Night Blood

by James M. Thompson

  As I talked, I slowly reached behind me and grasped the handle of the sword.

  The other’s eyes were no longer glowing, but had grown dim with fear and uncertainty. Seeing his weakness of will, I realized he was very far along in his illness.

  “Why are you telling me this, and how do you know so much about the Sickness?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, his eyes boring into mine as his weakened mind tried to read my thoughts.

  “Because I can help you escape the pain. I can give you a way out.”

  His lips turned up in a snarl, showing his fangs dripping with saliva, while his hands formed into claws. “Why should you help me? I mean less than nothing to one such as you.”

  I tensed my muscles. He didn’t understand the danger he put all of the rest of us hunters in. “I will help you because with the Sickness you are a danger to all of our kind. If you get too weak to hunt, the mortals might find you, and that would expose us all.”

  “Bullshit.” Hatred radiated from his face and blood-tinged sweat oozed from his pores. “You don’t care about me, and you care even less about our race.”

  He wasn’t far from wrong. The only concern I had with our race was what directly concerned me. I withdrew the katana and held it out for the other to see. “You are wrong,” I said, weary of the argument that could have only one ending. “With this blade I will cause your pain to go away . . . I will free you from the Sickness.”

  The other laughed, then took a step forward. “You can’t kill me . . . we’re immortal,” he yelled with an almost maniacal glee. He hunched his shoulders and snarled, assuming the attack posture. He projected a thought at me with all his strength. Go, go and leave me alone . . . begone from this place. . . .

  The thought, even weakened as it was by illness, blasted at my mind. He was evidently very ancient, for in spite of the Sickness his mental powers were still strong. I shook my head to clear it, turning the thought aside as one might fend off a persistent drunk, and mentally commanded the other, Bend over, expose your neck, and find freedom. Do as I command you . . . Now!

  The other’s face contorted in agony as he fought to resist the thought. Though our bodies remained motionless, our minds embraced and grappled, like two wrestlers straining against each other, each vying for supremacy. The battle, though intense, was short-lived. Slowly, as I repeated the command over and over, the other bent over and extended his neck in supplication, but his eyes remained riveted on me, radiating a strange mixture of hatred and fear, as if I might find mercy and spare his life.

  I swung my right arm almost faster than the eye could follow. The razor-sharp blade of the katana whistled as it sliced through the air, and barely slowed as it severed the other’s neck between the fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae.

  I whirled and, before the head hit the ground, had the can of gasoline in hand and was pouring it over the body, which was still standing as if nothing had happened. As the body slowly crumpled, I poured the remainder of the gasoline on the wide-eyed head, whose eyes were open and watching as I lit a match and started the blaze. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his flesh bubbled and melted under the intense heat, sending up clouds of foul-smelling, oily smoke into the night air.

  I threw the empty can and the bloody katana into the trunk of my car and slipped into his Ferrari, driving it down the street and then leaving it with the door open and the keys in the ignition. I knew it would be stolen by the time the police arrived, and I wanted no clues for them to follow to trace the corpse. I sprinted back to the lot and drove my Mercedes away at a leisurely pace, the horrible sight of the burning body lighting up my rearview mirror.

  I looked at the dashboard clock and saw that the club was now closed and realized I’d missed my chance with the waitress. The Hunger was an almost physical presence within me now, and I felt myself starting to lose control.

  There was no help for it. I had to take the second choice, and I had to hurry before the Hunger made me jump the first person I saw on the street. I got on the freeway and headed out to the Bellaire subdivision, ten minutes from downtown. I had to fight with every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep the car under the speed limit, my hands shaking on the steering wheel; this was no time to be stopped by a patrol car.

  As I exited on the southwest freeway at Bellaire Boulevard, I still had the presence of mind to make a call on my cell phone. I’d already planned something to give myself an out should the authorities begin to close in. I made my call to put my plan in action, then took a right on Sycamore Street, pulling up in front of a house in the middle of the block. There were no lights on in the house, and the neighborhood was without street lamps, a stroke of luck. Under full control of the Hunger by now, I had no patience for stealth or subtlety. I walked up to the front door and forced myself to take one last look around the area. The Hunger was so strong that my entire body was vibrating, my muscles jumping and quivering in their need for sustenance, my face already changing.

  The doorknob was no match for my strength, and, as I twisted, it came off in my hand with a metallic squeal and then a pop. I shoved the door open and walked straight through the living room in search of the bedroom, questing ahead with my mind to find my prey. A baby started to cry in the room to my left, but I ignored it and entered the door on my right.

  As I opened the door, the bedroom light came on and I saw a man in boxer shorts, with rumpled hair and confused eyes, staring at me. The man was leaning over the bedside table and had one hand in the drawer and the other on the lamp, which he was just turning on. The woman next to him had her hands up to her face and her mouth opened to scream.

  Though I moved immediately, the man had time to pull out a large revolver and get off one shot. The force of the slug tearing through my chest turned my body half around, but didn’t slow my progress. I took two quick steps and killed the man with a single backhanded blow to the side of his head. The woman was making gulping, wheezing sounds and trying without success to scream.

  Her eyes were locked in terror on the hole the bullet had made on its way through my body. By the time I circled the bed and sat next to her, the wound had stopped bleeding and had already started to close. The woman ceased trying to scream and was now moaning deep in her throat and staring at her husband, lying half on the bed, his head at a grotesque angle.

  I tenderly caressed her face for a moment, forcing myself to be as gentle as the Hunger would allow, then turned her head to look at me. With my last ounce of control, I rasped, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  My face continued the change begun earlier, my features coalescing and shifting, my fangs growing and protruding while my pointed tongue flicked at my lips in anticipation. I lowered my head to her neck.

  As I got closer, the smell of the warm blood coursing through her arteries caused me to lose control. Drool dripped from my lips as I enclosed her throat with my mouth, and I began to feed. After a few seconds, she ceased her struggle, and her moans of fear became groans of desire. She pushed her throat into my face and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into her.

  I had time to wonder, before the Hunger turned me into an unreasoning killing machine, why in some victims my violation of them was felt as a sexual release. My hands began to fondle her breasts and I could feel my penis grow rigid in my pants. Then the Hunger took over, and I began to rend and tear, all thought of sex abolished. Her limbs straightened in spasm, pommeling the bed in a dance of death as I sucked the life out of her.

  Seven

  Being single isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Matt thought when he got home from the autopsy. He spent most of the rest of his day off doing the mundane, boring things that all singles do on weekends. He did his laundry, took his clinic jackets and dress shirts to the cleaners, and picked up the ones he’d left there the previous weekend, then went grocery shopping. “Not exactly the sort of things most people envision ‘rich and famous single doctors’ doing in their spare time, is it?”
he asked his reflection in the mirror over the frozen foods section, then quickly looked around to make sure no one had seen him talking to himself. “Whoa, Matt, you got to get a life, son,” he muttered to himself as he pushed the cart down the aisle.

  By six o’clock he’d finished his chores and was looking forward to the weekly poker game with his friends. To prepare, he fixed himself a high-protein, high-carbohydrate supper of steak, potatoes, and salad with ranch dressing, topped off with a chocolate malt.

  To amateurs, a poker game is just a game, where the lucky win and the unlucky lose. Not so! Matt told himself as he sat down to eat. A poker game is like a marathon race. To win, you must prepare carefully and pace yourself for the long haul. That means eating right, and playing the odds while resisting the impulse to plunge and bet on emotion or pride. It’s also important to study your opponents and know both their strengths and weaknesses.

  This week, the game was scheduled at his father’s house. Matt’s parents lived in Spring Branch, a middle-class suburb of Houston that had stayed pretty much the same over the years since he grew up there.

  Matt sometimes thought his grandparents were psychic when they named his dad James MacArthur Carter. He certainly turned out to have many of the same characteristics as his namesake. During his time on the Houston police force, James Carter was known as a good and loyal friend and a mean and dangerous enemy. But even his enemies had a healthy respect for his intelligence, and the department under him had a better than respectable arrest and conviction ratio.

  Matt grew up somewhat distant from his father, James working most of the time and Matt being heavily involved in athletics and preparing for medical school. In spite of that, however, in the years since his dad retired and he started work at the medical center, they had become quite close.

  When Matt pulled into the driveway, he saw that the other players were already there. Shooter’s red ’66 Mustang convertible was parked in front of the house, as disreputable looking as ever. Shooter shared Matt’s love for classic cars, and had bought the old Mustang several years before, intending to restore it in his spare time. Unfortunately, he hadn’t done a lick of work on it since, and it still sported one black fender and a ragged convertible top missing the rear window. Matt always wondered what Shooter did when it rained.

  Matt’s mother answered the door, giving him a hug as if she hadn’t seen him in weeks. Matt always thought his mom could be the model for June Cleaver, the Beave’s mother. After having Matt somewhat late in life, she gave up her career as a psychologist, feeling that a mother should stay home with children and be there when they got home from school. She loved to entertain, and having the poker party at their house seemed to energize her and made her seem younger than her sixty-five years.

  “Go on into the den, dear, the men are just setting up the table.”

  Matt kissed her on the cheek and told her to keep the liquor and beer flowing. She laughed, knowing how much he liked to play poker against people who let alcohol give them false bravado. “Why do you think the casinos in Vegas pass out free drinks?” he’d asked her once, adding, “It’s amazing how a few drinks makes the odds of drawing to an inside straight seem almost a sure thing.”

  By the time Matt fixed himself a Coke—straight, no alcohol—and entered the den, the table was set up and the game was ready to begin. As he counted his chips, one hundred dollars’ worth, he surveyed his opponents at the table and what he knew about their strategy.

  His dad was probably the best player at the table. He played a conservative, no-nonsense game of poker. He was adept at counting cards, and usually knew pretty much what everyone at the table had in their hands, or what hand they were trying to make. Matt often used him as his barometer, folding when he did if he didn’t have a very good hand. Being a detective for so long, his dad had learned to read people, and was rarely wrong in deciding if someone was bluffing or not.

  Shooter Kowolski sat at James Carter’s left. Matt thought his friend had the eyes of a snake watching a bird; Shooter missed very little of what went on around him. His poker game was typical of his outlook on life and his approach to his job as a detective. He trusted his gut feelings, and occasionally made bets based on what he hoped rather than what the cards showed him. This unpredictability made him hard to read, and he either did very well in the game, if he was lucky, or very badly if the cards were against him. Either way, he always had a great time and seemed to enjoy the game whether he won or lost.

  Next to Shooter was the seat usually reserved for Charlie McDaniels, one of the city councilmen and an old friend of James Carter’s. Charlie wasn’t present, due to an inflamed gall bladder, and Shooter had invited his boss, Damon Clark, to take his place.

  As Matt was introduced to the new player, he thought about what he’d read about Clark in the newspapers when he took over as chief of detectives. He’d been praised as one of the “new breed of police administrators.” He was the youngest chief of detectives in the history of the Houston Police Department, and also the first black man to rise above the level of sergeant.

  He stood about six feet two inches tall and wore tortoiseshell glasses, a Georgio Armani tie, and what looked to Matt like a custom-tailored dress shirt of pure silk with his initials on the cuffs. He was soft-spoken and erudite in his manner, and Matt remembered the newspapers said he had a sharp, analytical mind and was reputed to be as much at home with computers as he was with the .38 Police Special he wore in his hip holster. Matt thought he remembered reading that Clark was a Harvard man, and then he noticed a phi beta kappa key on his coat hanging on the back of his chair. Matt vowed to be careful of the chief. Anyone this smart would have no trouble figuring the odds involved in poker. He would be a dangerous opponent in the upcoming game, and Matt made a note to watch him carefully for the first few hands.

  The other two men in the game were less worrisome. Grant Jones was a manager of the nearby Foleys Department Store, and played a straight unimaginative game and usually broke about even, neither winning nor losing much.

  Next to him was John Ashby, the mechanic in charge of the police garage. He also did freelance mechanic work and was the man most responsible for keeping Matt’s Corvette in good running order. He was much better with engines than with cards and usually managed to lose enough to Matt in the weekly games to cover the frequent tune-ups that the temperamental Corvette’s carburetor required.

  The game was dollar limit, three raises, with only straight poker allowed, no wild cards. As poker games went, it was pretty low stakes, with no one winning or losing more than a couple of hundred dollars.

  The first hour went about as Matt figured it would, with him being ahead seventy-four dollars, his dad ahead twenty, Shooter down thirty, Damon up twenty, and Jones and Ashby down about forty each.

  At eight o’clock, James Carter stretched and said, “Let’s take a break. Claire has laid out a buffet and she’ll kill me if we don’t eat it.” He grinned and winked at Shooter. “Also, I figure you smokers are about ready to kill for a cigarette. We’ll resume in”—he looked at his watch—“about fifteen minutes.”

  The men knew Matt’s mom didn’t allow smoking in the house, so the smokers held off until the break, when they would adjourn to the back porch and suck down a couple of cigarettes to tide them over until the next break.

  As Matt was pouring himself a cup of coffee, Shooter put his hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Matt, Damon would like a quick word with you.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Out on the back porch if ya can stand the smoke.”

  Matt grabbed a couple of tuna sandwich squares and took them and his coffee to the porch. Damon was leaning over his cupped hands, lighting a cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter, when Shooter and Matt walked up.

  He exhaled twin streams of smoke from his nostrils and said, “Matt, Shooter tells me you worked on the girl that was brought in to Ben Taub last night.”

  Matt sipped his coffee, wondering what he wanted. “Yeah, for about fiv
e minutes. She had lost so much blood that it was hopeless from the start.”

  Clark took another drag, looking up at the stars that lay spread across the sky like diamond dust on black velvet. “Were you at the autopsy done by Dr. Silver this morning?”

  I wonder how he knew that, Matt thought. “Yes, but you must already know that or you wouldn’t ask.”

  Clark grinned, cutting his eyes over at Shooter, who was lighting his own cigarette, pretending not to be listening. “Okay, you caught me. I just want to know what Silver found, and I’d rather not have to wait for the paperwork to find its way across town to my office.”

  Matt stuffed one of the sandwiches into his mouth, washing it down with coffee. He didn’t think it would be violating patient confidentiality to tell, since the chief was entitled to the report of any suspected homicide. “Well, it’s pretty much like Shooter saw Friday night. The girl’s throat was cut, ripped open really, and she had huge tears in the vaginal area. The combined blood loss from those two areas just about drained her dry.”

  He stared at Matt for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. “Anything else? Anything you’re not telling me?”

  Matt glanced at Shooter, beginning to get a little angry. He had his back turned, still distancing himself from their conversation. “Chief,” Matt said as patiently as he could manage, “I’m really not the one to answer your questions about the autopsy. That’s Dr. Silver’s bailiwick, and I’d prefer that you ask him about his findings, not me.”

  Clark stared at Matt for another moment, then shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray Matt’s mom kept on the porch. “Okay, Matt, fair enough. Do you think you and Dr. Silver would be able to stop by my office Monday morning and discuss the case?”

  “It’s okay with me, I’ve only got two classes Monday morning and they’re over by ten,” Matt answered, wondering just what was so special about this case that the chief wanted a personal report from the medical examiner. “I’ll be there by ten-thirty, but you’ll have to ask Dr. Silver about his schedule, I can’t speak for him.”