Hell Night
Matt Kincade
Copyright © 2017 by Matt Kincade
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Edited by Jen Wadsworth
Cover design by Jake Clark
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Also by Matt Kincade:
We Only Come Out At Night
The Alex Rains Series:
The Devil's Mouth
Sign up for Matt Kincade's mailing list to keep up to date on book releases in this series.
http://eepurl.com/b9Der9
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who bought the first book in this series, The Devil's Mouth. Your enthusiasm and encouragement mean the world to me. Thanks to the usual suspects, my beta readers and co-conspirators, Pete and Briana. Thanks also to my friends who have been so danged supportive: Sydney, Patty, Jeff, and all the rest. You know who you are. Thank you to Jen Wadsworth, editor extraordinaire (wait, Jen, is that how you spell extraordinaire?), for just being an amazing person and supporting this project from the get-go. A great big thank you to Jake Clark for the completely awesome cover, and many thanks also to Matt Abraham for the excellent and enthusiastic marketing advice. He wrote a little book called Dane Curse, and you should probably read it.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
About the author
“It's not where you take things from,
it's where you take them to.”
-Jean-Luc Godard
Buffy: Why don't I just put a stake through her heart?
Giles: She's not a vampire.
Buffy: Yeah, well, you'd be surprised how many things that'll kill.
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Prologue
Some premonition of danger found its way through the alcohol fog of Buddy's brain, a warning cry from deep within his subconscious that snaked down his spine like the cold touch of a knife's blade.
He ignored it, of course.
The old drunk swallowed dryly and readjusted the frayed, red baseball cap on his head. He cast a furtive glance down the darkened street as he gripped the doorknob before him and gave it a turn. The door groaned open. Buddy stepped cautiously over the threshold and into the abandoned hotel.
Warped floorboards creaked under Buddy's worn-out tennis shoes. He walked beneath a chandelier entombed in spider webs, past a moth-eaten couch on his right and an abandoned front desk on his left. On the wall behind the front desk was a row of empty hooks. An informational plaque on the wall began with the heading prosperity's first hotel.
Tiny claws scrabbled on floorboards as rats fled from his approach. The place smelled of dust and dry rot, hot and stuffy. A doorway shone with the flickering glow of candlelight.
Buddy followed the light, stepping over a velvet rope with a sign hanging from it that warned state park employees only. The doorway ahead had an etched brass sign on the wall reading ashford banquet room. Buddy swallowed again and stepped through the door.
The candlelight was just bright enough to suggest exposed rafters above, and the shifting flames made the shadows of the stacked chairs dance against the walls.
“Hello?” Buddy called into the darkness. “Are you here? I brung the stuff, just like you said.” He held up the crumpled paper bag in his hand as evidence.
“Hello, Buddy.” The voice that came from the darkness was a silken whisper. Another chill ran down Buddy's spine. “Come in. Come closer.” The floorboards groaned and popped with every step Buddy took. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, but Buddy crept still further into the old hotel. He flinched and cringed as he walked into a cobweb, pawing blindly in front of his face for a moment, then recovered his step and continued.
The light ahead came from five tapered candles arranged in a circle, connected by a curious pattern of chalk lines drawn on the floor. A vague question began to form in Buddy's mind. The question faded away and vanished when he saw, in the middle of the circle of candles, a half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels. It sat expectantly on the wooden floor next to a large metal bowl. Buddy's mouth began to water, and his hands began their all-too-familiar tremble. He licked his lips. “Is that . . . is that there all for me?”
That voice again, from the darkness. “All for you. You've earned it.”
Buddy stammered, “You was . . . you was always nice to Buddy. All them others, well, they . . . but you was always nice.” He shuffled forward toward the circle of candles and looked down at the curious symbols and characters. Scratching his head, he said, “Say, what in the heck is all this?”
“Just a little something I'm working on. Something I wanted you to help me with.”
“Well, sure, I guess, since you's always so nice to Buddy.” He couldn't take his eyes off the bottle. He licked his lips again. His brow suddenly furrowed. Guardedly, he said, “I mean, what do I gotta do? You don't want me to do, like, nothin' weird, right?”
A soft laugh escaped from the darkness. “No, Buddy. Nothing like that, I promise. It's easy, really. Just go stand in the middle of the circle.”
As he shuffled into the circle of candles, Buddy looked more closely at the symbols drawn on the floor—strange, foreign-looking marks, collections of lines and circles and squiggles. They seemed to shift beneath his gaze, impossible to focus on, triggering a queasy wave of vertigo. There was dirt on the floor, along with a snake skull and other scattered small bones. Dried plants, bound in string, smoldered in a ceramic bowl.
Buddy stepped into the center of the circle, right in front of the bottle of Jack. “Okay,” he said, “now what?”
The voice from the darkness commanded, “Kneel down.”
“Uh, okay.” Buddy did as instructed. “Are we, like, prayin' or something?”
The voice was warm and smooth, with a hint of humor. “Yes, exactly. That's exactly what we're doing.”
“I don't know if I remember any prayers. I never was so good at . . .”
He fell silent when a hand passed in front of his face. The hand wore a gold ring inset with a large ruby. It glinted dark red as its facets caught the candlelight. The gemstone seemed to pulse with its own inner light.
The hand also held a knife.
Buddy barely felt the blade slide across his neck.
Warm wetness flowed down the front of his T-shirt. An instant later, the pain came. Buddy gasped and clutched at his throat. He tried to scream but only let out a choked gurgle. Strong hands seized him by the hair and held him fast. Blood sprayed from between his fingers. Big, red drops splattered in the metal bo
wl and onto the floor.
Buddy's eyes bulged. His hands fluttered and fell away. His head hung in the grip of his murderer. Before he lost consciousness, some distant part of his brain recognized the smell of burning wood. He looked down and saw that each drop of his blood, as it struck the floorboards, sizzled and smoked like grease on a hot griddle.
Chapter One
“Where's my money, O'Brien?”
Sammy Devino slapped O'Brien hard across the face with an open hand.
O'Brien was a bald, portly man wearing a charcoal suit with a name tag pinned to his lapel. He dropped to the floor when Devino let go of his necktie.
A red handprint marked O'Brien's face. He fell to his hands and knees on the hotel room floor, gagging and coughing. Blood drizzled from his nose and onto the carpet. “I swear, that's all I could get,” he whimpered.
Devino's deep-set, furtive eyes glared down out of his pockmarked face. His hair was slicked straight back. He wore a gaudy, chalk-stripe suit and a blood-red tie. He took two steps to the hotel room's bed and opened the satchel sitting there. “Sixty thousand bucks? Are you kidding me?” He kicked O'Brien in the gut for emphasis and repeated, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I swear to God, that's all the bank had on hand. I can get you more in a few days.”
Sammy adjusted his tie. “Thing is, you owe me the money now.”
“I'm sorry.”
Two thugs in cheap suits watched the show dispassionately. One leaned against the wall next to the door, playing a game on his phone, while the other slouched insolently over the hotel room chair and flipped through the channels on the TV.
Outside the window, the skyline of Las Vegas glowed, a neon riot in the night.
“You're sorry? That what you're sayin' to me? You're sorry?” Sammy examined his fingernails, then rubbed them on his shoulder before looking back at O'Brien. He frowned sadly, in a parody of sympathy. “You know what? I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry you ain't got my money when you said you would. I'm sorry that you're makin' me come in here and do these things that I gotta do. I'm real sorry that late fees apply. So now, I'm sorry that you owe me a hundred thousand.”
O'Brien rose up and knelt in front of Devino. He held up his hands in supplication. “Please, I can't—”
“Can't?” Devino grabbed O'Brien's necktie again. He casually lifted the man off the ground with one hand. O'Brien choked and gurgled as the tie dug into his neck. His face began to turn purple as his feet dangled six inches above the carpet.
Devino growled, “Don't you fuckin' tell me what you can't do. You tell me what you can do. Or I'll tell you what I can do.” He threw O'Brien, who smashed against the wall, then collapsed into a heap on the floor. “You know what I am, Mikey.” Devino snarled, his lips drawing back to reveal half-inch long, saliva-slicked fangs. “You know what I can do.”
“I know.” O'Brien cowered and stared down at the floor, avoiding Devino's glare.
“What am I?” Devino towered over the man. “Look at me. Look at me and say it.”
O'Brien, trembling, forced himself to meet Devino's eyes. “You're . . . you're a vampire.”
“That's right. I'm a fuckin' vampire. Don't you forget it. And you know what I'm gonna do if I don't get my money? You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna do vampire things, Mikey. I'm gonna start killin' people you love, that's what I'm gonna do.”
Devino paced back and forth across the gaudily patterned hotel carpet, gesturing expansively as he spoke. “How about that pretty wife of yours? Some night, when she's comin' home from the gym or her fuckin' Oprah book club,”—he made his hand into a gun shape and pulled an imaginary trigger—“Bam! No more wifey. Or maybe I'll go for that sweet little girl you got. What was her name? Rebecca? I'll just climb in her bedroom window and carry little Rebecca right away. I could keep her alive for days, you know. I'd have fun with her. The young ones, they just . . . taste better.” He smiled again.
O'Brien flinched as if struck. “Please, no.”
“Maybe I'll let the boys have a turn with her first. How about that?” Across the room, the thug reclining in the chair met O'Brien's eyes. He smiled and winked.
O'Brien started crying. He groveled at the vampire's feet. “Please don't. I'll do what you want. I'll do anything you want.”
Devino grinned smugly. “That's real good to hear, Mikey, because you can't escape me. You know that, right? You run, I'll find you. You don't even know what I can do. You got no fuckin' clue. I'll turn into a bat. I'll turn into fuckin' smoke and come in through your keyhole. I'll drink up your family and all your friends like a glass of fucking sangria, and I'll make you watch while I do it.”
O'Brien sobbed, “Please. I'll get the money. I just need more time.”
Sammy cocked his head as if thinking. He frowned sympathetically. “You know, this is coming across all wrong. I'm a nice guy, really. I hate putting you on the spot like this. If only . . . if only there was some way we could make all this right. If there was something we could do to put all this behind us. Something you could do for me that would make us all square.”
O'Brien knelt meekly, waiting.
Devino raised his eyebrows and gasped theatrically. He put a finger in the air. His expression morphed into a sly grin as he focused on O'Brien. “Hey . . . I have an idea! I just remembered something. I remembered that you”—he pointed at O'Brien—“run a casino. You run this casino. Casinos got all kinds of money, don't they? Don't they, Vinnie?”
The thug by the door answered, “They sure do, boss.”
“They sure do,” Devino repeated. “They got all kinds of money down there in the counting room. I'll tell you what, Mikey. You help me get in there, and we're square. All debts forgiven.”
Shaking his head, O'Brien blubbered, “I . . . can't. I can't do that. You don't know who owns this place. You don't know. They'll kill me.”
“You fuckin' retard,” Devino roared, “I'll kill you. I'll kill everyone you ever loved. Of course I know who owns this place. You better think about whether you're more afraid of the Luchese family”—Sammy leaned in close as he bared his fangs and snarled—“or me.”
O'Brien held up his open hands. “Okay, okay. Look, even if I wanted to, it's not that simple. They won't just let me walk in there. It doesn't work like that. The only possible—”
Someone knocked on the door. Everybody in the room froze.
O'Brien, Devino, and the two thugs all turned their heads toward the sound. Devino scowled. “Who the fuck is that?” He glared accusingly at O'Brien.
O'Brien cringed. “I swear to God, I don't know. I have no idea.”
Devino shouted towards the door. “Who the fuck is it?”
A muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Room service.”
Devino turned back to O'Brien. “Are you kidding me? You ordered fuckin' room service?”
O'Brien shook his head vigorously. “I swear to God, I didn't.”
Devino nodded toward one of the thugs. “Vinnie, make 'em go away.”
“We didn't order nothin',” Vinnie said, without opening the door. “Fuck off.”
“Are you sure?” the voice responded. “I've got a pizza here, says it was ordered by this room.”
Vinnie rolled his eyes. “We didn't order no pizza.”
“Well, okay.” The voice was bright and cheerful. “Must have been a mistake.” After a short pause, he continued. “Say, do you want it anyway? It'll just go in the trash if nobody claims it. I could just let you have it. No charge.”
Vinnie turned and looked imploringly at his boss. “It's a free pizza.”
Devino scowled. “We don't need no fuckin' pizza.”
With a disappointed sigh, Vinnie muttered, “Maybe you don't.” He turned back to the door. “We don't need no pizza.”
“Well, okay,” said the voice outside. “Just let me get your signature on this refusal slip, or it comes out of my paycheck.”
Still kneeling on the floor, O'Brien st
ared quizzically at the door.
“Just get rid of that asshole,” said Devino.
Vinnie opened the door a crack. “Look pal, if you know what's good for you, you'll—hurk.”
The thug grunted as two feet of blood-slicked steel erupted from his back.
“What the fuck?” said Devino. The other thug stood up out of his chair. The TV remote fell to the ground.
Vinnie stumbled backward, and his attacker followed, locked in tight like they were dancing the tango. The man who stepped into the room was dressed as a room service attendant—black slacks, a white dress shirt, a dark vest, and a black tie. With one hand he gripped Vinnie's collar, and with the other, he held the handle of the katana buried in Vinnie's chest.
Devino and his remaining thug both reached into their jackets. The intruder shoved Vinnie into Devino and pulled his blade free at the same time. A long curve of polished steel, dripping red, emerged smoothly from Vinnie's chest. Vinnie's corpse crashed into his boss and knocked the vampire sprawling over the bed.
The blade whipped through the air. The second thug's gun went one direction, and his gun arm went another. Blood sprayed the walls and the ceiling. The blade flickered again. A gaping slash appeared in the thug's chest, lined with spurting veins and the white ends of severed ribs. He wheezed and stared down at the carnage for one shocked second while all the blood in his body gushed out onto the carpet. He silently fell to his knees and collapsed.
Without looking back, the room service attendant kicked the door shut. He held his sword ready and stared at Devino with ice-blue eyes, his white shirt spattered with red.
Sammy Devino snarled as he untangled himself from Vinnie's corpse. “Do you have any idea who the fuck you're dealing with? I'm gonna—”
Alex Rains, Vampire Hunter (Book 2): Hell Night Page 1
