean by the arm.

  “It’s about fucking time. Are you ready to go on?”

  “What’s the rush?” But Mike was turning him toward the stage doors, where the other three waited, their faces anxious and relieved at once.

  This couldn’t be good—but no time to ask about it. They stepped onto the stage to the cheers of the audience—raucous, pent-up. Spilling over. The mass of sweat made Dean’s nose twitch; the smell underneath made his fingertips jitter. It smoothed out as they headed into their first song, music taking over everything. His whole being becoming jangles and light.

  Every now and then he glanced up, scanning over the crowd. Looking for cops.

  Looking for his vampire hunter.

  October 21, 1978

  1.

  * * *

  “Let’s get this out quickly,” Mike said, stepping around a piece of equipment Wayne and Teddy had left in the hallway.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Wayne rubbed his throat again as he moved a flight case along with his other hand. Once his point was made—Dean wasn’t sure what that point was, still—he dropped his other hand to the case and hustled it out the door.

  “Stay here.” Mike put a hand against Dean’s chest before he could head out.

  “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “We’re making the fastest break out of town ever.”

  “I’ll feel a lot fucking better when we get on the road,” Shawn said, rubbing his arms.

  “What—”

  “D’you hear that?” Jessie pushed between them to look out the venue’s back entrance. Everyone leaned toward it, listening.

  All Dean heard was the traffic going by and the sped-up beating of people’s hearts.

  He caught the sleeve of Shawn’s jacket. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Shawn told him about the guys on bikes, about them getting on their bus, choking the shit out of Wayne for trying to stop them.

  “They just took off?” Dean said.

  “Yeah. We thought they’d gotten you or something when we couldn’t find you.”’

  “I was just getting some air.”

  “Nice of you to tell someone.”

  “Thought I had. Maybe not.” He watched the bus, its belly doors open like mouths. Teddy shoved gear in while Wayne and Janx jogged back in to get more, pushing through the guys crowded at the door. Fans hovered at the edges, hoping to catch sight of the band, a few of them pointing at the doorway.

  The situation wasn’t helping his dread one bit. He rubbed his chest, backing out of sight, into the shadows of the corridor.

  The bikers could have only come for one reason—looking for one of their own who’d disappeared.

  Not finding him on the bus, had they just taken off?

  He rubbed his chest. It sounded like too much to hope for.

  2.

  * * *

  The audience came out first, a few to start, then a stream of them, spilling through the doors, widening into the street, flowing up the sidewalk.

  Roadies jogged out the back, handing equipment off so it could be shoved inside.

  The cops moved the straying fans along, telling them the show was over.

  The roadies slammed the bay doors shut, throwing worried looks at the street as they headed back to the club.

  The place went quiet.

  Carl was ignored—he’d been hunched against the building across the street for so long the cops had stopped seeing him. He wrapped his arms around his shins, propped his chin on a knee.

  After another fifteen minutes, the band came out, flanked by the roadies. The one who’d had the run-in with the bikers craned his head, like he was expecting the bikers to be back, waiting in the shadows.

  The bus shook as they piled in, Dean’s head appearing for a moment before it went through the door.

  The one Carl thought was their manager took one last look outside before hauling the door closed.

  Carl jumped up. He’d figured they weren’t going to hang around here after what happened. His ass hurt from the cobblestones in the sidewalk as he strode along the same side of the street, heading the three blocks to his car. Heart racing—hoping he made it back in time. On one hand, it didn’t matter: he knew where they were headed.

  On the other, who knew what might happen between here and there.

  He dug his keys from his front pocket, jammed one in the door lock. Hit himself in the shoulder as he yanked open the door. Anything could happen between here and there. He pulled away from the curb and circled back to the venue in time to see the bus’s taillights turning onto Tchoupitoulas.

  He got stuck in traffic, tapping the wheel, watching for an opening. When he swung onto the road, the rumble of engines roared in his ear. He slammed the brakes. The car bounced, jerking him into the seat.

  Chrome flashed by his window.

  Hair rippled in the wind.

  “Shit.”

  The sharp blast of horn came from behind. Heart pounding, he finished entering the intersection. A van had gotten ahead of him, blocking his view of the bikes but he could see the roof of the bus ahead, trundling along. He jiggled the gas pedal, restless, wanting the van the fuck out of his way. It finally turned off, just before the bikes did. Carl followed the bikes, pretty sure the bus wasn’t too far ahead.

  The city’s lights faded in his rearview mirror. His stuff was still at the hotel—his overpacked duffle, his toiletries, a plastic cup he’d brought back from the Quarter, sticky with the pink dregs of a hurricane. All he had with him was the manila folder, riding on the passenger seat, sliding as he sped up to move around a slower car.

  Did they know, in the bus? They had to, though the bikes were riding in two columns, their front ends even—the pairs of headlamps could be mistaken for a line of cars in a quick glance.

  Skeletons on the backs of their jackets grinned in Carl’s headlights. Bony hands gripped black throttles. A full moon loomed over their backs.

  Massaging the steering wheel, Carl dropped back more, giving the Cougar a little gas whenever someone looked like they were angling to pull into the space he’d left.

  The city scattered into outskirts. The land was flat, the guardrails short. Beyond the reach of lights, trees of a sort he couldn’t identify made strange shapes in the shadows.

  They drove for two hours, traffic thinning as night crawled onward. Somewhere at their backs, the sun was rising, too many time zones away to lighten the sky.

  They swung the over top of Baton Rouge and crossed the Mississippi, its dark waters sucking light from above. Long stretches passed without sight of a building, without another set of headlights lighting the road.

  Bats swooped. Eyes flashe
d green from clumps of trees along the road. An animal darted from a ditch and pulled back, turning tail and jumping through the scrub.

  He left two football fields between himself and the bikers, slowing occasionally to let them get farther ahead before giving the Cougar enough gas to bring their taillights back in sight.

  He had no idea what the fuck he was doing. There were five of them. And what’d he have? A manila fucking folder? A gas can in the trunk? Whoop-dee-do.

  He gripped the wheel and gritted his teeth. He needed, at least, to see what happened. He’d look, get the fuck out of there, and then he’d take himself someplace safe, set up a new life, and maybe buy a typewriter. The Vampire and the Rock Star. He had nothing else to do with himself. “Why not that, Soph?” He glanced toward the passenger seat, like she was actually along for the ride.

  A little past four, two bikes split off from the pack, arcing wide and torpedoing back his way. In his lane.

  Their headlamps grew brighter. He squinted, started to lift his arm to ward it off—and realized the bikers had no intention of stopping.

  He cranked his wheel hard, stomping on the brakes. The Cougar’s wheels skidded sideways, its rear end sliding toward the bikes.

  They kept coming, slow now—rumbling and deliberate.

  Grinning at him.

  He stepped on the gas, yanking a look at their lights as the car careened. He straightened out and floored it, racing back down the strip of road he’d come.

  The bikes’ lights pierced through his back window, illuminating the inside of the car. It made Carl feel hunted. His shoulders tightened. A sharp lump stuck in his throat.

  His heart pounded. He flexed one hand, then the other, fingertips tingling. He had to pee. He whispered shit shit shit as a crawling heat made its way up his face.

  The Cougar hit seventy, eighty. Started to shake as he pushed toward a hundred, afraid to take his eyes from the road.

  The cabin filled with light.

  The bikes’ engines shook his windows.

  Everything outside the car was black. The road in front of him ate his lights as fast as the car could shine them.