Bloodlust (Frailty Book 2)

by Baker, Alex

  “Connection,” Constance spat, “Yeah. She rubbed her twat all over Roofy while, oh by the way, I got kidnapped. Then she let us both get killed.”

  The media was not dissuaded. They tore into the decision like jackals smelling blood, even going as far as insinuating that Laura knew the whereabouts of Roofy Reiner or that she may have assisted him with covering up his disappearance from the Las Vegas Police Department.

  Words escaped Constance, as did the air in her lungs. Had she just heard that right? Roofy was alive?

  Cecile struggled weakly against the hand that gripped her face, making muffled grunts and garbling words.

  “Shhhhhhh,” Constance said without taking her eyes off the report. Her heart was racing. He was out there, and the craving to find him blossomed up and overwhelmed all other feelings, consuming her.

  “No,” she said, “I won’t have to go find him. He’ll come here. We’ll all be here together again: Ambrose, the man-stealing detective, Roofy, and me.”

  Muscles tensed momentarily in anticipation before giving way to a long, slow exhale and a lick of the lips, with her tongue dragging over dagger-like teeth. “Yum.”

  Turning quickly, she removed her hand from Cecile’s mouth and shook the young woman. “Things are about to get interesting. You don’t want to miss it.” Silence answered her. Leaning in close and looking at the stoic face, Constance instantly recognized the signs of someone wearing a death mask. Holding the young woman’s hand up and flipping it around, as if it had acted on its own accord, she shrugged her shoulders innocently.

  “Oops.”

  15

  “Klyuchi. Klyuchi,” Roofy said, dumping out a bowl of knick-knacks onto the well-worn, small, wooden table. Burly hands sifted frantically through odds-and-ends but came away empty handed. “Keys!”

  “Even if you find the keys, where are you going to go, Loser?” Apocalypse mocked, continuing a tirade that had been almost endless since the big Russian had taken back control of the body.

  Looking around again for other possible spots to put stuff in, Roofy opened a small drawer mounted in one of the kitchen cabinets and began rummaging through it. Various measuring accessories and other cooking utensils fell out and onto the floor with a clatter.

  “Look at the mess you’re making,” the demon persisted. “It’s almost as big as the mess you’ve made of your life. But then again, what’s a few ladles when there are dead bodies lying around everywhere.”

  Roofy pulled out a large cork screw, which he had seen Father Phillipe use many times when opening wine bottles, and examined it closely. Smiling teasingly, he tapped the tip of it against his temple.

  “Don’t get any thoughts,” Apocalypse stated dryly.

  Tossing it aside with a slight chuckle, he continued searching the room. They have to be here. Searches of the few rooms that made up the living quarters had proven fruitless. This was the last place to look through, and it made sense, as the kitchen held the entrance the preacher normally used.

  Frustrated, he stopped and lit a cigarette, walking over to the screen door before exhaling the smoke.

  “Why bother? The bible thumper is dead. I don’t think he’s going to care if the house smells like nicotine,” Apocalypse continued. “He’s actually going to be the thing that smells bad soon.” The latter comment was followed by a long, deep, maniacal cackle, as the demon had managed to amuse itself.

  Tuning out the grating voice, Roofy stared out the window at the sedan that sat in the graveled parking area. The transportation for getting far away from the church sat less than twenty feet away, and yet, it did him absolutely no good what-so-ever. Still, his darker side had a point, even if he found the keys, where would he go?

  A news story broke in on the small television that sat on a metal baker’s rack. It was the only such device in the church and provided just a handful of poorly received local channels, which Roofy paid little heed to. However, the mention of the urgent update coming out of Richmond, Virginia and the fact that it was in connection to recent crimes resembling the murders that had surrounded him caught his attention. He quickly crossed the room and turned up the volume, concentrating on hearing the details through the white noise.

  The anchorman covered the high points of the previous night’s news conference: the deaths of multiple women dressed in Amazing Woman costumes, the blood-lettings, and possibilities of a connection to previous murders in the area.

  This was immediately tied in to recent events in Las Vegas, with details on blood-drained homicides, that some had described as being part of occult rituals, and a picture of Roofy being shown for reference. Stamped on the screen across his graphic was the word ‘Fugitive’.

  Just the thought of being wanted for what had happened angered the ex-wrestler. Hunting down Ambrose and killing him would not be enough, he also would have to find a way to clear his name or leave the country. Going back to Russia was always a possibility…

  He paused mid-thought, shifting back to Ambrose. Surely, if murders like these were going on in Richmond, the man that was after him would have committed them. But what would have driven him to travel back to Virginia so quickly, Roofy wondered? And if he was gone from Nevada, who was feeding on the people there and who had sent the two animals dressed like police officers to get him?

  The TV squawked out that Roofy was still a person of interest and wanted in Connection with the string of homicides in both cities, leaving him with the feeling that everyone was after him and few places would be safe.

  Addressing further links between the occurrences in Richmond and those in Las Vegas, footage of the press conference switched to Detective Laura Stenks. He had noticed the woman standing in the background before but had failed to recognize her because of her unusual appearance. Now that she was front and center, regardless of the plain look, his pulse raced. It had not been that long ago that she had tracked him and Constance across the country.

  Instead of arresting him, though, the two had ended up playing a game of cat and mouse that culminated in a night of intense physical passion. The spark had been instant, and the big Russian could not recall having met anyone like her. Whatever it was that drove her sexual desires had lit a flame inside of him, exciting him and making him feel alive.

  It was more than that, though. She had believed in him and had given him a chance, to the point of almost getting killed in the process. After spending years with someone that belittled and mistreated him, having a woman that fought for him had made a lasting impression.

  Thinking about her, a number of descriptive words came to mind: grit, determination, strength, beauty, and sexually…well, a word failed to materialize that accurately captured the woman’s unique appetite.

  “Stop thinking with your dick and pay attention,” Apocalypse spat, his coarse voice totally deflating the line of thought Roofy was enjoying. “They’re talking about something important, Oaf.”

  The Russian’s concentration turned back to the ongoing news story just in time to catch a portion about Constance Kysta and the grave that had been apparently been violated. The anchor added that there was no word as to what had happened to the body, as police continue to investigate any relation to the current case and would not answer the growing speculation that the burial plot had been a cover-up the entire time.

  Standing dumfounded, the demon’s response to what they had just heard echoed in Roofy’s head, leaving a feeling of disbelief: “The girl’s alive.”

  “This is not possible,” he said out loud. “I watched her dying.”

  “No,” Apocalypse jabbed back, “she was bitten. He turned her.”

  “What is this turning you are talking about?” Roofy asked, even more confused. No answer came, just a laugh, an evil, mocking laugh.

  Irritated, the big Russian dismissed any help from the maniac sharing his body, assuming any words the demon uttered were meant solely to mess with or insult him. Besides, it did not matter. If there was even a remote chance of t
he girl being alive and Ambrose being in Richmond, then she was still in danger. And she was not the only one – Laura would be as well.

  He had to protect them, and the blood-drinking beast needed to be stopped, once and for all.

  Grabbing his small travel bag from the table and heading for the door, the elusive set of keys caught his eye. They had been hanging on a small hook on the coat rack the entire time.

  “Der’mo,” Roofy cursed in his native tongue, taking the keys and pocketing what money he had found stashed in the preacher’s belongings before he made his way to the car.

  16

  Thick smoke, the overwhelming smell of sweat, hormones, and beer, loud laughter and pointless conversations drowned out by even louder music, the clanking of glasses against metal and wood, and flashes of light in an otherwise dim atmosphere all converged to create an almost indiscernible assault on the senses brought on by a nightclub crowded to standing room only.

  To any normal person, experiencing just a small sampling of everything going on in Suicide Jacques would be an all-night endeavor.

  Not for Ambrose. Not for his senses.

  The unique scent for everyone in attendance, much like a fingerprint, had already been identified and labeled by super keen olfactory receptors.

  Movements were tracked and dissected at a speed of sight with a reaction so acute that time appeared to slow.

  All of this effortlessly from the lone figure sitting in a dark corner booth. Nothing went unnoticed. Nothing escaped him.

  The stares of boisterous men bragging about their bravado were averted upon making eye contact with his piercing gaze, penetrating the dimly lit room like the pupils of a night predator.

  As groups of women walked by, they all looked and admired, turning away only to whisper and giggle amongst themselves. Such was his influence when exerted.

  The waitress hurried past waiting patrons in order to ensure his drink remained topped off, all courtesy of the house, of course. Taking a sip of the fresh beverage, Ambrose slowly swirled his glass as he amused himself. There was little else to do. He had arrived too late at the church. The demon had already fled, but not before it had dispatched his two pack hunters. All he could do now was plot his next move.

  Jeopardy played on one of the many flat screens hanging around the bar. Despite being drowned out by the high decibels filling the club, Ambrose concentrated and was able to hear the show just in time to catch the host condescendingly correcting a player who gave a wrong answer.

  For a brief moment, the night-stalker considered taking out Trebek. Not enough of a challenge. Besides, there were other matters that needed to be dealt with.

  Two young ladies approached his table with playful cautiousness. After debating back and forth over who would initiate the conversation, one finally stepped forward and asked if they could join Ambrose.

  “Ladies, leave me be,” he responded, shooing them away nonchalantly with a motion of his hand.

  Reconsidering his decision, though, as the two began to walk away dejected, Ambrose called them back to the table.

  Both of the females reacted ecstatically at his acceptance of their offer and joined him in the semicircular booth, one on either side.

  “Well, I am beginning to feel hungry, and I do so hate to dine alone,” Ambrose said wryly.

  Squeezing in as if they could not get close enough to his body, his new guests chatted and giggled in animated fashion as he drank in their scents. Occasionally they would ask him questions or try to involve him in the verbal exchange, only to receive one or two word responses, if he bothered to answer at all.

  The lack of interaction did not dissuade the infatuation two women had or diminish the attention they showered on him.

  While they babbled, Ambrose entertained himself with how he would feed on them, envisioning various scenarios. In the first, he would bind one and make them watch while he tortured and fed on the other. In another, he would dominate them both before forcing one to join in on the feeding of the other.

  His fantasies were cut short by a breaking news story from Richmond, Virginia that came up on the TV. Focusing enough to push all of the ambient noise to the background, Ambrose zeroed in on the report.

  Recapping the police conference, the anchor kicked off with details on the Amazing Woman murders, which peaked Ambrose’s curiosity.

  “Copycat,” he commented, more to himself than anyone else.

  That did not prevent his two booth-mates from responding to it as if they had been hanging on his every breath until he had decided to speak.

  Shushing them, he kept his attention glued to the television, where the update had already moved on to the blood feeding related homicides.

  “Sloppy,” Ambrose said, once again drawing immediate commentary from the two women vying for his attention. A new scenario was forming in his head, one where he broke both their necks right where they sat.

  A video replay of Chief Epps discussing the disturbance of Constance’s grave came up. Well, that explains the trail of bitten and drained corpses. Ambrose’s prey had survived the transformation. Not having had the time to finish killing her and the Detective, who now was featured in the media piece, due to Roofy’s interference, Ambrose had assumed that the teen was too far gone – too damaged – to recuperate. He had underestimated how strong she was.

  But that line of thinking disappeared quickly and was replaced, as his thoughts shifted back to the Russian. It was not the man that had thwarted him, he recalled, it was the demon. The very thing he had hunted for so long and had planned so carefully to kill off. Not careful enough, he decided.

  As if being called up on cue, the scene cut to an interview with Captain Almas of the Las Vegas Police Department, who asked for any tips on the whereabouts of the fugitive Roofy Reiner, who was still being sought in connection with the murders and missing persons reported in that city. Citizens were advised to be on the look-out, as the ex-wrestler was to be considered dangerous.

  So, the police have no idea where he is located either. I do now.

  The demon had managed to escape his clutches once again, but Ambrose felt new assurance as to where the Russian, who was bound to have heard the same media coverage from Richmond that he had, would run to.

  “Perfect,” he growled, to which one of the young ladies replied, “Yes, you are.” The comment went unacknowledged, as Ambrose picked-up his fedora and began shoving his way out of the booth.

  Grabbing the table to keep from falling to the floor, the young woman asked dejectedly where he was going. Ambrose paused for just a moment, turning to speak as he placed the hat on his head. “Ladies, you do not know how lucky you are.”

  Laughing at the moans of disapproval as he walked away, Ambrose turned his thoughts back to his destination. All the eggs would be in one basket, and he had big plans for them.

  Still, he would need to proceed with caution, as the demon had already proven to be far enough along in its development to overpower easily. Resources thinning rapidly due to the loss of the two pack hunters he had sent to eliminate the target, Ambrose strategized that he could ill afford to pull any more of his waning numbers away from the Nevada location.

  He would need to try to destroy the creature while in human form, although drawing Roofy out and into another trap would prove difficult. Surely the Russian would expect him to try again.

  Unless, Ambrose thought, he had help; someone the ex-wrestler would not suspect.

  Fortunately, Ambrose knew just the person.

  PART THREE – BODIES AND BITE MARKS

  17

  The sound of footsteps falling on the recently polished eggshell colored tile did little to disturb any of the occupants in the room. Funny. Laura reflected on the fact that so much effort would be made to clean a floor for a room where the majority of the visitors were dead, and the place was certainly littered with more occupied gurneys than normal, with a number of those bodies belonging to the case she was working on. Too bad the
y can’t tell me the details I need, but there is one person who might be able to.

  Hunched over an examination table, back to her, on the far side of the room was just the man she was looking for. Laura could faintly make out what he was saying as he gave his findings about the autopsy he was performing out loud to a recorder sitting nearby.

  Aside from Micky’s voice, it was quiet. Typical for this time of day. Most of the forensic pathology staff cut out at around five o’clock. Not the older Irish man, though; he would work well into the evening on normal occasions, which was just fine with Laura. She enjoyed the peace and quiet of being in that particular section of the Police Department, despite what inhabited it.

  “Hear we have another bite victim and another Amazing Woman,” Laura said as she approached the aging chief coroner. “You’re going to have to increase your rates or this hotel is going to get over-filled.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Micky answered, not turning away from his work, “people are just dying to get in here.”

  Laura gave a chuckle at the well-worn joke. Although there was little humor to still be squeezed out of it, the all-too-familiar sound of the watered-down Irish accent gave her a comfortable feeling, one of almost being at home even in that particular wing of the facility.

  Reaching over, the coroner turned off the recorder before pulling the white sheet back up over the body. “I heard you were back, Lass,” Micky continued, “and very glad that you are. I was beginning to wonder when you would come see me.”

  “Well,” Laura replied, “you know how it is, a few people have to check out before I can come down here and check in.” More than a few lately; too many. But, the recent two struck her as odd, even in a case that already had enough weirdness and unanswered questions surrounding it. The issue for Laura: time span.

  Initial victims in both parts of the case had come in quick spurts, and it appeared there would be no let-up. Now, just over five days had passed without a report. She would have attributed it to the weather, as homicides tended to drop in parallel to the temperatures, but an Indian summer had set-in, bringing unseasonably warm, mild air.