by Owen, Kelli
“Ding ding, that would be me.” His mouth twisted into a smirk to match his snarky tone of voice. “Sounds like a plan, until you meet my mother.”
“That’s a battle for another day. For today, let’s get you back to the house and settled in. There’s no one visiting right now, so you have your choice of rooms, and Max will want to talk to you.”
“House?” Dillon watched her stand but didn’t immediately follow suit. “Max?”
“Well, I call it a house. It was once. Or maybe a bed-and-breakfast? I don’t know. It’s freaking huge though. The downstairs is all library, with a kitchen tucked into the back and a small parlor we use for weekly meetings. The upstairs is studies, bathrooms, quarters, and—wait for it—a free bed.” She smiled and held out a hand, offering to help him stand. “Come on, it’s actually right around the block from the park.”
“Wait. Right here? In town?” Dillon wondered how his mother hadn’t been aware of this, knowing she would have completely freaked out at its existence.
“Right here. We’ve been right here for decades. We just don’t jump up and down and announce it. Don’t want to invite hate.”
He nodded and stood without her assistance, swooping low to grab his backpack without ever taking his eyes off her. Her speech was too young, her word choices fresh.
She can’t be more than twenty-five.
“Wrong.” She turned and started to walk down the right path. “And only one of the many things we can teach you. We age to about twenty-two or so and then our appearance hangs right there for a couple decades. Then you’ll age to fortyish and hang there. And so on. Remember, we live a lot longer. And thank God we don’t spend the last half looking like we’re a hundred. Although Max is starting to look his age.”
— TWENTY-ONE —
Connor opened the cupboard and pulled out a metallic travel mug with a faded logo on it. He twisted the top off and set it on the counter as he grabbed the mug Jacqueline had filled for him, prepared to dump it in and leave.
“Really?” She knew his actions without words meant overtime at the station. The silence was his way of not bringing it up and having a fight about it. His plan was to slip out the door before she noticed. But he’d been noticed.
“I’ve got some things about this case bothering the hell out of me, hon. And I didn’t sleep for shit. I’m going to meet with Rogers in the morgue and go over things. Maybe we’ll figure out what I’m missing.”
“You working on the murder that was on TV?” Tamara appeared in her pajamas. Her hair was a tangled mess that had been neat braids when she went to bed, and yesterday’s mascara was smeared haphazardly.
“Um, yes.” He hated talking about work with them.
“Murder?” Jacqueline looked between the two of them and furrowed her brows.
He put the travel mug down and sat with the full coffee cup in his hand. “Okay. But only because it may affect us.”
“What?” Tamara’s eyes widened as her mouth hung open in a circle of shock. “Wait, I need a Pop-Tart.” She went to the corner cabinet and grabbed the entire box of strawberry Pop-Tarts. Retrieving a two-pack, she left the box on the counter and turned back to them. She tore open the packaging and bit the corner off one of the dry pastries inside.
“You know those are a million times better when toasted, with butter.” He grimaced at her eating it raw.
“Yeah well, apparently it doesn’t matter, it’s useless to me in its lovely sugary carby state. Hey, I wonder if they make meat flavored?” She nodded at her mother with a mischievous look on her face, which suggested they look into the possibility.
“Gross.” Jacqueline had been deflecting Tamara’s black humor regarding their new menu plans all week. “Now hush, I want to hear what your father has to say.”
Tamara rolled her eyes and took another bite.
“Connor? Affect us how?” The worry creased her brow and seemed to darken her eyes.
“Just that there’s a murderer loose. That pretty much affects everyone in his territory.” He tried to inform them without telling them anything not publicly reported already.
“A murderer loose? Okay, that doesn’t sound like the thugs you normally hunt down. Even those who have killed are usually just thugs with guns to you. But that phrase? Loose. That sounds… ominous. What gives?”
Connor looked at his wife and daughter, pausing on Tamara long enough to get her to meet his gaze. “You cannot talk about this to anyone. Period. You’ll throw off the investigation and could get people hurt. Killed.”
Tamara nodded, still chewing, her eyes once again wide but with a more serious undertone. She swallowed loudly.
“I know you usually avoid the news because of my job, but there have been several murders. And I think they’re all connected.”
“Several?” Jacqueline put her cup down and sat a little taller.
“Are these—” Tamara spit a couple crumbs and held up her hand while she finished chewing the bite and swallowed. “Are these vampire murders?” She reached across the table and grabbed her mother’s coffee cup, taking a sip to wash down the Pop-Tart.
“Lamian.” Jacqueline corrected her as she stood and retrieved a glass of milk for Tamara.
“No Mom, when they’re murderous thugs, they’re vampires. Just like white trash and every other horrible derogatory term is used when earned.”
“No, Tam. They’re lamian.” Connor sided with Jacqueline. “No matter what they’ve done. And maybe this guy is. Maybe… Yes. But not likely. It looks like the perp is trying to make it look like teeth, and he’s taking—” Connor stopped himself, they didn’t need to know certain details.
“So it’s a human trying to frame lamians? Seriously? How is that even a thing?” Tamara pulled the second Pop-Tart from the packaging, crumpled the wrapper, and tossed it across the table toward the garbage can. The wad unfurled itself, as the lightweight foil barely made it past the edge of the table and floated to the floor. She rolled her eyes at the missed basket but addressed her father. “Damn.”
Jacqueline glanced sideways at her daughter before reaching down to retrieve the discarded wrapper. She dropped it in the trash, set the glass of milk in front of her daughter, and sat back down.
Connor spoke, as though the missed basketball try-outs in his kitchen hadn’t distracted him. “Actually, I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. The hate crimes are out of control in some areas of the world. Some cities in this country are actually downright dangerous for a lamian to try to visit, let alone live in. And why not fake something or frame lamians, right? If you truly hate someone or something, why not try and grow hatred in others, cultivate it, by proving your hate is warranted. They do it with fake news, social media drama, why not take it the next step and prove they’re violent by killing people and pinning it on lamian?”
“That’s seriously effed up, Dad.”
“And hard to track down. But there’s something to these victims. Something—”
“Which murders? All of them?”
“Yeah. The two men in their homes, two kids on the field, and…” Connor paused, swallowing the memory of the football field and hiding how much it had affected him by pretending to debate how much to tell them. “Maybe more. I don’t know yet, for sure, which ones are truly tied together. Two for sure, probably four, and quite likely all five.”
He knew in his head, the one Springfield had emailed over was part of the same case. And fucking Pettijohn let it slip to the press. But they didn’t have proof yet. That’s what he needed to check out.
The file had been sent over Thursday, and he immediately requested an exhumation. The judge had dismissed it as unnecessary, stating the cause of death had been misadventure, but said if they could show significant doubt he’d reconsider. And the chief had given him extra manpower based solely on him instincti
vely tying them all together. He needed to keep those extra officers. He might need more than the two of them. He needed to stop this guy.
Springfield’s coroner was a woman who had been both a doctor and an FBI teacher before retiring to her civic position. She was meeting Connor and Rogers this morning to look over their cases, the bodies, to see if they could connect the dots. The Springfield case had been a Riverside resident. He’d only landed on their slab because the river had taken him downstream to their department. Two dead in their homes with clean puncture wounds, two dead kids but only one punctured in the neck with what looked like a different instrument, and a floater bagged and tagged downstream with wounds to the neck. All at night. All within a month. Most of them missing at least some blood, not quite drained like the news was reporting. Only the football player seemed to be handled differently. They had to be connected.
Tamara’s voice broke through his thoughts and he looked up at her. “What?”
“I knew those kids. I mean, I didn’t hang out with them or like them even, but I knew them. We had a whole assembly yesterday because of it. They brought in shrinks for the drama queens who were crying over kids they didn’t even know. And we got lectured on staying in groups of two and not being out at night.” She paused, her gaze seemed to be focused elsewhere. “The two of them were together on the football field and it didn’t seem to do them any good. It didn’t keep them safe.”
“It was also nighttime,” Connor pointed out. “But the suggestion is valid. Don’t walk to and from school anymore, okay. Not until we catch this guy.”
Tamara looked at her father with a sardonic twinkle in her eye and a thin know-it-all simper.
“I promise not to be late anymore.” He sighed at her unspoken accusation. “And if I am, you stay right there and wait for me. Got it?”
Tamara nodded.
“Go, hon. Go to the station and stop this asshole.” Jacqueline’s voice and expression were sincere.
Connor nodded and stood. “Thanks. I know you hate when I work on the weekends, but—”
“Yeah, but I hate being afraid even more.” She stood up and kissed him. “Plus, now I get to demand you take us out to dinner to make up for it.”
“Oh, Pizza Hut!” Tamara raised both hands as if she’d won something.
“That’s not dinner, that’s crap. Let’s get our money’s worth.” Jacqueline winked at Connor.
“Fine. Call and make the reservations. I’ll be back by six.”
— TWENTY-TWO —
Henry drove past the old bed-and-breakfast slowly, looking for signs of activity. He’d learned it was a lamian facility when an article was posted in the Community section of the newspaper several years back, before he’d dropped out of school. The Lamplight Foundation—run by lamians—was meant to educate and house other, newer, naïve lamians. They didn’t advertise, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing anything about them after the article, but they were still there. Still keeping all their information, all their secrets, inside the old bed-and-breakfast.
Henry had attended the Monday meetings twice, eager to learn, to belong. But when they asked why he was there, they knew he wasn’t one of them. He claimed he wanted to learn, but their questions made him nervous and he stopped going. He still sat outside on the occasional Monday, wishing he could be inside. Be part of them. Part of their history. And he drove by when he was mentally submersed in his obsession with becoming as close as he could to being a vampire.
He’d been twitching since his meal Friday. The news getting it wrong about his motives had angered him. It put him in a foul mood. All he could smell was the bleach from cleaning the bucket, rather than the lovely blood pancakes wafting through the kitchen. His mood soured his senses, and dinner had tasted bitter because of it.
He’d spent Saturday on the Internet looking into black market tissue and blood, and he’d been turned around several times trying to figure out the Dark Web. He started to get uneasy as he realized he was suddenly receiving ads surprisingly close to the things he had only spoken of, to himself, but not actually searched for online. His dead-end searches and sense of being watched only frustrated him, and he declared it a waste of time. He needed something more immediate.
He knew he’d have the blood from the boy’s penis later in the day—afraid it would spoil inside the flesh if he waited too long. And then he was down to the half jar. He was upset about everything else and running low on blood—not a good combination for his mood.
He drove away from the mansion, noting there were only two cars in the parking area behind the building.
He drove through the town slowly, casually going under the speed limit down Main Street and watching everyone. The town was quiet, as most were either in church or still in bed. A couple of shop owners were visible, preparing for the day. Beyond the edge of the small shops was the strip mall with its empty lot and dark windows. Only a couple of the stores in Riverside were open on Sundays, and even those wouldn’t open for another hour or so. The business district ended at a stoplight, and Henry paused, waiting for it to turn green.
To his left, the new elementary school, a daycare, a playground, and a church were easily seen from the intersection. Around them was a smattering of older homes—those too stubborn to leave when the area became overpopulated with children. To the right he knew several more churches were nestled among the more residential side of town leading to the river.
The river.
The light turned green and he turned to the right. The left would be quiet, empty. The right would have people to watch, to want.
Older people sitting on their porches with their coffee watched him drive by, nodding occasionally from politeness rather than recognition. Younger people stared at their phones or talked to whoever was near them, paying him no mind at all. An occasional dog walker or early morning jogger did yet another loop on their known trek.
The Riverside High School lot was empty and the field silent—no sports practices were on Sundays—but both church lots were full. The bells rang as he drove by and he knew the nine o’clock mass was about to begin at the huge, overstated Catholic church.
An old-model Saturn sat idling in the church parking lot, gentle plumes of exhaust rising in the October morning air. It was the same light blue color as the broken robin’s egg Henry found the previous spring near his eaves. Inside, a woman with jet-black hair was clutching the steering wheel with her head tilted backwards. He slowed down and saw her mouth open wide for several moments, before she flopped her head forward into her hands. He looked around. The other cars were all empty. The doors to the church had closed. Here was a female by herself, as if she were a sacrifice to him.
But it’s a church parking lot. In broad daylight. He shook his head at the fleeting notion.
Henry looked back to the road and drove past the churches and homes until he came to the curve at the edge of town where the river went under an old stone bridge covered in loose gravel. He pulled over. The excitement of even debating whether to kill the woman or not had been enough to quicken his pulse and awaken his hunger. He needed to calm down. Scouting was one thing, but getting caught for recklessness was something else.
The bridge spanned the Green River, recently renamed because its original name had been deemed derogatory to the natives of the area. It had originally been a covered wooden bridge, but was replaced with a stone version with short walls sometime before World War I. In the mid-seventies, steel beams had been sunk into the riverbed to reinforce the center, and an underbelly of grid work was meant to act as a net and keep it from collapsing. But the stones were beginning to crumble under the weight of more traffic than it had ever been intended to hold. And rather than rebuild, the city simply covered the bridge with loose gravel to hide the flakes of stone falling to the ground from the short walls on either side of the narrow overpass. Tourists and outsiders
who didn’t know the history drove over it without a care. Locals held their breath while crossing.
Beyond the bridge, the road continued on to several small but expensive developments before entering farm country and eventually leading to the highway. To the left, the river wrapped back around the northern end of town. To the right, it flowed away from Riverside and lazily meandered around large rock formations for several miles before circling the outskirts of Springfield. He looked at the river and remembered the first night he’d tasted blood. Right there on that bridge.
He’d been coming back from seeing a movie in Springfield. He couldn’t even remember what the movie had been now—only that it hadn’t been as good as the reviews made it out to be. He didn’t see the jogger wearing the dark blue running suit. The jogger didn’t hear him approaching due to his headphones, blaring whatever he was using for motivation to exercise. Henry had looked away for only a second. When he looked up, he was on the bridge, the jogger was in front of him, and there was nowhere to go. No way to swerve.
He slammed his brakes but it was too late, and the gravel made the car slide, almost hydroplaning, rather than come to a sharp stop.
He only clipped the jogger. The man didn’t come up onto the hood, or slam into the window. Instead, he seemed to spin as if doing some crazy dance move and was flung into the old stone wall of the bridge. Surprisingly, the momentum didn’t send him over the stones and into the water, but instead stopped him and he fell to the ground at the base of the wall. Henry heard the man hit through his open window and knew the truth before he ever got out of the car.
Worried for the man’s safety, Henry jumped from the car to see if he could help. Running around the front, he slipped on the headphones that had been knocked free and went down, landing on the sharp gravel with both hands in an attempt to prevent his face from hitting the rocks.
