by Jackie Ivie
Cannot Unite
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
12th in series
Copyright 2013, Jackie Ivie
Smashwords Edition
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Flaked iron oxide.
Jeannette rubbed the particles between her latex-gloved thumb and fingers, watching the rust turn to fine granules that floated down and became dust. Same thing was left at the other murder site. In Philly. That…and a dead body with a lot of bruising and an equal amount of blood loss. Only difference was, this time the victim had managed a 9-1-1 call. That must have been what spared him some of the blood depletion.
“It’s rust, Lady.”
“I know.”
“Forensics already has a baggie full of the stuff.”
“Well…they missed some.”
“Who the hell cares about a little rust?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
She ignored the police officer escorting her. They’d given her an Officer Johnson today. He had a first name. She’d forgotten it the moment they’d been introduced. The guy was full desk jockey. Overweight and out of shape. Winded just from walking with her. Not much different from the policeman who’d been with her in Philly yesterday.
Jeannette walked around the chalked outline of a body to where two small spots of blood had hit the concrete. Forensics had already swabbed and no doubt bagged the evidence, but that wasn’t what she was looking for. There should be some arterial spray. Some sign of trauma. Something. Even hunched down in a squat, she couldn’t see any color other than what looked like a half-acre of light gray floor. Pretty nice floor, streaked intermittently with sunbeams from high-placed windows. Looked like it had even been waxed recently. Everything was nearly identical to the last time. Only in Philly, the body had been drained of over three quarts of blood. According to the police report, this one had lost significantly less. Probably due to that 9-1-1 call. Where would the blood be?
“You finished?”
“Just getting started, Officer.”
He sighed, loudly and heavily.
“You don’t have to stay,” she offered.
“Oh yes, I do. You’re my assignment for the day. I get to make sure nothing is messed with at the crime scene due to your hokie stuff.”
“Then I thank you,” she answered calmly, keeping the sarcasm out of her voice. It wasn’t easy. It was never easy around the uninitiated and closed-minded.
The crime scene faded. Warped. Became nightfall. If she blinked just right, she could end the vision. But that wasn’t what she was getting paid for. She tensed. Carlos Carlotti had been a second son. He’d been known for his big spending ways and his success with the ladies…and his movement to the top of the firm after the sudden death of his older brother in Philadelphia six weeks ago. The Senior Carlotti wanted this solved before they came after Son Number Three. That’s why he’d walked into her little shop two days ago, with a full retinue of bodyguards and a job offer.
Saying no wasn’t an option. She’d gotten that part instantly.
In her mind it was dark again, the cavernous warehouse lit by large round lights dangling from the rafters some two stories up. Carlos was lighting a cigarette. Smiling. Waving to his driver as the guy drove away, leaving him alone…for what? A new lady-friend? Maybe…a married lady-friend? What else would explain letting his security force leave him alone and vulnerable? Carlos reached for his neck, his fingers touching on the image of a recently inked tattoo...
Hmm.
That looked like a scorpion stinger. She assumed the rest of the insect graced his shoulder. Interesting design. Probably looked pretty sweet once he took his shirt off. If he’d kept up with his work-outs and stayed away from Italian restaurants, that is. As she watched, Carlos pulled out a cell phone and started pushing numbers. If she concentrated, she’d have it…there was a six. Four. Eight.
A length of chain slapped through the area, clanking and thudding as it looped three times about Carlos’ body. He screamed. The hand outside the chain embrace shook. And yet, somehow he managed to hang onto the phone.
Well…that explained the 9-1-1 call.
Before the call went through, a dark shadow slammed into Carlos, sending him to the floor, rust particles accompanying the move. The shadow became a man. Jeannette concentrated. No…not just any man. This one seemed plucked out of time long past. He was unbelievably masculine. Immense. Extremely muscular. A wicked-looking sword was strapped across his back. With that he wore low-slung, scuffed trousers of some brownish material, and nothing else. As if to show it all off. No…that couldn’t be right. Someone had damaged him. The portion of his back she could see was scarred in sections of stripes. How awful. Barbaric. He was in serious need of grooming, too. Especially his hair. Mid-back length, it was tied back with what looked like a length of rawhide about his forehead. And somehow he sensed her…
Watching.
His head turned. Her breath caught. Her heart stalled. He had vivid green eyes. Impossible to forget features…
And fangs.
“Hey. Want a breath mint?”
The officer’s voice interfered. Jeannette started. She was cold. Trembling. She blinked continuously and rapidly on the sun-streaked floor in front of her until the tremors calmed. And then she reached for the box of mints he held out. Jeannette watched her fingers pick out a mint. She put it on her tongue. Sucked on it. Good. It was spearmint. She liked spearmint. Always had. The mint melted slowly. She stuck it to the roof of her mouth, following the mundane back to normalcy. As always.
“You look a bit peaked, there. You okay?”
Darn. She’d hoped to disguise the reaction. Jeannette pasted a smile on her face and looked up at him. Not because he was that tall, she just was diminutive. She had to look up at practically everyone.
“We can leave now,” she told him.
“Really? You’re done?”
She nodded.
“Great. Come on. I’ll see you out.”
“Thank you.”
She should’ve worn heels. Or put her hair atop her head. Or, maybe asked for an escort shorter than five foot eight. He moved the crime scene tape aside for her to precede him, and put his hand along the small of her back when he’d finished. She skipped out of reach easily. Maybe it was a good thing she’d worn flats.
“So. You have any plans for today?”
“Uh…no.”
“Me, either. Want to catch some dinner later? Maybe a movie?”
He had to be kidding. The guy was about twenty years older than her, packed enough weight he had a hard time reaching his steering wheel, and probably had an ex-wife or two in his past. And some kids.
“No thank you. I have some calls to make.”
“Well. If you change your mind, or get lonely—”
“I won’t.” She interrupted him.
The sun outside was golden. Warm for spring. Ten thirty a.m. Even in the warehouse district, sunshine managed to reach through to the street. And she didn’t have to jog across the street to feel it since they were on the sunlit side. Jeannette looked up, and closed her eyes, letting the warmth leach through some of the leftover chill. The impact�
�from that man. He’d had such amazing green eyes.
…and fangs.
“The spirits aren’t working today, huh?”
Officer Johnson had walked off the step onto the sidewalk. Jeannette brought her head down and looked directly across at him.
“I didn’t say that,” she told him.
“We spent five minutes in there and now we’re leaving. What would you call it?”
“Tell the coroner the item behind the bruising is chains. Chain links crafted about one inch size…but flat. And squared. It’s an ancient design.”
“Ah. That would explain the rust,” Officer Johnson said.
“There is only one perpetrator. In both murders. Both cities.”
“Same one?”
Jeannette waited. He might not take her seriously, but he fished a pocket notebook out and started scribbling in it.
“And they need to look closely at the deceased’s scorpion tattoo.”
The officer flipped the notebook closed and gave her a deadpan look he’d probably perfected years before meeting her. “He didn’t have a scorpion tattoo. I know. I just read his police record this morning.”
“Check his autopsy report when it’s done. He had a scorpion tattoo. Just got it. It’s on his shoulder.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“But the interesting section will be on the stinger portion of his neck. Tell them to look for two puncture wounds. This far apart.” She opened her fingers about an inch-and-a-half.
“Right. You want me to tell them we’re looking for a vampire? Oh, brother. I’m going to get laughed out of the station.”
“There are no such things as vampires, Officer Johnson.”
“No such things as psychics, either.”
He had his mirrored sunglasses on now. Jeannette watched herself smile without much emotion.
“Nice talking to you.”
Jeannette swung her hobo bag over her shoulder, stepped down onto the pavement, did a forty-five degree turn to the right, and started walking. The sun felt so good. So warm. So…safe. He called her name once. She ignored him. There wasn’t any answer she could give that he’d accept, and none she could invent. She still had to tell her client. And she was scared.
The least of her worries was Officer Johnson.
CHAPTER TWO
The woman regarded him solemnly, without blinking, her dark brown eyes large with mystery, while the most hypnotic spark happened somewhere deep within the brown as she gazed at him. Nothing about her carried revulsion or disgust. But there was something. Something…
Rare.
KayNan’s eyes opened and he sat up, scanning the cubicle of space he claimed. It was claustrophobically small and stiflingly quiet. As always. Exactly as he liked it. If he stood to full height, his head grazed the ceiling. The only way to stretch was lengthwise. The chamber was just shy of a yard wide. Barely penetrable dim pervaded the area. Cold and dampness kept it company. A scent of corrosion permeated the very stone walls and floor. From there it reached out to embrace the eleven loops of chains dangling from big, iron nails along the three of the four walls. The entire area reeked of decay. That was how his servant, Marten, described it, and that’s exactly why KayNan liked it. It usually kept everyone well away from this section of the estate.
And that included women.
He finished checking the small area. Everything was precisely what he expected. Exactly as it had been for centuries. But that didn’t explain the woman. The one with the enormous dark brown eyes…large enough he could sink into their depths and enjoy the trip.
KayNan shook his head at this nonsense, rattling a small length of chain. That was the problem. He awakened before evening because he’d rested without undressing fully. One of the pegs wasn’t carrying its full complement of iron. There wasn’t a woman. He wasn’t poetic. He didn’t possess an imagination. Slavery had robbed that from him long before death finalized it. And he didn’t dream. He never dreamt.
KayNan fingered the small links of his neck chain, and then stopped as a tingle of sensation slipped from his finger pads into his palms. It was barely there…but he could swear he felt…something. He felt it! His eyes flew wide and he dropped the links, barely noticing how they thudded back into place against his chest. The strangeness was happening to his feet, too. KayNan stared down at them. The stone beneath him was brought from an old castle they’d been demolishing in the eighteenth century. He’d bought it and had it shipped over, and this little room created, because that’s all he’d known. Space was an oddity he now claimed, but rarely tasted. Luxuries had the same issue. He rested in a cubicle that resembled the room he’d shared with three other slaves, then two. One…then just him.
The tingling moved to encompass his wrists and ankles, deciding him. The cubicle had a wooden door with a big iron keyhole. Humans had lost the key when he’d had this home constructed, around this cell that had been moved and recreated, stone by stone. The key loss wasn’t an issue. Nobody ever locked the door.
KayNan shoved it open and blinked against the onslaught of richness and space and light – way too much light. What was happening? And why him? It didn’t look to be much past noon. Spring sun bisected the cavernous room where he should be sleeping with slashes of light. He should’ve ordered the window shades drawn. But why would he? April wasn’t known for daylight hours. And North Dakota was known for even less. Less everything. Light. People. Resources. That’s why he’d picked it. Nobody noticed the dynamiting that happened over a period of decades. Few noticed carriages, and then rail cars, and then truckloads of construction material and luxury goods getting delivered to a place so near the Canadian border and so far from civilization. Especially since it took over a century to design, craft, and finish his underground palace, and he’d used firms that weren’t well-known. Any that survived the Black Tuesday stock crash got eliminated some other way. They weren’t missed. Nobody noticed. Few cared.
The tingling sensation moved to his forearms, as well as climbed upward through his calves. KayNan worked the areas, appalled and yet amazed to feel his own muscles stretch and pull. He must have picked up an illness. Some heretofore unknown disease. Akron had given KayNan immortality and with it, the basics. Centuries of existence had given him everything else, and yet nowhere was it listed that an Immortal could pick up a weird disorder such as this. Maybe the Hunters had formulated one. He’d need instruction. An antidote. Something.
The mass of glazed Italian tile underfoot turned into thick carpet that swallowed his toes. And he felt it! KayNan sped up to a jog before he reached his tech room. Marten was probably still about, keeping an eye on things. The man must be nearing his seventies. He hadn’t seen his employer for decades. KayNan wondered if the old fellow’s heart could handle it.
And then he watched his own hand tremble at the doorknob.
Nobody was in his tech room. And it was dark. KayNan padded across the black slate floor and slid into an ergonomically designed black leather chair that he could actually feel with the backs of his thighs and against his shoulders. He couldn’t get the PC activated fast enough. Walls of flat screen televisions dominated the space, all going live simultaneously to show the electrical signature of the pipsqueak, Nigel.
KayNan almost groaned.
“Wow. Hey. Look who’s calling…our very own Barbarian. Holy crap. KayNan, my man. You look worse than when you took out that Raj-Put Prince. ‘Course I wasn’t around at the time and only have portraits to go by. And the painters were fairly flattering of your prowess, but hey. Aren’t those the same trousers?”
“Where’s the Crusader?”
“On some sort of Second Honeymoon. It was supposed to last three days. Akron gave him a couple of months since he played The Mating Card.”
“What?”
“You know. He’s mated. We aren’t. We don’t know how it is—”
“Get me Akron then,” KayNan interrupted him.
“Already here.”
“I was just getting ready to send the call through, Sir.”
“And I’m Napoleon Bonaparte,” Akron answered.
The levity was so surprising there was dead silence for a moment. And then Nigel snorted.
“Right. You want me to disconnect?”
“Depends on KayNan. Well?”
KayNan considered it for a bit. Nigel was young. Immature. Looked about nineteen. He’d been changed after an automobile accident that should’ve killed him, and would’ve if Akron hadn’t stepped in. As the heir to the Hunter organization, it was totally against type. And completely unappreciated. The Beethan Clan blamed the Vampire Assassin League for Nigel’s un-death and subsequent betrayal. Especially at such a young age. Unfortunately, Nigel hadn’t seemed to have gained any insight or maturity since then.
Then again…this curse was so new, maybe Nigel could help.
“He can stay,” KayNan replied.
“Cool,” Nigel replied.
“So…what can we do for you today?” Akron asked.
“I’ve got trouble.”
“Can I ask something before we get started?” Nigel asked.
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you use that immense rock shower of yours up there? I mean, it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen, and you never even turn it on. Or invite me up. What a place for a party.”
“Nigel—”
“No. Wait.” KayNan stopped Akron. “What’s a party?”
“You know. A bunch of guys. A lot of women. Some ripe blood. Some great tunes. Some nakedness. Some water sports…you know. Like your shower. Or that awesome sunken hot tub. I think that could hold eight before anyone even gets cold.”
“Cold?”
The weirdness moved into his chest. KayNan locked his muscles to fight the dim sound of what couldn’t possibly be a heartbeat. He didn’t have a heart. And if he did, it was as dead and unfeeling as the rest of him. Or…as the rest of him should be.
