“Worst pep talk, ever,” I deadpanned.
In the front seat, 483, our latest assistant and driver, snorted his amusement. It had been two weeks since he replaced 972. We were still in an introductory period, yet so far he seemed a vast improvement from his predecessor who had an ever present toothpick lodged between his teeth and only communicated through gruff grunts.
Leaning over my lap, Micah opened the door and nudged me out with an elbow to the ribs. “All we need here is information. The man inside is Joselyn’s father. My source says he was very involved in the search for his daughter. Any information that he could give us would be helpful. We know she paired with Rau. Whether it was willingly or by force remains to be seen. What we don’t know is what atrocities she faced after that. If she called home, sent a letter, an email, or sent up a SOS signal, we need to know.”
“Okay,” I relented, swinging my legs out of the car. “If I’m not back in five minutes, it’s because I’m suffering through a horribly awkward social interaction I will later need precarious amounts of alcohol-laced blood to recover from.”
“Who are you kidding? You know you can’t get drunk anymore. The bummers of rapid healing.”
Sucking air through my teeth, I recoiled. “That is so mean. Why would you remind me of that in my moment of need?”
The instant I vacated the lush leather seat, she scooted into my place. Her hand closed around the door handle. “We don’t want him to get stage fright having an audience. 483 and I will drive around the block, then park across the street. Your job is to smile, do your best impression of a pleasant human being, and let the guy pour his heart out. Simple enough.”
With a casual lift of her shoulders, Mics slammed the door shut. They backed out of the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires of the Lincoln.
“Be a pleasant human being,” I parroted. Standing in the driveway, twilight casting long shadows across the yard, I pivoted on my heel. With a wide, determined gait to get this over with, I strode to the navy-blue door with its polished brass fixtures and trim. “It’s a conversation, Vinx. You’ve talked to people before. Used to thrive off it, in fact. Remember debate team? That was fun. Of course, that was before I drank blood and had a pulse that would make coma patients seems spastic, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Raising my fist, I delivered two sharp raps to the door.
Metal rattled and the knob turned.
“Oh, hell. Here we go,” I muttered, fixing a toothy smile into place an uncomfortable second too late. “Hi, Mr. …”
Son of a … I never asked for their last name! Way to plummet from zero to completely inept in break neck speed.
“… Joselyn’s dad. My name is Vincenza Larow. I was hoping I could talk to you about—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted. Standing a few inches above the six-foot mark, Mr. Joselyn’s dad may have been a hottie in his younger days. Salt and pepper hair waved just past his ears. His features resembled that of Rhett Butler … if the infamous star hit fifty and stopped giving a crap. “You’re late. Hurry inside before my neighbors see you.”
Stepping aside, he gestured me in with an urgent wave of his hand. I glanced over my shoulder, peering in the direction the car disappeared, wishing for some of the clarification it drove off with. “I … wasn’t aware you were expecting me. Did Micah call you?”
“Yes, yes, come inside.” As herded me into his foyer, the door clapped shut behind me, giving me a start.
The furnishings and décor of the living room to my left seemed an homage to the year nineteen ninety-five, wrapped in plastic to preserve its nostalgic charm. Every throw pillow, couch cushion, and inch of carpeting was covered with a thick layer of shiny, protective coating. Figurines and tchotchkes were safely tucked away in curio cabinets or display cases. This room was not for the living. It was a staged setting of a happy, functional family that no longer existed.
“Right this way,” he instructed. Turning his back to me, he walked in the opposite direction, giving me time to notice his shirt tails hanging out from beneath his cardigan. It was a surprising show of dishevelment that betrayed his outwardly pressed façade.
“This will only take a minute. I’m fine right here,” I protested, planting roots in that spot.
Opening a door in the hall, Mr. Joselyn’s dad blinked my way, his expression vacant and haunting. “What you came for is down here. You can stand there staring, or you can see for yourself. Makes no difference to me.”
In my human days, a suggestion like that would have made me bolt for the door in a blur of flying knees and elbows. Maybe it was the irregular beat of my heart that lured me into a false sense of security. Maybe I’m a moron. Whatever the reason, my dumbass fell into step behind him.
Don’t judge too harshly, it’s not like I believed myself invincible. I did, however, trust in the badass abilities I had been gifted with. One of our more generous benefactors arranged for me to train with the top MMA coaches in the field. Thanks to the teachings of Sa Bum Nim Dae and Grand Master Kwan, I could calculate what strike I would use if different circumstances were to arise.
If he lunges with a knife, I counter with an X block and use his momentum to drive the blade into the artery of his inner thigh.
Creepy bastard tries to grab me from behind, I use the side of my fist to punch him in the nuts as hard as I can. When he folds in half in pain, I slam my elbow into the bridge of his nose.
Or, if he lays a hand on me in any way, I rip his shoulders from their sockets and pin him to the wall with his own floppy appendages.
Okay, that last one was more vamp than martial arts. Still, the method of deterrent would be an effective one.
“And what’s down there has to do with your daughter’s disappearance?” Focused on his face, I didn’t miss his flinch at the reminder that she was gone. A shroud of sorrow sagged his shoulders, stealing the dim light from behind his eyes.
“I don’t have a daughter.” Shaking his head, he left the door to the basement stairs hanging open, and shuffled into the kitchen with leaden feet. “Not anymore.”
At the summit of the stairs, I peered down into the cavernous unknown. A bare bulb flickered from the ceiling rafters, threatening to plunge the basement into darkness at any moment. Music drifted up, the hypnotic drumming chorus of The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” easily recognizable. Heightened senses granted me the ability to hear the needle of the record player shush across the surface of the vintage vinyl. Beyond that, in a distant corner, something was alive down there. Their weak pulse and palpable terror called to the uglier instincts writhing within me.
It was those same inklings, comprised of dark shadows and unspeakable longings, that drew me down those creaking wood stairs. With each step of my descent, the music grew louder. As if Mr. Mojo Risin’ himself was warning me to turn back. Ducking under the low hanging vent work, I scanned the dank and dusty space. At first glance, it looked like any other basement. Shelves in the corner were stacked with canned goods and paper products. The furnace chugged and whirred to my right. Boxes erupting with everything from Christmas garland to paint cans scattered the perimeter, situated to allow a workable path between them. Hair on the back of my neck rising in ominous warning, I reached into the pocket of my suit coat and closed my fist around grandma’s silver nail file. Even if I encountered a malicious critter that fell into the non-vamp category, there were very few things that couldn’t be taken down by a sharp object swung with purposeful intent.
A glance back up the stairs showed no sign of my host returning. Gritting my teeth to steady my nerves, I followed the cardboard trail around a bend to where it ended at a fruit cellar door. A sliver of light shone from underneath it, the source of the music trapped within. Nostrils flaring, I sniffed the air in a deep drag. The pungent metallic tang of old blood forced my fangs down with the pop of torn tissue.
Raising my hand, my fingertips brushed the chipped and tattered door. It opened with a breez
e of a touch, swinging on its hinges at a snail’s pace. I would have reveled in that last fleeting moment of sanity if I knew I was about to spiral into Helter Skelter.
In the center of the room sat an altar … of sorts. A slab of meat, that had once been a body, was splayed across its surface. The chest was cracked open, the cavity within exposed. Wooden stakes pierced every quivering organ, except the heart. Bile scorching up the back of my throat, my fist flew to my mouth to squelch it. Every inch of available wall space was decorated with snap shots of bodies being tortured and mangled by nightmarish means. Inching closer to the pictures confirmed my chilling suspicion. They were all vampires. Immortal beings unable to die as someone tore them apart piece by piece.
Maybe Joselyn’s father was heartbroken and seeking vengeance.
Maybe he was a psychotic mad man.
Neither option bode well for me.
He took great pleasure in torturing vampires, and I was wearing the most convincing vamp costume imaginable. The fact that he lured me down there to bask at his trophies led me to believe he wouldn’t be open to the clarification discussion that needed to take place.
“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled. Pulling out the file, I seized it in a tight overhand grip.
An anguished groan snapped my head around, instinct setting my muscles on a hairpin trigger to attack. The filleted body on the altar twitched, it’s head lolling my way to prove there’s no mercy for the damned.
Hair, crusted with blood, fell in a clump across a pallid forehead. Cracked, arid lips opened and shut, unable to form a single sound.
Ran through by the vicious blade of recognition, my mouth fell open with a gasp. I knew that vamp all too well. His face was burned behind my eyes, granting him a starring role in my every nightmare.
“Finn?” I rasped. For months, I dreamt of nothing more that subjecting him to unspeakable atrocities of my own creation. Even so, seeing him like that, I couldn’t fathom any justification for that degree of suffering. At his side in two wide strides, I offered him my wrist. “Drink, quickly. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”
Black pupils, dilated by starvation, struggled to focus on me. Parched skin cracking and oozing, he forced his top lip to curl up. Two holes gaped at his gum line, his fangs ripped out by the root.
“You’re going to owe me big,” I grumbled, bringing my wrist to my mouth. “We’re talking, like, buy me a pony, and let me watch it nut-stomp you level of gratitude.”
Biting into my own flesh, I added the white-hot stabs of pain to the ever-growing list of things I hated him for. As ruby beads bulged from the wounds, I offered him my wrist a second time. Stifling a cringe, I looked away as his lips closed around the punctures and suckled life from my veins. While he drank in noisy slurps, I yanked the hand whittled stakes out of his exposed innards. With each shard of kindling I plucked from his torso, the tissue beneath began to knit itself back together.
Casting the last stake aside, I pulled my forearm away before he drank too much, and left us both too weak to escape. “Can you sit up? I need your help to get us out of here.”
A bit of color returning to his fetid flesh, Finn closed the flaps of his mangled chest in a sickening soundtrack of cracks and squishes. “You’re not here. Not real. Can’t be. I showed you no mercy. That’s why I’m here ... why I’m suffering.”
Sliding my forearm under his shoulder, I forced him upright. “Later, when we are safely out of here, we will have a rousing chorus of What a Monumental Ass Finn Is. For right now, let’s focus on working together to make sure we have a later.”
“There is no later.” Finn’s hollowed gaze drifted over my shoulder, his crumbled form wilting further with defeat. “There’s no hope. This is hell. If you’re here, you’re already dead.”
Beaten, Finn rolled his head away from me in the same instant Joselyn’s father stormed into the room, his face contorted in hate. Before I could shrug Finn out of my arms, the murderously bereaved father stabbed a syringe into my neck and emptied its contents into my vein.
“Vampire whore,” he hissed against my ear, “I’m going to make you beg for death.”
The mysterious solution coursed through me, scraping my veins with icy claws. Scream tearing from my throat, I spun into a low crouch, sweeping his legs out from under him. Instinct taking over, I pounced. Reduced to little more than a cornered animal, my lips curled from my teeth in a vicious snarl. In my right mind, I probably would have subdued him and called the cops. Sometimes, I dream that’s what happened. That clearer heads prevailed … and I hadn’t lost myself to the enraged beast within.
But that candy-coated fantasy was not to be.
The tissue of his throat burst beneath my sawing fangs. Coppery warmth flooded my mouth, spilling from my lips in torrents that soaked the front of me. Pulling back, my palms cemented his shoulders to the ground.
“Should I make you beg for death?” I growled in a grating, demonic hiss foreign to my own ears.
Even as the color bleached from his skin, Joselyn’s father shook with weak laughter. “You better kill me, devil bitch. Because, if there is even one ounce of life left in me, I’ll use it to hunt you down. You don’t deserve to live.”
Dipping my head to his, I murmured against his lips, “Neither do you.”
I sunk my teeth in a second time, and his jugular popped beneath my fangs. A shudder. A choked gurgle. I felt the fight leave his body with a deathly rattle. Somewhere, in the darkest recesses of my mind, a train whistle blew and a primal part of my nature awoke.
“What are you?” Finn croaked, my healing offering having granted him the strength to roll onto his elbow.
The sound of his voice snapped me from my feral spell. Releasing my locked jaws, I shoved away from the now lifeless body.
“What have I done?” A wash of unshed tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision.
“You saved both our lives.” With a grunt, Finn planted one palm on the slab and pushed himself up. “What makes no sense is how. He injected you with silver, and it didn’t affect you. You smell like an immortal, but your blood doesn’t have that flat, stagnate taste of death. What are you?”
I pulled my knees to my chest, unable to tear my gaze from the body of my first human victim. “You lost the privilege to question me when you left me for dead.”
Gripping the edge of the slab, Finn rotated his lower extremities to let his legs fall over the edge.
“The first kill is always the worst.” Reading my pained expression, his tone softened. “It was him or us. If silver didn’t work, he would have found something else that did.”
As I floated through a myriad of emotions, I slapped a hand to the paneling covered wall behind me and rose on unsteady legs.
“Call Micah,” I murmured to myself. “She’ll know what to do.”
“Vincenza.” Finn shifted his weight, wincing from the ache of the movement. “I can’t walk on my own. Will you help me?”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up the back of my throat, threatening to erupt in a complete meltdown. The first time we met, he wore a plaid shirt with a russet leather jacket. Now, he was holding his torso together with both hands.
“Vinx, please?” he pressed.
I knew I had a shopping list of reasons to reject his pleas. Unfortunately, hovering over the slack meat of my fresh kill, my fumbling mind couldn’t seem to recall them. Attempting to scoot around the body, the toe of my shoe bumped Joselyn’s father’s thigh. A whimper escaped me that I clamped my lips shut to suppress.
“All these pictures on the walls,” Finn whispered as if offering confession. “He used them as part of his game. Covering his eyes, he would throw a dart at a wall. Whichever vile photo he landed on, that is what he would do to me. Once, he even made me throw the dart.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ventured, skin crawling with the visualization of that horrid torment.
“Mourn the loss of a part of you from this kill. Not the man you took down. We are cu
rsed with the title of monsters. He earned it.”
Edging up beside him, I eased Finn’s arm around my shoulders and held tight to his waist. “Lean on me. Let’s get out of here.”
“You said you were going to call Micah.” Finn’s voice rose and fell with huffs and grunts of pain. “Who is that? Who are you working with?”
“An elite group of none of your fucking business,” I answered, stare locked on the door.
“Wait!” Finn attempted to plant his feet with all the weak resolve he could muster. “The puppy, we have to get the puppy.”
“Puppy?” I pulled up short, searching his face for signs he was kidding.
“There, in the corner. Little thing won’t make it much longer if he’s left here.” I followed Finn’s nod to a tiny French Bulldog pup cowered in the corner. Covered in his own filth, every rib was clearly visible through his patchy, black hide. Ears pulled back, his slight frame trembled in a combination of fear and starvation. “He used the dog as an hour glass, taunting me with the promise of a meal if I could just get off the table. He gave the dog water but no food and told me when his time ran out, so would mine.”
“That’s the heartbeat I heard.” Helping Finn lean against the wall, I retrieved the frightened pooch. After letting him sniff my hand, I unhooked the chain wrapped around his neck and carefully folded him into my arms. Pointed ears perking, he thanked me with a feeble lick to the point of my chin. “You slaughtered my entire family, but your soft side comes out for a puppy?”
Giving me a minute to tuck the pup under one arm, Finn eased his weight back onto my shoulders. “No, I’m still starving. I was hoping you would cut the little guy’s throat and let me drink him.”
“I’m not feeding you a dog!” I yelped, tone dripping with disgust. “Ugh … thank you for reminding me why I loathe you.”
“If you loathe me, why did you save me?” Finn asked—his tone not one of accusation, but genuine curiosity.
Shuffling through the shadows of the basement, I tipped my face to the light beaming down from above. “Because, no one gets to kill you but me.”
Veiled (Veiled Book 1) Page 13
