Demons Are Forever (Love at First Bite Book 2)

by Declan Finn

  Day hammer-fisted her chest, shattering her sternum. He cocked his fist again, and collapsed her ribcage.

  The hospital shook as Day roared, and he hurled Amanda back through the wall she came through, and she distinctly felt her broken body smash through at least two more walls before she hit an MRI.

  Amanda flipped the wet hair out of her eyes, and saw Day slowly stalking towards her. His eyes were burning with rage, and it wasn’t a metaphor. His eyes were literal flame. The water dripped down off his coat, his head the only visible part of him that was wet. She expected to see burns on him, or something like the kind of damage a vampire would take from being exposed to holiness.

  Day raised his hands, gesturing to the holy precipitation. “You think all of this will stop me? At the most, it will slow me down.”

  Day grabbed a phone from his pocket. This time, she could track his movements, even though he was going at supernatural speeds. The holy water had literally slowed him down.

  “I saved the patients.”

  “Heh. You think this had anything to do with killing meaningless peasants? No. We wish to hurt Marco. That’s why I waited until you arrived. You’ll be dead, and he’ll light up like a beacon.” Day raised his phone. “Remember, remember, that day in September.”

  Amanda went cold. The date, and its significance to Marco, hit her at once.

  “There’s an app for this, too,” he gloated

  Amanda leapt as he hit the dial button.

  The entire world disappeared in fire.

  CHAPTER 15:

  REFLECTIONS OF THE WAY LIFE USED TO BE

  San Francisco

  Marco blinked awake at the blare of his phone. It was 5:00 am on a Tuesday. Now, what was he supposed to care about this early?

  On the fifth ring, he rolled over and picked up the phone with eyes closed and brain shut off. “Voice identification disengaged, please identify yourself.”

  “It’s me, Yana. Marco, something’s happened in New York.”

  He blinked. Yana’s voice was wrong. Shaky? Scared? Of what? His mouth was on autopilot. “My lovely redhead, how are you? Wait… My New York? What about it?”

  She told him.

  “Hm?”

  She told him again.

  Marco’s eyes snapped open. “WHAT!!”

  * * *

  Merle Kraft woke up at six. He didn’t want to wake up today. He was surprised that he’d allowed himself to sleep after meeting with Dalf.

  He sighed and turned on the television, straight to the news, and while it played in the background, he went to his computer. Now that he had Marco in the neighborhood, it was time to pick up on his United Nations investigation again.

  Kraft went to work while CNN played across the room. The first vampire Merle had killed had been meeting with someone at the United Nations, so the first step was to find out exactly who that vampire had been met with the night the FBI used a laser-mic to bug the UN. Unless… What if that vampire had not been the one in the UN? What if his boss had heard the laser mic?

  Merle shook his head. Why would el jefe condescend to meet someone at the UN? For negotiations, you don’t go in person—vampires are not micromanaging senators, are they?

  Unless… Damn Dalf… oh, wait, it’s far, far too late for that… What if the number-one vampire killed in Brooklyn wasn’t THE number-one guy? What if he were just a point man? Someone to lay the groundwork for negotiations?

  I think it’s time for me to go back to New York.

  Merle grimaced, and looked up at the television. It looked like someone was replaying footage of 9/11.

  Then he turned on the volume.

  * * *

  Doctor Robert Catalano blinked. Why was his head buzzing? Why was his world blurry, and… was he in an ambulance? It a cross between a hospital and a garage with an undercurrent of burnt – hair, plastic and flesh.

  Robert rolled his head from one side to the other. He was on a gurney? Why? Had he inhaled smoke? The sprinklers had all gone off, he had been getting people out, he got out, and then…?

  Short-term memory loss. Physical trauma? My vision is still blurry, so I have a concussion, and not one of the “take two Advil” variety.

  Robert coughed, said, “Hello?”

  After a moment of no response, he slowly sat up. Second opinion on the vision…it would help if I had my glasses.

  Robert gently put his feet on the floor and tried to rise. When the world went sideways, he sat back down.

  “Robert!” came a booming voice that didn’t need a microphone.

  He smiled. He didn’t need eyes to know who that was. “Bill! How are you?”

  The dark brown and black blur that was Robert’s friend Father Rodgers appeared at the open door of the ambulance. “Good doctor! How are you?”

  Robert held his head. “Advil would be nice. What happened? First the building was on fire, then I’m… here. What’s going on out there?”

  Rodgers sighed deeply. “You’re not going to like this.”

  Robert chuckled. “Best case scenario is a faulty fire alarm. Worst case…” Robert squinted. He seemed to still be in the same area. “Well, the block hasn’t blown up, so it wasn’t nuclear.”

  “Come and see.”

  The priest helped the doctor hobble out of the back of the ambulance.

  Robert looked over what was left of the hospital. It was gone. Well, more than half of it was standing, but there was a wing gone, taking at least a third of the building.

  Still trying to figure out how all of the patients got evacuated in time, he thought, remembering that he was the last one out. How does a terrorist attack happen and no one die?

  Robert winced. He couldn’t exactly say no one, could he? There was still someone missing in action, he was afraid. If she had gotten out, she would have been the first person he saw, he was certain. Pity, he had been hoping that she would consider being his daughter-in-law one day. Then again, she was technically sort of dead, though she was still breathing, with a pulse, and he still wasn’t certain how that worked.

  Now… “Amanda was in there.”

  Rodgers blinked. “Amanda Colt?” He looked to the sky. The sun was already over the horizon. “We’ll have to watch the clearance of the rubble closely. If she’s found before sunset—”

  “It would be bad,” Robert concluded.

  The doctor felt the buzzing once more. Only this time it came from his pocket. He grabbed his phone, looking at the caller ID.

  “It’s Marco.”

  * * *

  San Francisco

  Marco Catalano paced back and forth in his dorm room, waiting for someone to pick up the damn phone. Somebody had to pick up. Eventually. Didn’t they? Right now, he had two people waiting on the phone—he had dialed his father with one phone, and he had dialed Amanda from the land line in the dorm.

  And as it happened before, ever since he heard That Song, every time he thought about that fateful day, the song just kept being stuck in his head. Phrases in the song discussed walls falling down in a beloved city, with clouds bringing darkness from above.

  Marco had been so put off, he was no longer smiling.The television was on, though he didn’t need to see it. In the last hour, he had seen the hospital explode almost on a loop. Somehow, the news had gotten video clips from security cameras across the street. The giant fireball came up from the hospital, and nearly half the building went down like a Las Vegas hotel implosion.

  However, there was already an evacuation going on as the hospital went up. The problem there was simple: someone knew it was coming. There hadn’t even been a whisper of smoke before the fireball, which meant that someone knew that something was going to happen.

  Of the people that Marco knew who frequented that hospital, all of them could have seen something, pulled the fire alarm, and delayed the bomber long enough to let the evacuation happen. If it were a human threat, that could be anyone but Amanda—humans would have been lunch in a matter of seconds,
literally. But if it was someone or something otherworldly, something demonic, then everyone Marco knew could be lying dead in that rubble, right now.

  The fireball played again on the television, and Marco winced. He reacted less to the flash of fire, and more to the memory. When he was younger, he had seen something similar, and while it, too, had been replayed over and over on the television, he hadn’t needed to see it played. He had seen it live. He had seen the ashes and the dust, the fireballs, the impacts. Marco could still remember the dust cloud that covered the Island of Manhattan, and the ash that covered the Brooklyn bridge. He vividly remembered that day.

  Marco didn’t even need to be told what day it was. It was The Anniversary. It was why he rarely called the police. He had issues about 9/11. He was one of the rare witnesses to have seen 9/11 live, and in person, from the first airplane to the last tower.

  Marco had been six.

  From that point on, Marco had done everything he could to be ready to join military service when it came time. He had let himself sleepwalk through “normal” classes instead of jump straight to college, because he couldn’t be allowed to join ROTC at age twelve. He did his schoolwork in his free time, and studied the best ways to kill people, and whatever else he thought would be useful. Being sidetracked by vampires and other miscellaneous crap hadn’t helped.

  But now, as he looked on, watching the hospital he all but grew up in blow up, over and over again, probably killing everyone he knew, over and over again, Marco knew one thing. It was the very thing he knew all those years ago.

  There would be death. There would fire. Marco would see to it, if he had to kill all of them himself. He didn’t care what color they were. Didn’t care where they were from, what they believed, or what language they spoke. Didn’t care if they prayed to Thor, Kali, Shiva, Allah, or Satan. Anyone who was behind this attack would die screaming as he personally sent them each to Hell. He’d make them scream for each person who died. Just as soon as he had the body count.

  Speaking of which— “Will one of you pick up the damn phone!” Marco screamed at both of the phones.

  “Marco, I’m okay,” Robert Catalano answered.

  Something in Marco shifted. It was a surprising wave of relief. Heck, it was Easter morning. Someone Marco thought was dead was alive. It was a miracle. It was …

  The relief faded. The relief took him out of his reverie of death and murder, and into his senses. “Who’s dead?”

  “No one I know. None of your gangs were in, the cops that were there are on the street right now, no ninjas were in residence… did I miss anybody?”

  Yes, Dad, you missed the most important one. You know you missed her, because you know what’s important to me better than I do. But you didn’t mention her, because… she’s in there. She was in the great big freaking fireball. And whatever it is, it’s big and it’s mean, and it may have taken her out, because that’s the only way she would have let anything blow up the hospital.

  “You don’t know if she’s alive or dead, do you?”

  “Right.”

  Marco furrowed his brow. Whatever it was had killed—or tried to kill—Amanda, and blew up the hospital in order to do it. Which meant that something had been most unhappy with him. He had sincerely pissed off the forces of darkness. It wanted to send him a message. Maybe make him reveal his position.

  Good. He wanted them to find him. It would save him time .

  Marco’s smile returned. Had his father seen the smile, he would have known what would happen next.

  Whoever had blown up the hospital had to get past Amanda. They were stronger in either power, or in numbers.

  Marco’s free hand clenched as his eyes went dark. Good. I would hate for them to die before I’m done beating them to death. And it’s gotta be vampiric or demonic in nature. Good. Human wreckage is so much harder to clean up.

  “But Marco,” Robert continued, “we still don’t know. You’re aware that she could have survived all of this. You know that. Don’t do anything until then, okay?”

  Marco’s right eye twitched, though the smile remained. “Okay, Dad. I hear ya. I promise not to do anything stupid.”

  “Of course not,” Robert said wryly. “You never do anything stupid. How about crazy?”

  “Come now, I’m a conservative Catholic in San Francisco. I’m crazy just to breathe the air here.”

  “How are you doing, Marco?”

  “Me?” Don’t bite his head off. Don’t bite his head off. “I’m fine. I didn’t have my place of work blown out from under me. I’ll live Dad. Make sure you stay that way, too.”

  * * *

  A random college student grabbed Marco on the shoulder.

  Marco twisted, grabbed the wrist, rammed a palm into the attached elbow, and leveraged the dumbass into a wall.

  “What the hell do you want?” Marco roared, stopping everyone in the hallway dead in their tracks.

  The hennaed, dread-locked hippie gasped, sputtered, and finally stuttered out. “I’m – I’m just so sorry to hear about New York.”

  Marco’s eyes narrowed. Who are you, and why are you—oh, never mind. “Oh. Right.”

  Marco let him go, then turned, seeing the entire hallway staring at him.

  “What the hell are all of you people look at? Of all the freaks in San Francisco, I can’t be the most interesting thing here.”

  The students scattered, like cockroaches when the lights came on.

  Marco spent a moment panting, growling.

  Marco’s phone vibrated with another text. Marco checked his phone. Seven condolences and three updates from New York. According to Don Tolbert, NYPD officer, the mob was behaving perfectly well with the others, now that a terrorist strike has happened in their neck of the woods once again.

  Marco nodded. Good mobsters. You get a cookie. And I don’t rip your lungs out.

  The next texts were from his two “gang” leaders, who reported situation normal, as far as everything else was concerned.

  Another one came in, this one from an unknown number. This text said Friend of Amanda would like to chat.

  “And just who are you?” Marco muttered to himself. He noted the number, moved outside, out of the way, and dialed it back.

  “Hello?” came a proper British voice. “Is this Marco?”

  “Correct.” I don’t know many Brits. “May I presume that I am speaking with Lady Jennifer Bosley?”

  “Correct,” she parroted, amused. “Have we met?”

  “No, but Amanda hasn’t talked to me about any other British friends of hers, so, tag, you’re it.”

  “I had heard that you were a smart one.”

  Marco restrained a growl. Don’t alienate someone who might actually be genuine – or valuable. “How can I help you, Milady?”

  “Ooo, how formal,” she cooed. “If there has been a problem with Mistress Colt, I will be happy to adopt you.”

  Marco felt a spike of anger at her even suggesting that Amanda was anything than perfectly fine.

  Be calm. Be polite. Be formal. “I do not think so, Lady Bosley. Amanda will be fine. As far as her ownership of me goes, I assure you, there will be no problem. I expect she’ll be turning into mist as soon as the sun goes down, get through the wreckage, and come out alive.”

  “And if she doesn’t? You must at least suspect that whatever attacked her was coming after you.”

  How dare she –… think strategy. Think strategy. Kill her later. If you feel like it. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “His name is Mister Day,” she told him primly. “He dresses well, and kills whoever he likes, whenever he likes.”

  Marco’s smile came back. Something to latch onto. Something to be angry at. Something to hunt down, maim, and simply hurt. “Sounds charming. Can’t wait to kill him.”

  “Good luck with that,” Bosley answered. “I saw him once across the front lines in World War I. He took mortar fire and bounced back faster than any vampire I’ve eve
r seen. Be grateful if you can slow him down.”

  “When in doubt, Lady Bosley, kill it with fire.”

  “Perhaps. Though I believe there might have been a flame thrower involved during the same fracas.”

  Marco frowned. That could be odd. “Mister Day, huh? Good to know. May I ask why you’re being so helpful, Milady?”

  “Because there are some creatures of the night who deserve to have their heads cut off and mounted on a pike as a warning to the next ten generations that some things should not be done. You’re not the only one who was in town on 9/11, love.”

  Marco blinked. Oh. Dear. Well then, you get to live. “I didn’t think you folks would have cared.”

  Bosley’s voice darkened. “There were four thousand people who died that day, not three. No one knew because they were using fake identities, and there were no bodies because they couldn’t even try to leave the building.” Bosley was silent for another moment. “You know that if she’s dead, there won’t be a body.”

  Marco took a deep, angry breath. Through gritted teeth, he said, “She. Is. Not. DEAD.”

  Bosley let out a breath. “As you say, love.”

  “So long, Milady Bosley. If I see Mister Day, I’ll be sure to tell him goodbye from you.”

  Once more, the song came unbidden, asking if it felt as though he had been there before. Because yes, he did.

  * * *

  Merle Kraft leapt for the telephone, and it rang before he even came near the phone. He scooped it up and said, “Who is it? Make it quick, I need to call New York.”

  “Merle, turn off your reflexes. I’m in San Francisco now, remember?” Kristen answered. He sighed, relieved that his ex-wife could call. He then remembered that he had personally helped her pack. He had been so used to her being on the other end of the country that his automatic responses didn’t realize she was only a few miles away. “I’m fine,” she continued.

  Merle sat back and relaxed slightly. This was going to be nightmarish. “I know, Kris, but we’re going to get these bastards. I’ll get them, if need be.”