Vampires in America

by D. B. Reynolds

  Cyn stepped into the neat house. Mrs. Bautista may have changed, but the house looked nearly the same, except for the huge Christmas tree occupying a corner near the front window, dwarfing the tiny room. As before, every inch of wall was covered with family photos. Tabletops shared the space between framed photographs and delicate porcelain figurines, which Cyn knew the old woman had been collecting ever since the handsome Emelio had given her the first one on their first anniversary. Emelio had died several years before Cyn came on the scene, but there were battalions of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who’d stepped up to keep the collection going. By now, Cyn thought, there were probably great-greats, too.

  “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?” Mrs. Bautista asked. And Cyn remembered that the tiny woman always had a pot brewing. She also remembered that Mrs. Bautista’s coffee included a fair dollop of whiskey in every cup.

  “No, thank you.” She settled on the flower-patterned sofa, straightening the crocheted arm cover that was dislodged by her movement. She’d go nuts in this house. It was all just a little too precious for her.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Bautista,” Cyn said carefully. “But why am I here? Didn’t Amos get hold of you all those years ago?” Amos Cotton was the name of the vampire who’d contracted with Cyn.

  “Oh, he surely did. Such a nice boy, too.” Bautista laughed and repeated herself, “A nice boy. It’s so odd to say such a thing about my own great-grandfather. But when he came to visit . . . he’s such a young man. Always will be, I guess . . .” she added, a wistful look on her face.

  “But that’s neither here nor there,” she continued briskly. “He came to see me, said he didn’t want to meet the family, didn’t want to embarrass anyone, but he surely loved looking at all my pictures. Set up a trust fund, he did. Put some lawyer in charge of it, but it pays tuition for any of my grandbabies who go to college, and it’s helped more than a few with hospital bills or to get through rough times. Amos is a good man, for all that he’s not truly a man any longer.”

  Cyn might have argued with that, but she only nodded, more interested in why she was here.

  The old woman fixed her gaze on Cyn, suddenly serious. “I’m dying, child. There’s no easy way to say it.”

  Cyn shifted uncomfortably, hoping this wasn’t going to turn into something awkward. If Mrs. Bautista hoped to be saved by being turned vamp . . .

  “Oh, don’t worry. That’s not why you’re here. Death holds no fear for me. God has gifted me with a good, long life. And I’ll go peaceably to his heavenly reward, knowing my Emelio will be waiting for me.”

  The old woman stood, and Cyn watched as she shuffled over to an antique table, pulled open the drawer, and removed a gold foil box wrapped with red ribbon and a simple tie bow. Returning to the sofa, she sat slowly, as if it pained her, then held out the box to Cyn.

  “I’d like you to give this to Amos Cotton.”

  Cyn accepted the box automatically, but frowned. “I don’t understand. Why can’t you give it to him?”

  “I haven’t seen Amos since that first time. He puts money in the trust fund, but he never comes around, even though I’ve invited him. I’ve sent him pictures of all my babies as they grew, and the new ones being born. But . . . I think it troubles him to see people who are his descendants looking older with every year, sometimes even dying the way my nephew did. I told him the boy was with God, that they all were, but I’m not sure Amos believes as we do. He was a slave, you know. His wife and child were torn from him by men who saw him as a thing to be sold, not even a man. That’s enough to test anyone’s faith in God’s plan. It’s his child, you know,” she said, looking up suddenly, her eyes bright. “It’s Amos’s son who’s my own grandfather.”

  Cyn made a noncommittal noise, still wondering why she was here. “How does he get the pictures you send him?” she asked.

  “I send them to that lawyer. He always lets me know Amos got them, and sometimes he passes on a note from Amos himself.”

  “Why not send this box the same way?”

  “This is a special present, Ms. Leighton, a special photograph. It’s one that Amos has never seen. It troubled him so much to talk about his wife—Elizabeth House was her name, and their son was Abraham—that I never had the heart to give him this picture.”

  “It’s his wife and son?” Cyn asked, her chest tight with unexpected emotion.

  “It is,” she confirmed. “It’s old, of course, but my grandson had it restored for me. And I want you to give it to Amos.”

  “Me?” The very idea was horrifying to Cyn. She didn’t do this kind of touchy-feely stuff. Give her a bad guy to shoot, a crisis to solve, no problem. But she was awful at funerals, terrible in a tragedy. She didn’t even know Amos Cotton. He was nothing but an e-mail address to her.

  “This is not a good idea, Mrs. Bautista,” she tried to explain. “I don’t know Amos. I don’t even know his real name.”

  Like most slaves, Amos Cotton had changed his name after he’d become a free man. He’d admitted as much to Cyn, but had never told her his current name, preferring to keep his history private. This desire for secrecy regarding their pasts and even their true ages was typical of many vampires, especially the older ones, and so Cyn hadn’t pushed. As long as she got paid, she didn’t really care who did the paying. Although these days, Raphael vetted all of her clients, to make sure that none of his enemies were using her to get to him.

  “You should send this to that lawyer, Mrs. Bautista,” Cyn urged.

  “Not this one, child. This one must be delivered in person, and I want you to do it.”

  Cyn stared at the stubborn old woman in frustration.

  “I can pay you if that’s—”

  “Of course, that’s not it,” Cyn said quickly, insulted that the woman would even think that.

  “Then, you’ll do it for me? You’ll give Amos my Christmas present?”

  Cyn sighed. “Fine. Did the lawyer give you an address?”

  “Oh, no. Amos won’t allow it.”

  Cyn gave her a frustrated look. “Then, how do I find him?”

  Gloria Bautista laughed. “I don’t know, child. But I bet your vampire does.”

  Five Days Later

  CYN WAS DOZING, caught in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness, draped over Raphael’s sleeping form, lulled by the slow beat of his heart.

  Raphael woke without warning, as he always did. His arms curled around her back, pulling her even tighter against him.

  “Good evening, my Cyn,” he crooned, dropping a kiss on top of her head.

  Cyn smiled and snuggled closer. “Hey, baby.”

  Raphael moved, rolling her over and under him, until they were face to face, his long, hard body stretched over hers. “And how was your day?”

  “Empty without you,” she murmured with a smile, knowing exactly where this was going.

  His hips flexed, nudging her thighs apart, the heavy length of his cock finding the cleft between her thighs, teasing her as he slid back and forth in the cream of her arousal. She was always ready for him when they woke up together, always wet. It was as if, even in sleep, her body knew what was coming and got ready, just for him.

  “Raphael,” she whispered, lifting her hips, urging him to do more than tease.

  “Spread your legs for me, sweet Cyn. Show me how much you want me.”

  Cyn bent her knees, opening her thighs wide. “I always want you,” she murmured, her fingers running up and down along the smooth muscle of his back. She lifted her head to his neck and sucked gently, kissing her way down to his shoulder, closing her teeth over the powerful muscle there.

  Raphael hissed as the warm swell of his blood hit her tongue. Lifting his hips, he drove between her thighs, his cock plunging deep into her body, stretching her inner tissues a
s they strained to accommodate his breadth.

  Cyn groaned at the double shock of his blood and his cock. Her sheath contracted around him, trembling with desire as the first shivers of her climax built into a tidal wave of carnal pleasure that sped from her pussy to her womb, zipping like lightning over every nerve and muscle of her body until she could only hold on and scream his name.

  Raphael rumbled his satisfaction as she thrashed beneath him, as he continued to fuck her, his cock pounding in and out, every movement a sensual glide along inner tissues that were exquisitely sensitive in the throes of her orgasm. He took her mouth as he fucked her, his lips moving over hers, tasting and touching, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as if wanting to claim every inch of her, inside and out.

  Cyn held onto him as the climax rolled over her, shaking under the onslaught of erotic sensation, her pussy clutching greedily at his cock. She could hear her own pulse thrumming loudly, could feel her heart pounding against his chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Raphael lifted his mouth from hers with a final luxurious sweep of his lips as his kisses moved over her jaw, his tongue dipping into the curve of her ear, his breath warm against her overheated skin. She felt the first brush of his tongue over the swell of her jugular, a rasping stroke as he coaxed the big vein to plumpness. His lips closed over her neck, sucking the vein into his mouth, teasing her as he had with his cock. Not biting, not yet. She tensed in anticipation, her nails scoring the smooth skin of his back, holding him tightly, her legs wrapped around his hips and crossed over his ass as his muscles continued to flex, his cock gliding in and out.

  “Raphael,” she said, demanding.

  “Say please,” he murmured against the skin of her neck, his tongue a line of heat as it followed her vein from her ear to her shoulder.

  Cyn threaded her fingers into his short hair and tugged hard, but he only growled, the sound hitting her like a straight shot of lust, her pussy contracting and her nipples hardening to a painful intensity as they scraped over his chest.

  She pleaded again, his name falling from her lips on a gasping breath, “Raphael.”

  “Give me what I want,” he whispered directly into her ear.

  “Please,” she sobbed.

  The word was still on her lips when his fangs sank through the velvet of her skin and pierced her vein. He groaned as she felt the pull of his mouth, as her blood flowed down his throat. Cyn’s back bowed as the euphoric in his bite hit her bloodstream and a fresh climax seared through her body, heating her veins and lighting up her nerves, until every inch of her skin, every muscle, every nerve ending screamed with desire and lust and pure, unadulterated pleasure.

  Cyn cried out helplessly, as Raphael’s body stiffened in her embrace, as his cock drove harder and faster, until she felt the rush of his orgasm, the heat of his release filling her as his fangs withdrew.

  She came down slowly, her pussy still twitching in luscious torment, her legs falling from his back, but her knees still close against his hips. She caressed him lovingly, methodically, her hands moving up and down his smooth spine, over the powerful muscles of his shoulders. Raphael lay on top of her, his weight crushing her against the mattress, his face buried against her neck, breath soughing over her skin.

  She ran a hand over his head, threading her fingers through his hair, as she put her lips against his ear and whispered, “I love you.”

  She could feel his lips curve into a smile a moment before he lifted his head enough to kiss her, a gentle touching of lips. “I love you, too, my Cyn.”

  He shifted his weight to one side, pulling her with him until she lay half on and half off of him.

  Her cell phone came alive on the table next to the bed. Her ringer was off, but the device vibrated against the wood in a frantic dance. Cyn glanced over, but ignored it.

  But then Raphael’s phone rang on the opposite table, and his ringer was on.

  Their sighs mingled.

  “Shower?” he suggested.

  “Shower,” she agreed, then let him drag her off the bed to the start of another night.

  AN HOUR LATER, Cyn sat at her desk, working in the soft glow of twinkling lights from their small Christmas tree. Raphael emerged from the huge closet they shared, dressed to conquer the world in an elegant charcoal suit. His tie tonight was platinum gray with a tiny charcoal pattern, his shirt white as always. Cyn glanced up, her head tilting as she admired the beauty that was her Raphael.

  “Working?” he said, glancing at her open computer.

  “Just checking e-mail,” she said, returning to the task. She checked box after box, deleting most of it, until she came to a familiar return address. She opened the e-mail and swallowed her reaction to what she found there.

  She must have made more noise than she thought, because Raphael came up to read over her shoulder. “Problem?” he asked. “Who’s . . . Gloria Bautista?”

  Cyn sighed deeply. “She died yesterday. This is from her oldest daughter.”

  “I’m sorry. Was she a friend?”

  “Not really, more of an acquaintance. I was hired to find her for one of your vampires, but it was before I met you.”

  Raphael was still standing over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your promise?” he read out loud. “Is that a threat? Do you need—”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Mrs. Bautista called me about a week ago, said she wanted me to come over. I hadn’t even talked to her in years, not since I located her for your vamp, but she said it was important, so I made the time.”

  “And?” His long fingers brushed the hair from her neck as he bent over to drop a lingering kiss against her nape.

  Cyn leaned into his kiss, her eyes closing. “She gave me something, a Christmas present she said, for the vampire who hired me. I didn’t understand then why she gave it to me. They’re in touch through his lawyer. She could have just sent it to him. But now I see. She knew she was dying, and she wanted to be sure he got it, that it didn’t get buried in all the estate bullshit.”

  “You said he was one of mine. Is he local then?”

  “That’s the thing. I haven’t given it to him yet, because I’m not sure who he is. Our business was all via e-mail, so I never met him. He was born a slave in the South, and the only name I had for him was his slave name. But he doesn’t use that anymore. Mrs. Bautista actually told me to ask you about it.”

  She spun in her chair and looked up at him.

  “What’s the name?” Raphael asked curiously.

  “Amos Cotton.”

  Raphael got a smug sort of smile on his face, a cross between amusement and satisfaction. Cyn dreaded what that smile meant for her.

  “Who is it?” she asked, even though she was sure she’d be sorry she asked.

  “Amos Cotton, my darling Cyn, is my lieutenant, Jared Lincoln.”

  “Fuck!”

  CYN WOULD HAVE liked to put the task off indefinitely, to hide the box, with its red bow and its precious contents, deep in a drawer and forget about it. Gloria Bautista would never know. She was gone.

  But Cyn would know.

  So, she kissed Raphael on his way to play master of the universe, then trudged down the hall to Jared’s office, hoping he wouldn’t be there, that she could drop the box on his desk with a note and run.

  The door to his office was halfway open. She knocked and was about to walk in, when Jared come up behind her.

  “Cyn?” His surprise was evident. She’d never visited his office before. They avoided even the most casual conversation with each other.

  She spun around. “Hey,” she said, managing to sound more-or-less normal. “Do you have a minute?”

  He blinked in confusion, but reached around her to push his door open. “Of course. Come on in.”

  Cyn nodded her thanks, walking past h
im into the room, scanning it curiously it as she did so. Jared’s office was smaller than Raphael’s, but still big enough to have a sitting area to one side, with a couch and chairs. There was a wall of windows behind the desk and the black night beyond. The ever-present sound of waves whispered up from the beach below. But the ocean was relatively quiet tonight. There was no pounding surf, no rumbles thundering up through the rocky cliff side.

  Cyn glanced at the comfy-looking couch and chairs around the coffee table, but decided against it, selecting one of the stiff chairs in front of his desk instead, shielding herself with the formality of the arrangement.

  Jared’s handsome face—and, yes, she could admit he was handsome, even though they didn’t get along—showed only a mild curiosity as he seated himself behind the desk. Crossing his hands on the desktop, he looked at her expectantly.

  Right. This was her show.

  “Gloria Bautista e-mailed me a little over a week ago,” she said, wanting to get right to the point and get this over with. But her words caused an unexpected wave of grief to pass over Jared’s face.

  “My lawyer called late last night,” he said quietly. “I’ve never wanted to interfere, but . . . I’ve kept tabs.”

  Cyn paused. She’d never considered that he might have feelings for Gloria. But she should have. The woman was his great-granddaughter. The closest living blood relative he had.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Jared. Truly. She was . . . one of a kind.”

  He smiled gently. “She was that. It’s probably selfish of me to mourn her death. She was ninety-three, after all, and hardly the picture of health. She did love her fried food.”

  Cyn shocked herself by smiling back at him. “And her coffee.”

  He chuckled. “And her coffee.”

  They were quiet as their smiles died, and they remembered they didn’t get along.

  “You said she e-mailed you?” he asked politely.