Dark Blood

by James M. Thompson

  “Well, if you don’t want coffee and you’re not here to do an autopsy, what can I do for you, Shelly?” Matt asked.

  “Sam tells me you have some new information about the origin of the creature we knew as Roger Niemann.”

  “Yeah. Damon Clark found a journal Roger had been keeping for over two hundred years, if you can believe the dates in it.”

  Shelly took a seat across from Matt and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Two hundred years, huh? That’s a long time to be going around sucking the blood out of people.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Matt answered. “But you know, Shelly? From the way Niemann wrote in his journal, he hated the fact that his disease, as he called it, forced him to attack and sometimes kill people.”

  Shelly leaned back, his eyebrows knitted. “Nothing forces us to kill others, Matt.”

  Matt gave a sad smile. “I don’t know about you, Shelly, but I eat steak and chicken and fish.... I guess the cows and chickens and fish don’t think we have to do that.”

  “Animals are a far cry from human beings,” Shelly said, though his tone was not as sure as before.

  “That’s just it, Shelly. Evidently, Niemann now considers himself a different race, almost a different species since his conversion two hundred years ago. He wrote in his journal that the Vampyres consider us Normals an inferior species, one made to be food for them.”

  Shelly stared at Matt. “That may be their opinion, but that doesn’t make it the correct one.”

  Matt sighed, looking suddenly tired. “I know, I know. I’m not saying I buy into Niemann’s arguments. It’s just that since I’ve been reading his journal, I’ve been trying to get into Niemann’s mind. I can almost see his point of view, and, in fact, I feel rather sorry for the hand that fate dealt him.”

  As Shelly opened his mouth to protest, Matt held up his hand. “I agree with what you’re gonna say. What he became didn’t excuse what he did, but we’ve got to remember, he didn’t ask to become one of the undead any more than TJ did.”

  “Speaking of that,” Shelly said to change the subject, “Sam also informed me that TJ continues to show some . . . rather disturbing symptoms.”

  Matt’s eyes dropped. “Shooter seems to think so, though we were with them Saturday and we didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” He paused; then, with a crooked grin, he added, “Other than the fact the monkeys didn’t seem to like her too much.”

  Shelly pursed his lips. “Still, if Shooter is worried, perhaps we ought to check it out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it’s incumbent upon us to run further tests to see if we’ve really cured TJ of the infection that Niemann caused, especially since you’ve evidently found in that journal of Niemann’s some new information concerning the etiology of the infection.”

  “Sam and I discussed that, but so far, TJ is reluctant to be put through any more tests.”

  “Well, if you can change her mind, I’ve prevailed upon the dean of the medical school to make a laboratory available to you and Sam. One of the microbiology professors is on a sabbatical, and his lab is vacant. You and Sam can use it for as long as you need to make sure TJ is all right.”

  He reached in the pocket of his clinic jacket and pulled out a key. He pitched it to Matt. “Here’s your key. I’ve already given Sam hers.”

  Matt glanced at the key. “Thanks, Shelly.” He looked back up. “Will you be available for consultation on the blood test results and any therapy we contemplate?”

  “Of course,” Shelly answered. “In fact, Sam told me there was something about plasmids in Niemann’s journal, so I called a friend of mine at McGill University. He’s the leading researcher on plasmids in the world. He’s going to send us everything he has on human infections with plasmids.”

  “Then I guess it’s up to us to convince TJ to go through with the tests.”

  Shelly stood up. “I’ll leave that to you and Sam. I’ve never had much luck trying to change a woman’s mind.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Matt said, laughing.

  Matt worried all afternoon about how he and Sam and Shooter might broach the subject of conducting more tests on TJ. Finally, he figured it might best be done over dinner and drinks. Throughout his life, he’d found that women were most susceptible to suggestions after a superb meal at a fine restaurant.

  He phoned Sam, who agreed with his assessment, and then he called Shooter, who also said he was free that night. Now the only thing left for Matt to do was to pick the right restaurant. After some consideration, he settled on a seafood place, not wanting to have to deal with the sight of TJ eating a rare steak and then having to tell her she might still be infected with the Vampyre bug, be it a plasmid or whatever.

  That night, the foursome met at Papadeaux’s, a Cajun-style seafood restaurant off I-10, not too far from downtown. The restaurant was a huge, multistoried wooden building decorated in a seafaring mode, with all manner of stuffed and mounted sailfish, swordfish, tarpon, and sharks, as well as fishing nets and Japanese glass net-floats and starfish.

  Sam glanced around at the decor. “I may grow gills just looking at all this,” she said.

  Matt assumed a hurt expression. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he said. “This is supposed to be one of the best seafood places in town.”

  “Yeah,” Shooter chimed in. “Just look at all these fish on the walls. Anyone who could manage to catch these beauties must know a lot about how to cook ’em.”

  TJ shook her head. “Dear Shooter,” she said, “the owners didn’t catch those fish, and the cook certainly didn’t. They bought them from some interior-decorating shop, which, in turn, probably bought them from some garage sales in Florida.”

  “They just told the decorator they wanted something in macho-male fishing kitsch,” Sam jibed.

  Matt looked at each of the women in turn and then at Shooter. “See, pal, a man goes to extraordinary lengths to please the woman of his dreams, and what does she do? She makes fun of his choice of restaurants.”

  Shooter nodded in agreement. “Next time we’ll just take ’em to Kip’s Big Boy and let ’em eat hamburgers.”

  Both TJ and Sam laughed. “OK, guys,” Sam said, “before you get your feelings hurt beyond all redemption, TJ and I both love the place. In fact, we’ve both said before we wanted to eat here, but couldn’t afford it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Matt said, looking from one to the other. “What do you mean can’t afford it? Aren’t you two girls paying tonight?”

  “In your dreams, big guy,” TJ said, giggling at the thought.

  As the waiter approached with a stack of leather menus in hand, Shooter said in a whispered aside to Matt, “Uh-oh, leather menus. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Matt nodded, a glum expression on his face. “Yeah. Megabucks before we leave here.”

  Shooter shrugged. “At least we’ve got women with us in case we don’t have enough money and have to wash dishes.”

  TJ punched him in the arm. “Was that a sexist remark, Mr. Kowolski?”

  “No, not at all, Shooter said. “It’s just a well-known fact that washing dishes is bred in women’s genes, whereas men are born to hunt and fish and gather food.”

  “You forgot the inbred male gene for chasing skirts,” TJ said, a dangerous look on her face.

  The waiter stood there, watching the byplay with a half smile on his face. “Can I get you folks something to drink, or an appetizer perhaps?” he asked.

  “Gin and Seven for the other lady and me, and roach exterminator for the gentlemen,” TJ said acidly.

  “Will that be up or on the rocks on the roach exterminator?” the waiter asked.

  “On the rocks, definitely,” Matt said. “I can’t stand room temperature poison.”

  “Scotch and water for me, and something with an umbrella in it for Matt,” Shooter said.

  “I’ll have a gin and Seven, too, with a wedge of lime,” Matt said, g
laring at Shooter. He glanced at the menu. “And how about a round of those spicy crab cakes for an appetizer?”

  “You got it, sir,” the waiter said, and walked off, shaking his head.

  Shooter watched him. “Probably gay,” he said.

  “Why do you say that?” TJ asked.

  “ ’Cause he looked like he couldn’t believe the way you women were acting. If he were straight, he’d have a girlfriend or a wife and would know it’s par for the course.”

  TJ punched Shooter again, and as he rubbed his arm and moaned, she muttered, “Butt lick.”

  When the waiter brought the drinks, Matt held his up for a toast. “To good friends and good times,” he said.

  They all clinked glasses and took a drink.

  When the waiter brought the crab cakes, they ordered. Matt asked for the blackened redfish; Sam ordered swordfish, brushing aside Matt’s concern about the level of mercury in it; Shooter decided on shrimp Creole; TJ scanned the menu for a moment, then pitched it on the table. “I’ll just have a steak, rare, with French fries and a salad,” she said.

  The rest of the group stared at her, and then glanced at each other, worried expressions on their faces. Shooter leaned over and put his hand on her shoulder. “TJ, baby, this is a seafood place. Why don’t you order something they specialize in?”

  TJ shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “I just feel the need for some meat, Shooter. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”

  When Shooter started to speak, Matt shook his head.

  The group’s earlier jovial mood was broken when the food was served and TJ tore into the bloody meat, a look of intense concentration on her face.

  After the meal was finished, the foursome ordered Key lime pie and coffee. While they were eating it, Sam decided it was time to broach the subject of further testing on TJ.

  “TJ,” Sam began, “Matt and I have some news about what we can do to make sure you’re completely cured.”

  TJ looked up from her pie, an anxious expression on her face. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Silver has procured a lab for us to use from the microbiology department, and he’s enlisted the help of a professor from McGill University.”

  “The man’s supposed to be the world’s greatest authority on human infections with plasmids,” Matt added.

  “You think he can help me?” TJ asked, glancing at Shooter, who put his hand on hers in silent support.

  Both Matt and Sam nodded. “We haven’t heard from him yet, but Matt’s already downloaded everything he’s written on the subject off the Internet.”

  “Anything useful?” TJ asked.

  Matt smiled. “I think so. Several of his articles deal with different type of plasmids that carry genes that keep other plasmids from conjugating.”

  “Conjugating?” Shooter asked. “Is that what it sounds like?”

  TJ smiled for the first time in a while. She looked at him. “Conjugating is the term used for plasmid reproduction,” she explained.

  “Yeah, and if we can stop that,” Sam said, “then sooner or later all the plasmids in TJ’s body will die a natural death and she’ll be totally cured.”

  “So you two do think there are still some of these plasmid whatchamacallits floating around in TJ’s bloodstream?” Shooter asked.

  Matt shrugged. “It could account for some of the symptoms that have you and TJ worried.”

  TJ’s eyes dropped. “I was hoping all that was behind me,” she said in a low voice. “It just makes me feel so . . . dirty to think I might still be infected.”

  “Nonsense,” Sam said quickly. “We’re not saying you are definitely still infected, TJ. But, if there are still some plasmids we didn’t get rid of the first time, this may be a perfect way to ensure they don’t cause you any further trouble.”

  TJ glanced at Shooter. “Do you think I should go through with more tests and treatment, Shooter?”

  Shooter shrugged, his face blushing red. “Jeez, I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m just a flatfoot cop; you guys are the medical experts—”

  “What can it hurt, TJ?” Matt interrupted gently. “The worst that can happen is you’ll go through some unnecessary blood tests.”

  Her eyes stared into his, troubled. “But what about injecting me with more plasmids? I’m not so sure I like that idea.”

  Sam shook her head. “That’s gonna be our last resort, TJ, and only if this professor in Canada and Dr. Silver and Matt and I all agree it’s necessary.”

  TJ bit her lip. “All right, I’ll do it,” she said, her eyes turning to Shooter. “I don’t want you to have any doubts about me, Shooter.”

  He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’ve never had any doubts about you, TJ.”

  Ten

  The Louisiana chapter of the Vampyre Council decided to meet in New Orleans, since the most important business they had to discuss was what to do about the new threat to their existence, the rogue Vampyre the media had dubbed the Ripper.

  The leader of the chapter, who also happened to live in New Orleans, was Carmilla de la Fontaine. She was the niece of the leader of the Texas Council, Jacqueline de la Fontaine, who’d been killed along with several other members of her council a few months previously by the rogue Vampyre Roger Niemann.

  Carmilla owned an antique shop in the French Quarter, where she housed a collection of the precious antiques she’d acquired over her many years of life.

  Carmilla was worried that the members of the Council might guess that the fate of the Ripper wasn’t the only thing on her mind. She had a deep and abiding hatred for the Vampyre known as Roger Niemann ever since he’d killed her aunt. In fact, she was so obsessed with him that she couldn’t believe he was dead.

  When she found out how he’d killed her aunt, the one who was responsible for her own transformation, she made herself a promise she would personally destroy him, and she didn’t intend to rest until she’d done just that. She had a sneaking feeling that Niemann had somehow survived the attack by the Houston police and was now acting as the Ripper in New Orleans. In fact, that was just what Niemann had been doing in Houston that caused the Council there to confront him. Carmilla saw no reason he wouldn’t continue his rapacious killings if he was still alive.

  Another reason behind Carmilla’s calling of a meeting at this time was her desire to consolidate her control over the group. There had been recent rumblings of a revolt among her followers, instigated, she felt, by Michael Morpheus and his followers.

  As members of the Council began to arrive, she showed them to a back room used for such meetings. The room was outfitted with a large Georgian dining table and had a small kitchen and several settees and easy chairs scattered around on exquisite Persian rugs.

  The Vampyres were introduced to each other as they arrived, since names were changed as years went by to preclude drawing attention to their long lives. The Vampyres tended to take names of characters in old vampire novels or Greek mythology, or sometimes just names that had double meanings in different languages. It was a sign of their contempt for humans that they would take such names and risk exposure—though it was a small risk, for most humans doubted their very existence.

  The first two to arrive were Jean Horla and Peter Vardalack. Jean was a tall black-haired man, thin to the point of emaciation, who looked like a mortician. Peter, on the other hand, was short and pudgy, with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and a merry expression. He always seemed to be thinking of a joke that no one else knew. They were both from the Baton Rouge area.

  As Carmilla was pouring chicory coffee into china cups, she slyly probed the surface of their minds to see if they were among those who were tending to listen to Morpheus’s talk of defection. She had a light touch with her mental probing and only went deep enough to gauge their emotions, not deep enough to alert them to her invasion of their thoughts. They seemed to have no animosity toward her and she found no trace they were anything other than what they seemed.

  T
he bell on the front door tinkled as Adeline Ducayne and Sarah Kenyon entered. Adeline and Sarah were almost never seen apart, and rumor among the Vampyres was that they were more than just good friends. Adeline was petite and pretty, with dyed blond hair, pale skin, and a doll-like face; Sarah was broad and stocky, with large arms and hands, and hair cut very short.

  Carmilla greeted them warmly, declining to try and read their minds. Women tended to be more sensitive to such intrusions and she didn’t want to alienate them unnecessarily if they were on her side.

  While she was helping them to coffee, Michael Morpheus arrived alone, as usual. Michael was olive-skinned with jet-black hair worn long and pulled back into a ponytail. He had a single gold stud earring in his left ear. He rarely took part in Council meetings and was known as something of a rogue who rebelled at the Council’s pacifist notions of nonlethal feedings. Carmilla was sure it was he who was fomenting rebellion at her leadership, since they’d disliked each other from the first time they met.

  Soon after their first encounter, Michael had suggested they become mates. Carmilla, who found his oily good looks and his bloodthirsty nature repulsive, declined. They’d been enemies ever since.

  Shortly after Michael’s entrance, a group of several men and women arrived together: Christina Alario, Theo Thantos, and Gerald Enyo, laughing and talking among themselves as if coming to a party.

  When Carmilla greeted them, Theo said, “Louis Frene will be a little late. His plane was held up in Alexandria.”

  Carmilla waved them into the back room with a sweep of her hand. “Come on back and we’ll go on and get started without him. The others are having coffee.”

  “Some of your special chicory blend, I hope?” Christina asked.

  “Of course, along with some beignets I had delivered from the Café du Monde.”

  Once the group had all gotten coffee and pastry, they took seats around the room, with Carmilla sitting at the head of the table.

  She tapped a Mont Blanc pen on the table lightly, calling the meeting to order.