Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  He let Duvall in and made brief introductions. “Duvall, my wife, Mrs. Kilpatrick. Candy, my partner Duvall.”

  She beamed. “Detective Duvall, I’m so happy to meet you.”

  Duvall, decked out in a full-length gray leather coat, bowed from the waist. “It’s my honor to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kilpatrick.”

  “Oh, call me Candace, please.”

  “Vall.”

  Candy glanced at him, as if to say, “See, he has a first name after all.”

  “Let me take your coat. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Duvall took off his coat, revealing an expensive-looking black suit and gray shirt. Kil felt decidedly underdressed in his pullover and slacks. Candy hung up the coat, and they sat in the living room, he and Candy on the sofa and Duvall in the matching armchair.

  “First I’d like to thank you for saving John’s life when that vampire was going to shoot him.”

  Duvall shrugged. “Any cop would have done the same thing.”

  “Still, I’m very grateful for your quick action. And I hope you’re recovered from the shooting and accident the other night.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I heard about your chase last night. I hope you weren’t injured again.”

  Duvall smiled. “No, but my trench coat has a couple of holes in it. That’s three coats the Department owes me for in the past two weeks.”

  She looked like a girl on a first date, fidgeting with her hands and adjusting her skirt needlessly, and it irritated Kil. He put his arm around her.

  “I hope you’ll forgive all my questions. John’s told me so little about you, and I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

  “I don’t mind questions. Ask me anything you like.”

  She blushed. “It’s just that it seems so strange to ask someone how old they are and how they became a vampire. I know they’re personal questions, but . . .”

  “They are, but I understand your curiosity, and I guess I’d rather have someone take the time to know me as opposed to hating me unconditionally.”

  Kil tightened his grasp on Candy’s shoulder. Duvall was talking about him, but the dig seemed to have gone right over her head, so engrossed was she in hearing what he would say next. She leaned forward on the sofa, pulling away from the shelter of his arm.

  “Please go on,” she begged, and he could feel his teeth grinding against each other.

  “I was born in 1730 and died and was reborn during the French and Indian War.”

  That was news to him, and he raised his brows.

  Duvall looked at him and raised a brow of his own. “Never heard of it? It was the most important war of the eighteenth century. The British and the French fought for control of North America, but it was a war that affected all of Europe.”

  Of course he’d heard of it. He wasn’t stupid, just surprised.

  “In case you don’t remember your grade-school history, that was the war we were on your side.”

  Stuck-up squid. Kil knew his American History. At least he thought he did. He tried to recall what he knew, but the long-dead facts, so irrelevant in the wake of current events, were buried too deep to dredge up. But he knew who’d won the war. “I thought the French lost that war,” he said.

  Duvall smiled, but for Candy’s sake, Kil was glad the squid had the manners not to show his fangs. “They did. I’m not French. I was born in England, about a hundred fifty miles from London, on the southern end of Somerset. I hear it’s a lovely historic little town nowadays, though I haven’t been back there since I left. My father moved us to London when I was ten, and I left London to join the army.”

  “You died in the war?” parroted Candy, obviously more fascinated by his death than some village in England. “I don’t understand how . . .” She hesitated, and her hands fluttered above her lap, not making any more sense than her words.

  “How ‘it’ happened?”

  Candy nodded. The squid seemed to understand Candy-ese. Not everyone did.

  “Throughout the ages, the undead have congregated at battlefields the way you mortals flock to your fast-food restaurants. War makes feeding unbelievably easy, and if a soldier comes up missing, he’s simply listed as MIA.”

  Candy’s mouth hung open at the gruesome image, and Kil cleared his throat, but Duvall went on, apparently not getting the hint that he was making Candy uncomfortable.

  “Following the siege of Fort William Henry, the English were paroled—set free under conditions not to fight the French again. But the woods were full of those who would feast on the spoils of war, and of these, the Indians were but a minority.”

  “Fascinating, I’m sure, but I don’t think my wife wants to hear the details.”

  Candy gave him a sidelong glance and a frown. “No, John, let him go on. I’ve never heard about any of this.” She gave her attention to Duvall again and edged forward in her seat, adjusting her skirt. “How horrifying for you. What happened next?”

  “You haven’t heard this, Mrs. Kilpatrick, because vampire history wasn’t taught when you were in school. Even today, the popularity of our subculture is more about image and fantasy than truth. But to answer your question, it was very different in those days from the way it is today. Vampires cared for those they brought over, and all colonies, no matter how small, were presided over by a master. I was lucky. I was taught how to survive in both the land of the living and the world of the undead. I learned control, patience, and caution. But during the last century things changed. The young were largely abandoned by their masters and left to fend for themselves. They didn’t learn. It’s why we had Hell, Candace—what you call ‘Midnight Storm.’ The war didn’t start because of the Brothers of the Sun. There’ve been vampire hunters as long as there’ve been vampires. It’s just that up until now, we’ve always been smarter.”

  “And do you think another war is coming, Detective Duvall?” she asked.

  “Someone wants war, and very badly. I’m not sure yet who it is, but when I find out, I guarantee you, Candace, that they will be stopped.”

  She smiled and turned to him. “I think John feels the same way, don’t you, John?”

  He hated to agree with the squid, but Candy was right. He didn’t want war. “Sure,” he said. “They’re getting bolder, which means we’re going to catch them. And stop them.” He stood up. “Say Good night, Candy. I’m sure Duvall has more plans for his night off.”

  She rose, and somehow she looked taller than her five-foot-five frame. “I’d like a private moment with Detective Duvall before he leaves.”

  “What for?” No way was he leaving his wife alone with a vampire.

  “So I can thank him personally, John.”

  “I’m sure he already feels the love. Let’s not keep him.”

  “John, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be perfectly fine. After all, he’s your partner.”

  He let out a long breath. He couldn’t very well protest any more without creating a scene. “All right. I’ll be in the kitchen. Say your thanks and good-bye.” He stared at Duvall, and if the squid could read his mind the way vampires claimed to be able to, he hoped he’d read, “Touch her and you die.”

  VALL STOOD, ENDURING Kilpatrick’s frosty farewell, and waited while he stalked off to the kitchen and Candy retrieved his coat. She walked him to the door.

  “I love my husband, but I swear there are times he thinks I’m nothing but a dumb blonde. I’m not. I know about the battle you died in. I saw The Last of the Mohicans. That was a great love story. Did you blame the Indians for what happened?”

  Vall smiled. Leave it to a woman to think of everything, no matter how horrible, in terms of love. Still, he was impressed. Not many people knew anything about important conflicts like the Civil War and the American Revolution, not to ment
ion what most people considered an obscure little war. “That story was largely fiction. And no, I blamed the French more than the Indians for what happened.” Maybe he still did. He’d been close, after all, to Cade for decades, while he could hardly stand the sight of Frenchies like Jean Crevant. “The Indians came long distances solely for British scalps and trophies promised by the French. When the French set us free and promised safe passage, they rather effectively changed their deal with the Indians. The Indians felt rightly betrayed and simply went ahead and took what they came for.”

  “Well, thank you for sharing the information, and thank you again for saving John’s life. Please don’t judge him too harshly. Don’t tell him I told you this, but he lost an uncle in Midnight Storm and a lot of his father’s friends. He hates vampires, and I know he doesn’t bother to hide it, but I truly believe he wants to solve the murders and put a stop to them.”

  “Candace . . .”

  “Oh, call me Candy, please,” she whispered. “Nobody’s ever called me Candace except my school teachers and my mother when she was mad at me.”

  He smiled. “I can deal with your husband. His feelings are biased, but at least they’re honest and up-front. Harder to abide are those who would deceive.”

  “Thank you again, and good night.”

  “It’s been my pleasure, and know that I’ll do my best to keep your husband safe, if only for your sake.” He winked at her. “Good night, Candy.”

  MEETING MISS CANDY had indeed been a delight. Though on the brink of middle age and carrying the extra pounds that no doubt living with an eating machine like Kilpatrick made inevitable, he’d found her attractive, charming, and certainly no dumb blonde. The meatball, on the other hand, had been annoyingly protective, as if he felt that Duvall, solely by gazing at his wife, could somehow suck the life out of her.

  Vall arrived home to find a large envelope wedged between his wooden front door and wrought iron security door, and the light on his phone signaled that a voice message waited for him as well. He played back the phone message first.

  “Duvall, this is Mavra. I know you’re not scheduled to work the next two nights, but I also know you were anxious for the information you asked me to look up, so I took the liberty of dropping off the findings on my to work tonight. I left everything in a yellow envelope inside your door. Let me know if you didn’t get it. Tracing the ownership of the bottling plant on the label was tricky. It’s a subsidiary of a corporation called Pilot Light Enterprises, which has several members. The full list of members is in the envelope. Um, maybe you already know this, but one of the members is Lawrence Main.” Something in the tone of her voice changed, and her words became more hesitant.

  “Um, Duvall, there’s something I think you should know. There’s a black rumor going around the office that you’re involved with Lawrence Main’s daughter. I don’t know if it’s true, and it’s none of my business if it is.” There was a long pause. “I know you know what you’re doing, but please be careful. I’ve heard some bad things about Lawrence Main. You didn’t ask me to, but I looked up some information on him. It’s all in the envelope. Please forgive me if I’ve overstepped, but, like I said, the rumors have been flying the past couple nights. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

  The message ended, and Vall frowned, unsure what bothered him more, that he was the subject of a black rumor—gossip that flowed through the undead community only—or that Veronica’s father owned the plant that had bottled poisoned Magma. He ripped the top of the envelope off and pulled out its contents. There was an information page on the Nouvelle Aube Bottling Company and on Pilot Light Enterprises, including a list of the member owners. Lawrence Main was the only name he recognized.

  The rest of the pages were printouts of articles on Lawrence Main from his early days of helping to negotiate the peace as a member of the Department of Homeland Security, his days on the Governor’s Vampire Task Force, and his term as U.S. Senator from Wisconsin. Vall thumbed through the pages one at a time. He was familiar with much of the information. Lawrence Main had been present during the rounds of peace negotiations and during the signing of the treaty that formally ended Midnight Storm. He’d pushed for the Night Person Registration Act and for the manufacture, testing, and widespread distribution of synthetic blood. But he’d also opposed vampire equality, strongly opposing the right of vampires to vote, to hold government jobs, and to carry or possess firearms.

  His views had lost out in regards to government jobs, but many citizen rights—including the right to bear arms and to vote—were to this day denied the undead due to Main’s influence. Vall threw the stack of pages onto the phone table. Bloody fucking hell! He’d been played for a fool, and he didn’t like it.

  He grabbed his memo book and pulled out the DOT listing that showed Veronica’s address. Mequon. He scooped up the pages he’d just flung down, stuffed them back into the envelope, and left the house, yanking the door closed in a Kilpatrick-slam. Once inside his car, he turned on his address locator and typed in Veronica’s address. The visual popped up on the small screen, and he pointed the Lincoln north.

  How could I have been so bloody stupid? Thinking that a girl like Veronica would really go slumming for a vampire in Piggsville . . . believing that a girl whose father was on the bloody vampire task force had no prior experience with vampires . . . accepting that it was just a coincidence that her father was former Senator Main, of all people . . .

  He knew better. He knew there was no such thing as coincidence. His years as a cop had taught him that, if three hundred years on earth hadn’t. But he’d been so drunk on her blood and body that he’d answered all her questions without a second thought, flattering himself with the idea that a beautiful woman had chosen a working stiff like him for her initiation into the pleasures of the undead.

  Was she a spy for her father? A way for him to gain an inside track on the police investigation?

  By the time he exited the expressway twenty minutes later, his temper had cooled, but not his resolve. He pulled into her subdivision, and even in the dark, days after the leaves had fallen and summer flowers had died, he could tell that the yards were groomed like beautiful women—tidied, trimmed and manicured. A few were even decked out already in holiday decorations.

  He thought about Leeann Roberts and the mortals like her who lived in the old and battered houses in the city. They didn’t worry about perfect lawns or pruned shrubs, but simply survival. It wasn’t that he had a disdain of either beauty or money. He himself had enough accumulated assets that his job was a desire more than a necessity, but there was a difference between having wealth and using it as a weapon.

  He found her address and parked in front of her condo. Well, wealth could be a weapon against the undead, but it wasn’t much of a defense. No amount of money could buy protection from a vampire bent on revenge.

  Light glowed from behind drawn blinds, and a porch lamp beamed in welcome. He rang the bell, listened to it chime inside, and felt the answering vibration of her energy through the door—her warmth, eagerness, and light footsteps.

  She opened the door, all smile and surprise. “Vall! I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is everything okay? I saw the news today . . .” Her face fell, and she stepped back. “What happened?”

  He could hear her heartbeat race in reaction to his presence, and her blood, already a part of him, stirred his. His desire flared, and even as he yearned for the truth, his hunger for her sharpened his senses and elevated every cell in his body to a level of anticipation that was both painful and pleasurable.

  He followed her inside, closed the door, and handed her the envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Look inside.”

  She was wearing nothing but a pale green tank top and gray drawstring pants that rode low on her hips, revealing a teasing band of bare skin
between the two pieces of clothing. She padded into the living room on bare feet, but her gaze was on him, not the envelope, as if she’d rather hear his voice than learn whatever news he carried from an impersonal sheet of paper. It was the connection they’d already established that made her eyes stay on him, and he despaired of breaking such a sweet bond, but this was business.

  She remained standing, and when he said nothing more, she slid the pages out and dropped the envelope to the coffee table beside her. She sifted through the pages, letting them go one at a time as she finished with them. Some landed on the table, and some wafted to the floor. She didn’t seem to care, and her face showed little change.

  Apparently nothing in the articles was news to her. When she was done she raised her gaze to his and tucked the long hair at the sides of her face behind her ears. “You knew about my father.”

  He took a step closer to her, inhaling her scent. She wasn’t afraid, not yet. “I didn’t know he owned a company that bottles synthetic blood.”

  “He spearheaded the development of the bottled blood years ago. You knew that, too. What’s this all about?”

  He took another step closer, and she retreated, her first sign of apprehension.

  “Why did you come looking for me, Veronica?”

  “I told you why. You’re scaring me, Vall.”

  It was true. Her eyes were wide and luminous, and he could feel the jump in her heartbeat even from a foot away. “You and I meet at the same time I start investigating vampires who are dying as a result of drinking blood bottled at your father’s plant. You don’t see anything just a little strange in that?”

  She blinked her eyes, and if her confusion was an act, she was good at it. “What? You’re saying my father’s product killed those vampires?”

  “Silver nitrate was found in the bottles.”

  She shook her head. “That’s impossible. There are quality control procedures, inspections . . .”