Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  “Really. What does it solve for you?”

  “Why, it leaves that nice new Midwest blood distribution center without a protector.” Ruthven cackled like an evil chicken.

  “Over my dead body, Ruthven.”

  “What a delicious thought. Adieu, Elena O’Rourke.”

  “Ruthven! Don’t hang up…Ruthven!” I slapped the phone shut. Damn. What did I do now?

  I had promised Bo I wouldn’t take chances while he was gone. Promised I’d wait for him to get back to confront the killer, if the killer was a vampire.

  But now Bo couldn’t come back. Not if Tight-ass was lying in wait for him. I had to warn Bo, but he was in Iowa. So I called Gretchen, and after promising a lifetime’s groveling (and two free babysitting passes), she got Thorvald on the line for me.

  “One more time,” Thor said, sounding like he had a very bad headache. “You want to call the Ancient One, why?”

  “It’s police business. Honest, Thor, I wouldn’t bother you with it if it weren’t vital.”

  “Bothering me is no problem. Bothering the Ancient One, though…well. I would admire your guts, but they’ll be puréed.”

  “I won’t bother this Ancient One, whoever he is. I just want to talk to Bo, and I need a phone number.”

  “Elena, the problem is the Ancient One is very strict about training. No interruptions. Zero, zilch, zip, unless it’s beyond urgent.”

  “It is urgent—”

  “Life or death urgent.”

  “It’s almost that important. Please, Thor? Just the number. I won’t tell this AO guy who gave it to me.”

  Thor gave a dry laugh. “He’ll know. He always knows. But I’ll give you the number.”

  I jotted it in my notebook. “Thanks. I owe you.” I hit off, wondering what kind of dude got even bad-ass Thor’s undies in a bundle. But no sense in taking chances, so I punched in the code to make my call come up “Private Number” before dialing the three-one-nine area code and number.

  It didn’t even ring. Just a single click, and I was shocked to hear, “Greetings, Detective O’Rourke.”

  The sub-bass voice was as dark and vast as the ocean. I floundered for a reply but he simply overrode me. “You’re calling for Bo Strongwell. I will waste neither your time nor mine. He can’t come to the phone. Goodbye.”

  “Wait!” Some guys exude power. This guy felt like a mountain dropping on me, or like I’d been nailed between the shoulder blades with a block of ice. I blurted, “Good fuck. Are you the Ancient One?” I could understand Thor’s attitude a little better now.

  A deep, magnetic chuckle answered that. Absolute authority, yes, but layered with a raw, potent sexuality that made me want to tear open my shirt to bare my—er, throat. “Look, I’ve got to talk to Bo. I understand his training can’t be interrupted, but it’s crucial. You see, there’s this guy. And he—”

  “Detective O’Rourke.” The Ancient One’s dark voice never changed, but somehow he cut me off like a knife. “Are you calling from an emergency room or morgue?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then it’s not what I would define as crucial.”

  I digested that. “Right. You’re some hardass, aren’t you, AO?”

  His dark, sensual laugh caressed my ear. Damn, if he packaged that laugh it’d have women on their backs everywhere. “No more than you, Detective.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” I muttered. “Just let me talk to Bo for a second. I promise not to distract him from his training.”

  “You’re concerned enough about this ‘guy’ to call. That alone would distract him. The subject is closed, Detective O’Rourke. My answer is no.” He put an ever-so-slight emphasis on the word no. A disproportionate chill speared me. Oh, yeah, Thor’s attitude made tons of sense now. Suave as all hell, but with this guy, no meant no—with a few dollops of death.

  “Could you give Bo a message, then?” Even that felt dangerous, like asking Hannibal Lecter to be an errand boy. “It’s about my case. Bo will know which one. I can’t go into details, but he should wait until I call before he comes home.”

  “Ruthven, hmm?”

  I nearly dropped the phone. I suddenly, fervently wished that eerie ancient fucker were somewhere I could shoot. “How the hell did you know that?”

  He hit me with his pornographic chuckle. “Ruthven’s a bit of a boil that ought be lanced. You need to know that he’s the one.”

  “The one. Ain’t that all Matrixy.”

  “Droll, yet rude. Detective. Ruthven’s the reason Strongwell won’t have partners.”

  “He wha—how did you know I knew…fuck, never mind. Tell me.”

  That got a real laugh out of him. “I can see why Strongwell has fallen so quickly. What you need to know, Detective, is that Ruthven was Strongwell’s lieutenant, the one who investigated the exsanguination killings in the twenties. Ruthven found the killer but, instead of stopping him, used Strongwell’s name to appropriate half the stolen blood and force the killer to commit more murders.”

  “Extortion.”

  “Exactly. Strongwell trusted Ruthven, and Ruthven betrayed him. Strongwell’s never been the same.” A beat. “Until now.”

  “Really? What’s changed?”

  “For the first time I think he may be open to healing—by the right person. I’ll speak with Strongwell, Detective O’Rourke. Goodbye.”

  I closed my phone slowly. Let the shivers I’d been suppressing run through my body. That man…er, vampire…seriously fried my gunpowder.

  What the Ancient One told me was mind-boggling enough. Ruthven was the original cause of Bo’s deep mistrust, telling lies and using Bo. And now he was up to his old tricks, getting Bo in serious trouble with Captain Titus.

  My jumbled thoughts prodded me into pacing. The most pressing problem was the murder accusation. If Bo came back to Meiers Corners before the real killer was named, he would be arrested. If Mr. Scary-Ancient passed my message on, Bo would stay safe in Iowa—unless Bo got all heroic and decided to come home anyway. No, I needed a clean, simple way of protecting Bo.

  Like collaring the real killer, Dracula.

  Abruptly I stopped pacing. That, of all solutions, was definitely not on the table. One, I’d promised Bo I wouldn’t go after a vampire myself. Two, if I didn’t wait for Bo, by-the-book demanded I go into an obviously dangerous situation with backup, which meant Blatzky or Dirk. But even if they didn’t freak at an honest-to-bleh vampire, as humans they were just as disadvantaged as me.

  My cell rang. I slapped it to my ear. “What?”

  A pause. I thought, Oh no, Ruthven, calling back. “What the hell do you want now?”

  “Elena? What’s wrong?”

  Only Nixie. “Nothing’s wrong. Exactly.”

  “Don’t fap with me. Something’s up. Something bad. Schrimpf case?”

  Friends knew you too damned well. But in this case, it was time to let off some steam. “Tight-ass has the wrong man. Someone fingered this guy but he’s innocent. But Tight-ass doesn’t care… Dammit, Nixie, it’s all balled up!”

  “Tight-ass doing a George on the Schrimpf case?”

  Leave it to Nixie. Her cultural polyglot forced me to stop and think. “If you’re asking is Titus bungling it, not exactly. He’s trying to derail the Schrimpf investigation, but this one guy is framing this other guy, and…well, it’s complicated.”

  “And you’re upset. Hottie manager guy?”

  “Nixie, how…? Oh, never mind, I don’t want to know. Yes. For some reason this insurance guy—”

  “Insurance! Break out the holy water. Get the priest. Out, foul demon!”

  “—got involved, and he accused Bo of the murder.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know exactly.” I hedged, forgetting who I was talking to.

  “You know. You’re just not telling.”

  “Nixie, I can’t. It’s privileged information.”

  “It don’t break my crayons, Badge-Bitch. So what’re y
ou going to do?”

  That made me smile, even as agitated as I was over Ruthven and Tight-ass. Nixie wasn’t upset with me. Like Bo, she could live with me as I was—all tight-lipped cop—and still like me. A real friend. “I can’t say a lot. But it has to do with Bo protecting the Blood Center.”

  “This demon wants our Blood Center? Elena, that sounds a whole lot worse than just one hottie manager’s freedom. So again. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing I can do. Tight-ass is my superior. And even if he weren’t, I’m off the Schrimpf case.”

  “Yeah, I heard. That’s why I called. See if you wanted to douse yourself with me at Nieman’s.”

  “Oh, Nixie, thanks. But—”

  “But you’re going to get hottie apartment manager off the hook. Have you decided how?”

  “I just explained, there’s nothing I can do. Regs—”

  “Sure, sure. Rules and regs are the only things that matter. Justice isn’t an issue. And I’m sure Mr. Hottie would shrug off a little jail time.”

  “Um, maybe.” Actually, when I thought about it, our converted-greenhouse jail had awfully big windows. With an eastern exposure. “Look, Nixie. I promised myself never to break the rules again, no matter why, no matter for who. It just screws me up.”

  There was a pause. Then, in a flat tone I’d never heard before, Nixie said, “Fuck that, Elena.”

  I blinked. “Sorry?”

  “You heard me. I sit here listening to you like I’ve done for years. I never understood that attitude, and I sure as hell don’t now. Because even if the Blood Center weren’t at stake? The music in your voice when you talk about Mr. Hottie says you bit the big one, bitch. You’re in love. And the Elena O’Rourke I know wouldn’t let anything stop her from saving the guy she loved.”

  She paused. Let me chew on that, then said, “But you knew that already, didn’t you? You’re just looking for the bathroom pass. For someone to give you permission to do what you already fucking know is right.”

  “I want to rescue Bo, but…oh, if I could only ask my dad. He’d know what to do.”

  “Your dad is dead, Elena. Has been for four years.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  “Sorry, but that’s the way it is. You’re the adult now. You make the choices. And it’s your choice if this Bo is important to you—or not.” She hung up.

  Damn. So like a friend to kick you when you really needed to be petted and held and loved…oh, Bo.

  Nixie was wrong. Bo was important. He was the most important person in my life. I didn’t want to let him down. I wanted to save the Blood Center and its protector. But what could I do?

  WWDD? What would Dad have done? Patrick O’Rourke was my role model, a fighter for justice and a hell of an attorney. But Nixie was right, Dad wasn’t here.

  I was.

  Dad couldn’t save Bo. So I had to. Somehow.

  I kicked into pacing again. Not WWDD, but what would I do? Well, obvious. I needed to collar the real killer. Right. Easy as donuts. Just find evidence that Vlad was the killer, capture him and bring him to justice—all before Bo returned to Meiers Corners and Tight-ass arrested him.

  Just rip off my shirt and tie and change into SuperElena, a kick-ass detective.

  Except I hadn’t changed anything to be a kick-ass woman—I had been one all along. Maybe I was naturally a kick-ass detective too. Maybe instead of following all those rules and books, I should have followed my own instincts. Although the last two times I’d broken the rules things hadn’t gone so well.

  But maybe breaking the rules had backfired not because I broke them, but because I hadn’t thrown the rule book away.

  Hell. It’d be the hardest thing I’d ever done. With Bo’s freedom at stake, his life at stake…with my heart at stake…aw, fuck. Nixie was right. Somehow, in less than a week, I’d bitten the big one. I loved Bo.

  I pulled my clothes back on and hit the street. The late August sun beat down on me, but I ignored it. Bo could come back as early as tonight. Tight-ass would be waiting for him. I had to apprehend the real killer before then.

  Just catch a supernaturally strong, supernaturally fast vampire.

  The biggest trick would be corralling him. If I could solve that, I’d be a huge step closer to saving Bo. Second biggest would be actually stopping him. Human backup wouldn’t work. Maybe Steve or Thor, but if Bo left them instructions to keep me safe, they’d just try to stop me. Couldn’t risk it.

  So. I needed to box Vlad in on my own. And I’d need a stake.

  Now, where would I box him? Since I had encountered Vlad lurking near the Roller-Blayd factory, I started there.

  All the doors were chained and boarded. The windows weren’t boarded but they were high, maybe ten feet up. I loosened a plank on the front door, spun it aside to peep in. More wood sat inside. That gave me an idea. I’d need to unchain this one door, and bring a staple gun. But it could work. I replaced the plank.

  As I left I got inspired and visited Bruno Braun. Damn. The more I thought outside the box, the better it got. At this rate I was going to throw that fucking rule book off the top story of the Sears tower.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That night I dressed carefully. After all, I was going after a vampire, soulless creature of the night. I needed to be at my best.

  Black T-shirt and jeans, check. Gun, check. Ankle gun, check. And violet thong and violet lace bra, double-check. If I ended up dead, I didn’t want Stark and Moss seeing me at less than my best.

  And, thanks to Bruno, a bazooka. Fuck the stake.

  The minute the sun set I rattled my front door like I was leaving (Dirk was skulking around the apartment). When I heard the lumbering rustle of bushes I scooted for the back door and slipped out.

  I made my way undetected to Fifth and Grant, slinking from shadow to shadow. Clouds veiled the full moon, so there were plenty. A block away from the abandoned Roller-Blayd warehouse a shaft of moonlight picked me out like a spotlight. I froze.

  Vlad Dracula swept from the darkness. “Detective O’Rourke. At last, we are alone, bleh!” His black cape billowed threateningly, evil incarnate swooping down on me. His eyes were red and glowing. They burned into mine. “You are in my power.” He raised clawed hands. “You are getting sleepy. Very sleepy.”

  Sleepy? Not this time. I shouldered the bazooka and let off a rocket.

  “Bleh!” He jumped back with a shriek.

  The rocket whizzed harmlessly by him. It hit the pavement, exploded with a bang. He threw hands in the air. “What the hell are you doing? You could have hit me!”

  “That’s the idea.” I stuffed in another rocket. The need for stealth was gone. “You have the right to remain silent.” I raised the big tube to my shoulder. “If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in court.” I pulled the trigger.

  The payload shot forward with a foosh. Vlad turned and ran. The rocket flew behind, gaining on him.

  He ducked at the last moment. Cape swirling, he avoided most of the blast but the cape wasn’t so lucky. It burst into flames. Vlad screamed, bounced around like a monkey. His flaming cape dropped little fire spores onto the ground.

  I caught him, forced him down. Rolled him until most of the fire was out. He struggled against me, the idiot. “You have the right—”

  “Bleh!” Vlad jerked away, stumbled to his feet. I grabbed for him. His ass took off down the street.

  Proper procedure meant a trail of evidence, the careful accumulation of facts, administering Miranda rights, turning it all over to the courts. “You have the right to consult with an attorney. If you are indigent—”

  He bee-lined for the Roller-Blayd warehouse. Wisps of smoke followed.

  “You have the right to—oh, fuck it!” My by-the-book shell exploded, revealing a naked blue-woaded warrior-queen. I set off after that little creep like Elena the Barbarian. “Vlad Dracula, I charge you with the murder of Napoleon Schrimpf. Stop, or I’ll shoo
t.”

  “You’re mad! Bleh!” Vlad slowed in front of a boarded-up door. Frantically he worked a board loose.

  “Damn right I’m mad. You killed Napoleon Schrimpf. Bo Strongwell is not going down for your crime, not if I can help it.” I dove for him as he wedged through. “Stop, dammit!”

  His leg was the last thing to disappear. I snaked a hand after him, caught one foot and yanked, hard.

  Vlad yelped, shook his foot like a rabid dog. I lost my grip. The foot was swallowed up by darkness.

  Seizing the loose board, I wrenched it totally off. I wormed through, dragging my bazooka after me. Inside I stood straight and tall with my guns, my bazooka and my purple underwear. The Ter-mauve-nator.

  The cavernous warehouse was dark. Stray moonlight filtered in through dirty upper windows. It picked out a few landmarks—water pipes, a packaging machine and a pallet of dusty boxes marked “Roller-Blayd”. A spiral staircase led to a platform office.

  A few feet away, Vlad was bent over and breathing heavily. Trapped.

  My prep had paid off. I found the pile of planks and industrial staple gun, stapled the wood over the hole with two quick ker-chunks. Then I turned on Fakeula. My own eyes might have been glowing red. He certainly reacted like they were.

  The little creep took off. I dashed after him. We ran in circles around the warehouse, first one direction, then the other.

  I got smart and cut across.

  He saw me at the last instant, swerved to avoid me. His unnatural speed kept him just out of reach. “Bleh! Why? Why do you care if Strongwell gets charged?”

  Of all the insane questions… “Because I love him, asshole!” I tried to aim my bazooka. Vlad was flitting like a crackhead moth, too fast to get a bead. I needed something to even the score.

  My eye lit on the boxes. Empty? Or old product? This part I hadn’t planned out. Luckily, doing things By Elena let me improvise. I trotted over to take a look.

  Vlad thought I was taking a breather. He dropped hands to knees, panting. Geez, for a supernatural being, he was way out of shape.