Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between

by J. A. Saare

  I didn’t ask where he was, strolling past her desk, toward the doors situated along the back. Each of them had little nameplates screwed into the wood and I glided past until I found his name emblazoned in gold plating.

  Bingo.

  Max was seated behind his desk, and still had his hand on the telephone, when I walked in. “Ms. Hamlin,” he said politely and gestured to an empty chair. “Would you please close the door behind you and take a seat?”

  He looked completely professional, as relaxed and courteous as he did at the tasting. His suit was understated but expensive, the light blue tie matching the tiny stitching on the pinstripes perfectly. His dark skin and deep brown eyes gave me the same impression I had the first time around. He was boyishly handsome and appeared as trustworthy as an eighty-year-old school teacher. Goose was right. Appearances certainly were deceiving.

  “Sure.” I put my best smile forward as I closed the door and slid into the chair across from him. I nested into the comfortable leather seat.

  “What can I do for you?” He remained polite and smiling. Not what I had expected. He returned to his seat and leaned back, the chair creaking as the springs shifted under his weight.

  “I’m here to ask you some questions,” I responded, equally cordial.

  “Regarding?”

  Well hell. I’d had this all planned out, and then he went and screwed it up. He wasn’t playing into the asshole mold I’d prepared for, and I couldn’t do the good cop bad cop routine. I decided to go with blunt force honestly. You can’t beat it.

  “What can you tell me about the market for vampire hearts?”

  “Pardon?” His friendly smile faltered and he looked at me as if I’d lost my gourd.

  He was good, real good.

  I repeated myself, “Vampire hearts. You know what I’m talking about, so don’t try to deny it.” I narrowed my eyes.

  “Ms. Hamlin, I assure you, I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about.” He sounded offended and confused. His voice lost the friendliness that was present just a second before. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring black market business into my office. Please leave.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” I shook my head and lurched toward his desk. We were finally getting somewhere. “You know what I’m talking about. I saw your driver, Max. I saw him through the eyes of a dead man.”

  “Are you on drugs?” he asked, mortified.

  “No, I am not on drugs,” I snapped. How did I become the weirdo here? He was the one living a macabre version of Driving Miss Daisy. “But I do see dead people. One of the vampires you killed paid me a visit.”

  “I think you need professional help.” Max pushed his chair back slowly and rose to his feet.

  “Wait.” I took a deep, calming breath. Count to ten. Breathe in. Breathe out. “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then tell me this. Why did you get into the car with the man I’m talking about?”

  “What man?”

  “The man from the party. I saw you and Carolyn get into the car with him.”

  “The car—” His expression changed as the light bulb went off in his head. He stared at me distastefully. “My son has been gravely ill, Ms. Hamlin. That’s why my wife and I attended the party in the first place. As you can probably imagine, we were eager to get home that evening. When Mrs. Gilstead offered us the use of her car and driver, we graciously accepted.” His lips thinned. “If you have questions about the driver, I’d take them up with her. I would suggest you try a different approach, however. This one won’t win you any contests.”

  “I don’t remember a Mrs. Gilstead,” I said like a moron. At least my instincts were correct. I’d rather look like a lunatic than find out the Starkey’s were responsible.

  “You were introduced to her.” He eyed me like a nasty piece of toilet paper that stuck to his shoe on the way out the john. I really had to work on my presentation and delivery.

  “I was introduced to several people, but Mrs. Gilstead was not one of them.” I sorted through my mental vault and couldn’t recall anyone with that name. If she was there, I was positive our paths had never crossed.

  “She and her husband Timothy were standing with us when Jude introduced you, Ms. Hamlin. I remember clearly.” He paused, then added, “You don’t seem to be functioning on a rational level, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Timothy,” I breathed. My own light bulb went off, accompanied by a mind numbing alarm. I remembered. Ms. Hardbody and her husband with slate grey eyes and hair reminiscent of George Hamilton. “Timothy and Sarah Gilstead.”

  “That’s right.” He nodded but frowned at my expression. “Are you all right?

  “Yeah, yeah,” I stammered, standing and stumbling around the chair. I had to get out of here. Disco needed to know what I’d learned, and I had to speak to Goose.

  “Are you sure?” He came around the desk and reached for me. I threw my hands up and he stepped back, eyes flaring wide.

  “Listen to me, Max.” I spoke quietly and looked him dead in the eye. “You might think I’m crazy, and that’s fine. You don’t have to believe a word of what I’m about to tell you. But if you love your family, you’ll take what I say to heart.” I pressed into his personal space, speaking clearly. “Stay away from the Gilstead’s. They are into some heavy shit, and you don’t want to be in the middle. I promise you.”

  “You’re not talking about the tasting, are you?” A well-founded fear crept into his voice. Good man. He was starting to believe I wasn’t some crazy loon paying a social call.

  I shook my head and never broke eye contact. “I’m not talking about blood or anything else that’s consensual. Your friends are murdering people—my people. And you don’t want to be involved with my people, Max. They’re the type to bleed you dry and leave your corpse to rot. When the reckoning comes”—I lifted my hand and made an arch, pointing across the room—”you’ll want to be way the fuck over there. Do you feel me?”

  “Yes,” he answered in a hoarse croak.

  I nodded in approval, turned around and opened the door, and stepped into the hall. I walked past the receptionist, smiling at her shocked face when she told me in a superficial voice to have a nice day, and I gave her a parting gift—my middle finger.

  Retrieving my cell, I dialed Goose. His voicemail clicked over and I was forced to do the most annoying, rude, and discourteous thing anyone can with a phone.

  I spammed him.

  I kept calling his number, over and over. On the fifth try, I heard the click that indicated he’d pushed talk.

  “Rhiannon?” He sounded as if he’d intentionally muffled his voice so someone else couldn’t hear. “I planned on calling you after I finished here, but when you kept calling, I was afraid something was wrong.”

  “Where are you?” I was out of breath from jogging along. I stopped on the sidewalk and waited, not hearing him well through the speaker.

  He didn’t answer right away. “I’m following a lead.”

  “Tell me you are not going after Timothy Gilstead.”

  When he didn’t respond, I had my answer. My chest constricted with panic and I tasted bitterness rising from my stomach.

  “Listen to me. The man that killed Jacob works for them. You have to get out of there, right now. Do you understand? Get the fuck out of there!”

  “Are you serious?” He spat into the phone, voice low.

  “Would I fucking lie?” I snapped. “That night we left the tasting I saw Max and Carolyn Starkey getting into a limo. Their driver was the same person that killed Jacob. I don’t know why I didn’t place him immediately, but it’s him. He was even wearing the same fucking suit.”

  “Then we need to pay a visit to Max and Carolyn—”

  I cut him off. “I already did. It wasn’t their car or driver. Sarah Gilstead said they could use the limo to get home to their son.” I dodged people on the sidewalk, cursing in annoyance. “Leave whatever you’re doing and meet me at Disco�
�s. This shit can’t wait.”

  “I’m leaving now.” Wind crept into the phone and I could barely hear his last two words. “Be careful.”

  “You be careful.” I could take care of myself, but Goose was a walking target. “I’ll see you at Disco’s.”

  I hung up the phone and hurried to hail a cab. The sooner I got to Disco, the better. I walked to the street to flag down a yellow submarine when something shoved against my lower back and a hand grasped my arm from behind. I opened my mouth, prepared to give a good tongue chewing to whoever was moronic enough to push me.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that,” a deep male voice spoke into my ear. “The tazer I’m holding against your spine will incapacitate you. We can do this without resorting to that, but if you push your luck, I’ll be forced to use that option.”

  “Who are you?” I tried to get a look at the face behind the voice, but failed. “And what the fuck do you want?”

  “We’ll get to that shortly.”

  He nudged me toward a black Lincoln waiting on the street. I took the smallest steps possible. If I got inside the car, it was game over.

  Rule number one that all girls must learn. If you’re told to lie down on the floor during a robbery or to step inside a waiting car during a kidnapping, you’re not doing yourself any favors by cooperating. You’re essentially handing the bastards a loaded gun and giving them express permission to shoot you in the head.

  He opened the door, and I tried to bolt, twisting around and lunging to the side.

  “I warned you.”

  A pained gasp caught in my throat as an explosive burning shot through my spine and radiated through my entire body. Hands directed my tumbling form forward, into the waiting seat. My arms drew into my sides in involuntary jerks, and I passed out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I came to with an aching head and weak body. My neck protested when I forced my chin off my chest. Fresh oxygen rushed to the muscles and they roared to life, stinging and tingling. I tried to bring my hand around to rub the ache, but my arms were trapped behind me. I opened my eyes, and waited for them grow accustomed to the darkened space.

  I was at the far end of a rectangular room with one door and no windows. The walls were painted dark to match the floor and ceiling, and aside from a table behind me, the room was empty.

  My heart lodged in my throat. I knew this place. I had been inside Jacob’s and Baxter’s bodies on that hard concrete floor. A large white circle was painted on the pot marked concrete, a six-pointed star drawn in the middle. The hexagon center had little metal hooks buried deep into the ground, connected to thin silver chains. The surface was stained, the brownish black coloring expanding and flaring out from one area in particular.

  A surge of despair welled into panic. I threw my weight forward, trying to propel myself, but the chair I was tied to was hard and immobile. My struggling only caused the rope around my wrists to cut into skin. I pushed up with my feet in an attempt to stand. When that failed, I tried to rock from side to side.

  Pressing my head against my shoulder, I glanced down. The damned thing was bolted securely to the floor. I tensed my shoulders, twisting the ropes around my hands, ignoring the pain as the rope bit into skin.

  The door opened and I froze, listening as the hinges creaked. I always said working for Disco was accepting the lesser of two evils and I would probably get killed. I was about to find out if my premonition was bound to meet fruition.

  Timothy Gilstead didn’t have the same flair now that I knew he was a sociopathic asshole. His grey eyes flickered over to me and he smiled, shaking his head. The son of a bitch looked at me as if I was an honored guest. He closed the door and ambled over.

  “Mrs. Hamlin, or should I use your real name?” He smiled as he stopped directly in front of me and crossed his arms. His baby blue dress shirt pouching where the starch was extra thick.

  “That depends,” I answered in an agreeable tone, smiling deceptively. “Can I call you a despicable murdering asshole?”

  I didn’t take him for the kind of man to hit a woman, but he gave me a nice ear-ringing slap across the face. The burn was intense, and I knew the blow would leave one hell of a mark. I opened my mouth, rotating my jaw in the socket.

  “I thought attending NYU would have made you smarter somehow.” He was breathing heavy, still angry. “I suppose no amount of quality education can buy common sense. Perhaps you need a little incentive to keep that lovely mouth shut.”

  His sudden movement regained my attention. He strode to the door and opened it, whispering to someone outside. I pressed the smarting side of face along my sweater, attempting to soothe the sting. If I made it out of here, I knew the first thing I was going to do. I was going to track Timothy down and kick his pearly white teeth down his God damned throat.

  Footsteps approached, and I watched him return. Someone else followed and I nearly gave myself away, attempting to hide the automatic response that comes with recognition. Big boy vampire, Paul, stepped into the room. He seemed as docile as a puppy—frighteningly different from the vampire who was ready to take my head off at the Razor.

  The soft squeak of rubber soles against concrete came from the door and a little boy appeared, dressed in a thin, white cotton shirt and black pants. His dark skin was flawless, black hair shortly trimmed. He glanced in my direction and smiled. Big milky-green eyes stared back at me.

  Pure fear produced a debilitating adrenaline spike. I could feel what he was, even if my mind refused to accept the fact.

  “Lie down,” the boy instructed and Paul obediently sat on the floor and stretched his body out in the center of the circle. He didn’t make a sound when the silver chains were drawn tightly through the hooks, wrapped so tightly about his wrists that they started sinking into his creamy flesh. His hands were secured first, ankles after. Timothy stepped away and the little boy surveyed the work, finding it satisfactory.

  “Wake.”

  Paul started to hiss and thrash, each movement causing him more pain than before. He whipped his head from side to side, eyes wild and confused. A pitiful sound of agony escaped his lips.

  “Shh.” The boy lifted a finger to his lips, and Paul went silent. I watched in disbelief as he thrashed in suffering but didn’t make a peep, muted like a television station.

  “Amazing, isn’t he?” Timothy peered over at me.

  I couldn’t speak; too humbled, mortified, and just plain scared. The boy didn’t look to be any more than seven or eight-years old, but I could sense the evil in him. He might have died when he was a child, but his true age was something I’d never encountered. The power emanating from him was massive, and I was awestruck.

  “Good,” Timothy said smugly. “It seems you realize the dire straits in which you find yourself. Now that we have your attitude under control, I can offer my most sincere apology. We hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to involve anyone other than those necessary this time around, but unfortunately, your Master is one of the most powerful in the area. Kibwe couldn’t pass that up.”

  “Your Master has a most unbelievable talent.” Kibwe had the voice of a child, speaking in clear but accented English. He smiled enthusiastically at me, exuding happiness. “The ability to manipulate perception is rare and something I must have for myself.”

  The ability to manipulate perception? I grappled with what Timothy said earlier about NYU and easily slid the puzzle pieces together. I didn’t know if it would be to my benefit or detriment to inform him I wasn’t Sonja, and that my master sure as shit wasn’t Joseph.

  “What the fuck are you?” Disturbed, I looked him up and down. He appeared to be a little boy. He even sounded like one. But he wasn’t a child, and hadn’t been one in quite some time.

  Timothy started forward, arm poised to strike, but Kibwe moved with vampire speed to stand before me. He held his small hand aloft, a sadistic grin spreading across his face that made me wish I could shrivel up and disappear.

  “I was onc
e as you are—a kindred conveyor of the dead. A plague assaulted my village, bodies torn apart and drained of blood. I was summoned by the elders to speak to with the spirits about the lingering death that continued to consume us. My maker witnessed this exchange, and was intrigued by my power. He made me into what you see before you.”

  I shifted quietly in the chair, back pressed against the wood. His angelic face studied me with rapt attention and inquisitiveness.

  “You could see spirits?” I eventually asked.

  “Oh, yes.” He grinned, flashing tiny white teeth.

  Eyes averted, I spoke softly, wanting answers and trying to be as non-confrontational as possible. “I don’t understand. Why would you kill your own kind? They haven’t done anything to you. Why would you want to hurt them?”

  “I must eat of their body and take their power directly into myself. Therefore, death is required.” He shrugged his thin shoulders nonchalantly at my revulsion. “It is necessary. The heart is the organ that sustains life. It generates all of the power we hold within. To devour power is to take it into one’s self.”

  “You killed them… so you could take their power?”

  Goose and I were way off the scent. He wasn’t using the organs for magic. He was using them to empower himself. God knows how many hidden talents he possessed. He was older than any vampire I’d ever known. I was sure of it. And the way he handled Paul told me his necromancy had crossed the all-powerful threshold; he could control all of the dead, vampires included.

  “No.” He shook his head and smiled. “Those that keep me protected also must be given their due. Eating of our flesh can slow the aging process indefinitely, did you know that?”

  I shook my head and turned away, swallowing down nausea.

  “Drinking from our life’s blood will hinder father time, but only so long as you partake. My people have been loyal to me for centuries. Those vampires taken without talents I deem worthy are a given to my coven as a courtesy.”

  I stared at Timothy. He had willingly participated in the murder of innocent people and devoured them like a fucking happy meal.