CHAPTER THREE
I sit in my rental, an enormous black SUV that lacks the sophisticated comfort of my silver Jaguar convertible back home. For summer, I like to drive my Mercedes G-Class with tinted windows. I’m a gentleman, not a snob, but a vampire my age doesn’t have many things to get excited over, and comfort is one of them.
So is not dealing with bullcrap. I hit CALL on my cell phone, intending to give the local society a piece of my mind. I am not a man without influence or resources. I simply choose my battles carefully, something I learned the hard way in my youth.
“The Arizona Society of Sunshine Love. How may I help you?”
Every society must answer the phone with their legitimate legal title, and yes, theirs is actually the Arizona Society of Sunshine Love—a testament to their ridiculousness.
“I’m calling for Lamashtu,” I say. It’s a code we all use to signal we’re one of them. Lamashtu was the Mesopotamian demon goddess who stole babies from their mothers and sucked their blood. Yes, this is an example of vampire humor. No one in their right mind would suck on a baby. It’s simply wrong.
“And how may I direct your call?” she says politely.
“This is Michael Vanderhorst. I have an appointment this afternoon at one o’clock with…” I pause, realizing I don’t actually know.
“With Mr. Aspen, the head of our society.”
“Yes. I believe so,” I say.
“Is there a problem, sir? Do you need to reschedule?” she asks.
“No. And yes.” This is the ideal moment to deploy my gentlemanly behavior. “I am hoping Mr. Aspen can see me now.”
“I’m afraid he’s not available this morning. One o’clock is the earliest.”
“Is there someone else I could impose upon? Clive Bakker was very important to me, and I’m afraid the issue concerning him cannot wait.” We can never be too careful in this day and age of government spying and hacking, so no vampire ever speaks plainly over the phone. We get by, regardless.
“I see, Mr. Vanderhorst, but I’m very sorry. There is no one else available or knowledgeable enough on the matter pertaining to your friend. You must wait for Mr. Aspen.”
I decide to take one glove off, though the glove is a pristine white and will not leave a mark once I slap it across her face.
“Such a shame that Mr. Aspen is so busy,” I say. “The Cincinnati Historical Society of Original Family Members, myself now being the oldest member, is very concerned about the topic of Clive Bakker.”
Translated, this means that our damned coven is older than their damned coven, and now I am the leader of my society in Clive’s absence. With my age, I am far more powerful than some one-hundred-year-old group of ridiculous masochists who choose to live in the least habitable state in the country. In addition, our numbers are ten times theirs with vampires five times older.
As I said, one glove off. No marks. I know better than to start a dispute, especially when I’m in their territory.
“Oh. I-I see, Mr. Vanderholt.”
“Vanderhorst,” I correct.
“Yes, sir. Please hold.”
Music plays over the phone, and it’s “Girl from Ipanema.” Garish morons.
I flip down the driver’s side visor in my SUV to check my appearance. It’s so damned sunny now that I’m sure my hair will catch on fire before noon hits. How do vampires live like this?
I remove my blazer, carefully fold it lengthwise, and place it on the passenger seat.
When I lift my head, a jerky movement on the sidewalk one block down catches my attention. I have excellent vision, so there’s no mistaking the scene playing out. A fight. It’s a couple. I couldn’t care less, except that the large man isn’t playing nice.
Is that…
“Miriam.” I grip the steering wheel as the man strikes her with a closed fist and she falls to the ground.
“Seriously?” It’s the middle of the day. What breed of nitwit hits a woman in broad daylight?
Wait. Back up. Not what I intended to say.
What I mean is that as a vampire, there is a time and place for dirty business. A busy sidewalk on a major street during morning traffic is not that place. Regardless, there is never a reason to hit a woman. All right, some women yes, however, the ones I’m referring to are horrible monsters that would sooner rip out your throat as they would your gonads. A woman like Miriam, however…
“Mr. Vanderhorst?” the woman says, coming back on the line. “I have Mr. Aspen on the phone—”
I hit END CALL and push open my door. I ball my fists and then stretch out my fingers—one, two, three—repeating the action ten times in quick succession. This is a reminder to take a breath. I must think of the consequences before I take action.
I close my eyes tightly. Think, Michael. Think. Killing a human in another’s territory is an act of war. There are rules and protocols, and violating them means that innocent lives could be lost. I am the leader of my society now, and though it’s a role I never expected or wanted, I cannot change the facts. With Clive’s death, I rule. No. I don’t mean that in the catchy sense.
My fist closes tightly one final time, and I open my eyes. In the one second it’s taken me to hang up on Mr. Aspen, exit my vehicle, and have an internal debate, this male has Miriam by the front of her hideous brown sweater with his fist cocked for a second blow.
For me, moments like these unfold in slow motion, but even I am not fast enough to stop this barbarian from striking.
I run toward them as a crack ricochets in my ears, and she falls to the sidewalk. My rage gets the best of me.
I reach them as the man moves to hit her once more, and after that, it’s a blur. Daylight means witnesses are present, so I am aware enough to drag the man around to the back of the building before drinking the unworthy life out of him. I suck him dry in seven seconds flat, knowing that my fury is partially fueled by Clive’s death.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and breathe in the warm air mixed with the delicious scent of blood.
I haven’t killed in decades, but it feels damned good.
“Someone call 911!” a woman yells off in the distance, and I notice the sound of screeching brakes.
I shake my head and look down at the sad excuse of a man I’ve killed. I do not know whether to feel sorrier for him or myself.
No time for reflection. I throw him in a nearby dumpster, planning to return later to dispose of him properly, and rush back to Miriam. She’s limp on the sidewalk, barely breathing, and her color is pale.
“Miriam?” I listen to her heart and lungs, which both sound labored, similar to that moment just before a person dies in my arms.
I stare at her angelic face—the delicate eyelashes, the porcelain skin of her long neck, the soft point of her chin. Every feature is that of a fragile creature meant to be cared for. Which begs the question: why would she date such a savage? She seems smarter than that.
Just then, I hear sirens approaching, and several drivers are jumping from their vehicles to assist.
This is my cue to recede into the shadows—all right this is hellish Arizona. There aren’t any shadows. Nevertheless, I will have to check on her later, but I cannot be part of the police report.
I fade into the backdrop, hoping no one finds the body in the dumpster before I have a chance to dispose of it.