He did some research of his own, but he had Faraday do most of the legwork. He was the detective after all. Along with a group of four police officers he hand selected they poured through county records. Eventually something would turn up. Something always did, if you looked hard enough.
k
Beyond ecstatic at the prospect of having not only one but two sacrifices, or at the very least having a back up should anything happen to the first (once the chained girl gave birth), Drakos grinned. He rounded a corner, where a fair haired buxom lass gave both he and Berenice a wide berth. He must have betrayed his thoughts, for both she and the tall fellow she travelled with gave him an odd look.
Emily Killian and Frederick Stoddard were only just stepping out of the Radisson hotel when the sinister character came around the bend, startling them. They weren’t sure what it was, but neither the man, nor the woman looked “right.”
“Seems like they were in a hurry,” Drakos observed mockingly.
“Oh dear, I do believe we scared them off,” Berenice snickered.
They sauntered into an occult shop called The
Mind’s Eye, hoping to find something useful, but by and large for their amusement. Most of the stuff found in these shops was essentially useless, mumbo jumbo for witch wannabes.
While they perused the store it was Sheriff Jack Turnbull who found the acquisition of the rambling mansion property, the Drakos estate, purchased nearly five years ago. Gated and far back from a mostly unused roadway near the upscale neighborhood of Westchester Hills, it wasn’t a place many people passed on a daily basis, and a place most forgot even existed. It was the perfect hideout.
Perhaps it was his stubbornness, or his confidence. No one really understood why Jack Turnbull went out there on his own to investigate. But less than half an hour after his suspicions that this was indeed the place they were looking for, he was strolling up to the gates, his police car parked across from the dirt road.
Beyond the elaborate gate was a winding white concrete driveway. The house could not be seen from this vantage point as the ground rose up in several places, obscuring where it led. The bull observed the call box to his left. There was a buzzer there, and although the gates were locked he decided not to use it. If they were watching they already knew there was a cop at the door. If they weren’t, then he wanted to keep this hush hush. He knew it wasn’t police protocol, but he often did not play by the book. He was the sheriff, the highest ranking official in this town. If he had to fudge how he got in, then he would. Sheriff Jack Turnbull proceeded to climb the gate.
Once on the other side he progressed slowly toward the house, drawing his weapon, holding it toward the floor in both hands, ready to raise it if necessary. It took him five minutes walking until the mansion came into view. He was fortunate it was still daylight or he might not have seen it at
all. It was painted a dark, foreboding black, with patches of
gray, red and ochre. He half expected the steps to creak as he ascended them, but the place looked new, well kept. The sheriff tried the door, rattling the doorknob, anticipating that it would be locked. The knob turned easily. The door swung open, and Jack Turnbull stepped inside.
k
Chelsea woke to the sound of a commotion upstairs. It sounded as if someone were fighting, that things were being thrown around. Not much sound could reach her beyond the thick steel walls, but she felt the room vibrate with each thud, and pops of resonance like thunder, or gunshots.
The sheriff, having entered, proceeded slowly, methodically through the foyer. The place was dimly lit. He moved past spectacular paintings adorning the walls, his step light, travelling past open doorways, raising his gun wherever he thought something or someone might surprise him. It was while pointing his weapon into one of these entryways that someone ran up behind him. He didn’t have time to turn before they smashed a vase over his head.
Lights danced before his eyes, and he felt his vision swim momentarily, but he turned to face his attacker, firing once before he fell back against the wall. The bullet punched through Jason Korba’s shoe, eliciting a shriek. Jason hopped around for a moment, before the sheriff rose, grabbing the teen by his luxurious sweater, and ramming him into the wall he’d occupied a moment before.
“Where’s the girl?!” he barked into Jason’s face. The boy shook his head. He was so taken aback by the man’s strength that he actually wasn’t sure what he was talking about for the moment. “Where is she?!” he yelled again, slamming him into the wall once more. He raised his fist to Jason’s face and jammed the gun into his side. “I’m
not gonna ask again!”
The boy relented, pointing, “Downstairs!”
He cuffed him to a brass sconce along the wall between two paintings.
“I’ll be back for you,” Turnbull informed him. He registered, for the first time since his attack, a baby crying. He turned back to Jason, shaking his head in disgust. “All your twisted little rituals are over scumbag.”
Jason sneered, “You don’t know anything, but you will.” Something about the boy’s stare, and his quiet intensity made the normally steadfast sheriff tremble inside.
He followed the sounds of the baby’s crying into a room with a vast altar, a statue of what looked like three goddesses, but could be interpreted as one, looming over it. A woman sat in front of the altar with a baby in a wicker basket she had bought to replace the old one that held the girl Alicia. The boy Liam was red- faced, bawling at the noise that had disturbed his sleep.
The sheriff raised his gun.
“You see now what you’ve done officer?” Sophia said, “You’ve caused the child discomfort.”
“Yeah, well,” Turnbull said, “Prepare for me to cause you some discomfort unless you step away from the child, and put your hands up in the air.”
Sophia Papadaki smiled. She stood, raising her arms. “As you say.”
The gun flew from Sheriff Turnbull’s hand, clattering to the floor. “What the...?”
“You really shouldn’t play with guns officer, especially when you aren’t prepared to use them. Had you come in, guns blazing, you might have stood a chance, but as it stands your weapons are powerless in this place.”
Jack Turnbull felt himself lifted off the floor. He was thrust against the wall, impossibly still in the air. Despite Faraday’s story he didn’t really believe in witchcraft, and believed the accounts to be greatly
exaggerated. He believed that these people thought they
were witches, but now? He wasn’t sure.
“What the hell are you?”
“Don’t ask questions to answers you already know.” Turnbull grunted.
“Among other things I am a very powerful telekinetic. Would you care for further demonstration of my power?”
“Let me down bitch, and I’ll show you what I care about.”
“Very well,” Sophia said. She waved her hand and the sheriff dropped to the ground. He ran at her.
From both sides of her, rising off the altar, came a vast array of knives, at least a dozen, slicing through the air toward him, their sudden sharp points digging into his flesh as he rushed toward her full throttle. He stumbled back, his feet losing their balance, until he landed in a nearly seated position against the wall again, only his head and shoulders rising above the floor. Knives were sticking out from his torso and legs, lines of blood coming off them like shadows.
Sophia walked toward him, crouching down. She slapped his face, gently, waking him. “Ah, still alive I see. Not for long, my poor delusional policeman.”
“Sheriff,” he muttered, coughing up blood.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning closer, “Didn’t quite catch that.”
“You know they call me the bull,” he rasped. “You want to know why?”
He smashed his forehead into hers, knocking her unconscious.
“Ow,” he said.
He still had a girl to free, so he somehow found the strength to get up aga
in, pick up his gun, pick up the baby, and walk with all those knives sticking out of him. Detective Faraday would later make the observation that as
stupid and foolhardy as it was for him to come down here
on his own that he was indeed, “one tough motherfucker.”
Jack Turnbull painstakingly made his way to the downstairs dungeon.
k
There was momentary concern when they saw the police car parked outside. Drakos and Berenice went into their home cautiously, and although they found Jason handcuffed near the foyer, he immediately alleviated their worry. There appeared to be only one officer, acting alone.
“It sounded like Sophia took care of him,” Jason said, “She’s probably with the baby now.”
“I’ll go check,” Drakos said. “Berenice, get him un-cuffed.”
“Yes Lord.”
She bent the electrical energy from the lights and Korba’s own brain to supercharge the air causing miniature volts of lightning to swirl around the cuffs causing it to burst and snap open.
Jason cursed, both his arm and head smarting, “Shit, that hurt!” There was a black burn mark where the cuff had encircled his wrist.
k
Chelsea Greene did not understand what she saw at first. The man walking into what she’d come to know as her prison cell held a baby in one arm, and a gun in the other hand. He had knives sticking out of him. She saw the uniform and knew he was a cop. She smiled, encouraged. But her would be rescuer was lumbering toward her, unsteady. He didn’t look like he had long, although he certainly appeared determined.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” Sheriff Turnbull
said.
She nodded. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” And then she saw Drakos coming up behind him in the doorway.
“Look out! Behind you!” she screamed. It was too late. Drakos snatched the child from his arms, and drew the blade of his knife across the sheriff’s throat. Jack Turn-bull’s eyes rolled up in his head as he went face down onto the knives already impaling him. And Chelsea Greene’s hopes were dashed again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE MAYOR OF MERCY FALLS
The new recruits had not been easy, and he wasn’t sure how big of a help Walter was. They’d pretty much left the turned traumatized, little more than vegetables, trying to fight off their hunger. The mayor had left them in his office all of fifteen minutes before he decided his best course of action was to hand them over to Walter.
Mayor Tremont realized it could have been worse. They could have been fighting it, kicking, and he wasn’t sure he could handle three vampires on his own. He couldn’t even begin to fathom what Lucio was thinking by bringing them to him. It wasn’t like he had a training camp
for them to practice their flying or biting skills. It would have made more sense if he’d taken them directly into the pit, to be with their own kind.
Perhaps Lucio was testing him. Up ’til now his sole purpose was to divert everyone’s attention from the vampires in town, in essence providing them a safe haven, in exchange for the blood that gave him his powers. That included providing the cover story for what happened at the town hall. With the exception of Sarah, who had come to him, he had minimal contact or influence in how new vampires became the monsters that the rest of the vamps wanted them to be. He was sure Walter had no interest in them either, which made it a pleasure for the mayor to leave them in his care.
Everything was set. Carl was pleased with his new
spear. He thanked Blake profusely between practice thrusts
with his choice weapon.
“It’s got some weight,” Carl said, “but it glides really smooth.”
Blake grinned. “Are we ready then?”
“Yes, I guess so,” Carl said. He said goodbye to Mary, Julia, and Peter, giving Ryan a kiss on the forehead.
“Be careful,” Pete said.
“I will.”
Carl started whistling A-Hunting-We-Will-Go as they stepped outside.
“This is serious,” Blake said.
Carl cut it out. “Yes, of course it is. Sorry.”
Blake made sure Carl couldn’t see that he was smiling.
The mayor wasn’t expecting Lucio, or any guests for that matter, so it was odd when there was a knock at his door at this hour. He’d been getting ready to leave, and if they’d come five minutes later they would have missed him.
“Who is it?”
A volley of gunshots through the door followed, hitting him in the chest and abdomen. He fell backward to the floor. Another set of shots were fired at the lock. The door knob clattered and fell off. Blake and Carl stepped through, looking down at the mayor.
“Just wanted to make sure you were home,” Blake said.
Yes, Walter was not pleased at all. Not- at- all. The three recently turned vamps wandered about his apartment like zombies. He could not wait to be rid of them, and take them to the pit. Walter liked the peace and quiet of his small apartment. What he did not enjoy was the moaning and groaning. The twenty-something guy had taken to the blood in his fridge much quicker than the others. He simply seemed to have accepted his fate. Only now he seemed to be having regrets. He was talking to himself, whispering, “Why did I drink it? Why?”
Walter wanted to slap him; all of them!
The woman had taken some and then spit it out, onto his carpet. Bitch! And the muscular, formerly married bloke wouldn’t drink any at all, but appeared to be getting more aggressive. Walter really had to watch him.
He had a mind to throw them all out on their asses if they didn’t get with the program soon. And he didn’t care if Lucio was running the show or not. He left the pit so he wouldn’t have to deal with this kind of bullshit anymore.
Carl and Blake stepped through the door, over the mayor. He was still very much alive, and quite pissed. He seemed rattled, but otherwise uninjured.
Tremont got up. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Never mind that,” Blake said. “Good to see you’re still knocking about. We have a few questions for you.” He set down his weapon’s chest.
“Fuck off,” Mayor Tremont spat.
Although there were holes in his shirt, Blake observed, there was no blood from his wounds, and that disturbed Blake. “How are you still knocking about exactly?”
The mayor grinned, knocking on his rib cage. “Bullet proof vest. Never leave home without it.”
This eased Blake’s mind some. At least he wasn’t some sort of indestructible foe, and if he was it wouldn’t have made any sense for anyone to want to be a full vampire.
Blake looked over at the person shaped hole in the
wall. “Looks as if we weren’t the only ones doing some
redecorating in this place.”
Charles Tremont stormed at him. Blake leveled his gun at the mayor; Carl pointed his spear.
“The next shot is aimed right at your head, so I wouldn’t get any bright ideas.”
The mayor stopped in his tracks. “What do you want?”
“Information.”
“About what?” he said angrily.
“Don’t play stupid,” Blake said, “About the vamps. What are they doing? Where are they hiding? What do they have you doing for them?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about my friend.”
Carl threw one of the vials of holy water at the mayor’s leg.
“Oww!” he said, “What the hell was that for?” No bubbling, boiling, or hissing.
Blake and Carl looked at each other, making a mental note. Holy water, definitely no effect. The glass still stung though.
“Don’t make me put a bullet through your leg instead,” Blake snarled.
The mayor eyes him carefully, attempting to determine how serious he is. He considered, threw up his hands, and said, “What do you want to know? I’m not going to die for these fucks.”
Blake grinned. “Good. I
want to know how many of them there are, where they’re staying, what they’re up to, and what they have you doing for them.”
The mayor appeared flustered. “Well, that’s a lot of questions. You mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead.”
Mayor Tremont walked over to his desk, the barrel of Blake’s gun following him as he circled around the room.
“Now that you’re nice and cozy,” Carl said,
“Answer the man’s questions!”
Blake stared at him. “I’ve got this.”
Carl nodded.
“Let’s start with how many?” Blake said.
“Fuck if I know,” the mayor exclaimed, “There’s only two of them I see on a regular basis. At least a dozen I’ve dealt with at one time or another.”
Blake motioned. “Carl, get over there with your spear. Poke him in the neck a little. Maybe he’ll be a little quicker to cooperate.”
Carl did, bringing the spear to the mayor’s neck, driving in the tip, just enough to break the skin and draw blood. A thin red line raced down his neck, staining his white collar.
“Aaaah jeeze! I’m telling the truth!” the mayor shouted. “Most of them are in the pit. A few live above ground. The only one I know for sure does is Walter.”
“Walter,” Blake muttered. Oh yes, Blake knew Walter. One of the vampires who’d abducted his daughter. The only one of them left alive. He signaled Carl to ease up. “Where is he?” Blake growled.
“I’ll tell you,” the mayor said. “I’ll write down his address.”
“Good,” Blake said, “Do it.”
The mayor moved to open his drawer.
“Sloooowly,” Blake warned.
Carl watched him. The mayor retrieved a pen and writing pad. He jotted down the address.
“Looks legit,” Carl said, “I know the street, that area.”
“Good, what else do you know?” Blake asked the
The Depths of the Hollow (Mercy Falls Mythos Book 2) Page 20
