Blood and Bullets Read online

  “All right, you stick with me. Don’t get separated and don’t speak. I will do the talking and you will keep quiet. If you have any questions, you keep them to yourself until we get back to the car. If it all goes to shit, get to the car. Clear?”

  I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye as I was pulling into the parking lot for Helletog. It was a massive building made up of a series of cubes stacked one on another. Neon screamed the name of the club out into the night and traced along the top of the roof. Leave it to a vampire to name his nightclub a Chaldean word for demonspeak. It squatted on the parking lot like a gargoyle.

  We drove slowly through the rows of cars until I found a spot where I could point the nose of the Comet toward the exit. The lot took up about half a square mile and was surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence. Cars were huddled up next to the mass of the club itself like chicks under a hen, but the asphalt lot stretched out empty and wide around them. The Comet slid into the opening smooth as silk. I killed the ignition and reached into the back seat to get my coat.

  It was a real version of what Larson had on earlier, a lightweight leather city jacket that hit me about knee length. Pulling it on over my head was awkward, but I hate driving in a coat, which is why it was in the back seat. However, I did need the coverage to hide my weapons, so I had to put it on in the car; therefore, I pulled it over my head.

  I had the Desert Eagle under my left arm in a shoulder holster, my backup Taurus .44 Magnum bulldog in a lower back holster set for left-hand draw, and a Benelli pump action .12 gauge shotgun in a modified thigh holster on my right thigh. The Benelli was sawed off and had a pistol grip, so it was short enough that the coat would hide it as long as I paid attention and did not break concealment. Pressure held the shotgun in the holster so I could tear it off and use it in a flash. I also had ammo and clips stashed in the jacket and on various parts of my person. There was an ASP extendable baton in a pocket on the shotgun holster, held in place by Velcro. Collapsed to eleven inches, it fit just fine beside the shotgun, but extended it was a thirty-one-inch steel rod. Inside each boot were knives, two matching stilettos with eight-inch blades that had silver wire hammered into them. My St. Benedict cross beside the St. Michael medal around my neck, blessed rosary in my pocket, and I was loaded for vampire.

  Larson’s hand on my arm was feather light. “So what kind of plan do you have?”

  “We go in, ask for this Gregorios guy. We talk to him and see what he knows about the attack. If he won’t talk, or tries to lie to us, then I begin hitting him in the face until he does.” Sarcastic, but this was about my normal plan for getting information.

  “Are you planning on killing him?”

  I turned and looked at him to see if he was being serious. By the look on his face, he was. “When dealing with vampires it is usually for the best. You don’t go fucking with them unless you plan to take them out. So, no, I don’t plan on killing him tonight, but it is a viable option I am keeping on the table.”

  “Why do you need so many guns if we are just getting information?”

  I was growing a little tired of Larson. He had watched me load up, so he knew how much hardware I was carrying. He had been in that alley with me earlier, so he knew it was all justified, but still, he was acting like a civilian.

  “First of all, someone is already gunning for my ass, so I am making sure I am ready for what they might do next. Remember how close things were in that alley when we met. Secondly, we are about to go knock some heads together at a club owned by a six-hundred-year-old vampire. There is a pretty good chance things will get out of hand.”

  Light from the parking lot gleamed on his glasses as he fidgeted with them. “Well, since you are dragging me into this, can I have a weapon too?”

  So this was the reason for the twenty questions. He had a point and it made me think better of him. I was making him go into what I knew would probably be a dangerous situation. For his own safety, he should have a way to defend himself. Would I give him a gun? Hell no. He was way too much of an amateur to trust with a firearm. Thankfully, there are a lot of ways to deal with vampires.

  Being evil, they hate, fear, and can be harmed by holy objects. Opening the glove compartment, I pulled out a handful of rosaries and two plastic bottles of holy water. They were the sport drink kind with squeeze tops. I had an unlimited supply of holy water, blessed crosses, and rosaries thanks to Father Mulcahy. Handing them to Larson, I looked him dead in the eye.

  “Listen to me. Put the holy water in your jacket pocket and the rosaries around your neck, under your shirt. Keep them hidden and do not pull them out until I give the word. Things gets scary, I don’t give a damn, keep these hidden.” The last thing I needed was for it to get tense and Larson to panic and pull out a cross. That would make shit hit the fan quickly, just like it had earlier in the alleyway. I leaned in, getting close to stress my point. “Maintain your cool, no matter what goes on here. Got it?”

  Larson nodded and put the rosaries over his head. Pulling on the neck of his T-shirt, they slid under safely out of sight. He leaned over and put the holy water bottles in a pocket of his big coat. Once he was settled, I nodded and we got out of the car.

  Night air blew cool around me, rustling across the back of my skull. My hands slid into the pockets and kept my jacket held closed so the wind didn’t blow it open, breaking concealment. Even I couldn’t walk around openly displaying this much hardware. I have all the applicable weapons permits, and I have worked with the police enough that they look the other way when I do my job. Most of the time anyway. The monsters do a good job of hiding, but cops still run into the weird stuff if they are on the job any amount of time. If things got too bad for them, they had my number.

  Assuming Larson was following, I turned and headed toward the club. We should be able to walk in, question our guy, get our answers, and hit the road. Yep, it should be that simple.

  Yeah, right.

  Vampires always have a way of screwing up your plans.

  8

  Music pulsed in the night air as we walked up the concrete slope leading to the club. Thump-thump house music crap. I guess it was good to dance to, but it wasn’t my cup of tea. My music has to have more than just bass to make me happy. Coming to the door, we met the bouncer who was checking the IDs of kids coming and going.

  He was taller than me, which does not happen very often. I would have guessed him at 6’7”, maybe 6’8”. I was broader and heavier, but he wasn’t a lightweight. There were enough muscles that you could tell he worked at it. How did I know he was the bouncer? He was dressed like a bouncer.

  No matter where you go, bouncers all look like they shopped at the same stores. Black jeans, black boots, and a black hoodie. White-blond hair was held back by a black beanie. I was a bouncer before; I am familiar with the uniform. Hell, most days I still wore the uniform.

  As we walked up, he stopped slouching against the door and became alert. Even behind the sunglasses covering his eyes I could tell he was eyeing me up. I’m used to it. I look like trouble and I know that. I’m okay with it.

  We kept walking to the front door of the club with him eyeballing us, but he didn’t say anything. No questions or comments, no request for an ID. Either he was not very good at this job, or the club didn’t pay worth a damn. I hoped it was the latter; then everything would go smoother inside. People who work at clubs that don’t pay much are usually there for the scene and are not really taking their job very seriously. It makes them not care enough to really question you or stop you from doing what needs to be done.

  Inside the door the music went from a pulse on your skin to a fist that thumped you in the chest. It was so loud you couldn’t even make out any sounds, just bass. The vibrations rode in the floor and up through the bones in my legs.

  I hate clubs like this. The air was heavy with the chemical smell of a fog machine that burned in my nose like medicine. The undercurrent scent was of humans packed tightly together. It was the sw
eaty, meaty smell of exertion, dancing, and desperation mixing sourly, then cut across with the medicinal copper tang of recreational drug use.

  We entered the lobby, which was a small area inside the door. To the left was a booth that had a girl taking money. Just past that was the actual entrance to the dance floor. Another bouncer stood there with his back to us, framed in the double doorway. Light pulsed in time to the music in front of where he stood watching the dance floor. The girl waved us over to the booth with a smile on her face.

  She was small, probably about 5’2” and slender. I would say she looked like the girl next door, if the girl next door lived in a haunted house. The girl had gone Goth, and gone completely. She had a cute pixie face, with big blue puppy-dog eyes, but the eyeliner around them was heavy and black. White base smoothed over her skin, and her full lips were painted dark crimson that looked almost black in the dim lighting. Thick hair had been straightened to within an inch of its life and dyed black with blue highlights.

  She had obviously shopped for her outfit at Hot Topic. The blouse was black with a lace overlay and pink skulls stenciled across an ample chest. A black collar with small silver spikes and a bondage ring hanging from it circled a slender neck. The same kind of bondage belt slung over hips swathed in an extremely short black-and-pink plaid skirt, below which were fishnet stockings. From the knee down she had the same boots as Larson, all black straps and silver buckles.

  The chain attaching my wallet to my belt slid through my fingers smoothly as I pulled it out to pay the cover. She motioned for me to lean over. I did and turned my ear to her so I could hear what she was saying. Her hand cupped my ear, lips next to my head. Warm breath left my skin moist when she spoke.

  “Are you here for the bouncer job?”

  Well, well, well, my night was looking up. Leaning close to return the favor, my fingers brushed thick hair back from her ear. It was heavy, but soft and luxurious. I softly touched the nape of her neck where the hair was fine. As I put my mouth by her ear to speak, I caught her scent. Under the makeup and hair product, close to her skin, she smelled like honeysuckle in the rain. It was a sweet smell that made my head swim for a second. My voice dropped to a low purr. “Yes, I’m here for the job. Who do I need to see?”

  I felt her shiver as she pulled back from me and my fingers slipped across her skin. She held up a delicate hand telling us to stay put and went around the side of the booth she was in. Larson and I both studied her as she moved past us. It was an easy job, watching that skirt flip in time to the sway of her hips. She may have been wearing Gothic combat boots, but she sashayed like she was in heels.

  Walking over to the bouncer at the dance floor entrance, she had to touch him to get his attention. He was spellbound by the inside of the club where people were bouncing and swaying to the thump of the house music. See, low pay makes shitty bouncers. If you don’t notice someone who looks like me in your nightclub, then you are not doing your job worth a damn.

  Standing on her tiptoes to get close enough to be heard over the music, the girl said something to him. He shook his head violently, dismissing her with a flick of a chubby hand. Anger flared on the girl’s face and her fist wrapped in his shirtfront.

  Eyes wide, he leaned back in surprise. I couldn’t hear what she said to him, but the snarl on her mouth showed that she meant it. A quick turn on her boot heel and she came back with him in tow.

  Annoyance sat sourly on his face, but I could care less. I had his number as he looked me up and down with beady eyes. They were so far in the folds of his face they looked like tiny black dots. He was used to being the biggest, scariest guy in the room. He didn’t have a muscular build; he was just big. A thick, square chest over a big barrel of a stomach with two beefy arms attached. Most people would look at him and be intimidated just because of his mass, but he was soft. Mushy.

  Not that he couldn’t hurt you. He could, and he would. In fact, he would enjoy it. There was a sadist’s gleam in his beady eyes, but at his core he was also a coward. He wasn’t happy about the fact that I was bigger and scarier looking than him. The look on his face just said he was a bully. If I were here about a job, he and I would have issues. I knew he became a bouncer just so he could beat people up. I would guarantee he got in a lot of fights, but I would also guarantee he never fought anyone even close to his own size.

  How do I know? Experience. I worked as a bouncer for years when I was younger and dealt with dumbasses like him on a constant basis.

  Taking her place at the booth, he dropped heavily on the stool she had used. Sullenly, he stared at me and ignored Larson. I stared back at him. Little did he realize how unscary he was.

  If the bouncer’s pissy attitude bothered the girl, she didn’t show it. Making a “follow me” motion with her hand, she led us to a hallway that was beside the front counter. It was a pretty narrow hallway, dimly lit and covered floor to ceiling in posters and fliers for bands. I followed the girl just a few steps back, again, just doing my job. Larson was close enough to me to be my shadow. As we walked down the hall, the brightly colored bits of paper desperately fluttered at us, hanging on to the wall usually by one sad staple or tack.

  The farther we went down the hallway, the more muffled the music got. The girl swayed down the dim hallway, her hips moving with the careless grace of a dancer. Those hips led us to a door with the word OFFICE painted across it. Drawing up short, she turned to me. Her blue-toned hair feathered along her cheekbones and she fidgeted with her belt. When she spoke, she looked me in the eye and I heard her clearly over the far-distant music.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Of all the things she could have said, I was not expecting that question. Looking at her, I tried to see past the Goth costuming. I concentrated on her face and eyes, and searched through my memory for any trace of recognition since I apparently knew her. My mind ran through all the girls associated with all the cases I had been involved with in the last five years, mentally comparing her with everyone I could bring to mind.

  I came up with nothing.

  In my defense, I had no idea where I would know her from. Hoping she would not be offended, I shrugged. “Sorry, darling, no, I have no idea.”

  Her hands went to her belt and began to unbuckle it. The bondage rings on it jingled against the spikes sticking out beside them. Once it was unfastened she dropped it to the floor with a thud. Lifting her shirt with one hand, she pulled down the edge of her skirt an inch or two with the other to expose her hipbone. On it was a small tattoo of a pink unicorn.

  Ah, I didn’t remember the tattoo, but it looked like my handiwork.

  Before my life exploded, I was a tattoo artist. It’s one of the reasons I have so many. No, I never tattooed on myself; that’s just not something I was ever interested in. Looking at the girl again, I adjusted her age in my head. She looked to be about eighteen, but if I did her tattoo it was before I lost my family, and that was five years ago. She had to be in her mid-twenties at least now because you cannot get tattooed in this state unless you are eighteen.

  “This was my first tattoo. You did it at World Famous Tattoo.” Yep, World Famous was the name of my shop. Told you I never lacked confidence. “I was really nervous and a bit scared, but you were really nice to me. I love this tattoo.”

  Her big eyes got soft and a little sad. That tiny chin pointed out as her full lips turned down at the corners. Stepping closer to me, she put her hand on my arm. With the pressure of her touch I felt my heart get heavy. My chest grew tight. I knew what was coming next. Her hand slid down, fingertips lightly stopping on the wedding ring I still wore.

  “I read about your family online. I am so very sorry for you.”

  Dammit, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. If she cried, I was sunk. Her sympathy would touch that raw spot left by the loss of my family and I would break down. Already I could feel the fist of pain in my chest pulsing. I couldn’t do that. Dammit, I could not break. I had a job to do. My chest
tightened even more and heat filled my cheeks. Drawing in a deep breath to maintain my center, I took a tiny step back.

  Instead of crying, the girl threw her arms around my neck and hugged me for all she was worth. My arms automatically went around her and both her feet were off the ground. I could either grab her or let her fall to the floor. She seemed to weigh nothing in my arms. A line of warmth stretched between us and one of her arms locked across my back as the other cradled the back of my neck. Her face was next to my ear when I heard her whisper again how sorry she was for me.

  That was all it took.

  My face grew swollen and tight around my eyes. I felt the tears fill up and spill down my cheeks. They ran hot and salty down my face. I always miss my wife and children, but this stranger’s kindness and sympathy had touched a knot of the sorrow I held deep inside and let it loose. My throat thickened and my heart felt like a stone as I let the sorrow and loss roll through me. Small hands smoothed along my head, cool and soft against the flush of my pain. The weight of her in my arms was a comfort.

  We stayed like that for a long minute as I cried and she clung to me, soothing whispers of comfort in my ear. If the monsters came for me at that moment, I would be dead.

  Finally, with a deep, ragged breath of release, I pulled it together and lowered her to the ground. Glistening tears cut trails through her makeup. Tracks of it led to stains on the collar on her shirt. Sniffing, she rubbed her eyes, smearing even more makeup. A bashful smile made her look young and innocent again. Wiping her palm on her blouse, she then held her hand out to me. Her palm was warm and moist against mine as we shook.

  “My name is Tiffany, or Tiff, if you want.” Seeing her sweet smile helped me pull myself back together, to put my armor back in place. Reality came rolling in.

  A vampire owned this place.

  This was a nightclub owned by a vicious, evil predator. What the hell was this soft girl doing working here? This girl with her big eyes, her pink unicorn tattoo, her shy smile, and empathy was working for a monster. A monster that would drink the blood from her throat and steal the innocence from her heart if he could.