Bloodlust (Frailty Book 2)

by Baker, Alex

  Fascinating had been how he had described it; fascinating and nonsensical. If only he knew the half of it, Laura had thought.

  Roofy had spoken about a demon, and they had been stalked by someone that seemed to be feeding on people’s blood. It went beyond nonsensical and straight to crazy; crazy enough that Laura omitted the information from her therapy sessions. Being committed and invited to a padded cell did not rank high on her list of life-goals.

  Still, Laura wandered, as she walked back into the den and stared at an empty spot on a buffet hutch, how questionable was it really? She, herself, had been collecting abstract objects for her own personal display and intrigue. The piece of furniture, normally intended to hold fine tableware and ornate glasses, contained an assortment of rare objects that most people outside of an archeologist or occult enthusiast would probably have never heard of and may have considered crazy to believe in.

  The menagerie of oddities included medical instruments that resembled something out of a medieval torture chamber, mystical stones and runes, rustic tools, religious artifacts, tribal materials, and supposed magical items.

  Every piece held a special pull on her, one that she could not identify the source for or explain. Many consisted of things she had discovered while investigating online or read about or heard about or seen on a Discovery Channel show. Some, like a small pendant retrieved from the Titanic that had supposedly been worn by a woman who vanished from a crowded ballroom before the luxury liner went down, had set her back quite a bit financially. Oh well, it’s not like I have a lot of other things to spend my savings on.

  It was a justification she used many times actually; although, not everything had cost money. Some trinkets were obtained from simply bartering and trading for things she, being in a developed country, had access too. Others came by way of an exchange of favors.

  At the heart of the collection, represented by a long, distracting blank spot in the middle of what should have been the main attraction, was the one item she had not been able to obtain. Years of following clues and lore and urban legends had produced nothing, where there should have been the Kladenets. The mythical, magical Russian sword had become a major obsession, and Laura was sure she had come within a hair’s breadth of retrieving it while in Las Vegas. She still did not believe the dealer at the pawn shop, who had stated he knew nothing about it.

  Laura leaned against the cabinet, engulfed by her thoughts. Yes, it was in the city of sin, well out of her grasp, just like Roofy. He might as well be folklore himself.

  A reflection in the glass backsplash set in the middle of the buffet came into focus. The woman staring back looked pale and plain. Amber, shoulder-length locks went without styling and stayed muzzled in a ponytail. Make-up had dwindled down in definition to use of lip balm, and doing an exercise routine meant walking up and down the stairs out of boredom. Clothing had gone from sharp, sexy, and statement making to unassuming and fair-to-low-key. Or drab, as she would have described them at any other point in her professional life. No spark, she accepted.

  Regaining her concentration, Laura noticed red flakes scattered near her hands on the wooden furniture. Damn, did it again. This time she walked away and left them.

  Vibrations from her loose-fit pajama pants saved Laura from the doldrums that threatened to consume her. Sad, she considered, that this is the culmination of joy in my life – nowhere close to the vibrating items that used to occupy a spot near her thighs. Yet, she fumbled to get the cell phone, she was so anxious. Once out and recovered from a too-close-to-call drop, she cupped it in her hand, refusing to look and clinging to the anticipation.

  Maybe it was Dwayne with some new evidence, maybe her therapist letting her know she was cleared to return to duty, or maybe it was Roofy. Perhaps he had found a way to contact her and needed her help.

  Or maybe he just needed her.

  The current pulsing was the fifth. One more and she would lose the call. Laura took a deep breath, clinched her lips, and looked at the screen.

  It was her father. The phone went back into her pocket and the weight of reality settled back in.

  Anger replaced complacency. Anger and pain so emotionally deep that no folder in her mind would hold it. The audacity it took for him…for them…to contact her after what had happened. Flashes of tortured memories swelled up, including the look on his face as he had sat and watched what her mother had done to her, while he did nothing. Nothing!

  Not unlike every Thanksgiving since she had left home, Laura’s parents had attempted to contact her. They always extended an invitation for her to come have holiday dinner with them. How could they expect her to accept? How could she ever sit across a table from either of them, much less eat, without vomiting? The idea was ludicrous.

  Proof that there was evil in the world. Scarier, Laura contemplated, was that her mother probably never saw anything wrong with what she had done. She compared the woman to Ambrose, the animal-like-man that had attacked her and Constance. At least he knew what he was and lived that openly. Which person could she say was worse?

  A giggle found its way out of Laura as the thought evolved of tying her mother to a chair, stuffing an apple in her mouth, and beating her with a cranberry slathered turkey leg. Waste of a good holiday bird.

  Her own holiday supper had contained far less fanfare. The appetizer consisted of some oyster crackers. The main course consisted of a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of tomato soup to dunk it in and more oyster crackers. No side dish of sympathy was required, though. Dwayne had invited her to join him and his family, noting that his mother’s cooking was as fine as a hot tub full of Hefner’s best. Laura had opted to go it alone.

  It was how she dealt with things. It was how she coped – how she kept the cork in the bottle – kept control. Of course, her therapist would diagnose that as pseudo-control and want her to open that bottle up, and they had certainly discussed it. Laura had to admit that it had even offered a little relief. She also did not believe the shrink, no matter how well educated, understood how deep that well went.

  The experience had long since surpassed being something that could be coped with or dissected. Engrained was a better word; altered, maybe. What had happened had mutated her person – her soul. Not unlike genetic engineering might change something’s DNA, Laura understood there was no coming back from what had happened. When carrying a scar like that with you for so long, it becomes all you know. It’s what she saw when she looked in the mirror.

  Sometimes she felt repulsed by even having to admit that being forcibly tortured had opened the door to a dark place that she actually enjoyed going to sexually. Would she have even discovered those urges if that grisly moment from her childhood past had never occurred?

  Maybe she was the crazy one. The therapist disagreed with that, saying that Laura needed to take time in working through something so deeply etched. Suppressing those facets of herself made Laura think of the many alcoholics or drug addicts that she had busted over the years and how they struggled with not falling off the wagon. Was it a sickness to even consider embracing such brutal desires?

  The cell phone vibrated again in her pocket. She considered answering it this time and thanking her mother for turning her on to some of the greatest orgasms she could ever have imagined. Oh my, that was way too dark, Laura thought, shocking even herself.

  She stopped short from hitting the power button and ignoring the call. It was Chief Epps. For what seemed like years, Laura struggled with choosing how she could answer and not sound like a complete idiot.

  As soon as she touched the call feature, Laura found her footing, though, waiting unassumingly and familiar. “Chief,” she said direct and solid.

  “Detective, I need you here at the station. And that’s an ‘asap’, young lady.” The voice was as soft but commanding as ever, and it invigorated every fiber in Laura.

  “Yes, sir.”

  3

  Footsteps on cobblestone roads. The smell of food, sweat, a
nd beer. The sounds of laughter, talking, and music intermingling in the air. Saturday night found the Shockoe Bottom area of Richmond alive with the heartbeat of the city’s youth, and it all assaulted Constance’s senses.

  It had been that way since she had woken up: colors were more vibrant, smells were intense, and sounds came at her from close and far and in incredible detail. She was slowly learning to control it, though.

  Stopping mid-stride on the sidewalk, forcing the crowd behind her to break like water to either side, Constance concentrated. She zeroed in on one group of males and used that to push everything else to the background. Despite their distance, her ears keenly picked up their conversation.

  They were trying to decide which club to continue their nightly quest at. College boys, she figured, by their look. Constance inhaled deeply through her nose. One of the young men had not showered today but should have. One was wearing a strong cologne. Probably to keep from smelling the other boy, she thought. The last had an almost savory sweet smell to him. Saliva began filling her mouth, and she caught herself making a sound of hunger.

  In the background noise of tangled voices, she zeroed in on someone talking about her. The male that made the comments was coming up behind where she stood. Right as his footsteps fell close to her back, Constance turned abruptly, stopping the young man in his tracks. She gave him a quick look up-and-down.

  Baggy brown pants. A button-up shirt that had seen too many washings. A week’s worth of stubble on his face. Hair that had been combed with fingers. The smell of cooking grease, cheese, pepperoni, dough, and nicotine. Thin. Not very nourishing.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he said somewhat off-kilter.

  Constance giggled. She had totally caught him by surprise with the spin-around, and judging by his reaction to her laugh, she had done so again.

  “Of course you did,” she said playfully dismissive and skipped off through the crowd.

  Her movements were quick, precise, and energetic, passing like a breeze between the groups of people lining the sidewalks. Dancing and skating amongst shadows and streetlights, the teen left nothing but an afterthought in her wake.

  Constance was driven.

  Not by how she felt physically, although it was an incredible sensation, especially for a person that was supposed to be dead.

  It had been this way since her awakening. Constance was not sure that was the best word for it, but it seemed like the appropriate description for what had happened.

  There had been darkness. Nothing existed until that first faint smell of dirt and wood. The scent became stronger and continued to intensify until consciousness returned to her. When she opened her eyes, the blackness should still have enveloped her. Instead, Constance could make out the most subtle hints of shading, enough to identify her cramped, linen lined space as a coffin.

  At first there was panic and fear, with recent memories flooding back in. She had been on the run with Roofy. They were in Vegas. The police had found them. She had been captured and tortured by Ambrose. As life was slowly leaving her, Roofy showed up, but there was something wrong with him. A demon had taken over. There was a fight. She watched Roofy die before succumbing to the darkness herself. Somehow, though, she had come back, after what felt like only being unconscious for a minute. A new and overwhelming sensation quickly blossomed up from inside of her, overriding all else. It drove her.

  Mixed with the new impulse was the need to be free of what was permeating the box and assaulting her senses, especially her nose. Nostrils burned from the acrid concoction that suddenly existed on a level that should have been impossible. Mixed with cotton soured by perspiration and other bodily excretions was the wilted fragrance of long dead flowers, traces of detergent from where her death outfit had been washed, and lingering remnants of the attendees of her funeral.

  Unable to cope with what was happening to her, Constance went wild. She had feverishly shredded the cloth lining before clawing and tearing and beating at the sealed box.

  Wood began to splinter under new found strength coursing through her. The smell of fresh earth coming through the hole she created only fueled her frenzy. In mere moments, Constance was digging upwards through the dirt, gasping for the fresh air that waited for her just a short distance away.

  And then she emerged, alive and pulling her soiled body out of the ground like a baby exiting the birth canal. Constance stood in the dim moonlight, reborn and…hungry.

  This was no simple stomach growl, she recalled. It rippled down to her core and through her veins. There was a starvation in her soul, and it called to her for nutrients. Without thinking, she had already sniffed out a few small animals nearby, and with speed she had never known, Constance managed to corner and subdue a raccoon.

  Subdue, she scoffed to herself. Went beast on it was more like it. Nothing about what she had done seemed right or human, and yet, Constance had been driven to the act, like instinct. The nocturnal creature had something she wanted and needed – the life force pumping through its body.

  Reactions came quicker than reason. With the raccoon’s neck snapped, she had torn through the flesh, gorged on mouthfuls of meat and tissue, and sucked out its blood until there was not a drop left.

  Constance had felt alive and satisfied, but the hunger did not totally go away, instead simmering just below the surface. It was a craving that she was now beginning to understand would sit in the darkest recesses of her being, maybe not always in control but definitely always needing to be acknowledged.

  Yes, she was driven; driven to hunt and feed.

  And as she nimbly skirted through the nightlife of Shockoe Bottom, Constance could not help but feel like an apex predator, akin to a wolf watching the sheep or herding cattle, just waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

  Raccoons. Rabbits. Small critter snacks were not going to cut it anymore. There was not enough substance in those little bodies. Constance needed something more substantial to satisfy her appetite. Besides, eating the vermin had left her feeling degraded, gagging at the thought of picking more rodent hairs from her teeth. What was she, some sort of animal, herself?

  Yes. What was she? It was a question that she had asked herself often since awakening.

  She was not some undead zombie that had crawled up out of the ground, covered in decomposing flesh. Quite the contrary, Constance thought her skin looked healthier and more radiant than ever. Yet, the physical changes were undeniable, and their familiarity to someone she knew had provided her with what she felt was the best explanation for her transformation. Well, that and the small puncture scars that defaced her otherwise unblemished, youthful looks.

  Ambrose. It had to be something he had done to her. She had been a firsthand witness to his attributes and prowess: his speed, his strength, and his desire for blood. More than that, what had become engrained in her memory were his cat-like eyes and the fanged teeth, which had been used to torture her and leave the markings on her arms. And, Constance thought, apparently much more. She just was not sure how. However, the first glance she had of herself in a reflective surface after her rebirth confirmed a couple of things: she needed a shower, quick, and her eyes and teeth had taken on the traits of her attacker.

  That was not even the most important thing. Right at the moment, what was foremost was the corset hanging in the window of the niche feminine clothing store Fiamour. A culmination of purple with black accents and sheer side material, Constance could not help but stop and stare. Now, that is what I should have been buried in.

  Instead, her mother had dressed her up like some porcelain doll. There was a frilly white dress, blue bows, and white dress shoes. Constance’s hair had been pulled into ponytails that were tied off with more blue bows. It was insulting and disgusting. She had not dressed that way since she was so young that her mother had to assist in clothing her.

  There was no doubt it was for her mother’s sake, Constance determined. Poor, heartbroken mom. “Oh, look how adorable she looks. This m
ust be so hard on you,” her mother’s friends would have said as they showered her with attention at the funeral and for days on end afterwards. Attention that her mother would have thrived on, no doubt. Probably wishes she had more children so she could knock them off and cash-in on some more of that sympathy, Constance reasoned.

  The teen had made it a priority, after escaping her tomb and feeding, to correct her attire, once she had cleaned herself. Although, she had come close to keeping the dress on at that point, as the animal blood splattered and dripped on it added a nice contrast to the pure white fabric in a feral way. Of course, things like blood tended to draw attention.

  No, she had opted for an outfit that was more…her. There was the antique white corset top, not unlike the one Constance stared at in the display window. Hers had spaghetti straps, while the other was strapless, and did not have the same appeal or reveal as the fabric of the purple and black model. She had made it work, though, accessorizing it with a short, ruffled black skirt, over-the-knee white socks, and ankle-high black boots with two inch heels. The ensemble was finished off with a lightweight, three-quarter black jacket, even though it was added more for looks than usefulness.

  Just the opposite, as despite the cooling November temperatures, Constance felt very comfortable in what amounted to minimal coverage. It was something she had found very pleasing, thinking that beauty was not meant to be covered up – it was something to be shared, enjoyed, and, of course, admired.

  She was reminded of the look on Roofy’s face when she had, on a number of occasions, laid herself bare to him. The big Russian tried to cover or avert his eyes and act as if he was unaffected, but she knew he found her attractive. She knew he wanted her, and Constance was sure he would have given in to his desires if not for the interference of one person, Laura.

  The detective had inserted herself between them, had interrupted their dreams, and had shown that she just wanted him for herself. She was selfish and interfering, just like Constance’s mother.