Vigilante Vampire (Bo Blackman Book 5)

by Helen Harper

  Someone else snorts. ‘Those weren’t her exact words. What she said was, “If you fuck more than one person, how much more likely are you to pass on blazing saddles to someone else?”’

  The others wince at the language. Considering this is an STD meeting, you’d think they’d be less sensitive – although as a euphemism, blazing saddles is rather, er, graphic. It’s also a pretty stupid question.

  Lisa Johnson may not have been setting the academic world alight but there’s nothing I’ve come across that suggests she’s a total idiot. In fact it’s more likely that she brought it up because she was looking for someone to talk her out of whatever course of action she was planning. There’s little doubt that it’s related to her disappearance.

  Now that I’m sitting up and taking note, the group appears keen to help me. It’s certainly not because I’m a vampire and I doubt it’s down to my fame either; I reckon it’s a result of taking Isabel’s wanker of a husband in hand. I wonder whether they’d feel the same if they knew how upset Isabel herself was with me.

  ‘She wanted to know if there was a way to stop her periods as well,’ Mrs Mousy interjects.

  ‘I don’t blame her. I hate it when my Paul still wants sex and I’m all, you know, icky down there.’

  Icky? She has to be kidding, right?

  Dr Bryant interrupts. ‘Now, ladies, you know there’s nothing wrong with having intercourse when you are menstruating. It’s down to personal choice. You should speak to your boyfriend if you don’t like it though, Tabitha.’

  ‘Like that will do any good.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘I can have a word with him, if you like.’

  The group stills. Tabitha coughs awkwardly. ‘No. That’s alright.’ She coughs again. ‘Thank you.’

  One of the quieter women wrings her hands nervously, casting me a shy look. ‘Ms Blackman, um…’

  ‘Call me Bo.’ It’s the least I can do, considering all the information they’ve given me so far.

  She blushes and smiles. ‘Bo. Do you … do you, um, menstruate?’

  I try not to look too amused at her formality. ‘No.’

  ‘Ha!’ says the dark-haired girl. ‘There’s a reason to be recruited if ever I heard one.’

  My expression turns stony. ‘I will never have children. I’m hated by 99.9% of the population. I can’t go out in sunlight.’

  ‘Not yet,’ she interrupts. ‘But you also have super powers.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘They’re not super powers. I can’t turn invisible or fly or anything like that. I’m just a bit stronger and faster, that’s all.’

  Someone else opens her mouth with what can only be another question. I intercept her. ‘You don’t want to be a vampire,’ I say flatly, my tone brooking no further discussion on the matter. ‘Now, did Lisa say anything last time she was here? Give any other hints about someone she was seeing? Or somewhere she might be going?’

  The women exchange looks. ‘No,’ Tabitha finally answers. ‘She did give me a really big hug at the end of the session though. She wasn’t usually so touchy-feely and I was a bit taken aback. It was like she was saying goodbye or something.’

  My suspicions that Lisa left of her own volition are growing stronger by the minute. I don’t imagine her parents will take the news well. I mull over everything while Bryant steers the conversation back to other matters. With my own thoughts swirling round my head, the rest of the time passes quickly and I’m surprised when everyone stands up to leave.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Ms Blackman. I mean, Bo.’

  I shake the woman’s hand. Others come up and murmur similar platitudes. ‘Will you come again next time?’ asks Tabitha.

  ‘I doubt it. But if I have any more questions about Lisa…?’

  They all nod vigorously.

  ‘And if Isabel has any further trouble, don’t hesitate to get in touch.’ I jerk my head towards Bryant. ‘I’ll leave my number with the doctor.’

  Their gratitude is almost embarrassing. They file out one by one, until only Dr Bryant and I remain. She looks me over with a cool, appraising gaze. ‘I trust you found that helpful.’

  ‘I did, actually. Thank you.’ I incline my head. ‘I have just a few more questions.’

  ‘I cannot discuss any of Lisa’s medical history.’

  I chew the inside of my cheek. As I suspected. ‘Can you tell me at least if she was having normal periods?’

  ‘No, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Or whether you gave her anything to stop her periods as she requested?’ I know there are some contraceptive pills on the market that are capable of doing that. Obviously, Lisa wasn’t already on them or she wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

  ‘No, I can’t tell you that either. The rules on what I can and can’t say are very clear cut, Ms Blackman. And anyway, I have not seen Lisa since that last session.’

  Meaning that if she did change her usual prescription, it wasn’t with Bryant. The good doctor has done a remarkable job of getting around the patient confidentiality laws. I tilt my chin and meet her eyes. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ I say honestly. ‘But why do you trust me? I get as much bad press these days as good.’

  She considers the question. ‘Lisa is a good girl. She’s naïve and often far too headstrong and passionate for her own good but her heart is in the right place. It’s not like her to just get up and go without saying a word to her parents. The others were right. She was asking some very strange questions in our last session.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you do something?’

  She lifts up an eyebrow. ‘What would you have had me do? Tie her down to stop her from seeking out as many men as possible to sleep with? She was an adult, Ms Blackman, and entirely capable of making her own choices.’

  I stare at her. ‘She is an adult.’ Why do so many people seem so convinced that she’s already dead?

  Bryant colours. ‘You’re right. She is an adult. Not was. I just…’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not like her. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  I study her carefully. She appears genuinely contrite but there’s still more to this than meets the eye. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ She drops her gaze. ‘Dr Bryant?’ I prod.

  She sighs. ‘I didn’t always work at this clinic. I moved here six months ago from the other side of the city. I had a patient there, a young woman called Melissa Greek. She was very much like Lisa – high ideals and a determination to change the world.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She walked out one day and never returned.’ She shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. ‘Some people thought she’d been recruited by your kind. Others thought she might have run into a Kakos daemon. The truth is, nobody knows.’

  I purse my lips. ‘People disappear every day. What makes you think there was a connection between her and Lisa?’

  ‘Melissa used to wear a necklace. A small gold pendant with what looked like a tree on it.’

  I frown. ‘So?’

  Bryant leads me out to the front reception area. Joy, the joyless receptionist, has disappeared thankfully. She points over at the corked notice board. There’s a poster of Lisa on it, beaming out at the camera. ‘Look,’ she says softly.

  I lean in. Lisa Johnson is wearing a delicate gold necklace; hanging from it is what looks like a little tree. I rock back on my heels. ‘Did you tell the police about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They said they’d look into it. That’s the last I heard.’

  Interesting. It looks like Foxworthy and I are going to be negotiating again sooner rather than later. He’ll love that.

  Chapter Eight: Sweethearts

  There’s a definite chill in the air when I step out from Bryant’s little surgery. I check my watch. Although I spent far longer with the doctor than I’d intended, there is still time to get to the café which Lisa recently visited. It’s not likely that I’ll
find anything but right now I’m short on clues so I need to use every little morsel of information that I can dredge up. It helps that it’s on the way to Adrian Leeman’s house.

  When I reach the café, I’m rather underwhelmed by its appearance. I can’t see much from outside as the windows are steamed up. There is old paint peeling off around the window sill and a rusted metal grille covering the door. A faded sign warns that hawkers, vagrants and vampires aren’t welcome. I grin. This might be fun.

  There’s a jarring tinkle as I push the door open and step inside. Despite their anti-bloodguzzler approach, there’s no spell or warning alarm to prevent or signal my entrance. Commercial properties are different to residential ones: I can enter any shop, restaurant or public venue when I wish but homes are slightly different. That doesn’t mean business owners can’t find their own methods of preventing vampiric entry – Magix does a booming line in vampire-prevention products – but judging by the poor upkeep of this place, I’m guessing they can’t afford anything that would work.

  The place provides a different angle on Lisa Johnson’s personality. Did she choose to come here or did someone bring her? It certainly doesn’t tally with the ‘nicer than nice, save the world’ personality that she advertised.

  There’s one customer in the corner with a dog-eared copy of Mein Kampf and what looks like a cold cup of insipid tea, the sort that’s had a tea bag waved at it in vague disdain. A man wearing a stained apron appears from the back room, wiping his hands on its front. His face is lined and heavy, with flabby jowls and pores which look wide enough to drive a truck through.

  The second he catches sight of me, his face twists into a snarl. ‘We don’t like your sort in here.’

  The customer carefully lays down his book and pushes his chair back. I smile disarmingly at them both. ‘What?’ I coo. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ I give myself a mental high-five. I’ve always wanted to say that.

  ‘There’s the door,’ the owner grunts. ‘Now fuck off. I don’t care if you’re Lord Medici himself. You’re not welcome. Geddit?’

  I look from him to the customer. I could try talking them round. I could even leave. But after the eager friendliness of the women at Bryant’s clinic, these guys make a refreshing change and I’m ready for some fun.

  I leap backwards, scooping up the cup of tea and throwing it at the customer. It drenches him, the table and the book. He splutters and advances towards me then, when he catches sight of the expression on my face, he thinks better of it and spins round, virtually sprinting out of the door.

  I smile nastily. ‘One down. One to go.’

  The owner pulls out a phone and jabs in a number, pressing send before I can lunge towards him. ‘Not for long,’ he grunts. ‘I heard you were hanging around here yesterday. I have a few friends who will be happy to make your acquaintance.’

  I clap my hands together. ‘Oh goody. Are they as handsome and charming as you?’

  He snarls but, instead of attempting to fight me, he turns. Rather than running out of the shop, he vanishes into the room behind the counter, slamming the door shut. There’s a click as the lock is turned. Idiot. Does he really think a flimsy lock like that will stop me?

  I vault over the counter and past the grubby till. With one swift kick, I splinter the door and it bounces open. I just have time to see the barrel of a gun pointing in my direction before there’s a deafening bang. At first I think he’s missed but the pain sets in a second later, spreading across my side and into my gullet. He raises the gun to take another shot.

  He’s already gotten lucky once; I’m not going to let it happen again. Gritting my teeth against the searing agony of the wound, I lunge forward and yank the gun out of his hands. I turn it on him and he blanches.

  ‘And to think,’ I say in a strained voice, ‘all I wanted was to ask a few questions. Now if I’m going to get out of here alive, I need to drain you of all that blood.’ I make a face. ‘I bet you don’t even taste good.’

  ‘I won’t let you near me, you devil spawn,’ he hisses. ‘I’d rather die.’

  I shrug then regret it as the pain only increases. ‘That can be arranged.’ I pull the trigger, aiming for his thigh. He collapses with a scream, clutching his leg and contorting his face. He starts writhing and moaning. Curious, I step closer. Those are remarkable histrionics for what is really only a flesh wound.

  ‘It hurts,’ he screeches. ‘It hurts.’

  Little lights start dancing in front of my eyes. ‘Goes to show you’re not dead yet,’ I manage, then grab him by the scruff of the neck and haul him upwards so I can reach his jugular.

  Without a moment to spare, I sink my fangs into his neck and drink. The blood won’t heal me instantly but it will stop me passing out. The strength it gives me will keep me going for now – even if his little friends do decide to show up. He actually tastes surprisingly good. If it weren’t for the fact that I need to ask him some questions, I think I would drain him dry. Instead I force myself to stop while he’s still conscious, though his pupils are dilated and glassy.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stare hard, giving him every ounce of badass attitude I can muster. ‘Do you have CCTV?’

  He doesn’t respond. I glance round the small room. It doesn’t appear so and I didn’t spot any cameras in the café. That’s annoying. I pull out the photo I have in my pocket of Lisa and wave it in front of his eyes. ‘Recognise her?’

  He seems unable to focus. I grip his shoulder and he yelps, some measure of clarity returning. ‘I said,’ I repeat, ‘do you recognise her?’

  His eyes fix on the photo. He blinks twice but remains silent. Yep, he knows exactly who she is. I tighten my grip and lower my head so that our noses are almost touching. ‘Tell me about her.’

  He gasps. ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Come on,’ I purr. ‘Play nice and I may even change my mind about killing you.’

  He opens his mouth to speak but, before he can, his face twists. I frown and peer at him. He can’t be in that much pain, surely? When I see the sweat across his brow, feel the dampness even through his clothes and hear his short gasps of breath, I snarl out a curse. Heart attack. Brilliant.

  I let him go and he drops heavily onto the floor, his legs twitching. His hands reach up and clutch at his chest. I shake my head in irritation and start looking round the room. There is a small desk covered in paper, most of which seem to be old invoices and food orders. I flick through the piles. There’s next to nothing of interest. Well, this is irritating.

  I glance down at the café owner. His face is turning an extraordinary shade of purple. I wonder whether his impending heart attack was the reason why his blood tasted so good. After a moment, I bend down and take his phone from his pocket. I memorise the last number he called, just in case the details about his ‘friends’ may be useful. Then I helpfully punch in 999 for him.

  ‘You see,’ I tell him softly, as his eyes bulge at me, ‘I’m not all bad.’ I drop the phone and stroll out. This was a total waste of time.

  The cold air outside has given way to a light drizzle. You certainly can’t beat England for miserable weather, I think as I cross the road. I turn up the collar of my leather jacket not because I feel the cold – I don’t – but the sensation of dripping water down my neck is not pleasant.

  I feel for the bullet hole. I’m pretty sure the damn piece of metal is still rattling around somewhere in there. At least the agony has given way to a dull, throbbing ache, even if my blouse is now soaked in my blood. I prod around experimentally. I’d really like to go three for three and get hold of Adrian Leeman before I head home but the last thing I want is to collapse along the way. I’m pretty certain I’ll be alright. That café owner’s blood helped a hell of a lot.

  I’m just about to start walking again when a car screeches down the quiet street and comes to a badly parked halt in front of the café. Aha. This must be the aforementioned friends. I watch with interest as a couple jump out and run in. Th
ey are clutching shotguns – the sort that could do considerably more damage than the peashooter the owner directed at me. Whoever they are, they definitely mean business.

  Unfortunately for them, they are followed less than a minute later by a racing ambulance. Its red and blue flashing lights illuminate the street so I draw further back into the shadows. I congratulate myself on being kind enough to call for it in the first place. Its appearance may just help me get an ID on the two ‘friends’. It never hurts to know who your potential enemies are. I’m not really in much shape to confront the pair of them right now but I will be once I’ve gotten this damn bullet out and a few stitches.

  It doesn’t take long for the paramedics to emerge with the café owner on a stretcher. The ‘friends’, apparently having realised that I’ve gone, follow behind. There’s a lot of gesticulating and raised voices. Apparently spotting the gun, which I left behind, has encouraged the paramedics to call the police. I smile. That’s nice.

  The angry pair head for their car, unwilling to hang around and see if their pal is going to be alright. That tells me a great deal: either they’re not as close as he’d like to think, or the last thing they want is a confrontation and awkward questions from the strong arm of the law. Maybe they’re already wanted criminals. My smile grows. That’ll mean I’m justified in tracking them down again later.

  As the one nearest me ducks down to get into the driver’s seat, the flashing light from the ambulance throws his entire body into stark relief. I ignore the ridiculous army camouflage get-up that he’s wearing and focus on the tattoo on his neck. It’s not a magical one and it doesn’t signify any allegiance to the witches. It is an odd symbol that looks remarkably like a tree.

  I pull back further and wrinkle my nose. Despite the café’s less than welcoming atmosphere and the evidence I have of Lisa’s visit, I hadn’t thought this place was linked directly to her disappearance. I was very, very wrong. Lisa certainly isn’t the goody-two-shoes her mother and Dr Bryant made out. Whoever these people are, they mean serious business. A visible tattoo etched into someone’s neck also suggests both dedication and longevity. I wonder why I’ve never heard of this lot before.