X-Rated Bloodsuckers fg-2

by Mario Acevedo

  I slowed and honked the horn. I lowered the window on the passenger's side and called out, "Can Veronica come out and play?"

  She slung a canvas musette over one shoulder and bounded down the front steps with the eagerness of a girl let out from school. Veronica paused by the Chrysler and peeked over her sunglasses. "Nice wheels."

  "Don't be impressed. It's a rental."

  She got in and set the musette on her lap. She pointed south. "That way."

  "What's there?"

  "The beach."

  "And your plan?"

  "Visit my mother's."

  Oh great. Why not let all the air out of my tires and feed me saltpeter?

  Veronica leaned over the center console, kissed my cheek, and pinched my side. "She's not home. I gotta feed her cats."

  Veronica gave directions to Venice, and we arrived at a modest cottage on Dell Avenue. I maneuvered the big 500M into a narrow space between the cottage and the newly built yuppie monstrosity next door.

  We squeezed out of the car. A late afternoon breeze whisked through the neighborhood, rustling trees and palms and bringing the heavy scent of ocean air. I put on a black hoodie for the growing chill. Veronica pulled a windbreaker out of her musette and zipped up.

  She unlocked the front door and we entered the cottage. The living room was filled with a lifetime's accumulation of bric-a-brac collected from every souvenir shop between here and Mount Rushmore. Veronica filled pet dishes-commemorating a visit to Flagstaff, Arizona-with cat food and water, and we left for the beach.

  "There's something I don't understand about Roxy," I said. "I keep hearing that her involvement in Project Eleven is what got her killed. She got the media attention, but stopping Project Eleven was your baby. Why has no one has come after you?"

  The breeze played with Veronica's hair. She snagged loose strands behind her ears. "Never occurred to me."

  "Never?"

  "Let me tell you why," she replied. "If you're a community activist, then you'd better be rattling cages on behalf of your constituents. You make enemies. But that's not a bad thing. It builds respect. Street cred."

  "And these 'enemies' never threatened you?"

  "Not a physical attack," Veronica said. "There's a lot of bluster and bullshit. Plenty of mind games and backroom maneuvering. But I never felt someone wanted to kill me."

  "Then what made Roxy different?"

  "She knew where to get the real dirt on some very powerful people."

  "And that's why you think she was killed?"

  "It's a guess."

  We crossed a bridge over a shallow canal. A pelican on the bridge railing flexed its wings and took off.

  "Did it bother you what Roxy was up to?" I asked.

  "Felix, politics is a dirty business. When our opponents made her character an issue, then their character was fair game in return."

  We stopped at Pacific Avenue and waited for a gap in traffic.

  "So you approve of what Roxy did?"

  "Hell yes," Veronica replied. "It's because of her that we made the city ditch Project Eleven."

  "Even if that meant Roxy being murdered?"

  "So it's my fault she's dead?"

  We trotted across the street.

  "Of course not," I answered. "In her digging through the dirt, did Roxy ever learn anything dangerous?"

  "Explain 'dangerous,' " Veronica said.

  "Something worth risking murder to keep quiet."

  "I don't know. Roxy discovered plenty and aired it all. If she had found something dangerous, she never told me about it."

  We reached the boardwalk and walked past the pier.

  Veronica hooked her arm into mine. "Felix, I appreciate you confiding in me, but I didn't watch the clock today waiting for this conversation."

  "Me either."

  The sun settled into the gray haze above the ocean. The day's remaining vendors along the boardwalk sat bundled in jackets behind card tables piled with candles, tarot cards, and homemade trinkets. All of the crazies were gone except for one diehard who sat on a plastic crate and bellowed, "I need money. I gotta buy some pot."

  Veronica stopped at the window of a pizza stand and asked if I wanted some.

  I did, but only if drenched in blood. Otherwise, it'd be like eating paste on newsprint. "No thanks."

  I rested my arm on the counter. The sudden, pungent odor of garlic stabbed my nostrils like tear gas. I yanked my arm from the counter in a bee-sting dance. I scrambled for a napkin to brush dirt-colored grains of garlic powder from my sleeve.

  "Are you okay?" Veronica asked.

  Carefully, I balled the napkin and dropped it into the trash. "This is going to sound weird, but I'm allergic to garlic. Hives. My face swells up. I get gas like nobody's business."

  "That would kill the evening." She took a slice of cheese and mushroom. Yellow grease dripped from the stained paper plate. "Not the same without garlic though."

  "I'll make it up to you."

  Veronica turned the pointy end of the slice toward her mouth. "I'm holding you to that." Her lips parted and presented teeth as iridescent as opals. Her mouth opened wide, and it should've been me instead of that pizza sliding onto her tongue.

  Veronica finished the pizza and chewed a tablet of Nicorette gum. We continued past the beach shops for a block and turned around.

  I pulled her close. I was going to nibble her ear when I noticed the silver pendant earring. I kissed the back of her neck instead and it smelled delicious. Those good parts of mine tingled even more.

  After returning to the cottage, I sat in a leather cigar chair and watched Veronica mix cranberry juice and vodka to make Cape Codders. She filled glasses stenciled: SANDS HOTEL AND CASINO.

  She walked barefoot, and her candy red toenails begged me to admire her feet. From there I worked my eyes up the curves of her calves, past the swell of her hips, her trim waist, a nicely formed back and an even nicer chest, the firm muscles of her arms and shoulders, and ending my appraisal where it should-on the smooth skin of her tempting throat. I wanted everything Veronica's body could offer.

  She turned to stand against the kitchen counter with her back to me and sliced limes.

  I removed my contacts.

  Veronica's aura glowed like the filament of an electric heater. The fringes of her aura rippled with sexual excitement. Veronica had very naughty plans.

  In my years as a vampire, this was the first time I had romanced a human female. I've bedded quite a few, of course, and used my vampire powers to shuck their panties and inhibitions. Veronica was different. I wanted this to be normal, as normal as it could get when one of us was an undead bloodsucker.

  Could such a relationship be possible? How had the situation developed between Coyote and Heather? Would this be the same?

  I rose from the chair, debating whether to tell her the truth. My kundalini noir turned upon itself in indecision.

  Once I-as the Japanese say-opened my kimono, then what? Suppose Veronica rejected me as a lover and saw me as a monster? At that point there was no chance of her serving as a chalice; I'd have to convert her into a vampire or kill her.

  Veronica garnished the Cape Codders with lime wedges and clasped the glasses with napkins.

  I couldn't decide what to do so I kept my head down as she came close. She hummed a merengue. Veronica bent over to set the glasses on tile coasters on the coffee table.

  Her scent was a banquet of sumptuous aromas: the spicy tang of pheromones; the saltiness of perspiration; and the lacing of the perfumes in her shampoo, soap, and deodorant. The heat from her body was like a warm loaf of honey bread waiting to be devoured.

  "You're quiet," Veronica said.

  I couldn't reveal myself as a vampire. Not yet. Not now. The kimono stayed closed. For her sake, I'd pretend to be a mortal.

  I grasped her wrists and pulled her upright.

  Veronica's eyes swiveled to meet mine.

  My hypnotic hold was less a stare than a caress. Even so,
she wouldn't remember my vampire nature.

  The irises of her brown eyes dilated slowly like two dark flowers blossoming. Her aura notched brighter instead of the usual fiery surge.

  She leaned into me, and we kissed. I asked her to remove her jewelry and she dropped the silver pieces on the coffee table.

  I nuzzled her throat. My fangs hunted for the choicest spot to feed.

  Her warm blood jetted over my tongue and I guzzled it with delight. My palate was overcome with layered tastes: pheromones; iron; copper; the traces of vegetables, grains, and spices; and nicotine from her gum. I lapped the puncture wounds to share my narcotic enzymes.

  My head swooned in delirious pleasure. I pulled away to pace my feeding.

  Veronica rubbed her neck against my chin. "More," she whispered. Her aura sizzled with lust.

  I fed again and she fumbled with my belt buckle. Soon we were naked and engaged in a furious bout of jungle love on the cigar chair. We stopped once to slurp the Cape Codders and went back at it with renewed vigor.

  By 1 A.M. she was spent and I close to it. We lay naked on the carpet of the living room floor. The cigar chair rested on its back, and the coffee table was upside down with one leg broken.

  A beach towel covered Veronica's sleeping from. Her aura radiated a soft sheen of contentment. I traced my hand over her side.

  I wanted Veronica more than ever-and not just for sex.

  But I was a vampire. I wasn't supposed to have these feelings.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Veronica and I were in my Chrysler, stuck in morning traffic. She sipped coffee from a paper cup and nibbled on an apricot muffin.

  "After last night," she said, "I figured you'd be famished. Can't believe you don't want at least a hot cup of Java."

  Only if it's got blood. "I'll manage."

  She relaxed contentedly against her seat. "This was a repeat of the first time you stayed with me."

  "I was hoping it would be better."

  She chuckled. "It was. But I mean the fading in and out. I didn't drink that much, did I?"

  "If you were a camel, no."

  She bopped my cheek with a big muffin crumb. "If that was true, I should have a hangover worse than this traffic."

  "I don't know what kind of hangovers you get. We barely know each other."

  She hit me with another crumb. "Liar. You know me well enough to play me like a piano."

  "That's a compliment, considering I've never had lessons."

  Veronica swigged coffee to hide a smile. "Maybe not, but you've done your homework somewhere."

  She tugged at the scarf around her neck. "What's with you and these hickies? We're not in high school."

  "You complaining?"

  "But the scarf makes it obvious what I'm hiding."

  "You complaining?"

  Veronica took my hand. Her fingers stroked my wrist. "Of course not. If I complain about anything, it's that we haven't spent enough time together."

  True.

  And now we were about to be apart again. This worried me. Suppose someone threatened Veronica and I wasn't around to protect her? I had to warn her in case of trouble.

  "Yesterday we talked about why no one has come after you," I said.

  Veronica raised one eyebrow. "Why are you bringing that up?"

  "Because you might be in danger. Three of the people I've gone to see in this investigation are either missing or dead."

  Veronica's eyebrow flattened, and she pulled her hand from me. "And you've waited until now to tell me? Who were these people?"

  "I don't want to say too much. Trust me on this."

  "And you told me this, why? What am I supposed to do?"

  "Stay alert. At the first sign of anything suspicious, anything, call me. Protect yourself. Lock your doors. If you're caught in the open, hide. You own a gun?"

  "Yeah, I got an arsenal under my bed." She drilled me with the sarcasm. "Of course not. Do the police know this?"

  "They do. The problem is I'm certain that rogue cops are in on it. If you call 911, chances could be that the wrong boys in blue show up."

  Veronica looked out her window. "Felix, two minutes ago I was on a cloud. How am I supposed to feel now? What am I supposed to do?"

  I hadn't thought about this.

  Veronica turned in her seat and gave a stare hot as a branding iron. "Answer me. What am I supposed to do?"

  "You could stay with me."

  "I have a life," she replied. "I have a job. Why don't you stay with me?" She put a sarcastic zing in the question.

  She knew I had to work on the case. "What would you prefer? That I not tell you? Roxy is dead. And people close to her are turning up dead. I don't want you to be among them."

  "So you're telling me, that after you drop me off, it'll be up to me to keep my ass out of the grave?"

  "I just want you to be careful."

  "And that's why you asked if I had a gun? To be careful?"

  We stopped in front of her apartment.

  "Veronica, I don't want anything to happen to you."

  "That makes two of us." Veronica pulled the door handle.

  "I want to see you again," I said. "To continue what we started last night."

  Veronica blinked those gorgeous brown eyes. I couldn't read anything in them except anger.

  She said finally, "Felix, there's so much about you I don't understand. And now I'm at risk for what reason?"

  "I don't…"

  She put a finger in front of my mouth to shush me. "When you find out, then maybe we'll see what can happen."

  Veronica scooted across the leather seat and closed the door.

  The sun was too bright and cheery for the mood that settled on me. I needed storm clouds and cold rain. If I wanted this chilly heartache, I would've found a woman in Seattle.

  But I was in sunny Los Angeles, and my investigation waited.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  At noon I had an appointment with Andrew Tonic, Roxy's lawyer. I had time before the meeting, so I drove to Rosemead and inspected what was left of Fred Daniels's home.

  Piles of furniture, interior accessories, and clothing littered the front grass. Black smudges ringed the windows and doors. Most of the roof had caved in.

  For all his guff about protecting "family business," Henry wasn't around to defend his brother's house from thieves or my snooping. As I poked through the discarded belongings, I discovered why. Everything was scorched, stained, and reeked of smoke. A blackened filing cabinet rested across a sofa. I tried one drawer and it opened, dumping a soggy mush of charred paper.

  The house wasn't in much better condition. The interior looked like it had been decorated by a suicide bomber. If anything important survived the fire, I'd never find it.

  My watch said it was time to go if I wanted to make my appointment with Tonic. I drove to Trixie's Bistro on Wilshire Boulevard, east of a palisade of marble and glass high-rises.

  I had much hope in this meeting with Andrew Tonic. Did he know who murdered Roxy? I doubted that. But Tonic knew something useful about the players in this drama. Useful in what way? Could be that these players-including Cragnow Vissoom, Lucky Rosario, Mordecai Niphe, and Petale Venin-had private agendas they didn't want known? And if the right individual-meaning me-knew these agendas, then the conspiracy behind Roxy's murder would unravel.

  And still nothing new about the real reason I was in Los Angeles: to unmask vampire-human collusion.

  I paused beside a newspaper vending machine on the opposite corner from Trixie's. The bistro was set back from the sidewalk to allow generous seating under the front awning. A white fence bounded the al fresco area. Customers entered between two trellises thick with roses.

  Sliding my sunglasses down my nose, I read auras. Specifically, I searched for a vampire's orange blur. There weren't any. None of the red human auras betrayed a threat. When humans schemed violence, no matter how well they cemented a poker face, their auras advertised their emotionals like
movie posters.

  It was six minutes past noon. I folded my sunglasses into a shirt pocket, put in my contacts, and cut across the intersection.

  The maitre d', an anorexic brunette sporting a crispy tan she must have gotten in a rotisserie, welcomed me. I said I had a reservation with Andrew Tonic. She traced a finger across her seating chart, waved to a server, and asked that I follow him. We snaked around crowded tables and were engulfed by the din of conversations and rattling dishes.

  The server stopped beside a table on the left alongside the white fence. A balding man in a dark tailored suit put down his cocktail glass and stood to greet me.

  I recognized Andrew Tonic from photos on the Internet. Tonic at an award's banquet. Tonic in tennis whites from a country club newsletter. A young and hairy Tonic graduating from the Columbia School of Law.

  He had an egg-shaped head, wide at the top and tapering to a dimpled chin. A series of horizontal wrinkles creased his brow, as if the weight of his legal career had caused his skull to sag. Strands of thinning hair covered his smooth pate. I gave him points for this. In L.A., the land of make-believe and cosmetic anything, Tonic chose to forego the vanity of a rug or hair plugs.

  Tonic motioned to the chair opposite his. The server pulled it out for me, and I thanked him. Tonic and I sat.

  "How's the vodka and tonic?" I asked, knowing how particular Tonic was about the ingredients he used to season his liver.

  He smacked his lips dramatically. "Every sip is like Christmas." An alcoholic haze dulled the shine of his gray eyes. He was on seconds, maybe thirds. Tonic rested his elbows on the table. He wore a thick wedding band and gold cufflinks.

  I scanned the menu. Why did I agree to meet for lunch if I couldn't drench my food with blood? Should I try raw beef? I set the menu aside. "Andrew, I hope you are as eager to talk today as you sounded last week."

  "Even more so."

  "I'm curious about your motives. What do you have to gain by sharing information with me?"

  "Felix, like any lawyer, the skin around my ego is this thick."