There was nothing worse than the morning after. Jacob woke up stinking of stale perfume and blood. Worse, he could tell by the woman-smell on him that Jakobus had fornicated the night before. Not for the first time, Jacob was intensely grateful that he retained little or no memory of hunt nights. Even so, he felt deep shame. He might not remember the actions, but he was guilty of them just the same.
Jacob had a fourth rule: Minimize the suffering. His intent had been to force his baser self to be merciful to his unfortunate victims. Instead, when Jakobus was in control, that rule became a justification for seducing his female victims prior to feeding upon them. Seducing was most likely too pretty a term for Jakobus’ actions. Jacob could only hope that Jakobus had never added rape to the roster of atrocities he had committed.
At least Jacob’s high energy level and robust vitality this morning were firm assurance that Jakobus was thus far still obeying one of the edicts. Jacob had a fifth rule: Feed. Do not make. If Jakobus had given a victim his own blood — and the resulting immortality — Jacob would be feeling a much less dramatic increase in his strength and stamina today. He was intensely grateful for that small amount of comfort. He would never give up trying to find a way to permanently end his vampirism, but in the meantime, at least he would bring no new victims to this state of living hell.
Toweling off after his shower, Jacob switched on the bedroom TV to catch the morning weather report. It had not yet sunk in with him that in San Diego County, there rarely is much in the way of weather. He still expected — or at least hoped — to hear forecasts of rainfall.
“ . . . body was found in a dumpster behind the popular Gaslamp District nightclub, The Blue Tattoo. The victim, a female in her late 20s, appeared to have been sexually assaulted prior to her death. The coroner’s office has tentatively listed cause of death as blood loss from a neck wound. A police department spokesman stated that there is no evidence of any connection to the recent string of similar murders in Seattle, Washington.”
Jacob very nearly reeled in shock. Discovered this morning? Jakobus had hunted just last night! Was it possible that he had ignored Jacob’s final, crucial rule? Jacob’s sixth rule: Cover your tracks. A chill wound through Jacob, settling in his gut. A bloodless corpse was pretty damn solid evidence! In the name of Osiris, what had Jakobus been thinking? Or was he simply getting careless?
Jacob grabbed the remote control and surfed through all the local channels, pausing at any mention of the discovered body. Nothing more specific was mentioned. “Police are investigating…” “Identity of the woman is being withheld pending…” “No witnesses have been found…” Nothing of any detail. He took a deep breath of relief. Perhaps it was not as bad as he had first feared.
Lt. Detective Roger Glover of the San Diego Municipal Police Department did not like it. As soon as he had heard about the bloodless corpse found in The Blue Tattoo’s dumpster, he had started praying to Bon Dieu that he would not get the assignment. He hated working on the surnaturel stuff. But the last couple of years, he had been getting what seemed to be more than his fair share of it, pour certainmént. Yes, he had a knack for this kind of case — some of the guys had even nicknamed him Mulder — but Glover felt it was unfair to penalize a man for being damn good at something.
It was not that he did not believe in the supernatural. It was that he did. Deeply, devoutly and unshakably. And he also, much to his own dismay, tended to take his work home with him. Whenever he was assigned to a case that was particularly angoissant, he had trouble sleeping. And eating. And closing his eyes. Glover hated it when the boojums came home with him, as they were so often wont to do.
But his background made Glover a natural for the “spooky cases.” Born and raised in New Orleans, he had cut his teeth on ju-ju and, as his British father had called them, hobgoblins. His law enforcement career in The Big Easy had been laced with many such cases, and he had developed quite a knack for seeing what less open minded cops would not even consider. That, incidentally, was something Glover had never understood: How could anyone have grown up in New Orleans, with its voodoo and witchcraft and zombies and Marie Leveau and yes, even Anne Rice, and not be willing to at least consider the possibility that there are forms of evil which exist outside the boundaries of the natural world? Everywhere you looked in that malevolent city, it was staring you in the face! Vrai, one would have to be blind to not see it.
Those kinds of cases were the reason Glover had left New Orleans, had left behind the whole way of life that was the only one he had ever known. He had turned his back on beignets and boureé and bayous and bêtes rouge to move to the land of alfalfa sprouts and surfing. In choosing San Diego as his new home, Glover had truly expected he would primarily be handling simple crimes such as domestic disturbances and illegal aliens. And he had fervently hoped that he had seen the last of the boojums.
And now this. A young woman with a vicious looking bite mark on her neck and not a drop of blood in her veins, found dead in a dumpster. And of course, he got the assignment. It was almost too much to bear. Especially because the couillons on the radio this morning were already screaming about vampires. Quoi d'autre?
The official statement had declared that there was no evidence suggesting a link between this slaying and the Seattle area Bite Me murders. Glover, naturally, recognized this preposterous poppycock as a desperate attempt to forestall mass panic. Clearly, this was either the same killer or a copycat killer. Either way, there were almost certainly more deaths to come, unless they caught this monster. Now that that was officially his job, Glover intended to find out as much as he could about the Washington murders — and put it to good use.
Jess was really sick and tired of hearing about vampires. First her gorgeous but looney new neighbor claimed to be one, and now the guys at work were all declaring there was one running loose in San Diego. What complete and utter bullshit! Some hooker gets herself killed during rough sex and bam! Dracula is risen from the grave. Jess had had a few suck marks on her neck herself. It absolutely disgusted her when otherwise intelligent adults expressed belief in supernatural figures of fiction such as vampires and ghosts. She wished they’d all just grow up. There were plenty of real sources of terror in the world without needing to make up any.
After all the semi hysterical ranting she’d had to put up with that day, it was a real relief to get home to the cats. They were a no-nonsense trio if there ever was one. Jess reclined on her sofa, watching the evening news, with Larry lounging across her lap and Moe chewing on her braid. Curly, who never allowed anyone to hold him, sat directly in front of the TV screen. Jess mainly wanted to see the scores, but had to wait through all the depressing “real news” first. She was seriously underwhelmed when the lead story was the so-called “vampire victim.” Not that the newspeople were calling her that – they did have to be credible, after all. But they certainly mentioned that other people were using that term. The reporter went on to describe in vivid detail the virtually bloodless condition of both the body and the crime scene, and the “curiously fang-like” bite mark on the victim’s neck. Jess rolled her eyes and snorted, “Oh, for God’s sake!” just as Curly stood up and, snout in the air, stalked from the room.
“I’m with you, bud,” Jess groused. “C’mon guys, let’s go see what kind of dinner we can put together from scorched rice, burnt frijoles and Stone Pale Ale. Ah hell, let’s just skip the rice and beans.” Moe was right on her heels as she headed for the kitchen.
Curly was, as usual, disgusted by his brothers. They thought of little else than their stomachs. Larry would eat anything that paused long enough for him to get his teeth on it, and Moe was nothing but a beer whore. Curly shot them venomous looks over his shoulder as he pushed through the loose slider screen and headed for his favorite perch. A heavy wrought iron plant stand stood in the corner of the patio, fat pots of petunias and marigolds blooming on its staggered shelves. The top shelf had always been empty; Jess was too short to lift a bulky plant tub up that high. Curly had claimed it as his own as soon as he’d grown big enough to climb the tiers to reach it. He loved the view, the warm sun, the heady fragrance of spicy-sweet petunias and peppery marigolds. He seated himself on the sun-dappled metal and contentedly contemplated his domain.
You are pleasant to the eyes, neutered one.
Where did that come from? Curly came to attention, startled. His ears perked, straining to hear better, but the words had not been sound. They had simply appeared in his mind. He swiveled his head around slowly, scanning for signs of impending invasion. At first he saw nothing, but on his second survey he spotted her. There was a brown feline sitting in a window of the adjoining house. Instinctively, he knew the words had come from her. How he knew that, how he knew she was a she, he had no idea. He just knew. Perhaps she was one of the Immortals. To put her thoughts in his head, she must have the long forbidden ancient knowledge.
Yes, I am such. You are wise for your kind.
Curly’s fur spiked in ire. Now wait just a minute here, little missy. We both shit in a box, don’t we? Who do you think you’re kidding?
The brown feline stood, arching her back in a sensual stretch. The sun caught her eyes and Curly saw that they were round and pure golden. Burmese. A chill snickered down his back, and Curly shivered in spite of the warm rays. He had never actually seen one before, but he had sure heard tales of them. Supposed to be the best pussy you could ever get. Too bad he’d gotten his firepower removed . . . Curly turned to look at the window again. The Burmese was gone.
