Chapter Six
Joann woke as they were crossing the Missouri state line. It took another few miles before she felt alert enough to ask, “Who are you?” Her voice came out as a soft croak. Where she’d meant to demand his identity, she was embarrassed her voice sounded like a dying toad.
Her possible rescuer looked at her over his shoulder and then returned his attention to the road. “John Alden. I’m a friend of the Blautsaugers. How are you feeling?”
“Confused. Exhausted. Sore,” Joann answered honestly. “I want to know how come you have my son with you and how you knew where I was.”
“Here.” He handed back a couple of water bottles and a small white sack which she greedily accepted. “Briefly then,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know while you eat and then you need to rest some more.”
As if automatically assuming she agreed, he began, “The Blautsaugers sent me to check on the doc, and I met up with Detective Whitehead outside the Turner Stokes Building. We went in together and found Michaela’s lab vandalized. Whitehead found your purse in the rubble, and we decided I’d take your bag to your place to make sure you’d gotten home safely. He went out to the Blautsauger’s to ask a few questions.”
Listening with one ear, Jo tried to decide which she needed most—food or water? She set the wrapped burger aside and picked up the bottle of water. Opening it, she made inarticulate sounds of relief while gulping down several mouthfuls.
“Take it easy.” John tossed a sympathetic look back her way. “We can always stop and get more. Anyway, that’s when your boy and I hooked up. By the way, while we’re on that subject, I think your neighbor’s a wacko. You might want to reconsider that babysitting deal. I mean it worked out because I’m okay, but she didn’t know me from Adam and let me take your son.”
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror and Joann considered the kindness beneath the hard lines and sharp planes of his face. Still. How dare Mrs. Hardwick leave Cody with a stranger.
At least her baby appeared fine, and the man had gotten her away from Sabriento. Relaxing a little, she stretched out a foot only to have her toe bump against something squishy. She jerked her leg back as it started to shake and maniacally laughed.
“Oh my God. Oh, my God. What is that?”
“That’s Cody’s giggle monster.” John flashed a wide grin in her direction. “Have you ever seen one? Thing’s cuter than hell.”
“It sounds deranged.” She shoved it further away with her foot. Then what he said hit her. “You got Cody a stuffed toy?”
“He needed a car seat,” John claimed with a virtuous air. “So I had to go to the store, didn’t I? Then, because I didn’t know how long it’d take to catch up with you, I picked up a couple of things to amuse him and other things he might need.”
“Like what?” Joann peered around the dim interior which, now that she was paying attention seemed crammed full of boxes and bags.
“Food, diapers…” his voice trailed off. “You know. Stuff.”
At a loss, she slowly repeated, “Stuff.”
“Right. To get back to what happened, Rafe Blautsauger called with the news they’d reviewed building security tapes and saw Sabriento forcing you into his car. A check with the I44 toll station confirmed you’d gone through and were headed west. Cody and I’ve been tracking you ever since.”
Too hungry to wait longer, Joann started eating as he talked, and now asked with a full mouth, “Where are we going?”
“I’ve ruled out both our houses just in case we were seen and Sabriento got my tag number.”
She hadn’t considered that. Hadn’t even suspected the vampire might be chasing them. “Do you think he’s following us?” Fear reared its ugly head as she stared out at the dark ribbon of highway behind them.
The way he hesitated made Joann think he was carefully considering his words. “I don’t know. I do know that so far I haven’t spotted anyone tailing us.”
“Okay.” Joann lapsed into silence, but a moment later she roused again and repeated her question, “Then where are we going?”
“I’m going to bypass Amber Heights and head out to a friend’s house. I don’t think he will, but just in case Sabriento does find us and makes another try for you I want you someplace secure.”
“Oh, yeah?” She said doubtfully.
“Is there someone you need to contact? To let them know you’re safe?”
Her shoulders dejectedly drooped. “Not anymore.”
Joann finished half of her lukewarm hamburger and fries gone cold with gusto before re-wrapping the rest and placing it back inside the torn sack. Leaning her head back against the upholstery, she turned her face so she could watch the passing scenery. She wanted to distract herself from the fact she was still hungry. Part of her wondered if she’d ever feel full again.
“Thanks.” She would be polite even as she wished he’d bought more food. “I feel like a new woman.”
“No problem.”
The man, however, must have been keeping a closer eye on her than she’d realized because he suddenly announced, “You can’t possibly be full. Eat up. You need the calories.”
“Cody will wake soon.” She ran her hand lightly over her son’s silky hair. “He’ll be hungry and raring to go.”
“You’re a good mother, but this time you don’t need to stint yourself. That food is all yours and I’ve got another burger up here too.” Their gazes met through the rearview mirror. “Cody’s got enough provisions back there to do him a month. In fact, if you like baby food—go for it.”
“You got Cody baby food?” Her little boy had a full set of baby teeth and had progressed to regular food. This proof of concern for her son, however, touched her. Systematically, she went through the items while growing more and more stunned by the vast amount.
There were boxes of disposable diapers, cases of toddler food, and a massive stack of baby wipes in pop-up containers. For the first time, she actually paid attention to the new and top-of-the-line car seat Cody slept in along with its a colorful steering wheel attachment. There were a ton of colorfully printed toddler clothing spilling over the tops of white plastic bags.
And toys. Goodness, there were a lot of toys.
“He’s got a couple of opened food jars and milk in the cooler.”
Joann unbuckled so she could reach the ice chest in the storage area behind her. Flipping the lid open, she was forced to look twice before her brain confirmed that there were half a dozen blood bags incongruously nestled around a gallon of milk. Her quick and harshly drawn breath sounded loud inside the quiet vehicle.
“Oh my God, you’re one of them.” Her voice shook as her arms went protectively over Cody. “Vampire.”
Once more their eyes met through the rearview mirror.
“Aren’t you?”
His response was quiet and even. “I am a Nosferatu vampire.”
“Did you bite him. Did you bite my son?” she demanded. Before he could speak, however, she commanded stridently, “Stop. Stop the car. We’re getting out.”
“Why are you afraid of me?” John’s tone and expression were as calm as she was hysterical. “I’ve not harmed you or Cody.”
“You’re a Nos-Nosfer-whatever just like that evil Vincent Sabriento. He told me all about you demons and how you prey off unknowing humans.”
****
“Nosferatu,” John mildly corrected when what he wanted to do was shout in frustration. Of course, the bastard would have been chatty with his prisoner. “Did Sabriento also explain that he’s a traitor to our kind and sold us out to the Toltecs?”
“He said something—” she broke off. “What does that matter?”
“They are the vampires that hunt humans for sport. Nosferatu, like me, pay for willing donations of blood given in a sterile, clinical setting such as any phlebotomy lab.”
“Semantics,” she sneered, unconvinced by his arguments. In the meantime, she edged close enough to Cody she was practically lying on top of him.
****
“I was born as human as you,” John said, darkly pleased to see that brought her up short. So he guessed he’d finish the last twenty or so miles left to Stefka’s place reliving his past. It was a risky move and might backfire on him. But John wouldn’t lie about who and what he was.
After what she’d been through, though, it was impossible to predict her reaction.
“What does that mean?” She finally asked.
Her question pleased him because it let him know he had her interest. “Exactly that. Both my parents passed long ago, but they were as human as you. My mother, Elizabeth Renee Gardner was sent stateside by my grandfather. Ostensibly, she came to help a cousin tend her six children. In reality, it was because she had no more than modest looks and no dowry. That meant her chances for marriage in England were slim, and they were anxious to see her settled someplace as Grandfather’s health was failing.”
“You’re kidding me.”
John ignored the interruption, knowing she thought he spoke of current times. “As luck would have it, one William John Alden lived in the next county. He heard about her and came courting since his wife died without bearing him any children. My father needed sons to help tend his land, and my mother needed a livelihood. So they married, and I arrived a proper nine and a half months later.”
He didn’t bother to add that, as a young lad, his life had been close to idyllic. His mother had enough book learning to tutor him in numbers, letters, and Bible verses. His father taught him how to prepare, plant, and harvest various crops. While he enjoyed working alongside his father, to the older man’s disappointment, John had learned farm husbandry more from duty than desire.
“Then”—he paused, searching for the best way to proceed—“war broke out between the states. As I’m sure you remember from school, Missouri was one of the Border States. Slavery was legal here, but only about ten or eleven percent of the population were slaveholders. Most hoped Missouri would stay neutral and stay out of the conflict, but of course, that didn’t happen. Supposedly we were under the Union flag, but a depressing number of Missourians flocked to sign with the Confederacy.”
“You’re telling me you lived through the Civil War?”
John smiled a little ruefully. “Not entirely, however, I did fight in it. Despite many of my neighbors fighting for the South, I wore the blue uniform with the determination no man should be allowed to own another.”
The next part was harder for John to relate as he’d only spoken about that time twice before. Right after it happened, he’d been forced to tell Lustinus Stefka. Decades later, during a drunken haze fueled by blood whiskey, he’d slurred out the tale to his partner, Rafe.
“I was attached to Federal Unit II, and we were sent to bolster Grant’s forces during the first wave against a smaller but well reinforced Confederate line outside Cold Harbor, Virginia. The night before the attack the men hunkered down to try for a little sleep as the dawn call to arms was only hours away. An officer stopped by the small campfire where I was sitting with my mates to give us a little pep talk.”
John, however, related how he hadn’t taken much comfort in the ranking officer’s opinion. The man, he told Joann, seemed to believe they’d be victorious simply because odds had them winning by sheer numbers alone.
After the Colonel went back to the relative comfort of his tent, a battle-hardened soldier dropped to the ground next to the younger men. “Iffen you don’t want to spend eternity under an ‘unknown’ gravestone,” he spoke in a voice roughened from years of tobacco use. “Best write your name and direction on a piece of paper and sew it inside your lapel. We ain’t going to see another night.”
Taking the advice, John had borrowed a pencil stub and neatly printed his full name and address on a small square of paper. However, he couldn’t find a pin or needle and thread in his pack, and no one had any to spare.
“I did the next best thing I could think of,” John said to a raptly listening Joann, “and that was to wrap the note around the single gold coin in my pocket. Gold was highly-prized and hoarded then, so I hoped whoever found it would feel beholden enough to ship my body home.”
At 4:30 the morning of June 3, 1864, before dawn could send out rosy hints of the approaching sunrise, John’s unit attacked. It was a bloodbath just as the old soldier had predicted. Within an hour, thousands of Federal soldiers had been killed or wounded by mighty barrages of Confederate guns and mortar shells.
Belly shot, John stared up at the sky and waited for the end—surrounded by the dead and his dying comrades. There would be no help. No medic would dare step onto the field while the rebels had them pinned down with unrelenting artillery.
The pain. He’d never forget the agony, or how, with every shallow breath, John could feel the gurgle and hear the bubbling sounds of him strangling on his own blood.
He remembered flinching as a Gatling gun sprayed bullets over his head, and thinking the Grim Reaper himself would have to wait for a lull before coming to get him. He also remembered being thirsty and wishing he could reach his canteen. Desperately craving a mouthful of water, John had closed his eyes against the brightening sun.
He’d endured throughout the day, and as dusk fell the artillery finally slowed to an occasional warning. Sharpshooters remained vigilant, though, and shot at anything that moved. John fought despair by telling himself that help would arrive during the pitch of night.
At first, the cessation of cannon and artillery fire created a few moments of blessed silence, and John had given thanks. Within minutes, however, he desperately wished for it back. Gunfire had masked the anguished sounds of the wounded around him. Without the constant barrage of booms and whistling bullets, it seemed as if all the dying souls cried out specifically to him.
A few minutes later John was roused by a light touch. Opening his eyes, he watched as a dark shape blotted out the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds above his head. Someone bent over him, their fingers working the four brass buttons of his uniform free. Once the woolen coat was pushed open, his fatigue blouse was, unceremoniously, pulled aside.
The stranger hissed in sympathy upon seeing the gaping hole in John’s gut. That one intake of air confirmed all he needed to know about his chance of survival. However, the man didn’t leave, though it took a moment for John to realize he was now rifling through the pockets of his coat.
There was a brief hum of interest when the man found the gold piece. Withdrawing the small package, the stranger quickly unwrapped the coin before holding it and then the paper to the moonlight.
“How much life you got left in you, John William Alden?” The man asked, not unkindly but with what sounded like idle curiosity. “See here. You’ve put me in a bind. I don’t mind taking from the dead, but if you aren’t as far gone as I think, well, it makes this all a bit awkward.”
A thief with scruples, John wanted to say but couldn’t get the words out.
“Now I’m feeling that taking your coin puts me in your debt.”
This time John managed a husky growl, and the man chuckled.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” the smooth voice sounded much taken, and as if John had just said something eloquent. “What’s your life worth to you? Because, if you’re interested, I can give you back your life—more or less—in return for the gold. That is, John Alden, if you want to live?”
Thinking the pickpocket was making a cruel jest at his expense, John managed another short, inarticulate noise, and the stranger took the grunt as an affirmative.
“Just so we understand one another”—he told John with false regret—“I ain’t planning on sticking around. Once it’s done, you’re on your own. But see here, I’m not a monster. If you feel the need of a nursemaid, look up my brother, Lustinus Stefka of Amber Springs Estate near Amber Heights, Missouri.”
So saying, the stranger opened his mouth wide, giving John a momentary glimpse of white teeth flashing in the pale light. They were bestial-looking with the elongated fangs of a wolf or bear. And when those fangs pierced his flesh and sank into his neck, John felt a sensation he knew he’d never be able to describe adequately. The pain shocked his already overburdened system and felt almost more agonizing than when he’d taken the musket ball to the gut.
He must have passed out. When he blearily resurfaced, he heard a voice calling to him through the mist. It took him a moment to understand the thief was badgering him to drink.
Greedily, he opened his mouth, grateful to have his thirst slaked at long last. The first few drops of liquid that touched his tongue, however, confused him. This wasn’t water. His eyes which had closed flew open to find his lips curled around his pickpocket’s wrist.
Revulsion filled John even as he couldn’t stop himself from sucking at the open vein. The taste of blood was strangely compelling. If pressed, he’d have to describe it as refreshing as water, more filling than beer, and, yet somehow, as heady as whiskey.
Between swallows, John repeatedly made insatiable noises, “Mmmm. More.” Unable to stop his show of gluttony even when it made the vampire laugh mockingly.
Lost in his feeding frenzy, John lost all track of time. It wasn’t until the thief’s long fingers pinched a point beneath his jaw, forcing the joint to release, that he was able to remove his mouth from where he had it clamped around the vampire’s arm.
“Past time I moved on,” he told John. This time his grin, though still toothy, appeared completely normal. After rubbing the pad of his thumb over the puncture marks on his wrist, he tugged his cuff down to cover them. “I’m off.” He stood and looked down at John with a wry sort of smile. “Again, if you find yourself in need of help, look up, my brother, Lustinus Stefka. He’s a helpful, accommodating sort, and his estate in Missouri is pretty enough to sojourn in as you recuperate.”
With that parting shot, he seemed to fade away leaving John confused about what exactly had happened. His brain wanted to describe the events as delirium from blood loss. The taste of blood in his mouth said otherwise. The gold piece—its presence would prove he’d hallucinated the rest. It wasn’t there.
Not quite ready to accept the truth, John went through all his pockets until he had to admit the money was gone and he’d been bitten and had drunk from a vampire.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—not when the alternative was death. Staying flat on the ground, he took stock of his situation. Gingerly, he tested his limbs and felt around his abdomen. Yes, he felt pretty darn good for having taken a bullet to the gut.
Better yet, he felt alive.
Further testing his mobility, he rolled onto his side and levered himself into a sitting position. Leaning back on one elbow, he could finally examine his exposed torso. The stomach wound had partially closed with a thin layer of bruised looking skin. Impossible. To his knowledge, the human body didn’t possess such ability. But if someone were seeing his injuries for the first time, they’d never suspect he’d been at death’s door only moments before.
To his farm-raised vision, in truth, it looked more like he’d taken a mule kick to the stomach rather than a musket ball.
Keeping everyone pinned down, the rebels had been taking random potshots across the battlefield all night. One of these cannonballs exploded nearby, sending up a spray of rock and dirt over John. He flung his body face forward to the ground and clapped his hands over his ears. Even with his ears ringing and muffled against his palms, his new and overly acute sense of hearing allowed him to make out the final gasp of a downed soldier as his soul left its earthly shell.
The heavy scent of blood and death caused his stomach to cramp. He was so hungry, but didn’t know if he could bite someone like the thief had him. Thinking about blood, however, created a tingling sensation beneath his lips. He probed around with the tip of his tongue and got sliced on his razor-sharp set of new fangs.
John welcomed the copper penny taste of blood in his mouth even as he fought off visions of what he’d become. Crawling to the nearest soldier, the one he’d heard dying, he grabbed his arm. Without finesse, he bared the corpse’s wrist and bit into the cooling flesh. Drinking until his belly was bloated.
Raising his head, he glimpsed the man’s face and froze. Regret rolled over him in a wave of nausea to discover he’d just fed off the old soldier from the campfire. Stomach heaving, he turned aside and vomited up every bit of the blood he’d just consumed.
He collapsed back down on the ground. He needed to consider his options. It didn’t take long to decide that he couldn’t live this way. He’d rather be dead. Resolute and stoic in his death wish, he stood so the snipers could find him.
It didn’t take long before a musket ball slammed into him. It took three more before he finally concluded that getting shot wasn’t going to kill him. He was hurting like hell, but even as he spat up more blood, he could feel his body healing itself.
Where had the stranger told him to go? Not for tending as John despised the idea of needing a nursemaid, but for answers. Exactly what form of demon was he now? And, more importantly, how did monsters kill themselves?
****
John’s voice trailed off as he had no desire to re-experience his first two weeks of vampiric existence.
“What did you do?” Joann softly prodded. John shook his head, dispelling the memories.
Using the mirror to see how Joann was handling his story, John observed all sorts of conflicting emotions crossing the striking features of her angular face. A certain amount of skepticism was only to be expected. It couldn’t be easy for a modern woman to accept the fact he’d been born in 1848. Her eyes also held pity regarding his ordeal, and anger over the way Anthony duped him.
Then he finally spotted what he’d been searching for, the tiniest hint of acceptance. It showed Joann’s ability to believe that what he was telling her was true. This is was what John honed in on.
“I went to Stefka, and he took me in. Not because he was the helpful sort like I’d been told, but because he was honorable. He took responsibility for his younger and wayward brother, Anthony. The vampire that recklessly turned me for the price of a single gold coin.”
With that, he left her to dwell on her thoughts and returned his attention to the road. Not long after, headlights appeared behind them. It got his attention as he hadn’t seen another car since they’d left the highway for the back roads around Amber Heights.
Keeping a wary eye on the fast-approaching vehicle, he purposefully slowed down. A sigh of relief escaped when a late model sedan sped around them with a woman at the wheel and several kids in the backseat.
Confident now that they were in the clear, John turned into Stefka’s long driveway.