Vampire Uprising s-4

by Marcus Pelegrimas

  Prophet, on the other hand, followed along as if strolling through a store that didn’t carry anything in his size. “Violent? You know what you see on every damn channel anymore? Anime. That Japanese stuff is some violent shit.”

  “You’re thinking of hentai.”

  “No, that’s the sexy shit.”

  “You think big-eyed girls with purple hair getting worked over by sea creatures is sexy?”

  At that moment Prophet had the big eyes going but not the purple hair. “What in the name of hell are you watching? I’m talking about Dragonball Z or Pokémon. That kind of anime, you sick bastard.”

  The interior of the restaurant was charred and stank from the combined odors of what had been scorched in the fire and the chemicals used to put it out. After using Raza Hill as a home base since the beginning of his days as a Skinner, it now felt as if he was creeping around inside someone else’s house after sneaking in through a carelessly unlocked door. Although the dining room and kitchen were trashed, his walk-in freezer was in fairly good shape. There just wasn’t a lot in there for him to waste his time collecting.

  “You could probably go back to living here before too long, you know,” Prophet said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Nobody thought this place was anything but some condemned rat trap anyway. Hell, that’s why there wasn’t such a fuss when it went up. Those Nymar melted or ran away, so with all the other fires that were set around town tonight, I doubt most of the cops or firemen even remember responding to a call here.”

  Having already moved to Paige’s room, Cole glanced around at the clothes scattered on the floor and hanging from furniture. He had a tough time figuring out what part of the mess had been made during the fire or the partially collapsed roof and what had been there before the first whiff of smoke drifted through the air. Skipping the clothes completely, Cole shifted his focus to equipment, weapons, and supplies.

  “So did you catch any flak from running away with that freak’s body?” Prophet asked. “A little, but I’m sure more’s on the way.”

  “How much longer are you gonna be in here?”

  “Why? Is someone coming?”

  “No. I’m getting sick of breathing ash into my lungs.”

  Cole wanted to insist on staying longer but couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to justify it. Before long he realized he was just trying to hang onto one more home that needed to drift away. His phone chirped. He was carrying barely enough things to keep one of his arms occupied when he glanced at the caller ID and said, “Yeah, Rico. What’s up?”

  “Please tell me you’re not in Philly.”

  “No, I’m in Chicago. Things aren’t too great here, though.”

  “You didn’t hear about Philly?”

  Cole had spent enough time with the other Skinner to differentiate between the edge in Rico’s voice now and the one that was usually there. Stopping before crossing the threshold out of the building, he asked, “What happened?”

  “A pack of Full Bloods tore through the Lancroft place about half an hour ago.”

  “A pack?”

  “Full Bloods and Mongrels,” Rico said. “That’s what Jessup told me. They killed three Skinners, wounded damn near everyone else, and forced him to level the place.”

  “Holy shit? They pushed the button?”

  “Sounded like it wasn’t as big a boom as we thought it would be, but it must have sealed off the basement. If you’re near a computer, you can see it for yourself.”

  Pressing his elbow against the pocket where his hard drive resided, Cole said, “That might take a while.”

  “Where’s Paige?”

  “Not here, and she’s not in Philly either. She took off after someone in Miami. Didn’t she tell you about it?”

  “Last I heard she was putting Prophet back to work. How’d that pan out?”

  “So far so good. I’m supposed to meet up with you. Paige had some things I needed to tell you. Or … you needed to tell me. Everything’s kind of a blur.”

  “Not even in your section of the country and still giving orders.” Rico chuckled. “That’s our Bloodhound. You taking the Stripper Subway?”

  “She’s got you calling it that too?”

  “I was gonna call it the Pussy Pipeline.”

  “Wow. The Subway sounds a lot better now. You back in St. Louis?”

  “Should be in a few hours. That enough time for you to get here?”

  “Yeah,” Cole said. “Is it all right if I bring a guest?”

  “Long as it’s not Prophet.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. See you in a bit.” Cole hung up and tucked the phone away. Since Prophet was staring expectantly at him, he said, “Rico says hi.”

  Sirens wailed from down the street. When the cruisers flew past Raza Hill, Prophet let out a relieved sigh and asked, “We done here?”

  “I guess so.”

  They went to Prophet’s van. During the drive to Pinups, Cole scrolled through some websites using his phone. By the time they arrived, he’d gotten his fill of news reports regarding the happenings in Philadelphia. The press seemed to be split as to whether the violence at the Lancroft house was the result of a gang fight or some sort of “fiery dispute between neighbors.”

  Normally, trips to strip bars were exciting, magical affairs where all the women smelled like candy and were more than willing to fulfill the degenerate thoughts that drifted through every man’s head. With all the trips he’d been making lately, however, Cole had come to think of them merely as destinations to be reached. This one had some nice scenery, but there were still other matters that needed his attention. Some men’s minds, however, drifted in other directions.

  “This place have a buffet?” Prophet asked.

  “No time for that. Just head for the VIP section.”

  Before he could set the parking brake, Prophet was waved around the building to park in the employee lot next to Paige’s Cav. A bouncer held the door open for them, grinning anxiously and focusing his attention on the bounty hunter.

  “So where are you guys from?” the young burly kid asked. Cole’s reply was only, “Cicero.”

  “What about you, sir? Are you with the Bears? Maybe the Bulls?”

  Although Walter wasn’t a small man, he still had to lift his chin in order to look into the bouncer’s eyes. “Do I look like a basketball player to you?”

  “I guess not. It’s usually the athletes that get the special treatment, though. Are you a rapper?”

  Shaking his head, Walter strode past the bouncer and caught up to Cole. “I don’t know if that boy’s racist or just stupid.”

  “The smile seemed genuine,” Cole replied, “so I’d go with stupid.”

  They were greeted by a skinny blonde wearing short shorts, high heels, no shirt, and suspenders that were just wide enough to cover the nipples of her pert little breasts. Her smile was a bit forced and crinkled her face just enough to create a few breaks in her sparkly makeup. “You’re Cole?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Where’s Miss Naughtygale?”

  “She’s seeing another patient right now.”

  “What about the other blonde?”

  “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

  “The one with the magic fingers,” Cole said.

  That caused the dancer to look at him with renewed interest. “So you’re here for the other VIP room?”

  “Now you got it. My friend and I are headed to St. Louis.”

  Pausing at a metal door that practically rattled from all the bass thumping from the next room, the blonde said, “Come on in and have a seat. I’ll send someone right over.”

  Once inside the main room, the music was too loud for Cole to hear himself think. The blonde didn’t even try to talk as she strutted to a little round table away from the stage, pointed to a pair of chairs and waved toward a group of drooling beer drinkers who sat closer to the stage.

  “Think I’ve got enough time for some
food?”

  “Sure, Prophet. Knock yourself out.”

  For the next two hours Cole sat at his table, sifting through various news sites and scanning their coverage of the Philadelphia incident as well as reports of the fire at Raza Hill. When the blonde in suspenders walked by again, Prophet said, “I think she’s sizing us up for the rest of the nymphs.”

  “We’ve already been sized up and she’s not a nymph.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She’s wearing makeup.”

  As if to show the comparison firsthand, another blonde approached the table. She was the one who’d greeted Cole when he stepped into Pinups the first time and she radiated a subtle glow even though not one of the club’s many lights were pointed at her. “I just got finished with a marathon session in the back,” she said. “Should have enough fuel in my tanks to send both of you through now.”

  Prophet looked toward a section of the club that was roped off from the main room. It was a collection of couches on a raised platform, surrounded by a veil just thick enough to provide a bit of privacy without sacrificing security. Two young men helped an older one down the three steps leading to the main floor. Judging by the sweat on his brow and the constant heaving of his chest, he was the lucky customer with the deep pockets.

  “This’ll tap us out for a while,” she added, “so you might not be able to come back through here right away.”

  “Cool,” Cole said without looking up from his phone. “Are we ready to go?”

  “Sure thing, sweetie. Come this way.”

  Cole stuffed his phone into his pocket, adjusted the flannel shirt he wore over his T-shirt to cover the spear’s harness, and followed the Dryad. At first her footsteps were barely hard enough to tap against the tiles. By the time she’d put on her game face and climbed up to the side stage, however, they knocked like battering rams against the floor. The crowd roared and all three of the Dryads in attendance announced their presence by letting out a chorus of sublime tones from voices that entwined around one another much like the flowing symbols on the arch near the beaded entrance to the VIP section. Crisp green energy crackled. A whiff of fresh air drifted through the room, and Cole waved to the jealous onlookers as he stepped through. Prophet went next and emerged to find himself in another part of the country.

  The bounty hunter blinked, looked around, pulled in a breath and let it out.

  “Thought there’d be more, right?” Cole asked.

  Nodding like a kid who just realized the toy he’d been longing for was nothing but a set of molded plastic pieces, Prophet asked, “So where to now?”

  The temple was located in a small room inside a club that wasn’t quite as large as Pinups. A large green sign on one wall spelled out the words THE EMERALD in neon handwriting over the bar. Since Rico was nowhere to be found, Cole took his phone from his pocket and headed for another table. “We wait for our ride. There’s another buffet over there.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Twenty minutes after making his call, a dark-haired woman drifted toward them in a swirl of purple silk and a scent that reached down to stroke the core of a mortal’s libido. “If there’s anywhere else you need to go, I’m sure I can arrange to have you sent there.”

  “Hey, Tristan.”

  Prophet shot up from his chair so quickly that he nearly dumped his plate of tuna casserole and crab Rangoon onto the floor. “Tristan! You’re working here? What happened to Wisconsin?”

  “Hello, Walter,” she said while touching his cheek. “Wisconsin’s fine. I move around a lot, especially now that we don’t have to lay quite as low. Off to St. Louis with Cole?”

  “Yeah, Stanley wants to hear about what’s going on with the Nymar.”

  Cole took his eyes completely away from the phone in his hand for the first time since he’d picked up the Wi-Fi signal. “What?”

  Wincing as though he’d temporarily lost custody of his mouth, Walter replied, “You remember my boss. Stanley Velasco? Paige still owes him for springing you out of that jail in St. Lou.”

  “Sure you can’t stay here with me?” Tristan purred.

  Walter’s temptation was so great that the conflicting gears grinding within his head almost started smoking. Finally he said, “No, I really need to see what these guys are up to. Unlike Cole and the rest of the dudes with sticks, I got a real job that needs to be looked after.”

  “Every man’s got a stick that needs looking after,” she said.

  Cole laughed and rubbed her shoulder as he stood up. “You’re usually a little classier than that, Tristan.”

  “Water seeks its own level. Looks like your friend is here. You two be good.”

  Rico stood in the doorway leading to the small room where cover charges were collected. The big man gave them a quick upward nod and waited impatiently as Prophet and Cole met him at the exit.

  Once outside, Cole got a cool and damp welcome to East St. Louis. A light mist spattered across his face, but there was still an underlying heat that he’d come to believe was permanently soaked into the Missouri air. Rico climbed into an SUV and had the engine going by the time Cole and Prophet joined him. His bristly, graying hair was flattened on one side and slightly bloodied on the other. The dark circles under his eyes and the rumpled state of his clothes made it even tougher for Cole to tell whether Rico had just gotten out of a fight or climbed out of bed.

  “What’s the good word?” the big man asked as he pulled on a heavy leather jacket made from patchwork sections of tanned shapeshifter hide interspersed with narrow strips of thick canvas. The jacket was laced up both sides, sported more than a few shallow battle scars, and smelled like cigarette smoke.

  “Shampoo,” Cole replied.

  Rico looked over at him and then to Prophet. “Hey there, Walter. You got something to say that ain’t frickin’ crazy?” After a small amount of consideration, Prophet replied, “Nah.”

  “Make that two words,” Cole added. “Shampoo banana.”

  Rico’s face barely changed. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Paige told me to tell you that. Actually,” Cole said, “she told me to tell you to tell me about shampoo banana.”

  “Give him some time, big man,” Prophet told Rico. “There was a fire. He inhaled a lot of smoke. There was a fight. You know, the usual shit. He’s rattled.”

  Rico’s hardened expression remained, but he shifted his face toward the road ahead. “Lots of fires popping up lately. Lots of fighting going on. Plenty of dying too. The usual shit. That don’t give us permission to slip into bouts of nostalgia.”

  “Nostalgia?” Cole grunted. “Try psychobabble! I have no idea what’s going on anymore. Just when I think I’m getting a handle on this Skinner crap, everything gets tossed out the window! Paige takes off, insists on me coming here and passing off some kind of goddamn fruity hair care product as a password.”

  “Did she also tell you about the notebook?”

  “Yeah. A hound dog notebook.”

  Rico nodded and turned onto the highway that led out of Sauget, Illinois, and into St. Louis. “Tell me about what happened in Chicago, and when we get back to Ned’s house I’ll fill you in on shampoo banana.”

  “Could you two please stop saying that?” Walter pleaded. “It makes me feel like I’m stuck in some kind of shitty kid’s show.”

  For the first time since they’d left the Emerald, Rico grinned. It was an ugly display of large, blocky teeth, but went a long way in easing the confused tension that had filled the SUV. Cole and Prophet told him about the fire and ensuing fight while Rico drove down Interstate 40 and into the Central West End.

  The driveway they pulled into was a short walk from Dressel’s Pub, a place that served a plethora of beers and some of the best homemade potato chips Cole had ever tasted. The house connected to that driveway was a charming, if slightly run-down old home filled with crooked shelves piled high with obscure books and pieces of junk that could very well h
ave been collected from some of the most twisted garage sales in the world. The walls were marked with runes meant to protect the inhabitants from harm. Too bad they hadn’t been able to stretch their influence far enough to keep the house’s previous owner alive.

  When Rico walked in, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it across the room, where it landed on a slump-backed couch in front of a good-sized TV. Despite all the additional shelves, jars of bits and pieces collected from creatures thought to be extinct or impossible, and weapons belonging to the Skinners who’d come and gone through that building, Cole’s eyes were drawn to one thing: a chipped cement frog sitting on the edge of one shelf, dangling its skinny crossed legs over the side. The paint was faded to a sea-foam green and the eyes were obviously cheap marbles. Cole patted the frog’s knee and thought back to the grizzled old Skinner that had paid good money for the ugly knickknack. “I miss Ned.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Rico said as he pounded up the stairs to one of the equally cluttered bedrooms.

  A set of pans were on the dining room table. They were the kind used for paint rollers and had been in the same spot the last time Cole was there. As before, they contained a small amount of silvery liquid that looked as if it was just on the verge of hardening into a solid. All he had to do was step up close enough to smell the stuff to know it was the new varnish Daniels had created using melted chips from the Blood Blade. On the other side of the pans, previously hidden from his view, were a few .45 caliber rounds with the same metallic sheen worked into four veins that ran along the lead tip. Cole picked up the bullet, held it up to the light and muttered, “I’ll be damned. Took all this time for one of us to make a silver bullet. Does it work?”

  “You’re damn right it works,” Rico said as he stormed back into the room.

  “Daniels said the Blood Blade fragments wouldn’t bond with the lead,” Cole pointed out.

  “It ain’t bonded with the lead. I injected it into hollow point rounds. Some of it leaks through enough to coat the bullet to let it punch through a shapeshifter’s hide. Once it’s in, the rest should be released into its body when the bullet cracks to pieces. Haven’t had a chance to test it for real yet. I’m working on something else right now.”