Librarian. Assassin. Vampire. (Book 1): Amber Fang (The Hunted)

by Arthur Slade

  “You did an excellent job, according to reports,” Dermot said. “Well, perhaps a little dramatically for our tastes.”

  “The target was a tiny bit tougher than I’d anticipated.”

  “His body disappeared,” he said.

  “Into thin air? Or do you mean into lots of little pieces?”

  “Yes, falling from that height wasn’t that good for the structural integrity of his corpse.”

  “That’s a clever way to say he was smashed like a rotten pumpkin.”

  “I’m a clever guy.” He tapped his skull with a thick index finger. “Though perhaps it was you who was being the cleverest, because dropping him from such a height meant that no one would notice he was missing most of his blood. Might even have erased any of the feeding marks.”

  “Yes, I am that clever,” I said, though really, I’d been desperate. And that lull that came after feeding was what had made me loosen my grip. His falling body could’ve accidentally killed some innocent tourists far below, now that I thought of it. That would have broken one of Mom’s holy rules.

  “His remains were scraped up and taken to the coroner,” Dermot continued. “Then they did, indeed, disappear.”

  “I guess his comrades needed to do their own study on why he died.”

  “That’s our assumption. What was he like?”

  “Unseemly. Egotistical. And he used too much aftershave.”

  “And you had difficulty subduing him?”

  I shrugged. “There was a battle royale, so to speak. Maybe fifty or so seconds long. Much longer than I’m used to. And I lost a pair of shoes, which I’ll be charging you for. Oh, and he said he was augmented. I don’t understand the science myself, just being a simple librarian. But he was stronger. Faster. All those things you males seem to like. Maybe even faster than you. He had a few gene splices from a vampire.”

  “He had encountered vampires?”

  I must say I was relishing having information that ol’ Dermot didn’t seem to know. “Apparently he’d captured a male, studied him, and killed him.” It could have been my father. I tightened my grip on one of the roses, and its head snapped off. I set it on the counter. “It makes me wonder who else has been augmented with vampire genes. Someone I may know.”

  “Me?” he laughed. “Not that way. Vitamins. And the good old-fashioned way. “

  “Which is what?”

  “Scientific experiments. Adjustments here and there. And I work out. A lot.” He seemed to beam pride, and I swear his chest stuck out another inch or so.

  “I know,” I said. I wriggled my nose.

  “But I’ve showered. You—”

  “—have a delicate sense of smell. Anyway, about this line of work. I’m not certain I want to do it anymore.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I’m risking my life for a meal. Normally, I don’t risk my life. This was fun for a lark. But maybe I’ll only accept easily consumed food from your ... food services organization.”

  “The whole point of our approaching you and creating this agreement is that these are difficult targets.”

  “You sound like a lawyer.”

  “I’m trained in law. I’m trained in many things.”

  I lifted one of the roses. “Then you will understand that every contract can be given an addendum. I need a better payoff. I can get food anywhere. It’s all around me, as you see.”

  He was watching me closely.

  “What do you want, Amber Fang?”

  The way he said my name threw me. Only my mother and he had said my real name aloud. I drew in my breath. “Well, Dermot, I want your knowledge. About my kind. About why this arms dealer had, as far as I know, his very own vampire to experiment on. And how many vampires are out there.”

  Dermot smiled a handsome smile. “Ah, what if we don’t have any knowledge that is of interest to you?”

  “Well, I could work for someone else.” A naked lie. I didn’t know anyone else. He knew that too. “I’d have to join LinkedIn.”

  “Well, well,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to lower yourself to that. I’ll admit to not being very much in the know myself. I’ll talk to my higher-ups.”

  “You do that.” I felt pretty confident in my position. I had just proved how effective I could be. They would not have any other hired guns like me. Or hired teeth, I should say. “And ...” An emotion swept over me. “And I want you to find my mother.” This had come out of the blue. But once the idea shot out my mouth, I seized on it. “Yes, that’s it. And my father too,” I added.

  His eyes darkened. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

  “You found me,” I said. “Mom—she has to be out there somewhere, right? And I’d like to see my father once. I want to look in his eyes. I just ...” Ah, this was sounding sappy. “I just want to see him.”

  “I honestly don’t know if that’s within the realm of possibility.”

  “Bring it within the realm of possibility. I thought you had a big organization. You tracked me down. Those same methods should work for them.”

  “But you were sloppy.”

  “I was not!”

  He shrugged as if there was no point in arguing. “I’m just saying that we’ve spent decades hunting. And we have captured ... I mean, contacted very few of your kind.”

  “So you’ve contacted other vampires?”

  “Not successfully.”

  File that under vague response.

  “So you killed one of my species?” I asked.

  “We’ve had encounters, that’s all. We lost some good men.”

  We’d have to leave it vague.

  “Well, those are the terms of my deal. Find my mother and my father and give me more of your vague information. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said carefully. “Enjoy your flowers.”

  Then he turned and walked out of my apartment. His scent remained. It wasn’t as unpleasant as I’d let on.

  12

  A CHEAP ENVELOPE

  I rotated back into my usual routine. Mom’s voice began to shout, You’ve been here too long, it’s safer to move! Go. Go. Go. Hey, her voice had kept me alive for a long time. But I ignored it. I was sick of pulling up stakes (and be careful how you use that word around vampires) every time I got a strange whiff.

  I needed to find my main meal for this month, and an easy backup meal. A week passed. Then another. I tapped my fingers several times.

  I read The Montréal Gazette. I was beginning to understand the citizens of Québec lived and breathed their politics. The French versus English versus French versus everyone debate continued unabated. Bridges were falling apart, and there was a suggestion mobsters were somehow involved with the construction contracts. Oh, these humans and their trivial concerns. But you never knew what you’d find in a paper. Sometimes even your next meal will pop out of the pages.

  When I was flipping through the back pages, I came across a familiar face. A woman had been stabbed to death in a robbery. There were the usual police are not commenting and guesswork by the reporter. Normally, I’d skip this sort of stuff, but I’d seen the woman before. It was Genevieve, the saleswoman from the Fluevog shoe store. She’d been vivacious. Fun. And someone had killed her for whatever money was in the till. The murderer or murderers had arrived at closing and spray painted over the security camera. I could only imagine Genevieve’s fear and pain.

  I sliced out the article with my fingernail. I’d find that killer. See if he had any remorse. And if not, I’d give him something to be remorseful about. In the few seconds it took me to feed, that is. Yes, I liked that idea. It would be worth the risk to eat a little closer to home. Never kill the woman who sells me my shoes. I’d write it on the guy’s forehead.

  Of course, I assumed the perp was male. That’s how the percentages went.

  My heartbeat sped up, followed by a rush of adrenaline.

  As I put the article on the table, I was surprised by a bout
of sadness. I’d spent maybe thirty minutes with Genevieve, but she’d had joie de vivre to the max. And now that joie was dead. I nearly shed a tear.

  Why was I so concerned about food? I had to put my anger on the backburner. No sense jumping into something while you were emotional. And I wasn’t a detective. It’s not like I could go around interviewing people. The gendarmes would have to hunt for the killer first.

  But even behind bars, he wouldn’t be safe.

  The third week after my return from Dubai, another envelope slid under my door. I didn’t open the door this time, though I was still curious as to who or what was dropping the envelopes off. I sliced it open, noticing it wasn’t the highest quality stationary. Unimpressive.

  There was one piece of paper inside. I slid it out and read:

  All agreements with Amber Fang are herewith terminated.

  That was it. Not even a signature. I smelled the envelope. But there wasn’t a scent either. As if no human hands had touched it. Maybe it had been written by robots.

  I leapt to the door and yanked it open. Sniffed. No scent. No sign of who or what had dropped it off. I slammed the door and sat on the end of my bed.

  I bit my lip. Hard. This didn’t seem to be a negotiating tactic. Normally you didn’t play hardball right after the first offer. And if the agreements were terminated, what did that mean? Would they take me away to one of those interrogation pens? Remove my vital organs?

  They wouldn’t leave me alone. Not now that they knew who I was. Where I was. I was sure they wished there was a way to take my set of skills and use them for their own purposes. And if Mom’s flee voice was whispering before, it was shouting now. Run! Run! Run! Back to Mommy. Okay, I added that last bit in.

  I crumpled the paper up. They had rejected the most efficient killer they could have had. The humans had turned me down. And Dermot couldn’t even do it face-to-face. He had chosen to dump me with a piece of paper. The bastard! And it wasn’t even nice paper. Double bastard!

  The roses were on the floor and the vase smashed before my heart had beat another beat. I looked around for something else that reminded me of them. Of Dermot.

  There was nothing. Nothing! But I wanted—no needed—to break more things. Bones perhaps. Noses. Punch through walls and scare the bejeepers out of my neighbors. That’d teach them to have loud late-night sex romps.

  How could food reject me?

  Hell hath no fury like a vampiress scorned.

  I sat in the corner, and for the first time in a very long time, I actually felt as if I might cry. I hadn’t cried since my mother had left. Not once.

  “Go to hell,” I whispered. “All of you humans can go to hell.”

  No tears slipped down my cheek. But the very idea that they were on the edge of my eyelids made my anger rise. So much so, I imagined the tears burning up before they could form.

  No one rejected me. I’d formed attachments and been swindled. My ego had been rubbed, and I’d responded like a puppy dog. This was not the Fang way.

  I stormed out of the apartment.

  I walked. I strode and stomped. Up the Mont Royal mountain of Montréal to the chalet. It takes a few hours to get to the top. Unless you’re particularly mad and willing to charge up the road double time. I looked down on the city, and all the lights gathered there. Full of brightness and people. It was a particularly attractive city. And perhaps somewhere in that city was Dermot.

  Was he sleeping comfortably in a soft bed tonight? Already thinking about the next agent he would seduce with words and tickets to exotic locations? Could he just walk away from me like that?

  I seethed. I cursed. I tightened my fists and shook them at the city.

  Uselessly, of course. But it made me feel a bit better. I would’ve let out a scream if I had thought it would have helped.

  I decided I’d find him. I’d find them. And they would answer my questions. It would be time for a new deal. Once I had a plan of action, or even a germ of a plan, I’d put all my energies toward it.

  I tried to mentally grasp how huge my task would be. This was a secret organization. It’s not like they left their address anywhere. Montana? Moscow? I couldn’t even state what their purposes truly were. And they had enough money for drones, chemical research, and to send me (and how many other agents) around the world to kill bad guys.

  Ah, but I was a librarian-in-training, and my brain was a highly developed research tool. Whether there was any sort of paper trail, I couldn’t be certain. Where would I start? It would all come to me, I decided. Oh, those little boys in their suits would probably dirty their Superman shorts when I dropped out of an air vent and said, “Hello, it’s time to talk. Let’s begin by tearing out your throats.”

  That made me smile. Revenge was a dish best served in a shocking manner.

  They had more answers than I did about my own kind. And there would be a way to make them give me that information. Or to renegotiate the deal we’d had. That was my intention. To obtain a stronger, fairer deal.

  My confidence had risen like the phoenix, and the walk back down the mountain of Montréal was more of a pleasant jog. Even the little bit of rain and chill didn’t dampen my feelings. I had a new purpose. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d looked back and seen my footprints on fire.

  After several minutes, I was making my way to Saint-Denis street. A fire truck passed me, lights flashing and siren doing its best banshee impression. With the Service de sécurité incendie de Montréal symbol on the door. I liked fire trucks. There was something about those massive red trucks and all those firefighters, rich with blood. A pretty common sight in Montréal. This one was followed by a police car. Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal—SPVM. Gendarmes. This, in turn, was followed by an ambulance.

  This was a big city. Things happened. Crime. Car crashes. Fire. People died. Not a night went by without sirens waking me up. I was a light sleeper. Sometimes I’d howl along with them.

  I was kidding about that last part. I was not a werewolf. There were no werewolves. I know. I’d looked.

  When I turned down my block and saw that the emergency vehicles were collecting at my apartment building and that it was on fire, I broke into a run.

  A crowd had gathered, despite the drizzle. I’d speculated the old structure would fall down on its own in the next decade or so. Apparently, if it got smacked by a bomb, it collapsed rather quickly.

  The window of my apartment was a gaping hole, and the inside was all flames. The whole building sagged below that point, looking like it was frowning.

  There had obviously been an attempt to permanently terminate my contract.

  13

  A FAMILIAR SCENT

  The only things I’d miss was the picture I had of Mom and some of my favorite clothes. New clothes could be bought, but the picture couldn’t be replaced. I still had one in my wallet of dear old Nigella. That was Mom’s name by the way. Yes, it was a stupid name for a vampire. Nigella Fang. That didn’t exactly inspire fear. But she was born a hundred years ago, and they liked different names back then.

  I watched the firemen fight the flames with a giant hose and didn’t even have the presence of mind to make a phallic joke. I was obviously still in shock. It slowly dawned on me that someone had tried to take my life. My muscles already knew—I was shaking.

  The assassination attempt hadn’t been very efficient. They hadn’t even checked to see if I was home and didn’t seem to care that they were risking the lives of all the other tenants too.

  Whoever had done it might have even been watching the spectators for me. I pulled my hood up. Every face I saw was suspicious, though all of them were gawking at the flames.

  The crowd was getting larger and larger, police trying to shoo them back with a bull horn: “Arrêtez! Arrêtez! Retourner à vos résidences!” Officers were efficiently setting up a yellow police tape perimeter.

  They tried to kill me. They actually tried to kill me.

  I hadn’t quite de
termined who they were yet. I doubted it would be revenge for Gabriel’s death. They’d have no idea where I lived. This seemed more like a clumsy attempt by Dermot.

  My hands were fists. And there was a cop coming toward me telling me to, “Reculez! Reculez!” I nearly punched him. But I backed up and slid between a mom with a lit cigarette in her mouth, her toddler hanging off her shoulder, and an old lady leaning on a walker. The flames were growing higher. Clearly, the blast had gone inward, not outward as it would in a gas explosion. That made me wonder if it was some sort of rocket. I was not particularly knowledgeable about ordnance blast patterns.

  The bastards tried to kill me.

  Anger wasn’t a great place to start from when you were in need of logic. But what was very clear to me was my days in Montréal and Canada were done. It was time to retreat. To forge a new identity, just as Mom had taught me, and work my way south, perhaps to Mexico, along all the back highways to avoid an organized hunt. I didn’t want to take any American flights because Dermot and his pals likely had some sort of connection with Homeland Security. A flight from Canada to Europe might be possible. I was good at travelling light.

  The logical thing to do was to leave right away.

  I’ll kill every last one of them.

  I was clearly getting into revenge territory, which went against my moral code and, frankly, was not good for keeping a low profile. Don’t get emotional, Dear, Mom had always said. But she’d never had an explosive shot into her home.

  I need you, Mom. I need you now.

  I caught a familiar scent. Only a few disparate molecules were floating through the air, mixed with the smoke, the sweat of the crowd, and the mothball scent coming off the old lady. But those few molecules sent my senses tingling, and I bared my teeth.

  Dermot’s stink. Yes, he’d been near this spot. When I looked at what I guessed was the angle of entry to launch a rocket, I was in the perfect place to stand.