X-Rated Bloodsuckers

by Mario Acevedo

  CHAPTER 40

  Time to scram and find Coyote.

  The smell hit me.

  Meaty. Musky.

  Wolf.

  I crawled from between the cactus and retreated deep into the dry brush. The branches and dead leaves crunched beneath me. Where was that wolf? My talons and fangs extended.

  A growl came from the left. Another from the right. And another from the parking lot. Not wolf but wolves. Here were Cragnow’s bodyguards, vampires transformed into wolves.

  I drew my pistol—grateful that I carried silver bullets—and executed a time-honored military maneuver. I turned and ran.

  A wolf lunged from the brush, its aura an orange comet and the eyes twin embers burning with malevolence. The long jaws snapped, the ferocious teeth flashing like a saw.

  I jerked my gun toward it when another wolf tackled me from behind. I fell into a mass of bramble, the thorns raking my face and neck.

  The wolf’s jaws locked on my left shoe, the teeth tearing into my foot. I kicked the wolf’s snout and fought to roll over on my back to get a shot with my pistol.

  The first wolf clawed through the bramble and snapped at me in a whirlwind of teeth, fur, and blazing eyes.

  I let fly two shots. The wolves backed off enough for me to get up and run limping out of the brush and into the parking lot.

  One wolf followed me. The other circled around. No more wild shots. I couldn’t afford to waste ammunition.

  When I reached the gravel lot, the wolf behind me surged forward, snarling. The second wolf lunged from my right side. His jaws clamped on my pistol hand, my wrist feeling like it had been smashed between bricks. I punched the wolf with my left fist.

  The wolf wrenched its head, wrestling to knock me off balance. The other wolf snatched my belt and pulled the other way.

  An orange blur streaked from the woods and crashed into the wolf clutching my hand. The wolf let go and spun about, its jaws snapping at empty air.

  The blur settled into the shape of a coyote, its jaws a flailing set of teeth.

  The wolf hunched its shoulders, the hair on its neck bristling. It lunged forward.

  The coyote was in front of the wolf one instant, then beside it the next. The coyote clamped onto the wolf’s throat. The two of them snagged forelimbs and rolled into a ball of fur and orange auras.

  The other wolf tugged at my waist and nearly pitched me over. I leveled my pistol and squeezed one shot.

  The bullet grazed the wolf’s flank. It let go, backed off a couple of steps, then reared on its hind legs to spring for my face.

  I fired once into its torso.

  The wolf stopped, its front paws waving through the air. The fury in its eyes was replaced by a dimming sadness. Its aura tightened around the furry body.

  I held the pistol in a two-hand grip. My next shot thumped low in the wolf’s sternum, right where the kundalini noir should be.

  The wolf’s limbs twisted and elongated. Fur disappeared into smooth white skin. The snout retreated into a grotesque face, as wolf transformed into dying vampire. I recognized the ragged sandy hair on his big head. Kacy. The vampire who tried to run me over with a Jaguar convertible and later missed again when he shot at me in Trixie’s Bistro.

  Kacy stood naked, his unfocused eyes staring into oblivion. Smoke curled from the holes my bullets had punched into him. His mouth opened and a gasp escaped. His orange aura shrank around him, becoming a weak glow frail as a tiny candle flame. The glow flickered out. Kacy the vampire was no more.

  He was a newly converted vampire, so instead of dissolving into dust, his corpse remained whole—until sunlight hit it. His body toppled backward, leaving the stench of his burning undead flesh lingering in the air.

  What about Coyote?

  He stood beside the fallen corpse of the other wolf, now writhing as it transformed into a vampire. Coyote panted and acted worn out. Shiny mats of blood spotted his disheveled fur. Coyote glanced from the man to me, giving a look that said, Where you been?

  Heavy steps stormed over the wooden deck of Cragnow’s house, accompanied by the metallic click of weapons being readied.

  Time to go.

  I ran limping across the parking area, Coyote loping by my side. We headed for the entrance onto Cragnow’s property, into the dark tunnel formed by the overlapping branches of the trees.

  There had been three wolves. We killed two. Where was the other one?

  I glanced over my shoulder back toward Cragnow’s house. Red auras surrounded the men carrying guns. Good. They were human and so couldn’t see our auras. That made our escape easier.

  A growl turned my attention to the front.

  A wolf guarded the mouth into the tunnel. Its orange aura roiled like fire. The two eyes glowed bright as heated iron.

  Good show, but this wolf hadn’t been paying attention to current events. So far the score was: our side, two; wolves, zero. And I still had bullets in my pistol.

  I fired once.

  The wolf yelped and jumped.

  I fired again.

  The wolf’s front legs folded, and the animal collapsed, hind-quarters and rump sticking into the air. The orange aura vanished, as if blown out.

  Coyote and I ran through the tunnel past the dead wolf as it turned into the trim shape of a female vampire. Tattoos encircled the arms. It was Rachel, the human receptionist from Gomorrah Video who later, as a vampire, drove the limo that shuttled me to Petale Venin. I had warned her.

  Men jogged through the parking area. Red laser pointers crisscrossed the ground like feelers.

  Coyote crashed through the brush ahead of me, and I lost him. I headed west in the scrub parallel to Mulholland Drive. The dense woods and terrain swallowed the noise coming from Cragnow’s estate.

  Coyote and I had knocked off the primary guard force, the wolves. Smart tactic for Cragnow, if it would’ve worked. I had expected vampire lookouts and technical surveillance, not furry undead killers.

  I loaded a fresh magazine into my pistol.

  An orange glow outlined the scrub branches. I raised my pistol.

  “Don’t shoot, vato,” whispered Coyote.

  He stepped though a gap in the scrub, a skinny old-man frame—naked, save for the tennis shoes on his feet. He carried his clothes wadded under one arm.

  “You can get dressed,” I said.

  “Later, ese. The night air feels good.” He continued for his truck, the muscles of his scrawny ass cheeks flexing and relaxing as he strode along. Blood trickled from the scratches on his neck and shoulders.

  “You okay?” I asked. I massaged the bite on my wrist, feeling the torn flesh mend itself. “You’re bleeding.”

  Coyote wiped the blood from his skin. “A la Madre. It’s mine. Next time, vato, I’ll let you handle all the chingasos.”

  We did the usual drill with his beater Ford. I pushed it out into the street and pushed again to start the rusted jalopy. I was getting too much practice at this.

  Coyote drove the long way back to Boyle Heights, taking Mulholland to Beverly Glen Boulevard, Sunset, then the 405 and finally the Santa Monica Freeway.

  At every intersection and turn I expected the police to ambush us. After all, Cragnow only need jerk the chain of his buddy, Deputy Police Chief Julius Paxton. I kept my pistol handy. I didn’t want to kill any human cops if they were doing their jobs and had no idea of this vampire insurrection. But my fellow undead were fair game.

  So far, no cops. No one chasing us. No helicopters. “This is too easy,” I said.

  Coyote’s forehead wrinkled and the ends of his mustache quivered. “You crazy? We barely escaped.”

  “Cragnow expected only me, so three wolves would’ve been enough, even with my gun,” I said. “He underestimated me, or rather, us. Next time, he won’t.”

  CHAPTER 41

  We arrived at Coyote’s house, passing delivery trucks bringing newspapers and fresh bread to convenience stores and markets.

  Coyote let his truck roll t
o the bottom of the dip and turned his heap around so it faced the right way when it was time to leave.

  A cerulean band of sky appeared above the mountains of the Angeles National Forest. Dawn approached, and my kundalini noir coiled in fear of the morning light.

  No suspicious auras lurked in the neighborhood. No cops. The neighborhood was as quiet and serene as a crypt.

  On the way into his house, Coyote gathered a handful of sticks. He broke them into pieces the length of a pencil. Coyote paced the perimeter of his yard and worked a stick into the ground every few paces.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “My alarm system. Anybody or anything crosses those sticks”—Coyote snapped his fingers—“I’m awake.”

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “Un guajiro Tarahumara.” A shaman from the Tarahumara Indians.

  “Does it work?”

  “Like magic.”

  “Like the same magic that starts your truck?” Hope not. With Coyote’s “high-tech” security system protecting us, I headed downstairs to rest and escape the morning’s rays.

  Water dripped from the ceiling where it leaked from the wet kitchen floor. I lay in the coffin and counted the drips splashing against the lid until I fell asleep.

  By midafternoon we were up. I inspected the circle of sticks, looking for evidence of tampering or unusual footprints. “Nothing happened.”

  “Are you surprised, ese? Nothing bad can happen to us inside the circle. It worked.”

  “Just because you put in those sticks and nothing happened,” I said, “is like saying a drink of whiskey is good medicine to prevent snakebites.”

  “It’s not?”

  “We’re going to need more than superstitions to protect us.”

  “Vato, listen to yourself. A vampire who doesn’t believe in superstitions? It’s a cosmic contradiction.”

  Coyote made coffee and stirred blood into a pot of posole. I cleaned up and shaved.

  “Let’s go have a talk with Dr. Niphe.” I sat at the table and sprinkled Cholula hot sauce over a bowl of the posole. “What was he doing up there partying with Cragnow and those hookers? On a school night, no less.” I pulled a tortilla from the stack kept warm under a towel.

  Coyote tore a piece of tortilla and scooped it into his bowl. “Do we surprise him?”

  “Of course we surprise him. This time we’ll come in through the roof and pull him out of surgery if we have to.”

  We finished our meal. I gathered a few of my things into my overnight bag, in case we got delayed. Roxy’s file and my laptop remained downstairs, next to the coffin. I topped off my pistol magazines.

  Coyote climbed into his truck. I set the overnight bag on the sidewalk. I braced my shoulder against the tailgate of the truck and pushed.

  The truck moved up the hill, gaining speed as I advanced from a trot to a run. The truck lurched when the engine caught. I let go. Coyote waved his arm for me to jump aboard.

  I turned to fetch my bag. The truck was about to crest the slope when the engine coughed. Sparks shot from the under-carriage.

  An explosion ripped open the engine compartment and shook the ground. The fenders flew apart, and the hood went spinning. An enormous fireball welled inside the cab, shattered the windows, and ballooned upward. The hot blast slapped my face.

  Coyote.

  I screamed his name.

  The flaming carcass of the pickup rolled backward down the dip, right toward me. A chorus of car alarms wailed throughout the neighborhood.

  I wanted to reach into the cab and snatch Coyote free. But the inferno warned me off. No one could’ve survived, not even a vampire. Helpless, I stepped back and raised my arm to shield my face from the heat.

  The truck jumped the curb and smashed through the chain-link fence. The truck rumbled straight for Coyote’s home and crashed through the porch to settle inside his kitchen like a gigantic Molotov cocktail.

  A second explosion sent jets of flame cascading out the door and windows. The roof hopped a few inches, fire erupting past the joists, and broke into pieces. The rear end of the truck tipped up as the floor gave way and the house collapsed onto itself.

  I stumbled dumbstruck toward the flaming ruins, unwilling to comprehend what I’d witnessed. I wanted to believe that at any second Coyote would reappear, either jumping from the flames like a rodeo clown or simply popping into plain sight as if he’d always been there.

  Coyote’s magic warning sticks lay trampled under tire marks. His truck had been outside the circle when the bomb was planted. That’s why we didn’t get a warning.

  People streamed from the local houses, approaching cautiously, their faces slack with horror and disbelief. They pointed at me, muttering to one another, “Who is that? Did he kill the viejo in the house? Why did he do it?”

  The fire ate Coyote’s house and the timbers cracked as if the flames had teeth. The roof settled into the burning hole of the basement, the furnacelike heat incinerating everything.

  Police sirens blared in the distance.

  I didn’t need any cops. One of them might have planted the bomb. I had to leave. Now.

  I shouldered my overnight bag and retreated into the weeds of the ravine. I hustled through the ravine and into the shade under the overpass A column of smoke fouled the air to the west. Fire trucks and more police cars zoomed past.

  I rested against the concrete pillar of the overpass, dismayed and shocked. I couldn’t believe it.

  Coyote was dead.

  I replayed the horrific ordeal. The sparks shooting from the front. The blast tearing the truck apart. The terrible fire consuming the cab.

  Who ordered the hit? Cragnow, I’m sure. With Petale Venin’s blessing.

  Shock gave way to anger, and my kundalini noir tightened.

  Who had planted the bomb? The police, some of Paxton’s? Or Cragnow’s vampire guards?

  And why? To kill Coyote and me? Or just me?

  The blackest of my thoughts returned. Coyote. Gone. Roasted into ash. The hopelessness of the situation crushed me. My legs folded and I sank against the pillar.

  A crow sat on a chain-link fence close to the overpass. The crow squawked and flew into the shadow of the overpass to land on the dirt. The crow stared at me with its glossy marble-like eyes. It squawked again. A shiny metallic capsule clung to its right leg. A message from the Araneum.

  A wave of resentment tore at my insides. New orders from my anonymous bosses? What good was their grand omniscience if they let Coyote die?

  I snatched a pebble from the ground. “I’ve had enough of this, you stupid bird.” I flung the pebble at the crow.

  The pebble bounced off its skull. The bird staggered and fell on its butt. The crow shook its head, extended one wing to lever itself up, and stood. The crow advanced and squawked angrily.

  It stopped by my feet and raised the leg with the capsule. I reached for the leg, and the crow hopped back.

  “I’m not in the mood for games,” I said.

  The crow strutted into the darker shadows under the overpass. I pushed myself up and followed.

  The crow stopped and raised its legs again.

  I knelt to unfasten the capsule.

  The crow’s beak snapped on my finger.

  I pulled away, clasping the injured digit. “You little shit, what was that about?”

  The crow tilted its head and squawked. It raised the leg with the capsule.

  “Okay, so we’re even. But watch yourself. Bite me again and I’ll introduce you to a knife and fork.”

  The crow shrugged its wings, unimpressed by my threat.

  I unclipped the capsule. It looked identical to the one I’d seen back in Denver, a pinky-size tube of filigreed platinum and yellow gold. Rubies rimmed the cap.

  Opening the capsule, I let the odor of rancid meat escape, a reminder of the source, a swatch of vampire skin.

  I tapped the capsule and a thin curled leaf of vampire parchment slid free. I flattened t
he parchment into a buff-colored translucent square, curious about the instructions sent by the Araneum.

  The parchment was bare. I held it up and studied the surface for evidence of writing. Did the ink fade? Had they used an invisible formula? What was the secret?

  The crow squawked to get my attention. It picked a short stick from the ground and dragged one end through the dirt, making squiggles. The crow stopped and gazed at me.

  “What are you getting at?”

  The bird rolled its head, the gesture saying, “Figure it out, stupid,” and dragged the stick through the dirt again.

  “You’re writing something?”

  The crow kept working the stick.

  “You want me to write something?”

  The crow spat the stick.

  “What?”

  The crow walked back and forth in front of me, leaving claw tracks in the dust.

  “A report?”

  The crow didn’t answer.

  The parchment was too flimsy to write on without support. I slipped a notepad out of my overnight back. I placed the parchment on the notepad, clicked my ballpoint, and wondered what to write. Couldn’t be much; the parchment was smaller than the palm of my hand and too thin to write on both sides.

  What could I say?

  I started with the most important.

  Coyote dead. Assassinated. The Araneum surely knew who he was.

  Cragnow Vissoom betrayed great secret. Takes orders from Councilwoman Petale Venin, human immune to hypnosis. Cragnow and Venin plan coalition of undead and humans, start of new empire.

  Far-fetched? Not really, since it was true.

  What was I to do?

  I finished my message. Will continue with direct action. Vissoom and Venin to die with undead accomplices.

  Your servant, Felix Gomez.

  My writing started with neat block letters and deteriorated into a scrawl bunched up along the bottom of the parchment. I rolled the parchment into the capsule and screwed the cap tight.

  The crow hopped close. I fit the capsule to one leg. The crow stepped away. Rather than fly off, it stared at me. Its gaze was pensive, melancholy. What did it know? Was this note to be the last testament from me?