Blood Inheritance (The Lazarus Hunter Series Book 1)

by Cas Martin

  From there it was a fairly straightforward route off the main road, followed by the four block sprint back down to his apartment building. The whole run never took less than fifty-five minutes, and never more than one hour and five minutes. He had done the same route for so long now, sticking to the same roads each time, until he had honed the time down to a ten minute window. He wouldn't allow himself to go any slower, nor any faster. By the time he was jogging up the steps to his apartment building, his legs would be feeling the workout, but an almost serene feeling of contentment would be passing through his body.

  Despite the satisfaction Jack felt right down to his fingers and toes, he would not allow his routine to stop there. He had a nagging fear that if he broke the routine, then all his hard work would be incomplete for the day. There was no option of starting over again. So instead, he let himself into his apartment, took his shoes off by the door, placing them side by side facing the wall, and walked to the bathroom, his feet feeling airily liberated now he was wearing only his socks.

  From his shower, droplets of water still clinging to his shoulders and re-covering the tips of his towel-dried hair, he would pour himself a double brandy and sit at his desk, overlooking the street. As views of the city went, it was nothing spectacular. In fact, all he could see was the apartment block opposite to his. From the seat at his desk, he had an unobstructed view into four different windows. He did not know any of his neighbours, certainly not the ones in the next building over, but he had watched their own routines every weekday for the past five years.

  Jack LeTraub was a man who to all intents and purposes seemed to have his life ordered and in control.

  In reality, he was a man waiting.

  Sitting, watching; just waiting.

  13

  Monica returned to her apartment exhausted for the second night in a row. Well, early morning really. She was, in effect, doing two jobs, both of them extremely demanding. Unfortunately, neither of them were exactly nine to five, and just because she had walked through the door and was home, her day certainly wasn't about to stop there. She was pleased by how well her meeting with Elizabeth had gone, but she wasn't sure how to break the news to the family elders. She still felt as though she was still deferring to them, and hated herself for it. Yet she knew the way it worked; news would be spreading already. If they didn't know now, they certainly would by the end of the night. She had no choice. She had to go to the club, no matter how tired she felt.

  The club was, in essence, just that; a place where the family would meet. It was discreet, exclusive, but not hidden down a seedy back alley. It just happened to be Members Only. Tonight, Monica knew she had no choice but to make her presence felt.

  She picked out a smart suit to change into. How long had it been since she last wore something casual? It seemed like forever. But there was no way she could turn up at the club wearing her jeans. She might have been allowed to once, but more was expected of her now. She had to carry the appropriate air of authority and sense of bearing. It was something she still wasn't used to. In every other area of her life, maybe, but not this one. She gritted her teeth. It was going to be a long night ahead of her.

  Thirty minutes later, Monica could hear the echo of her footsteps as she turned off the main street and into a darkened alley. It was all very atmospheric, if you ignored the neon lights of the twenty-four hour fast food takeout on the corner, and the faint pulse of the trendy club on the other side of the street. She walked up to the door that was being discretely guarded by two burly men in sharp suits. They moved aside in a way that was almost deferential to let Monica through the doorway. She didn't know the two men, and for some reason that bothered her. How was she supposed to keep tabs on all these people?

  The dimly lit corridor gave way to the main entry room, a plush lounge area that always reminded Monica of a speakeasy from the twenties. Chances were it once had been, and the furnishings had been replaced, but not redesigned, ever since. As far as she knew this club had been in place even before then; her father had come here as a young man. It was a cliché now, but changing it would probably incite some kind of mutiny amongst the elders. She didn't need to give them any more reasons to dislike her.

  There were only a few people sitting in the lounge. Apparently it was a quiet night. Monica checked her watch: 1:45. Perhaps there would be more people in the dining room, or maybe at the bar. The few people in front of her nodded respectfully and Monica tried to hide her discomfort. Before all this happened, she had hardly ever come here. Even then it had been rarely to socialise, instead mainly on formal occasions when she had no choice. There was nowhere in the building that had been her 'usual' area, and she wasn't even sure she knew where Dennis would be if he was here. She needed a little moral support. Monica knew where she had to go and hated that she felt nervous, as if she didn't belong there.

  The back room, affectionately known as The Cave by everyone until they were actually allowed in there, was reserved for the elders; the seniors and mystics of the family. Plus their leader of course. Monica held her head high and set off down the long corridor, bypassing the dining rooms and bars, not wanting to attract the attention of everyone there. Word would pass around soon enough that she was in the building.

  She pushed the door open without further hesitation, and stepped inside. Fourteen pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. Was she being paranoid or did she see open hostility in some of them? The clear exception was Elverez the Cripple, who had been named long ago when it was still deemed acceptable to give someone such a moniker. Of everyone in the room, it was Elverez that she liked and trusted the most. Fortunately for her, Elverez commanded a great deal of respect from everyone throughout the family.

  Elverez was reputed to be one hundred and eighty-four years old, which was quite a considerable age, even for their people. An easy one hundred was normal, one twenty far from a rarity, but at one forty there was nearly always a sudden and marked decline. Elverez the Cripple was yet to show any signs of this. To Monica he looked the same as he always had. Growing up, she had often been told his story. The man was something of a legend.

  Elverez had been only five years old when he came with his family to America. His father was a vampire with a slightly skewed impression of the American Dream, and had later abandoned the boy to fend for himself in the festering slums of what was to become New York. Luckily for Elverez, people suffered and died with alarming regularity, murder was par for the course, and no one would ever dream to point the finger at a lithe young boy, dressed in rags and bound to be in the pay of one of the Irish criminal gangs. It was easy pickings, and by all accounts Elverez made the most of it.

  Unfortunately, familiarity breeds contempt, and Elverez had become careless. It was easy to do in the exuberance of youth with no one to guide you. One night, he had crept along the darkened alleys that led through the maze of dilapidated buildings, until he spotted a light through the hole in the wall which passed for a window. Elverez had peered inside and, by the light of a single dirty candle, he spotted another boy sleeping. He had crept into the room and began feasting on the boy. Lost in the hunger of the feed, he had failed to realise that the boy's father (along with several equally drunk companions) had returned.

  Seeing the young boy, mouth coated with blood, arched over the rapidly cooling body of the other, the men had pounced on the child-demon, beating him violently until they believed he was dead, then threw his body into the insipid, fetid and rotting pile of rubbish that accumulated near the river, before returning to grieve over the dead child.

  Of course, Elverez was not dead, but his spine had been so comprehensively shattered he would never walk again. He had somehow dragged himself to the other side of the river where a friendly stranger had taken him in. The stranger had spotted instantly what was different about the boy. Elverez finally had a father and a mentor again. That man had been Monica's predecessor.

  Monica was not sure just how true the tale was. Over the passing o
f a century and a half, stories became myths and legends. She would love to ask him herself but had never found the time. Or the courage.

  Unfortunately, it was not Elverez that got to her first. Instead it was someone with, hierarchically at least, a much higher standing. Ivan Mendelson was a man whom Monica found hard to like, but within the family he had a social equity she could not ignore. The problem was, despite his knowledge, Monica didn't feel like he was always telling her everything.

  'Monica, dearest, come sit down,' he gestured at a seat next to his, 'it's so good to see you.'

  'It's only been five days Mr. Mendelson, not a lifetime.'

  'That wasn't what I meant. I'm sure that you've been busy.'

  'I have. Just as I'm sure you know what I've been doing.' Monica knew she should show respect to the man, but she couldn't help but bristle at the games and fake deference.

  'There have been a few whispers that you have been involved in some, shall we say, negotiations?'

  'Yes, it's true.' Monica was aware that all other conversations had stopped. Everyone was interested in what she had to say. There was no point in pretending. 'Today I met with Professor Hastings' daughter.'

  'Monica, are you sure that was wise? I respect your decisions as our ultimate leader, but you must be careful not to embrace her with the same respect as her father, purely on the grounds of her lineage. Her judgments and motivations may be considerably different to his. It would be dangerous to jeopardise our safety at this delicate time.'

  'I resent the fact you think I would put any of us in danger. I am not a fool Mr. Mendelson.'

  'Of course not. I didn't mean…' he trailed off, unable to say what he had meant.

  'She's a delightful young woman, isn't she?' Elverez's voice cut through the silence. Monica turned around, trying not to show her surprise. The majority of the other people in the room were less successful.

  'She was very friendly and helpful,' agreed Monica cautiously, desperate to ask him just how he knew, but something in his eyes told her that this was not the time. Nevertheless, it was enough to diffuse the awkwardness of the moment. 'Elizabeth Hastings confirmed two things to me. Firstly, her father's journals have been missing since his death. True, we'd suspected for a long time, but it's nice to have hard evidence at last. That's a long time for anyone to be studying the information that the Professor accumulated. Secondly, she may be willing to work with us to help locate them. She is aware of the damage and suffering that could be inflicted upon us all by their contents. She has no desire to see that happen.'

  'Does that mean you've formed an alliance with her? Surely it would have been prudent to consult with us first.' Ivan recovered from his surprise and took control of the conversation again.

  'Of course I would never dream of making an alliance without coming to you all,' Monica half-lied. 'I merely pointed out what we wanted from her, and what we would be prepared to give in return. No deals were made. We don't owe her anything, and she does not owe us anything. But she could favour us over many of the other families, and that will work to our advantage.'

  'But can you trust her?'

  'You trusted her father.'

  'To a degree, yes. Within certain boundaries. And that trust was not built in a single lunch date, it took years to form.'

  'I see,' nodded Monica, trying to show no reaction to his slip of the tongue. She had not sensed anyone too close to her during their lunch. What if they had somehow slipped past her defences? It was a dangerous concept, and one which made her uneasy. 'All journeys must begin with a single step, I'm sure you'll agree. Elizabeth certainly seems to have her father's interests and ideals in mind, but I certainly won't commit us, or myself, to anything unless I can be sure. Need I remind you Ivan, just what her father's journals are supposed to contain? Would you rather it be in her hands or someone else's?'

  'Neither, to be quite frank with you.'

  'Then fine. We prefer destruction. But that's not going to happen in anyone else's hands either.'

  There was a silence. Monica was relieved she had made a point with which no one could argue. The promise of power held in those books was far too attractive for people who liked to cause trouble. 'Do you have any further questions Ivan? No? In that case, could you arrange for some wine and maybe a bite to eat? I'm starving.'

  14

  Elizabeth began to prepare herself for another lonely night in her hotel room. She hated that she was sitting there, effectively doing nothing, conscious that time was slipping by. She felt some comfort from the tacit indication of approval and support from Monica. Her family was powerful, there was no doubt about that, and no matter how her past made her reluctant to trust any of them, a bigger sense of self-preservation told her that it was better to have them on side.

  She fingered the pendant around her neck, pondering the reaction it had created in Monica. Elizabeth had been expecting anger, betrayal, fear — all manner of negative emotions — but certainly not the wry amusement that she was greeted with. She hadn't felt as though Monica was mocking her, more that she was mocking the vampire Elizabeth had killed to get it. She almost seemed to be congratulating Elizabeth on killing one of her own kind.

  Then again, if everything she said was to be believed, then she considered that vampire as nothing like her, instead an affront to her people and her family. It was true, as far as Elizabeth could tell, that the two were entirely different. Jasoum had been the thing of childhood nightmares, and Elizabeth had felt no remorse in killing him. She did not think that she would feel the same way about killing Monica.

  Elizabeth suppressed a shudder as she involuntarily thought back to the night that had been a baptism of fire into her entirely new way of life.

  Growing up, Elizabeth had always been a keen runner, even being part of her university team. By the time she was twenty-one, she had competed in three marathons, achieving a very respectable time in all of them. Other than that, she had no sporting hobbies. Certainly nothing in the martial arts field, despite her father trying to encourage her to head in that direction. She had considered herself to be a sensible girl; pragmatic, and unlikely to put herself into dangerous situations. Oh, if only she had known then what she knew now.

  Even so, she felt some kind of primeval instinct kick in the night she finally tracked down Jasoum, knowing her father's blood was on his hands. Revenge triggered some part of her brain that had been lying dormant. The part of her brain that was a killer, and it was a powerful part.

  Adrenalin and instinct had taken over that night. She managed to achieve what countless others, if her father's notes were to be believed, had failed to do over the years. Everyone else had died trying. She walked away that night, bruised and bloodied, but most definitely alive. In fact, she felt more alive than she had done for such a long time, certainly since well before her father's death. It was then that his way of life became hers too. She knew then that revenge was never going to be enough. There were more of them out there, preying on the vulnerable, killing for fun and destroying families. Just the same way that she had been destroyed, her life torn to pieces just as her father's body had been.

  She had not been prepared to discover that some of them weren't senseless killers after all.

  Jasoum had put up a fight, but she had the element of surprise. His main mistake was not considering her to be a worthy foe. Turning up alone, in that anonymous town Jasoum had called home for nearly two centuries, she was fighting him on his territory. The place he knew like the back of his hand. Ultimately, his arrogance had killed him, just as her blade slicing through his throat in the disabling blow had brought him to his knees. The shock on his face, disfigured and monstrous, would stay with her always. As would the evil in his eyes, pure and unbridled; the look which gave her pause for a fraction of a second before she dispatched him properly.

  Elizabeth had found power in having nothing left to lose.

  She had waited many nights for the chance to be alone with him. In her daydreams, sh
e had asked him why. Why did he kill her father? What threat could her father possibly have been that he felt the need to kill him so brutally? In reality, when the two of them finally met, she knew that there could be no conversation between them. He had killed her father because he wanted to, not for any reason other than that. Killing was what he enjoyed, and her father was just another example of it.

  She had not been stupid enough to make her move on a night when he was out with others. She knew his behaviour, the habits that come from centuries of power, unchallenged and with nothing to keep him in check. There were some things he could do to keep himself safe against those precious few who knew of his existence. Those who would maybe one day come seeking revenge. It had happened too many times in the past for him not to keep a group of his most attentive, and most vicious, followers with him most of the times when he went out.

  Elizabeth would never find out why he had chosen that one night to venture out alone, but she knew that it was a golden opportunity. It had felt just right, the correct balance of fear and determination required to make her move.

  He had so much strength and power, she could almost feel it flowing from him, taking her breath away. She could see him mentally chalking her up as just another kill. She did not know if he recognised who she was.