The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  7.

  Drake stepped into his office, wishing he would find a vampire lurking in the corner so he could pummel the shit out of it and work off some of his frustration. He had a lot of frustration to work off. It took him an hour to drive the several blocks from the Willard Hotel to his office, a trip that normally would have taken less than ten minutes, thanks to the typical Washington gridlock. He hated the idiots that drove in this city and the traffic they generated more than he hated vampires. At least he could stake the vampires.

  Stepping over to a bookcase that also served as a bar, Drake opened the bottle of Baker’s Bourbon and poured himself a shot. Taking the drink to his desk, he dropped into his leather business chair, leaned back, and propped his feet on the surface. The first sip of bourbon burned going down. A good type of burn, though. The kind you only get with the good stuff. A cigar would make this perfect. He had some in his drawer, but never used them. Not for lack of trying, though. He lit one up shortly after they had moved into the office. That lasted all of two minutes before Alison complained about the stink and made him put it out.

  But Alison had gone home early.

  Swinging his legs off the desk, Drake pulled open the drawer and removed a Macanudo from the humidor, as well as a cutter and a book of matches. He snipped off the end of the cigar, lit it, and propped his feet back up on the desk. The first puff tasted good, especially when washed down with bourbon.

  “Alison will have a fit if she finds out you’re smoking in the office.”

  Drake looked over to see Jim standing in the doorway. “She won’t find out if no one tells her.”

  “Yeah. She’ll never smell the smoke.”

  Shit. He hadn’t thought about that. Well, too late now. Drake took another long puff and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “What are you still doing here?”

  “Developing new weapons.”

  “You know, you don’t have to spend all your time in that workshop.”

  “I don’t mind. I like my job.” Jim became a little sullen. “Besides, it’s not like I have a social life.”

  Drake raised his cigar. “Want to join me?”

  “For a cigar, no. But I’ll take a shot of bourbon.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Jim stepped over to the bookshelf, poured a tumbler for himself, and sat down on the sofa underneath the painting of Nosferatu. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” Drake held up his glass in a toast. “Death to all vampires.”

  “Here, here.” Jim took a quick swig of bourbon and coughed. It took him several seconds to regain his breath. “How do you drink this stuff?”

  “The cigars deaden the taste buds.”

  Jim looked at the tumbler, shrugged, and took another drink. This time he did not cough. “This stuff will kill you.”

  “Not if the cigars get me first.” Drake puffed on the Macanudo. An eddy of smoke coiled upwards, spreading out across the ceiling. “So, what are you working on?”

  “Since the holy water-laced mace worked so well, I decided to kick up the technology a notch and incorporate holy water into a tear gas dispenser.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I’m making home-made tear gas with glycerin and sodium bisulfate. I heat the two until they turn into a gas, then mix the gas with the holy water and bottle it. If it works, it should incapacitate several vampires at once.”

  “If it works?”

  “It’s not as easy as I thought.” Jim took another sip of bourbon. “I’m having trouble getting the right mixture of glycerin and sodium bisulfate. Besides, it’s still tear gas. It may incapacitate vampires, but it’ll do a number on us, too, if we’re in the area.”

  “A weapon so powerful it’ll bring a tear to your eyes.”

  Jim either did not get the joke, or did not find it humorous. Probably the latter.

  Drake took another swig of bourbon. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve done a great job between the weapons you’ve made for us and the way you’ve jumped into the fight.”

  “I’m only trying to do my part.”

  “You have. If it wasn’t for Heaven’s Fire, we never would have beaten them at Wolf Trap. And you were the one who saved that sewer worker the other day.”

  Jim became self-conscious. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t be so modest. Pretty soon—”

  The cell phone in Drake’s jacket pocket began to ring. Drake pulled it out and flipped it open. “Hello.”

  “Hi, hon. It’s me.” Jessica sounded bubbly but cautious, as if she expected him to be angry.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just calling to say hi.” Then a little softer, “And to see if you saw my piece in The Standard this morning.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “It was good. But then I always thought you wrote well.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Why would I be mad?” Drake took another puff on his cigar.

  “Because I never mentioned you in the article.”

  Drake scrunched his brow in confusion, even though he knew Jessica would not see the gesture. “I didn’t expect you to.”

  Jessica’s sense of relief was audible over the phone. “I’m glad. I even have a peace offering.”

  “Really?” Drake asked suggestively.

  “Not that.” Jessica sighed. “I have a pair of tickets to that new exhibit at the Smithsonian.”

  “The one on Antonio Ferrer?”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “Reese told me. That’s why he’s in town.”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Our admission time is tomorrow morning at ten. Can you make it?”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  Jessica thought for a moment. “Let’s meet out in front of the Smithsonian at a quarter to ten.”

  “Sounds good. See you then.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Bye, hon.”

  Drake pressed the END CALL button and placed the cell phone on his desk. He tried to take another puff on his cigar, but it had gone out. Drake pulled out the matches, lit one, held it to the tip of the cigar, and puffed on it until the tip glowed orange-white and smoke wafted from the end.

  “You should be mad at her,” said Jim.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you liked Jessica?”

  “I do. But she dissed us with that article she wrote.”

  Drake blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Jessica couldn’t have written about vampires. No one would have believed her.”

  “I don’t fault her for what she wrote. I fault her for writing it in the first place.”

  “Now you lost me.”

  “Jessica claims she wants to be one of us, and has even gone on a hunt with us. But when she writes for The Standard, she treats us as if we don’t exist. That’s fine since she’s a reporter. But she can’t have it both ways.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Jess told me this morning that she doesn’t want to go on any more hunts.”

  “So does this mean we have to watch what we say around her again?”

  “No. Jess knows what’s going on. Besides, even if she writes about it, who’s going to believe her?” Drake took another drink of bourbon. “But you’re right. She is trying to have it both ways.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Jim finished off the last of the bourbon, then stood and crossed over to the bookshelf where he put down the empty glass. “I’ll tell you something else. You’re a good boss. You know how to fight the undead and bring us back alive. You know how to keep us out of trouble with the law. And you know how to keep this set-up running smoothly. But you have a good thing going for you right here, and you don’t realize it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Looking at his watch, Jim headed for the door. “I’m outta here. See you in the morning.”

/>   “Good night.”

  Drake watched him leave. He knew Jim referred to Alison. And he agreed with him. Alison was a remarkable woman in every way. Hell, he had been attracted to her almost since the first day they met. What man in his right mind wouldn’t be? He hoped the feelings were mutual, but he never would follow up on it. As much as he desired Alison, he relied on her even more, to fight the undead, keep them alive, and save humanity. If they ever wiped out the nest, maybe then he would work up enough courage to ask her out.

  Until then, Alison and he would have to remain just hunters.

  * * *

  Preston looked at his watch. A quarter past seven. Thank God the day was over. It had been a particularly aggravating one, starting with a dozen nagging annoyances that multiplied as each hour passed. Luckily, most of this shit could wait until tomorrow. He had not been able to go home early in a long time, if you call leaving the office after a twelve-hour day early. Logging off his computer, Preston put away the papers on his desk as the computer shut down. He had cleaned off everything and slipped on his suit jacket when a knock sounded at the door. Just his fucking luck.

  “Come in,” called Preston with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

  The door opened and one of the rookie officers stuck his head inside. Preston recalled seeing his face around the building, but could not remember his name. Not that it mattered. This rookie would not last long. The kid stood timidly in the doorway, looking like a chastised honor student sent to the principal’s office. If the rookie did not grow a pair quickly, this city would chew him up in no time.

  “Mr. Preston?”

  “What do you want?”

  If possible, the rookie grew even more timid. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I was heading out. Can it wait?”

  “Well, maybe.” The rookie hemmed and hawed. “But I kinda hoped…. I really wanted to get something off my chest.”

  Preston did not attempt to conceal his displeasure. He had gone through this shit too many times before. A good cop fucks up and gets a freebie from a hooker not to arrest her, or shakes down a drug dealer for some extra cash, then comes to him with pangs of conscience as if he were a fucking priest. Unfortunately, holding their hands was part of the job, so he could not turn the kid away.

  “Come inside and have a seat, Officer…. Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Pantolini, sir. Joe Pantolini.” He stepped into the office and slid into a chair in front of Preston’s desk.

  Preston dropped into his chair and leaned back, hands resting on his stomach, his fingers interlocked. “All right, Joe. What’s bugging you?”

  “Well, sir…. Pantolini hesitated. “I’m concerned that a false action report was filed.”

  “You filed an inaccurate report?”

  “Not me, sir. Rodriguez did. On yesterday’s raid on the row house.”

  Now Preston remembered the rookie’s name. He had accompanied Rodriguez and Bannon to guard the tunnel leading from the row house into the sewer. Now he implied that Rodriguez had lied about the events. Disdain suddenly turned into interest. Preston sat up in his chair and pulled it closer to the desk.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s just that, well, Rodriguez’ report wasn’t quite accurate.”

  “You mean Rodriguez lied?”

  “No, sir. He just didn’t mention everything that happened.”

  “Then you tell me what happened.”

  Pantolini hesitated again, uncertain as to whether he should continue. Too late, though, because he already had committed himself. The rookie sighed and began his confession.

  “Rodriguez reported that no one came out of the old house during the raid. That’s not true. Three people got out during the shootout just before you raided the place.”

  “Junkies or vagrants?”

  “Neither. They looked… Well, they looked normal.”

  “Why wouldn’t Rodriguez report that?”

  “It sounded like he knew them. He called one of them Jake, or something like that.”

  “Do you mean Drake?”

  “Yes,” Pantolini said excitedly. “How’d you know?”

  Preston ignored the rookie’s question. “Let me guess. The two people with him were an attractive brunette, probably dressed in leather, and a blonde, geeky-looking kid in his early twenties. Right?”

  “Yeah. You know them?”

  “Not personally.” Preston leaned back again in his chair, feigning indifference. “Most of the cops on the force know them. You met Drake Matthews, Alison Monroe, and Jim Delmarco. They’re local bounty hunters. Pains in the ass. A few scrapes with the law. Rodriguez has arrested them several times himself.”

  “So I didn’t get Rodriguez in trouble by telling you this?” Pantolini sounded relieved.

  “Not at all,” Preston lied. “Rodriguez let them go because he knew they weren’t the ones we were looking for. He mentioned it to me earlier. I just forgot about it until you brought it up.”

  “That’s a relief.” Pantolini physically relaxed, but only for a moment. “I assume Rodriguez also told you about that thing that turned to dust?”

  Oh, this gets better every fucking minute. Remembering the footage from the morgue security camera, Preston decided to bluff. “He mentioned it briefly, but didn’t go into details. Who staked it?”

  “Staked it? No, the kid set it on fire with some sort of Molotov cocktail as it tried to escape. It came out of that tunnel on fire, hit the ground, and disintegrated. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  Preston felt the same way when he watched the footage of those things fall apart after getting staked in the morgue.

  “What was that thing, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Preston lied again. “We’ve had a couple of prior instances of junkies bursting into flames. Lab seems to think the druggies are using some sort of new, highly-combustible chemical to cut their meth. It gets on their clothes, they get near an open flame, and poof. Kentucky Fried Junkie.”

  Pantolini chuckled uncomfortably. “I guess that sounds right. But how do they burn up that quickly?”

  “We don’t know.” Preston leaned toward Pantolini to emphasize the point. “Don’t discuss this with anyone. What I told you is confidential.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  Pantolini shook his head. “No.”

  “Good.”

  Standing up to leave, Pantolini headed for the door. Preston called to him.

  “Joe, you did the right thing by coming to me. Good work.”

  Preston watched the door close behind the rookie, contemplating what he had just been told. He had learned three important things in the past five minutes that he could use to his advantage. First, the old row house had not as empty as they previously had thought. It had housed at least two vampires, and was more than likely where the others had been located. With luck, yesterday’s raid had taken care of the problem once and for all. A gut feeling, however, told him not to get his hopes up.

  Second, Drake Matthews was mixed up in this mess like in so many others. In this instance, Preston was glad for Drake’s meddling. He assumed the police found nothing in the row house because Drake already had killed whatever had been inside, which suited Preston just fine. Let Drake exterminate these things and take the heat for it, just so long as the force remained clean. Of course, that entailed Preston finding a way to keep the police off of Drake’s back, at least until all the undead were wiped out and he no longer needed Drake.

  Third, he could no longer trust Rodriguez, which was a shame because he had been a good cop. Or more accurately, had been a good cop. Preston would not confront Rodriguez. Instead, he would keep a close watch on him and make sure he maneuvered Rodriguez into a position to be the scapegoat in case someone had to take it up the ass on this issue.

  Preston stood up, shut off the lights, and exited his office. It turned out not to be a bad day after all.

  * * *


  “We’re ready,” said Walker.

  Chiang Shih stood by the end of the bed, straightening the fit of her black, ankle-length dress. She adjusted the strap around her neck until it settled comfortably. “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight.”

  “Excellent.” Moving over to the closet, Chiang Shih slipped into a pair of black heels, and pulled back the dress along the hip-length slit to admire them. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful, as always.” Walker stepped away from the door. He slid his hands across her waist and over her ass, pulling her into him.

  “Not now.” Chiang Shih kissed him.

  “Why not?” He ground himself into her pelvis.

  “Because we have work to do.” Chiang Shih cupped her hands over Walker’s balls and squeezed gently. “Business before pleasure.”

  Walker bit her upper lip and snarled, then stepped to one side. Chiang Shih strode by him, out of the bedroom, and into the living area where the others waited. Walker fell in line behind her.

  Chiang Shih moved with a confidence born from millennia of power. Of fortitude. Of determination. When she entered the living room, the other masters stood in deference. Chiang Shih did not pause. She stepped over to Treja and Melinda, who stood by each other in front of the sofa. Taking one of their hands in each of hers, Chiang Shih clutched them and squeezed. She turned around to face Toni, who stood by the opposite sofa. Isolated from the others, and afraid. Toni kept her eyes focused on the floor, expecting to experience Chiang Shih’s wrath. She did not notice when Walker quietly took up position behind her. Chiang Shih stood silent for several seconds, watching Toni for any indication of defiance or self-righteous anger, which would have been a death sentence. Instead, Chiang Shih saw only contrition. She strolled across the space to Toni, taking deliberate steps while she gauged Toni’s reaction. Toni stood silent, head lowered, eyes averted, body limp. Complete subservience.

  This was what Chiang Shih wanted.

  As Chiang Shih approached, Toni began to drop to her knees. Chiang Shih placed her hands on Toni’s elbows and raised the master to her feet. Toni still averted her gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

  “All is forgiven.” Chiang Shih spoke in a voice as soft as fur.