Sins of the Blood: A Vampire Novel

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  "I guess I'm one of the ones who doesn't rehabilitate." He shrugged. "This is the only place I've ever belonged."

  Cammie shifted from one foot to the other. Her anger was dissipating. "Your last partner nearly got you killed?"

  Whitney shook his head. "My fault really."

  "Yeah, his fault." DeeDee set the file down. "He was staking and this kid walks in. His partner, LeeAnn, goes into this extended flashback and starts freaking, and the vampire manages to pull Whitney's hand off the stake. Had him by the throat and was ripping away skin when the kid conks his old man with the hammer. LeeAnn kept screaming. The kid was the one who called the paramedics."

  "I should have been more careful," Whitney said. "No vampire should be able to grab someone during a staking."

  "Sarge taught us that vampires can do anything. Your partner is your second," Cammie said. She shoved her hands in her pockets. She would deal with all of this later. When she had time to think about it. "Ready?"

  Whitney studied her face for a moment. "You going to cop out on me?"

  "I'm here. I'll work," she said.

  "Great reassurance," DeeDee said.

  "Look." Cammie's voice was low. "I have a perfect service record. I have never fucked up in the line of duty. Ever."

  "You never visited the Children's Wing[C&F71] before either."

  Cammie could barely breathe. "I thought you were my friend, DeeDee."

  "I am. I don't want you to make any mistakes. Whitney nearly died the last time his partner recovered memory. I don't want that to happen again. To either of you."

  They stared at each other for a moment. DeeDee's bright blue contacts floated across her pupils. Cammie was trembling. She had to find some way to get rid of this energy.

  Whitney tapped her shoulder. "If you're ready to go, Cam, so am I."

  She broke eye contact with DeeDee. Whitney's face seemed to have more lines this morning. If he believed in her, that was all she needed.

  "Okay."

  They walked, their footsteps in unison, to the end of the hallway. Whitney opened the door and Cammie walked through it, as if she were part of a couple on the first date. They had never been this formal together, not even the day they got assigned.

  Their blue-issue van stood at the end of the parking lot. Whitney checked the equipment before getting into the driver's seat, something he hadn't done in a long time. Cammie didn't question it. She had lost everyone's trust by approaching Janie the day before.

  The van's plastic seat was cold. Cammie tugged on the sleeves of her sweatshirt and closed her eyes. She knew what section of town they were going to; she didn't want to see the drive. Perhaps then she would be able to concentrate on her work.

  Whitney didn't talk except to swear as traffic forced him to make an occasional defensive maneuver. Cammie was so familiar with his curses that she could guess when he got cut-off or when some idiot drove too slowly in front of him.

  The eradication was scheduled for the near East Side, on Williamson Street, just past the co-op. When the van stopped, Cammie grabbed her duffel and opened the door before she looked at the neighborhood. It had been years since she stood here, on the wide tree-lined avenue. Her father's house had been two blocks closer to the Fauerbach condominiums—which were nothing more than warehouse space in those days. The house had been like the one she stood in front of, a white, two-story farmhouse, with a wide porch and a long backyard. The eaves shaded the windows and the thin fence prevented neighbors from getting too close.

  Perfect vampire country.

  Whitney juggled his lock-picker's tools. "Last chance, Cammie."

  "I'm going," she snapped.

  He yanked his duffel up and climbed the crumbling concrete steps two at a time. Cammie followed, her nervousness like a stone in the center of her stomach. Perhaps she shouldn't have come. If she screwed up, made one single mistake, she would lose her life along with Whitney.

  Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

  She shook the thought. She had to go in with an attitude of strength. In the daylight, she had more power than a vampire. In the daylight, she was the one who brought death.

  Whitney scanned the outside wall for a security system. Seeing none, he tried the outside door. The knob turned easily, and the door swung open, revealing a narrow, badly lit hallway. A flight of stairs went up to the left, and to the right another door beckoned. Whitney went to it. Cammie pulled out her flashlight and illuminated the lock while Whitney picked at it.

  The door opened before he could finish. Both Cammie and Whitney backed up. A little boy stood there, his face a mass of bruises, one eye swollen shut. He wore a ripped T-shirt and jeans one size too small. "My daddy's asleep," he said, his voice tight with fear.

  A rotted-blood smell seeped into the hallway. Cammie felt nausea return and stifled the urge to bolt.

  "Take him to the van," Whitney said. He must have seen Cammie's expression. DeeDee's talk about Whitney's previous brush with death had spooked him.

  Cammie had to convince him she was all right. She was going to go through with this. It was her job. "Either we both do or neither. That's procedure and you know it."

  "Daddy says no one can come in. And I gotta stay." The boy barely spoke above a whisper. "He's asleep."

  "And you're not supposed to wake him," Cammie said. How well she remembered those instructions.

  The boy nodded. A tear slipped out of his swollen eye.

  "Go sit on the couch," she said. "We'll be out in a moment."

  She slid the door open gently—quietly—and walked past the little boy. Whitney followed. Cammie knew this house. She had grown up in one so similar. Light seeped through the back bedroom door, but the other rooms were dark. She followed the smell to the vampire's room, paused for a moment to remove her mallet and stake, then eased the door open.

  Dark. And smelling of rot. Not supposed to go in there. The little boy's voice or her brother Ben's? She didn't know. Her hands trembled, like they had before. It was the only way, the only solution. If she didn't, he would hit Ben again and maybe kill him, like he had killed that woman in the parking lot—like he had threatened to kill her.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted. Pictures hung on the wall. The windows had been boarded up. No light fought its way into the darkness.

  "Wait, Cammie."

  Cam-Cam, wait up.

  But she couldn't wait. She held the stake and the mallet (dowel and hammer—too big for her small hands) before her like torches. The bed dominated the side of the room. She could barely see it in the dark.

  A thin light came in from the hall, providing just enough illumination. Cammie walked to one side of the bed and saw him sleeping there, so peacefully, his hands clasped over his belly, his feet crossed at the ankles.

  His lips were parted slightly. In sleep, he had no wrinkles at all. He was as handsome as he was in the picture she kept in her bureau drawer, the one of him holding Mom's hand. She kept it because Mom was smiling.

  Cammie knelt. A hand touched her shoulder. She didn't turn, didn't want to see Ben. She placed the dowel over the vampire's heart and brought the hammer down with all of her strength. He roared and sat up, foul breath covering her, stolen blood spattering walls. She pounded again, ignoring the nails raking into her skin, the too-strong hands yanking at her wrists. She had to keep going. She had to. For Ben, if not for herself.

  He thrashed, kicked, his foot connecting with her shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance. But she clung to the dowel, kept pounding. Blood gushed from his mouth, through his fanged teeth and across her hands. Still she pounded, thinking it would never end. The stories were wrong. Vampires never died. They sucked life's blood forever.

  Then he stopped. His hands slid down the bed's side and shredded, skin drying and flaking, the bones yellowing with age.

  Behind her, a child cried. A little boy. Ben. But she ignored him, leaned her head on the dowel and took a deep breath.

  "Daddy," she whispered. But
he didn't answer. He would never answer. He had been dead a long time.

  She rocked back on her heels, turned and saw Whitney staring at her, his skin white. He clutched the little boy against his chest.

  "The child shouldn't have been here," Whitney said.

  "He would have known anyway," Cammie said. She stood up and wiped the blood on her jeans. Her last vampire. Now, finally, she could move on. "Let's get his things, take him back to the Center. Anita will take care of him."

  She restrained an urge to reach out to the child. She had done that once, with Ben a long time ago. It was one thing to see your father killed. It was another to be held by his killer.

  "He'll survive," she said. "We did."

  Then she left the bedroom to wash the blood from her hands.

  * * *

  "Ben?"

  She came home from school to find the curtains up, sunlight beaming into the living room. It looked dusty and shabby in the bright light. A doll poked out of a sofa cushion and a Matchbox truck was parked beneath the legs of the television.

  The house was silent.

  "Ben?"

  She didn't dare yell too loudly, in case her father was asleep in the other room. She went into the kitchen. The table was covered with Cheerios and dried milk. A half-empty bowl sat beside the counter. The back door was open, the screen swaying in the wind.

  She shut it before it could bang closed.

  The backyard was empty. The grass was nearly waist high and a layer of mud covered the picnic table. The Hibachi was rusty.

  "Ben?"

  She left the kitchen, skirted the table—it spooked her for a reason she couldn't name, the long crack on the side, which had been there almost since the table got purchased, made her shiver—and hurried into the hallway. The bathroom door was open, the toilet lid up, the bowl stained yellow. Ben hadn't learned to flush yet. She put the lid down, but didn't press the handle. If her father was asleep, she wanted him to remain so.

  "Ben?" Her cries were whispers now. Her father's door was closed—it was open when he was awake. Ben wasn't in his room. The covers on his new bed were pushed back, the race-car-patterned sheets scrunched against the matching comforter. She made the bed, picked his clothes off the floor, and glanced in the closet.

  No Ben.

  Maybe he had done something wrong. Maybe her father had made Ben disappear as their mother had so long ago.

  "Ben!" Her voice came out louder than she wanted it to. She clamped a hand over her mouth. The hand was shaking. He was supposed to be here when she got home. He knew that. Mrs. Peterson was supposed to drop him off after preschool and he was supposed to turn the television on low and wait.

  He had never disobeyed her before.

  Usually she found him asleep in front of the set, his hand clutching his ratty blue blanket, thumb in his mouth, sucking until he drew blood.

  Her room. The last room to check. She opened the door. Sunlight felt welcome in here. She kept her blinds up all the time. No dust covered the surface; even the rug was clean. She made her bed with military precision—like they talked about in the movies—and the quilt her mother had made was folded at the foot in case the nights got cold. Arfie, her favorite stuffed dog, waited on the pillow for her to wrap her arms around him and forget the day.

  "Where's Ben?" she whispered.

  Arfie didn't answer.

  Her throat had gone dry. He couldn't have wandered off, could he? He was barely three. Not really old enough to be by himself.

  She ran down the hall, losing her footing and careening against the side. She winced at the thud as her arm collided with the rough surface. The basement. She had warned him not to go down there, but maybe he was bored. Maybe—

  "Cam-Cam?" His little voice was faint, hoarse. It came from below. She hurried back into the kitchen. The basement door was closed. She tried the knob and pulled but the door only opened a crack.

  "Cam-Cam?" Ben sounded frightened. What had he done?

  She looked up. The hook lock near the ceiling had been attached. She dragged over a kitchen chair and stood on her tiptoes, but still couldn't reach the hook. What had he done to deserve this? Her breath whistled in her teeth. She got down, grabbed a knife off the counter, braced the door,[C&F72] and climbed back on the stool. Then she shoved the knife at the hook. After a tense moment, the hook popped free. The door opened inward and she nearly toppled down the stairs.

  "Cam-Cam!" Without the door blocking the sound, Ben's cries had become shrieks.

  She jumped off the chair and ran down the stairs, flicking the light switch as she went.

  His left foot was tied to the ratty tan couch that used to be in their living room. A wet bandanna lay in a circle on the floor. He had red welts on both cheeks and tear tracks that went to his chin. His fingernails were raw from scraping the thin rope. He didn't have the skill to untie complex knots yet.

  "Ben." The relief echoed in her voice. He started crying again, little hiccups accompanied by dime-sized tears. "What happened?"

  "I had the TV. too loud," he said. "I didn't mean to, Cam. Honest."

  "I know," she said. Sometimes too loud was too soft the day before. "Did he hit you?"

  "No, but he put that on my mouth. It hurt." Ben pushed at the bandanna with his fingers. Then he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I didn't mean to, Cam-Cam."

  "It's okay," she said. She couldn't work the knot either. Luckily she had brought the knife with her. She sawed at the rope until Ben broke free. Maybe when their father was in a better mood, she could get him to take the rope off Ben's foot.

  Ben launched himself into her arms. He was half her weight now, but she could still carry him. He held her so tight that it took her breath away.

  Footsteps echoed above. Ben stiffened in her arms. "Quick," she whispered. "Get down."

  She set him on the floor and sat in front of his leg, so that it looked like he was still tied. The wooden steps creaked under their father's weight.

  He was gaunt and pale, his hair tousled from sleep. Bruises had formed under his eyes. His hands shook. Cammie sat in front of Ben, protecting him as best she could with her body. Their father was always the most dangerous when he had just woken up.

  "You made a lot of noise, Camila," he said.

  "I couldn't find Ben. I thought maybe something had happened to him."

  "He didn't let me sleep."

  "I thought maybe you had taken him somewhere."

  To her surprise, their father smiled. "Not today, Camila. But someday. Someday he will follow me wherever I go."

  Part Two

  Chapter Twelve

  i

  Eliason hunched over his desk. Unopened boxes of medical samples sat on the floor around him. The medical texts in the bookshelf were out of order, and the latest copies of New England Journal of Medicine covered the only other chair. He pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  The chart in front of him was sparse. His new receptionist, Sandi, had downloaded the little girl's files from her doctor at the West Towne clinic. Eliason had had to call him to get permission. The man had gotten on the phone, defensive and rude. I had no idea her father was a vampire, the man said. The child arrived late one afternoon. I checked her foot and gave her a tetanus shot, then sent her home.

  Eliason had thanked him, but still requested the file. He was glad he did. The doctor had remembered the child, now almost a year later. He had talked to Eliason without checking his notes. If he had checked the notes, he would have upgraded and changed the files as so many other doctors had—to cover accusations of malpractice or worse, evidence that he didn't care about his patients. Eliason rarely reported other doctors. General practitioners were a dying breed, and so overworked that they might have had good intentions but not followed through on them. Children got bruised; it was part of growing up. But palm prints and facial contusions like the ones the doctor had reported were not normal. The only thing that gave Eliason any sympathy at all was the note
at the bottom of the page.

  Have Lydia contact Social Services. Hold child should she come in with similar bruises again.

  No wonder the doctor had been defensive; he had known something was going on and he had forgotten—failed to act. Eliason had done that only once, back in Iowa, when he was interning. The little boy had died: beaten to death, drained of blood,[C&F73] and thrown into the garbage like a day-old pile of meat. That little boy had died, but if Eliason could help it, no one else would.

  He picked up the file and walked to examining room three, down the hall. The little girl inside was blonde. Her hair was stringy and unkempt. She wore a blue dress covered with the ghost of old stains,[C&F74] and white knee socks that looked new. Her tiny blue Nikes were covered with mud. She had her back to the door, but she jumped when it opened.

  "Hi," he said, deliberately taking the seat farthest from her. "I'm Dr. Brett."

  "Mary Jo," she said, still not looking at him. A circle of bruises lined the delicate skin along her jaw.

  "I guess the last time you saw a doctor was just before Christmas. You stepped on a rusty nail?"

  "At school." She picked at some lint on her hem. "He gave me a shot."

  "Did it hurt?"

  "No." Her tone was flat. "I could take it."

  It had hurt her a lot then. Tetanus shots sometimes did. "We won't give you any shots today. I just want to look at those bruises."

  "Lady poked my finger."

  The blood test. He hoped Heather was gentle. "Then she gave you a Hershey's kiss, right?"

  "And this." She extended her hand. On the middle finger, a Band-Aid covered an oversized cotton ball.

  "Well," he said, still after all these years unused to the matter-of-fact tone the badly abused children used. "I promise. No more needles. I just want to look you over, then we'll take you to a safe place. Did you bring any toys with you?"

  She shook her head. "Daddy says toys are for babies."

  Eliason bit back the anger that surged through him.

  "He's dead now." She finally looked at him. A fist-sized bruise ran from her temple to her cheekbone. Her left eye was black and blue. "Isn't he?"