Dead Rising

by Debra Dunbar

  I couldn’t breathe. Even after he took his hand from my neck and turned his gaze from mine, I still couldn’t breathe. At that moment, nothing seemed to appeal more than throwing my life aside for a brief existence of servitude to a vampire—this vampire.

  His eyes locked on mine once again as he sipped from the wine glass. The red Chianti reminded me of blood and I curled my fingers against the table.

  “Why didn’t you take your Oath, Aria?”

  The words didn’t sway me as much as his dark eyes and seductive tone. I was in trouble, serious trouble, with this vampire. Snap out of it, Aria. “I didn’t want to. I may never want to. And that makes living with my family or with other Templars kind of uncomfortable.”

  So much for not answering his question. Dario looked oddly pleased with himself. I wasn’t pleased—either with him or with myself. Some shitty Templar I was, giving in with a few sips of wine and sexy-vampire talk. Lord forbid I ever face serious interrogation. I’d fold like wet cardboard, especially if I had a decent glass of wine in my hand and a hot guy within half a mile.

  “What was it like, growing up a Templar?”

  I gulped down half of my wine. Might as well have something to blame all this on besides my hormones and lack of willpower. “It was pretty much like any other childhood. Well, except for training in swordplay and practicing protective blessings since the age of six.”

  “So …soccer, birthday parties with bounce houses, and summer vacations at Disney World?”

  I snorted and drained the rest of my wine. “Uh, no. No birthday parties, vacations were in France and Italy studying art history, and our sporting events were equestrian activities. It’s critical that we be skilled in riding, just in case we needed to throw on some plate mail and thunder across the fields of battle on our charger.”

  He smiled. I actually got a vampire to smile—this vampire. Score one for me.

  “So what was your childhood like?” The moment I asked I could have kicked myself. He was a vampire. His childhood was probably in the eleventh century.

  The smile faded. “I don’t really remember my childhood. I’m fairly sure it didn’t include art history or equestrian activities, though.”

  Where was that wine? I grabbed the bottle and filled my glass, taking another gulp.

  He toyed with his glass, long fingers caressing the edge. “I can tell you what it’s like to be a vampire. Since you’ve been so forthcoming about your life.”

  I set down the wine. “I’d like that.”

  “Okay.” Dario set his wine aside and leaned forward, both arms on the table. “I was turned in Haiti and brought to what is now Florida. I remained there with my Master and Balaj until a rival clan forced us out. We made our way north until we found a territory we felt we could take.”

  “Baltimore?”

  He nodded. “We’ve been here ever since, about two hundred years, give or take a few decades.”

  “But you mentioned a Master. Leonora didn’t turn you?”

  “Thirty years ago my Master and Maker was killed. Leonora took over the Balaj as Mistress at that point.”

  Holy cow. “Who killed him?”

  I wasn’t aware of any Templar sanctioned purges in this century, and vampires didn’t like to leave their territory. I felt somewhat guilty about my prying but I was dying of curiosity. Yeah, I know, I had no problem asking a vampire about his resistance to garlic and his legendary ability to turn into a bat and fly, but I was uncomfortable that I’d asked him who killed his Master.

  He shifted in his seat, rolling the stem of the wineglass with his long fingers. “That is not something I will share with you. I’ve told you enough already about us. It’s time to change the subject.”

  Really? I think not after his seduction routine earlier. If he could dig for info on me, then I could do the same. “Leonora is your sister?”

  He scowled. “Blood sister. She was turned long before I was. Have you made any progress on identifying the symbol? I saw that you were researching tonight.”

  I ignored the question and concentrated on the information. Haiti. Dario had probably been a slave before he was turned, but Leonora was white. Had their Master been a plantation owner, or a vampire immigrant from one of the European families, coming to a new world in search of territory and the opportunity to begin a family of his own? It wouldn’t have been an easy journey, crossing the Atlantic with a severe sensitivity toward sunlight. Modern nonstop airline travel made things so much easier for vampires than a lengthy journey via boat.

  Did vampires swim? Or sink? And if they didn’t need to breathe, what happened if they sank?

  But another question took priority. “You’ve told me your timeline. You still haven’t told me what it’s like to be a vampire.”

  The waiter arrived with our salads, and by the time he’d offered us cracked pepper and freshly shaved parmesan, I figured the moment had passed and we’d be off to another topic of conversation. I ate a few bites of the salad, reveling in the taste of fresh vegetables. I was probably on the verge of malnutrition from my cheap-food diet the last few months. This was heaven.

  “Hunger.”

  I halted the fork halfway to my mouth, thinking for a second about my own hunger before I realized Dario was referring to a very specific vampire hunger.

  “It never ends. Never.” His voice was dark and husky as his eyes met mine. “You learn to push it to the back of your mind, to control your response so you don’t turn into a feral killing machine, but it’s always there. Every waking moment. Sometimes when sunrise comes, you welcome the oblivion of sleep because it’s the only time you don’t feel the hunger.”

  The fork still hovered midway between the table and my mouth. That…that didn’t sound fun. I wasn’t sure what to say. What do you say to that sort of revelation? No wonder he didn’t smile.

  “Everything else is secondary. Families are bonded together due to our maker, but it’s the hunger that truly ties us.” His eyes darkened. Before I could take another breath, his hand was gripping my wrist, the fork bouncing into my salad bowl. “There are things I want, things I remember, but the hunger overtakes all other desires.”

  Total appetite killer. Now instead of crispy vegetables I was thinking of death by exsanguination and Dario’s fingers digging into the skin of my wrist. I felt a warmth, a burning heat. The vampire grimaced but held on for a few seconds before letting go. I saw the blisters on his fingers, watched them heal before my eyes.

  “It’s spelled,” I explained, fingering my cross tattoo. “Adrenaline activated.” Which didn’t normally do anything but make my wrist hot while in traffic or base jumping. What idiot thought this was a good idea I didn’t know, but I was rather appreciative for the spell at this particular moment.

  He grimaced, shaking his fingers as if the healed wounds still pained him. “I’ll remember to grab your left wrist next time.”

  “Or some other part of me,” I joked, picking up my fork again. Sheesh, even after our conversation I couldn’t help but tease this guy. I must truly have a death wish.

  We ate in silence for a while. By the time our entrees had arrived I’d worked up the nerve to continue my interrogation.

  “So, as you noticed, I’ve started my research on the symbol and it appears to be related to summoning dead spirits.”

  That didn’t elicit any particular response from Dario, but given his normal lack of facial expressions, I wasn’t surprised.

  He toyed with his ravioli before speaking. “Have you determined exactly what it does?”

  I scarfed down a few bites of my Lobster Alfredo. It smelled amazing, and tasted even better. If only I could eat this every night. “No. But I’m curious to know why your Mistress is wanting information on a symbol used in necromantic magic.”

  “Consider it a precautionary measure.”

  I waited, taking the opportunity to eat more of my pasta, but Dario didn’t elaborate. “Why? Surely you guys don’t run around checking graff
iti all over the city just in case it’s magical in nature. What happened for Leonora to think this symbol was so important that she needed to bring in a Templar?”

  There was a moment of frosty silence before he replied. “You don’t need to know that. Tell us about the symbol and you get paid. That’s our deal.”

  Suddenly my food tasted like sawdust. “But the background will help me in finding out the rest of the details on the symbol. If you want a thorough report, I really need to know.”

  “It’s not your business.”

  Stupid, stubborn vampire. “It is my business, and not just because I’m doing this job for you. If there’s something going down in my city involving necromancy, I need to know about it. How the heck did Leonora come across this symbol and why does she need to know about it?”

  His fingers tightened on the fork. “Those would be a question for Leonora, not me.”

  “She’s not here. You are. This is important and I need to know.”

  His eyes darkened. Suddenly he wasn’t that cute vampire I’d been pestering with drinks and annoying questions anymore. He was a powerful being who could end me right here, or in the parking lot behind the restaurant.

  “You will drop this line of questioning right now.”

  I felt like all the blood had dropped right out of my body. I’d seen Dario emotionless. I’d seen him intense and sexy. I’d never seen him like this. What was this “date” about? I knew he wanted me, or at least my blood. Right now, he didn’t even seem interested in that.

  “Why are we here?” I waved a hand to the side. “Here. In the restaurant together eating pasta and drinking wine?”

  The vampire set down his fork and leaned back, his expression becoming distant once more. “I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on you, to report back on your progress. I figured that dining with you was the best way to do that. Now you can either make this a pleasant experience or an unpleasant one. Your choice.”

  The Lobster Alfredo turned into a lead weight inside my stomach. We weren’t here because he found me attractive, or my O-Negative Templar blood irresistible. We weren’t here because he thought I was a cool person to hang out and have dinner with. We were here because he was supposed to keep an eye on me and report back to his Mistress. All those Bloody Marys and drinks with plastic swords had meant nothing. Yes, he wanted me, but I was off limits. This meant nothing but business to him.

  And that shouldn’t bother me as much as it did.

  Fine. Screw him. If Dario wanted business, he’d get business. I’d hit up the internet when I got back to my place and figure out what the connection was between the Robertsons and the vampires. Then I’d finish up the job and have the joy of never dealing with these soulless blood-suckers again.

  I ate my pasta in silence, not worrying about small talk anymore. Let the vampires foot the bill for a decent meal. It’s not like I needed to impress my companion with my quick wit or anything. Eat. Go home. Get to work.

  My plate was nearly half empty by the time Dario broke the silence. “I’ll give your information to Leonora about the spell being necromantic in nature.”

  It wasn’t anything close to an apology. Business. This was all about business. “Please let me know what she says.”

  I interpreted his expression as “when pigs fly”. “If Leonora wants you to know, then I will convey the information.”

  My temper flared. I blamed it on the wine and my bruised ego. “You ask me to do a job, a job that I have a seven day deadline to complete or presumably I will cease to live, a job that, judging by all this, is important to the vampires here in Baltimore, but you won’t clarify details or communicate information I need to do the job?”

  I completely couldn’t read the expression on his face, although I got the feeling I was supposed to. “You don’t need that information. Research the symbol. Tell us what it is, what it does, and do that in the next six days.”

  I was beginning to hate vampires. No wonder my ancestors had killed them on sight. “All you do is repeat the party line to me. Can you tell me nothing without your Mistress’s approval? Do you ask her permission to feed? Does she pre-screen all of your prey? Isn’t there anything you can do without her authorization?”

  The stem of the wineglass snapped in his hands. “Watch your tone.”

  What I’d said was out of line, but there was no need to snarl at me as if I were a bad dog. He’d grilled me about my life choices, turning on the seduction to pry information out of me. He’d arrogantly informed me that I wasn’t going to get any information from him that might help me do my job. Yeah, the vampires were paying me, but a business arrangement like this had an unspoken agreement for a good-faith exchange of information. And I’d had more of this vampire tonight than I could stand.

  He’d abandoned me last night in a shitty neighborhood miles from home and never even apologized. But I guess as my minder, my parole-officer for this job, he didn’t need to apologize.

  “Fuck you.” I slapped my napkin on the table and without even a glance in his direction, got up and stomped out the door. I had money for a cab. Heck, I could walk home if I didn’t have these heels on. I wasn’t one of his vampire groupies, I wasn’t about to have him tell me to “watch my tone”, like I was his needy, desperate, blood-slave.

  Chapter 4

  TAXIS WEREN’T ALWAYS the easiest to find in Little Italy, especially on a Thursday night, so I headed toward the Inner Harbor, knowing I’d encounter one there with all the clubs and tourists. Three blocks later I had to lean against a street sign and take off my heels. The sidewalk was cool against my feet, and kind of sticky. I tried not to think of all the disgusting stuff I was probably stepping in. Barf, urine, pizza grease, spilled beer—no, I wasn’t going to think of that, but the moment I got home I was scrubbing my feet with that anti-bacterial stuff.

  It was a long walk before I hailed down a ride, and the taxi from the Inner Harbor to my apartment was stupidly expensive. My feet were filthy. I was angry at Dario, and angrier at his Mistress. I was also worrying about my looming deadline.

  But first things first. After scrubbing my feet practically raw, I curled up on the sofa and opened my laptop. I typed in “Lincoln Robertson”, his date of death, and “Baltimore”.

  God bless those Google people. I was well aware that there were still things that would require my journeying into the dark recesses of a records room with miles of microfiche, but computers made preliminary research so easy. Even the Templar Librarians had begun cataloging electronically and scanning manuscripts. They’d never be available over the internet, but it was nice to know there were back-up records and a speedier way of searching than sitting at a table, paging through papyrus with gloved hands.

  The obit came up first. Funeral service details and place of eternal rest were given for the family. No “in lieu of flowers” request to hint at cause of death. The pre-deceased by list was short, and one name stuck out—a daughter, Shay Robertson. I made a note of the name. There hadn’t been a marker for Shay Robertson at the cemetery that I could remember. She could have been buried elsewhere, especially if she’d died as an infant. Still, it was worth checking.

  The survived-by list was much longer. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Lincoln’s mother had still been alive as well as his wife’s parents. They’d come from large families, both with multiple brothers and sisters with their spouses and children. I was going to need another piece of paper if this continued. Finally I paused at the last name. Russell Robertson, a son.

  I frowned. The whole family had died on the same day, minus a daughter that had died before them…and this Russell. The eldest child’s grave had been Lincoln Junior, so I assumed Russell was a younger child. Where had he been? What had happened that shielded him from whatever killed the rest of his family?

  I closed out the tab with the obituary and pulled up the next one. Parents and Three Children Found Murdered. I winced at the pictures of the family smiling at the camera in their Sunday finest, at
school photos of the children. They’d been found by the surviving child and his aunt, who had been bringing him home from a sleep-over. There was some conjecture that the murders were gang related.

  I didn’t know much about gangs, but I couldn’t see them just randomly killing a family of five. It seemed a bit excessive to be an initiation rite. Could Lincoln Junior have been involved in a gang, and this was revenge by a rival group? I made a quick note to check, even though juvenile crimes weren’t public record.

  Follow-up articles to the murder were scant on information. Police asked the public to come forward with any information. There was a suspect questioned, but released. That was it. No charges made. It seemed as if this remained an unsolved case. And the only way for me to dig further would be to get off my butt and check police records. Tomorrow. When it was daylight and normal people were up and working.

  Which left me staring at the books I’d been perusing prior to Dario’s arrival. This was the other end of the project, the one that got me paid and kept me from dying an early death. I fingered my personal grimoire. Why not? It was almost midnight on a Thursday, I was wide awake thanks to caffeine that even a few glasses of wine couldn’t negate. I might as well summon myself up a demon and put this project to rest.

  My cheap apartment had carpet, which is far from ideal when trying to delineate a magical space. It’s downright deadly when drawing a summoning circle meant to hold a demon. I couldn’t exactly do this out in the parking lot without drawing a crowd and possibly finding myself in the loony bin. That left my kitchen or bathroom vinyl, neither of which were large enough. Technically you could summon a demon into any size circle, but I didn’t want to risk trying it with one three feet in diameter.

  So much for my security deposit. I dug through the junk drawer and grabbed up a utility knife that I used to cut up boxes for recycling. Then I proceeded to remove my carpet. Thankfully it wasn’t the glue-down type, and it came loose easily from the tack strip around the edges. I rolled it against a wall and surveyed the multi-colored padding that lay underneath. It was… disgusting, although at least it didn’t smell of anything beyond dust and old carpet glue. I was going to pretend those stains were from some long ago party where lots of beer had hit the floor. Yeah.