Blood and Bullets Read online

  Kat, God bless her soul, snickered, and I tried, I swear I tried, to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Really? What creature of the night gave you that name?”

  For a moment he thought about getting angry, I could see it in his eyes. Then his shoulders slumped and he deflated like all the air had been taken from his balloon. I’m not sure if it was my sarcasm or Kat’s snicker.

  “My true name is Larson.”

  “That’s better.” Yep, I liked Larson a lot better than Nyteblade. It was easier to say and fit him a lot better. He looked like a Larson. More like a librarian or a computer programmer, less like a super-mega-awesome vampire hunter. “So tell me what you know about the vamp attack tonight.”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t even know who you are.” Now his chin did raise up and point at me.

  I smiled and tried to make it friendly, really I did. I can’t help it that on me a smile usually looks like the grin of a pit bull. “You already know my name is Deacon Chalk. This here is Kat. The guy in the priest robes with the big-ass gun who will be back here in a moment is Father Mulcahy.” I needed to get a point across to Larson and I wanted to get it across fast.

  My foot hooked a chair and kicked it around so that I could sit backward in it but still face Larson. The Desert Eagle slid out of its holster under my arm and into my hand. I didn’t point it at him, just held it casually. A naked gun makes a nice subtle threat on its own. I knew it would be especially effective after he had seen the fighting with the vampires earlier.

  “Now you know who we are.” The Desert Eagle waved around, the ruby dot of the laser indicating me and Kat. “And while I appreciate that you think you don’t have to tell us what you know, I will have to respectfully disagree.” The Desert Eagle tapped the face of my watch. “Time is of the essence, so tell me why those vamps set me up using you.” The Desert Eagle draped in my hand off the back of my chair, pointing in the general direction of his crotch, red dot dancing on black denim like an exclamation mark.

  The safety was on, I promise.

  Larson’s eyes were really, really big and really, really focused on my gun. Snapping the fingers on my left hand to get his attention made him jump. His eyes flickered to meet mine. “I don’t know why I was attacked. I assume I must have made an enemy in the vampire realm.”

  “So you killed some vampire and this was retaliation against you?” His ears burned bright red and he sheepishly turned his head away, refusing to look at me anymore. “You’ve never killed a vampire, have you?” I knew the answer before he shook his head. It was the only answer that made any sense at all. The gear he had was the most ineffective way to take out a vampire. You use wooden stakes when they are in their coffins and you are trying to be quiet. Any other time you blow them apart using the proper ammunition. “So, what? You have been snooping around vampires and getting in their way?”

  He shook his head again. “I have asked around and done field research but have not taken action as of yet.”

  Well, that explained how they knew about him, his damned research. He probably had been poking around at some of the clubs owned by vampires and the Goth clubs that catered to wannabes, asking a million questions and acting like a vampire slayer. So that brought it back to me. Nyteblade, sorry, Larson was zero threat to the vampires.

  He was weak, inexperienced, and from the look of his gear, didn’t know his half-ass from a hole in the ground. So this whole thing had been a hit on me. I was set up, put in the crosshairs by some vampires where I would be outnumbered and distracted trying to keep this bumbling idiot alive. This was not good news. I hate it when I haven’t done anything and people still try to kill me. It really pisses me off. I mean sure, I have dusted my share of bloodsuckers in my time, but I hadn’t targeted any in quite a while.

  That would change as soon as I figured out who was behind this.

  For the time being, I put the gun away and turned in Kat’s direction. “Okay, let’s think and tell me if you know of anything I have done recently that may have pissed off a local vampire with the pull to have fifty disposable bloodsuckers to throw at me.”

  Her blond ponytail waggled back and forth as she shook her head. “I can’t think of a vampire with the power to command fifty other vampires to do anything, much less have them to spare.”

  She was right. Vampires organize and work together in bloodlines and clans to run a lot of underground crime and other shenanigans. However, the basis for all of that is a kiss of vampires, which is a small group of three to ten. A kiss is usually centered around one sire and a few that he turned into vampires.

  Sires have some mental control over their fledglings, especially when they are freshly turned, but even the most powerful vampire will usually be able to hold only a few before they start to lose control. Individual vampires have minds of their own and are unpredictable. Plus, vampires have varying levels of intellect. The larger the group, the more likely it will fracture. For someone to send out fifty other vampires, we were talking big-time power.

  Either that or all the vamps that attacked were pissed off at me personally. That couldn’t be it. If that were the case they wouldn’t have worked together without one vampire calling the shots.

  Kat’s feet hit the floor and she stood up. Shapely arms lifted her hands over her head in a stretch. Her black T-shirt rode up, exposing a pale curve of hip over the waistband of her jeans. I caught Larson watching her and he quickly looked away. Like I said, Kat isn’t a dancer because of her nature, not because of her qualifications.

  Done with her stretch, she pulled her shirt down and started for the door. “I’ll go look into it.”

  Kat headed out of the room as Father Mulcahy came in. He sat on the corner of the table. Laying the Sweeper down, he shook a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his shirt pocket and put it between his lips. The sharp tang of matchstick flared as he snapped a thumbnail over one from a book of matches.

  I knew without looking that the matchbook was black or red with silver writing on it. Father Mulcahy uses the matches for the club. POLECATS—LIVE, ALMOST NUDE GIRLS, the front of the matchbook would read with a set of lips imprinted beside the words. Menthol-tinged smoke streamed from his nostrils. Father Mulcahy smokes Kool brand cancer sticks.

  “All the lasses are off and away. It’s all quiet out there as far as I can tell.” Father Mulcahy was a mix of Italian and Irish descent. It gave a strange sound to his voice, a mixture of accents that rolled into an odd cadence. Plus, his voice was gruff from all the black coffee, cigarettes, and whiskey the man consumed; but that same voice could coax tears from the congregation at Sunday Mass, just like angels singing. I had experienced it myself. “So what world of shite did you stir up this time, son?”

  I shook off my jacket, peeling the left sleeve away, where it was stuck to my arm. Dried blood left a pattern of rusty brown over my tattoos. Pushing the sleeve of my T-shirt up exposed the two puncture wounds from the vampire in the alleyway. They were clotted black with blood and stuck to the sleeve.

  “Vampires. Other than that I have no idea, that’s the problem. Kat was going to see if she could sort it out.”

  Moving over to the sink, I slipped my shoulder holster off and peeled the T-shirt over my head. Wadding it up, I tossed it into the trash after rinsing the blood down the drain. You don’t leave blood lying around in my business if you can help it.

  The antibacterial soap was cool in my hands and arms as I lathered up. The warm water ran black into the deep stainless-steel basin, the soap cutting away the dried blood and the gunpowder residue from my hands. It burned a bit as I washed it deep into the fang marks and then rinsed it away. Luckily, being dead, vampires don’t have communicable diseases. Well, other than vampirism, anyways.

  The priest handed me a large adhesive bandage from the first-aid kit by the sink and took another drag of his cigarette. Squinting one eye, he gave Larson a look over. “Who is this one?” he asked, nodding his head toward the man in the
chair.

  I took the bandage and slapped it over the bite. “His name’s Larson, used to be called Nyteblade. He tried to stake me earlier tonight.”

  The priest snorted, shooting gray smoke out of his wide nostrils. “Well, you have been looking a bit pale lately.”

  “Hardy har har.” I flipped him the middle finger and opened another cabinet. Reaching inside, I grabbed a 3XL T-shirt from a stack of promo items for the club. It was a black shirt with a traditional tattoo-style pinup dancing on a pole under the word POLECATS. The back had the same slogan as the book of matches. I slipped it on and then put my shoulder holster back in place and instantly felt better. “After he tried to stake me, we were attacked by an assload of vampires. That’s why I brought him back with me, to find out why he was there to start with.”

  Father Mulcahy’s humor died with the update. His head nodded once up and down. The end of his cigarette flared orange as he took a drag. He walked over to Larson and put his hand out. Larson flinched, but then stuck his own out and shook the priest’s outstretched hand. When he did so his coat fell away, revealing the large ornate silver cross strapped back on his thigh. The priest froze, staring at it. Still holding Larson’s hand, he asked, “May I see that cross, son?”

  Thin fingers scrabbling on the straps, Larson pulled out the cross and handed it to the priest. Hands calloused from years of wielding weapons and praying the rosary caressed the surface of the cross. I stepped closer to see what he was examining.

  The cross was made of silver and covered in ornate filigree. A masterfully detailed figure of Christ crucified was worked on the face. There were small square pieces of ivory embedded in the four ends of it. Father Mulcahy turned it over in his hands. Along the back was an inscription I couldn’t read that looked to be some European Slavic-based language. The words

  HEXE AUFGABEBRECHER were deeply etched in the silver. Under his breath a curse rolled from the priest’s lips. His eyes blazed as he looked back at Larson.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  Larson leaned back and gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A cross?”

  Father Mulcahy scowled. “Not just a cross, this is The Witch Breaker.” He said it like it was supposed to mean something to Larson. “It is a cross that was designed specifically for fighting against witchcraft. St. Augustine of Hippo forged it himself after much prayer and fasting.” Blunt fingers stroked the squares of enamel. “It contains the teeth of St. Peter.”

  Now I could follow. Father Mulcahy is a member of an Exorcist Order of priests, sanctioned by the Vatican and the Pope himself. He holds Mass at St. Augustine of Hippo. Most people did not know that St. Augustine of Hippo is a Vatican stronghold that keeps safe much of its anti-occult arsenal. There is a reason he works with me, it’s not just my winning personality.

  “Teeth of St. Peter?” I chimed in. “Interesting.”

  The priest ignored me; it’s okay, he does that sometimes. His gruff voice was full of wonder, like a child on Christmas. “Where did you find The Witch Breaker?”

  “Um, eBay. For forty-two dollars including shipping.”

  Father Mulcahy looked like he had been slapped. He stared at Larson, who turned red around the ears again and looked away. I reached in my wallet, pulled out two $100 bills, and handed them to Larson, who took them gingerly, as if they were going to bite him. “Here, call it even.” I did not leave room for argument in my tone. Larson stuffed the money in his pants pocket and the padre looked me over, nodding his thanks.

  Father Mulcahy has done a lot for me, and it was the least I could do in the situation. I paid him for tending bar, but he gave it all over to his church so they could run a soup kitchen and battered women’s shelter. He thought the cross was important, so he needed to have it. I didn’t mind; besides, who knew when I might run up against some witches that needed breaking.

  Kat’s voice rang out from the hallway for us to join her in the conference room. Father Mulcahy wrapped The Witch Breaker in a T-shirt and locked it away in one of the cubicles. After checking the door three times to assure himself it had locked, he began to move toward the conference room. I followed suit. At the door, I stopped and turned because Larson was just sitting in the chair I had originally put him in.

  “You, too, Larson. I don’t want you in here alone.”

  He held up his hands in a beseeching manner. “I would like to go home. I don’t know any of you and I don’t want to be caught up in your situation. Please, just show me the way out.”

  Striding over, I stood in front of him. Planting my right foot between his brought me close enough to make him have to lean back and crane his neck up to look at me. Counting to five before I spoke added weight to what I was saying.

  “Understand this.” My finger pointed down at his face. ”You may have information I can use. Until I figure out if you do or not, the only place you are going is with me into the other room.” I leaned forward, making him crane back even farther. “Have I made my stance on the situation clear?”

  Nodding, he got to his feet slowly after I stepped back to give him room. Once more I walked to the door, stopped, and turned toward him.

  “And for Pete’s sake, take off that silly-ass coat.”

  5

  The conference room is just that, a conference room. It has a big-ass table and big, comfy chairs; Internet access; conference phones; and a wall-mounted video screen perfect for PowerPoint presentations. I just let Kat put in whatever tech stuff she felt she needed. I can find things on the Internet like most, but compared with Kat I was like Larson was compared with me as a vampire hunter. Mostly I work alone because I’m the one who started all this and I am the one most likely to survive a fight with a monster, but I do rely on my people.

  Kat can organize anything to within an inch of its life and can research like no one’s business. Father Mulcahy has a lifetime of Vatican sponsored study about all kinds of demonic subjects that he brings to the table. Plus, sometimes I work with other experts I know from this weird war I am in. Even the police occasionally.

  When I haven’t been too violent.

  This room is the central place for gathering information and translating it to make it the most effective tool it can be. If there was a strategy to be had, this is the room it would be born in. The majority of the time my strategy is to just go in shooting, but occasionally I needed a more developed plan than “kill every monster I see.”

  Kat was typing furiously and clicking her mouse dramatically as we entered and took seats. I tossed my jacket on the back of a microfiber chair and sat down. Leaning back, I put my feet up on the conference table.

  Speaking of jackets, Larson had left his duster and the bandoliers in the break room like I had asked. His arms were pale, freckled sticks coming from the sleeves of his black T-shirt. I would have to scale his height back to about 5’6” also, because the boots he was wearing had about a 3-inch rubber sole on them. They were the clunky, strappy, combat-styled boots that a lot of Goth kids were wearing. You’ve seen them. They come up to the wearer’s knees, have lots of flashy silver buckles, studs, and grommets, and look like they are from the wardrobe department of a bad apocalyptic movie. They are meant to be intimidating, and I guess they are if you don’t know any better.

  The thing is, they are held together with the equivalent of Elmer’s glue. Try one roundhouse kick and the sole of your boot will be flapping around like a blown tire on a car. That’s why my boots are a practical pair of German tanker boots. They have a high-density rubber sole that is stitched on properly, thick leather straps, and a steel shank. Designed for kicking a slipped tread on a tank back into place, they are durable, comfortable, and admittedly, do look pretty badass. My boots are all that Larson’s boots were trying so hard to be.

  The screen on the wall flickered to life and information began to fill it, fed in from the computer Kat was using. I recognized some of the names and addresses on the list as vampire power players and businesses that were vampir
e friendly. Pictures popped up and started pairing up with names. Like I said before, Kat can organize like nobody’s business. She would also have every scrap of information available on the vampires. She keeps close tabs on them because she still hates them after what happened with her sister. Hatred will motivate someone like few other things will.

  When she was done, Kat sat back and picked up a laser pointer. The screen was filled with pictures. Different faces of different ethnicities, ages, genders, and time periods. She twirled her chair around and pointed at the screen. A red dot swirled around the screen, circling them all.

  Kat turned in her chair to face us. “Okay, these are the most likely candidates that we know about. Still, none of them has the power or persuasion to make fifty vampires do anything.”

  I agreed with Kat’s assessment. Looking at the names and pictures up there, I saw heavy hitters, even a few major leaguers, but no one who had enough pull to do what was done tonight.

  I looked at Kat and the priest. “Can either of you think of what I may have done to get them all, or even most of them, out for my blood?”

  Father Mulcahy lit another Kool from the one he was finishing and shook his head. Kat thought for a moment, her tiny chin in a small hand.

  “Unless there’s something I don’t know, you haven’t done anything to make the entire vampire community hate you.” She smiled. “At least not more than they already do.”

  I waved my hand in the air to show a negative. “Other than tonight, I haven’t run into any vampires recently. The last vampire I dusted was over six months ago.”

  “That would have been that thing at the zoo?” Father Mulcahy asked.

  About a half-year back, the local zoo had a rash of animals slaughtered, skinned, and left in trees. No one could figure out what was happening to them, so the cops called me in. It was a Nosferatu who had made a nest inside and was using it as a hunting ground.

  Nosferatu are vampires, but they are the most primal of them all. They cannot pass for human and actually have batwings and rodent hair on their body. They are nasty bastards, fierce and vicious like rabid dogs. That had been a long night.