The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon

by Baker, Scott M.

  He had been playing it safe for nearly twelve years, fulfilling his desires without letting them become a self-absorbing addiction. So far his caution had kept him out of trouble. Tonight, though, things would be different because he had invited one of the girls over to his house.

  Mike finished his preparations, setting up a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. Once he had everything in order, he went over to the full-length mirror in the hall and checked himself out. Not too bad for a guy just shy of fifty. About twenty-five pounds overweight. A bald spot. Less body tone than he would have preferred, but still in a hell of a lot better shape than most men his age. And with more than enough downstairs to satisfy any teenage pussy.

  Something told him that Vampgirl1648, as she called herself on line, was no ordinary teenager. They had met in a chat room five days ago. At first, he had been of dealing with her because of her obvious maturity, fearing she might be a cop. After engaging her in conversation he sidelined those concerns. She had a childishness about her that could not be feigned. He could not explain how he knew this, but after twelve years of dealing with teenagers on a daily basis, he knew a teenage girl when he talked to one. When she suggested they meet at his house for something special, at first Mike hesitated. As luck would have it, however, his wife would be out of town that night. With excitement overriding common sense, he arranged for Vampgirl1648 to drop by at eight o’clock.

  Mike puttered around in the living room, closing the curtains and setting the lights on dim, when the doorbell rang. His body tensed in anticipation, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. His hands began to sweat with nervousness. Wiping the palms on his hips, Mike forced himself to stroll to the front door so as not to appear overly anxious. He stopped, took a deep breath, and opened it, hoping the risk he took would be worth it.

  The instant he set eyes on Vampgirl1648, he realized it would be.

  A beautiful young girl who could have been no older than thirteen stood on his front porch. She had an angelic face, with shoulder-length blonde hair that set off a stunning pair of blue eyes and cherubic cheeks. Yet while the face implied innocence, the body screamed slut. She wore a short, green-plaid skirt and sheer white blouse, with white bobby socks and black low heels. A catholic school girl with a touch of whore. The little cunt sure knew how to tease a cock.

  “Are you Mr. Fletcher?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.” He offered his hand. “Please, call me Mike.”

  “I will, Mike.” She took his hand and gave it a single, dainty shake. “I’m Vampgirl.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “You can call me anything that turns you on.” The teenager entered the house, stepping so close to Mike that her tits brushed his arm. She spun around quickly, causing the short skirt to twirl, revealing red satin underpants. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Mike practically slammed the door shut. “Let’s go to the living room.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Vampgirl held out her hand like a Southern belle. Mike took it and escorted her into the living room. Her hand was surprisingly cool. Almost cold. Yet it hummed with a sexual energy. He felt himself growing hard.

  They sat beside each other in the sofa. As Mike settled in to talk, he leaned forward and poured himself a glass of wine. He held a bottle up to Vampgirl. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Are you sure?” Mike sat back into the sofa. “It’ll break your inhibitions.”

  “I don’t need wine for that.”

  Vampgirl slid sideways on the sofa and leaned back against the armrest. Keeping her left foot on the floor, she swung her right onto the sofa. With her legs spread, Mike could see under the short skirt. He could not stop from staring at the satin panties and the mound underneath. Nor could he prevent the raging hard-on that strained against his trousers.

  “Tell you what,” said Vampgirl. “We both know how tonight’s going to end. And I can see by that bulge in your pants that you’re horny as hell. How about a quick blowjob to break the ice? That way, when we get to the main event, you won’t cum early?”

  “Y-you’re serious?”

  “Of course.” Pushing herself out of the corner, the teenager slid across the sofa alongside of Mike. Her hands glided down to his crotch, one holding the top of his trousers while the other pulled down his zipper. She reached into his trousers, wrapped her fingers around his cock, and pulled it out. She stroked it, her fingers sliding gently across the skin. Mike felt his balls churning, and knew he would not be able to hold out much longer. Not wanting to waste his load in her hand, he placed his hands on the back of Vampgirl’s head and forced it into his crotch. Rather than resist, Vampgirl sucked him into her mouth until his entire cock plunged down her throat.

  Mike leaned his head back into the cushions and moaned. He’d never forget tonight.

  Melinda stood in front of the bathroom mirror, using a facecloth to wash off the blood from her face and hair. Luckily it cleaned up easily. Mike had doused her really well, which wasn’t really surprising. Feeding on a human during sex or terror, when the heart pounded and pumped blood, always resulted in an abnormal amount of splatter. Not that she minded. Melinda loved to be covered in blood. She found it sensual. The touch of it on her skin excited her.

  Unfortunately, the blood did not come out of her clothes. Mike had sprayed across her chest, soaking her white blouse. Stepping into the master bedroom, Melinda opened the closet and rummaged through. More than half of them were women’s clothes. Melinda chuckled. Wouldn’t Mrs. Fletcher have a surprise waiting for her when she got home? Not that she felt any sympathy for the woman. Her husband had preyed on children to satisfy his own deviant pleasures and paid a just price for his sins. She would be better off without him.

  Finding a turtleneck sweater, Melinda yanked it off the hanger and slipped it on. The sweater hung a little big on her, but it served its purpose in covering the blood-soaked blouse. Closing the closet doors, Melinda headed back downstairs.

  Mike lay flopped back on the sofa, his head leaning to one side. He sat in an expanding pool of blood that soaked his trousers and seat cushions, and flowed down the front of the sofa to stain the rug. Melinda had left his fly unzipped, exposing the raw gaping hole where his cock used to be. He had thrashed around so violently when she fed that it came off in her mouth. The bastard’s prick was so small she barely felt it go down when she swallowed. Leaning over, she placed two fingers against his neck and felt for a pulse. Surprisingly, his heart still beat, albeit slowly. He would bleed out completely before too long.

  With a barely audible moan, Mike tried to turn his head, but did not have enough energy left. Placing her hand under his chin, Melinda turned his head to face her. Their eyes met. A look of sheer terror replaced his vacant stare. Good, she thought. Let him suffer a little more before he died. Bending over, Melinda kissed him on the lips. He tried to back away, but could not.

  “Thank you, Mike. I had a wonderful time. I’ll see you soon. In Hell.”

  With a final gasp, Mike left the world forever.

  With nothing of interest here for Melinda, she left the house, pausing just long enough to look out the front window and scan the street, making sure no one was around who might witness her departure and identify her later. Minutes later, she was several blocks away, safe from being linked to the crime scene.

  9.

  Drake called a taxi to take him to the office because he needed to carry the replica medieval weapons he had purchased at the Freer. Walking to work would have been difficult since each weapon was in a heavy wooden crate. Though going to work by taxi did not preclude him from asking the taxi driver to stop for a few minutes so he could pick up an iced coffee. Now he regretted being a slave to routine. Lugging the two awkwardly-sized wooden crates and his iced coffee up the front stairs of his office building turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. With the drink in one hand, the ha
ndle of one wooden crate in the other, and the second wooden crate precariously lodged under an armpit, he struggled up the front stairs. He nearly dropped the box under his arm, steadying it with his coffee hand in the nick of time. Now he stood at the top of the stairs, unable to open the front door or even ring the bell. With no other options left, he gently began kicking the glass with his toe.

  Alison responded on the tenth knock. She stormed into the hallway, ready to chew a second asshole into whatever obnoxious visitor made the racket. Her eyes softened when she saw Drake, but only a bit. He could tell by her expression that she viewed him as only slightly less obnoxious than a solicitor. Rushing up to the door, she pushed it open and held it in place with one hand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she greeted him.

  “And good morning to you, too.” Drake motioned with his head to the box under his arm. “Grab that, will ya?”

  Alison stepped forward. Placing one hand under the wooden crate and grabbing the handle with the other, she relieved Drake of his burden. Mobility restored, Drake maneuvered by Alison, banging his own crate against the jamb. Alison followed him inside. Drake placed his iced coffee on one corner of Alison’s desk, and then set the crate down on the sofa across from it. He took the second crate from Alison and placed it beside the first.

  “What’s in those?” asked Alison.

  “Is Jim here?”

  “He’s upstairs.”

  “Call him down. I’ll show you both together.”

  Alison picked up the phone and paged Jim. Drake slid off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the coat rack, then took a long drink of iced coffee. By the time he finished, Jim came downstairs from his work shop.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  Drake unlatched the two crates and lifted the lids with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old showing off his favorite Christmas gift. Alison and Jim stepped forward to look in. Each crate contained a sword, the blade approximately a meter in length, with an ornately-carved hand grip.

  “What are they?” asked Alison.

  “I picked them up at the museum gift shop. They’re replicas of the swords the Conquistadors used during the conquest of Latin America.” Drake turned to Jim. “I thought you could adapt them for hunting vampires.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Jim.

  “Yeah. Can’t you do anything with them?”

  “Not really.” Jim picked up one of the swords and turned it in his hand, examining the blade. “These are straight-edged weapons. You really can’t pimp them up other than decorating the hand grip. The only way to kill a vampire with one of these would be to slice off its head. And these are way too dull to do that.”

  Drake tried to hide his disappointment. “Couldn’t we sharpen them?”

  Jim shook his head. “These are display swords. I’d ruin the blades if I tried. In any case, they wouldn’t make good weapons.” Jim handed the sword back to Drake. “Sorry, boss.”

  Alison placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Guess you don’t get to fulfill your fantasy of running around Washington like Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “Ah, you’re just afraid of handling a man’s weapon.”

  “Whatever.”

  Drake stepped to the side to face Alison and feigned a pirate accent. “Are you showing thine timidity, wench?”

  “Wench?” asked Alison, miffed.

  Drake placed the tip of the blade under her skirt and lifted the material a few inches. Alison knocked the sword aside with her hand.

  “Me thinks the wench’s petticoat is tied a bit too tight.”

  “If that’s how you want to play.” Alison picked up the other sword and took up a stance.

  “On guard, wench.”

  Drake raised his sword and tapped it against Alison’s. With a motion of the hand almost too quick to see, Alison tipped her sword to the left and brought the point underneath the hand grip of Drake’s sword. With a single yank, she ripped the sword from his hand. His weapon tumbled to the floor. Alison lowered her sword and placed the tip against Drake’s groin. A wry smile pierced her lips.

  “Me thinks you won’t be needing these anymore,” she said.

  Applause from the entranceway attracted their attention. They all turned to see Smith by the hall door. He stood leaning against the frame, clapping. “Looks like I hired the wrong person as team leader.”

  “Give me the word,” joked Alison. “I’ll make some headroom.”

  “You better not. He still might be useful.” Smith stepped into the room. “Where did you learn to fence like that?”

  Alison gave Drake’s crotch a slight tap with the blade tip, and then placed the sword back in its crate. “I had an older brother and two cousins who liked to play The Three Musketeers, and I always got stuck being Comte de Rochfort. So I learned how to fight back.”

  “Remind me to thank your brother if I ever meet him.” Drake placed his own sword back in its crate, fighting back the urge to rub his crotch.

  “I warned you I didn’t want to fence.” Alison sounded more apologetic than angry.

  “Next time I’ll listen.”

  Jim walked over to the sofa and closed up the crates. “Let me take these upstairs before someone gets hurt.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what Smith has to say?” asked Drake.

  “Not particularly.” Jim turned to Smith. “No offense, but every time you talk with Drake, we wind up traipsing around some God-awful part of the city. Other than that, I like you just fine. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Jim picked up the two crates by their handles and brought the swords upstairs. Drake stepped over to Alison’s desk, retrieved his iced coffee, and headed for his office, motioning for Smith and Alison to follow. Smith took a seat in one of the easy chairs in front of Drake’s desk. Alison sat on the sofa underneath the painting of Nosferatu.

  Drake slid into his chair behind his desk and sipped the iced coffee. “Sorry about Jim. He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Don’t apologize. The kid’s right. My visits usually precede you going on a bad hunt.”

  “But if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be sitting in a Washington jail being traded for a carton of cigarettes.” Drake took a long drink of coffee. “What’s on your mind?”

  “During the attack on the row house the other day, how many snuffies did you encounter?”

  “Five,” said Drake.

  “The four we ran into upstairs and the one that tried to escape through the basement,” added Alison.

  “But no master?”

  “No.”

  Alison shook her head.

  Smith sat quietly, thinking.

  “You think we missed the master?” asked Drake.

  “It’s possible.”

  Alison leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “Why do you think the master is still alive?”

  “I don’t know if she is. None of the police who were on the raid reported seeing anyone leave the row house, and no one was found inside during the search. To be honest, I have no reason to believe the master is alive other than intuition.” Smith snorted. “Not much to go on, is it?”

  Drake smiled. “One thing I’ve learned in this business is that intuition will save you nine times out of ten.”

  “Maybe. But we’re still at a dead end.”

  “Not really. If the master was killed during the raid, either by us or by the police, then chances are her ashes are still there. It would have been easy for the police to have missed them.”

  “Little good that does us,” said Smith.

  “On the contrary.” Drake finished the iced coffee and dropped the empty cup into the waste basket. “All we have to do is go back to the row house and look for her ashes ourselves.”

  * * *

  Fate always shined on Preston. It had for as long as he could remember. Whenever life dealt Preston a shitty hand, which seemed to be frequently, Fate allowed him to draw
an inside straight. It had served him well throughout his life, especially during his years with the police force. It enabled him to survive political crises when men with lesser luck had been crushed. Yet having good luck was only half the battle. Fate might let you draw an inside straight, but if you did not know how to properly play your hand then little fucking good it would do you. And Preston was a skillful poker player.

  This time, Fate allowed him to draw a damn good hand.

  As Preston made his way through police headquarters heading for the squad room, he marveled at how things had worked out for him once again. Rodriguez had become a liability. He knew as much as Preston did about these things plaguing the city, which made Rodriguez a serious threat to Preston if the former decided not to cooperate. Normally that would not be a concern, because over the years Rodriguez had proven himself to be a good cop, both reliable and loyal. Lately, however, Rodriguez had shown signs that he could not be trusted. First, he filed a false report about the attack on the row house. Then, even worse in Preston’s opinion, he lied about letting Drake Matthews and the others escape, indicating sympathy with Matthews, at best, or collaboration. In either case, Preston could no longer rely on Rodriguez and saw him as a potential threat to Preston’s plan to manipulate this situation to his own advantage. Preston decided to sideline Rodriguez from this investigation, getting him out of the way long enough for Preston to profit from the current crisis. That would have been next to impossible given Rodriguez’ stellar performance record and the partiality Roach showed toward him, until Fate intervened on Preston’s behalf.

  Arriving in front of the squad room, Preston entered. As expected, he found Rodriguez reading at his desk. As Preston drew closer, he noticed the title. The Science of Vampires by Katherine Ramsland. So, the bastard really did believe they were dealing with the undead. Rodriguez glanced up and saw Preston approaching. He closed the book, set it on his desk, and placed a copy of The Washington Post on top of it, doing so in a nonchalant manner as if he were not attempting to hide anything. No matter. It just reaffirmed Preston’s decision to get Rodriguez off of this case.