Dark Vigil Read online

  She’d made it clear to the family a decade ago that she wanted nothing to do with the family history and beliefs. She’d made it perfectly clear that she thought it was all complete and utter bullshit.

  Calico said, “It was a vampire.”

  “Come over here.” There was no hesitation from Mom, no sound of disbelief in her voice. Certainly no scoffing. That’s because her family lived on the other side of that fucking line.

  “It was—it was just a hallucination,” muttered Calico, hardly able to talk anymore. “Tabby’s fine. And Aunt Patrice. Are the two of them even together? They can’t be together.”

  “They are,” said Mom.

  Shit.

  “Tabby’s with her for her final training before she starts her own vigil. Your vision is important. You need to come over here now.”

  “No,” said Calico. None of it was real. She looked back at the diner. Her friends were in there worried about her. They were real. They were important, not hallucinations about monsters that didn’t exist. “I have to go.”

  She didn’t just hang up, she turned off her phone. Heading back to the diner, she nearly ran into a guy on the sidewalk.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, stepping to the side.

  Nick gaped at her. “It’s the bitch from the club.”

  Great. She tried to walk past him, but he held out his arm to stop her. Her mind was elsewhere, scared and angry about the vision. Her patience for Nick’s shit was zero. She bounced back a step and snap-kicked him in the solar plexus. He huffed and doubled over.

  She walked past his startled friends and into the diner, Nick already forgotten. All she could think about was Tabby. But there was nothing she could do. If there was a problem, Mom would take care of it.

  The girls at the table had concern and curiosity on their faces as she approached. Her friends were real. This was her life. She tried to smile, held up a finger that she’d be another sec, and went to the bathroom to throw up.

  After vomiting up her omelet, she wiped her mouth and said, “Goddamn it, Tabby.”

  Two months earlier

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “It was a vampire,” said Ginny matter-of-factly. “Took hold of poor Rob like he was a rag doll. Gave him a good shake, then pulled him up close, like they were dancing, you know? Then the vampire bites his neck. Just like the movies.”

  Detective Detrick Palmerroy of the Kansas City Police Department nodded, dutifully writing her statement in his notebook. “And what happened to Rob? Did he become a vampire?”

  Ginny shook her head, “Naw. The vampire killed him. Drained him dry.”

  “Ah. So what happened to Rob’s body?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. I ran away. Wasn’t going to sit around and get drained next.”

  “Did you know adults hold about five liters of blood?”

  Ginny looked at him impatiently. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, if the vampire drained him, that’s almost a gallon and a half of blood. That’s a lot of liquid to drink in one go.”

  Ginny shrugged. “So some spilled. You saw the bloodstains.”

  He had, indeed. Not a gallon-plus-worth of blood, but quite a bit. The lab was analyzing it. The assailant could conceivably have been someone so tweaked that they used their teeth to tear open Rob’s throat. Blood on the ground, blood saturating the clothes of both victim and assailant. That might account for it all. Maybe. And what did the assailant do with the body?

  He asked, “Any chance you recognized the vampire?”

  “Not one of us, if that’s what you’re thinking. Never saw him before.”

  “About how tall was he?”

  “Oh,” she looked into the sky as she thought, “maybe a little taller than Rob. And he was, like, six feet or something. Maybe your height.”

  “White, black, Hispanic, Asian?”

  “I’d say it was a white boy—but you know he had pale skin, like vampires do. So he coulda started out another color, I don’t know. Dark hair, darker and longer than yours. All messed up, but on purpose, you know? And he was dressed real fine. Suit and tie and everything, even in this heat.”

  That was interesting and he made note of it. “Thin? Fat?”

  “Thin. You ever hear of a fat vampire?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of any vampire.” He knew it was a mistake before the words finished tumbling from his mouth.

  “Well, fuck you, asshole! I don’t need this shit! Screw you!” She turned and stomped off, cussing continuously, the profanity dwindling as she put quite a bit of distance between them in a remarkably short time.

  He asked other homeless if they knew Rob, maybe what his last name might be (they didn’t), and where he might be (also unknown). No other vampire stories, but the homeless were a little rattled because of the violence of the attack. Detective Palmerroy was also hearing tales of more homeless disappearing than usual.

  They were migrants, of course, moving locations within the city—or even leaving altogether if they got enough cash together. Some, regrettably not very many, even managed to get off the streets. Hearing that some of them were missing, well, that could be accounted for in too many ways that weren’t foul play.

  But when Rob went missing after leaving quite a bit of blood behind, the department sent Palmerroy to sniff around, not only for Rob, but to see if there was anything to the higher number of disappearances.

  Palmerroy returned that night. The alleged attack had happened after dark on the concrete plaza in Davis Park near the tree line. The park was deserted—the homeless in the area now giving it a wide berth. There were a lot of trees lining the park providing hiding places for an attacker. The ironic thing was that the detective only had to walk a block from police headquarters to get here. Still, the area was municipal and office buildings, so fairly deserted at night.

  It was a hot June evening, humid per usual in Kansas City. He wore casual clothes. His bowling shirt, as he called it, had blue and black vertical panels, the cotton clinging to his skin with the ever-present veil of sweat-by-humidity. Khaki pants. He wasn’t going to be so casual as to wear shorts on the job.

  From the park, he walked slowly through the neighborhood. He saw nothing unusual. As it neared 11, he started back toward headquarters. He was a couple blocks north. It took him a moment to pinpoint what was unusual about the man approaching on the other side of the street. He looked like someone from a black-and-white movie.

  There was no skin tone to his face. His features looked Anglo, but under the streetlights, his skin seemed gray. And like the old movies, he was dressed like a bon vivant man-about-town, or as Ginny would say, “He was dressed real fine.” He wore a three-piece suit, maybe charcoal gray, under a stylish gray overcoat. Quite the warm ensemble in the heat and humidity.

  The detective crossed over. As the man drew close, his face still looked washed out and pale. But more startling were his eyes. They were an intense blue-gray and almost seemed to glow. Just before the man could pass him, Palmerroy smiled and held up a hand.

  “Excuse me, I’m lost,” he said.

  The man stopped.

  “I’m looking for the Zoo Bar. I thought it was on this block.”

  The man was downright ashen without any hint of pigment. He was slightly taller than Palmerroy, close to six-foot four, and slim. And he had the haircut of the rich. Why their hair looked different, Palmerroy couldn’t say, but he’d noted it before on people. There was just something about the coif that spoke money. It was a full head of dark hair, carefully made unruly and, of course, a touch of gray along the temples.

  “It’s about three blocks south.” He had a European accent, but Palmerroy couldn’t place it.

  “Really? I could have sworn—well, thanks!” Palmerroy held out his hand.

  The man shook with a grip that threatened to crush the detective’s hand. Palmerroy always shook firmly, but this man’s strength was like the jaws of a Rottweiler going for the kill—and Palmerroy knew b
ecause he’d been attacked by a Rottweiler.

  The man disengaged and walked on. Palmerroy watched him. There was something else about the handshake. The man’s hand was cool and dry to the touch.

  He waited for the man to turn the corner at the end of the block before he started after him. He wasn’t a vampire, obviously, but he could be a psychotic or sociopath who liked to wear vampire makeup and bleed people.

  When the detective got to the corner, the man was gone. There were several doorways he could have ducked into. None of the buildings were residential or retail, as in no reasonable place the man might have entered. In fact, the building Palmerroy stood next to was empty. There was a big sign on the corner of it advertising development plans.

  He pulled up the side of his shirt to draw his .38 from its hip holster. No reason not to be cautious, but the detective was surprised at how spooked he was.

  There was no traffic on the street, so he stepped off the sidewalk to put more distance between himself and the dark shadowed doorways. The first two were sans vampires. The third one, however—Palmerroy stopped and leaned forward.

  The doorway was darker than it should have been, the streetlights didn’t seem to penetrate it. Then piercing blue-gray eyes suddenly stared back at him. The detective, much to his chagrin, squawked and backpedaled.

  “All right, buddy, come on out of there. I’m a cop.”

  It was as if the darkness unfolded itself and coalesced into the man he’d been following. More tricks-of-the-light, but it was unsettling all the same.

  The man nodded. “Officer. Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, no.” He should have holstered his gun, but he didn’t. Every vibe he got from the man screamed beware! even though he was dressed smartly and didn’t show any signs of being a threat. Other than hiding in a doorway, which was odd but not criminal.

  Palmerroy knew he was just freaking himself out. He tried to chuckle, but it came out dry and awkward, causing him to cough.

  The detective said, “Can I see some ID?”

  The man smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I left my wallet at home.”

  “And where would that be?”

  He turned and held up a hand. “I live here.”

  Palmerroy frowned. “Isn’t it empty?”

  “Not at all. It’s my nest.”

  Uh oh. “Your—?”

  “Nest. You heard me correctly.” The man took a step toward him.

  Palmerroy held up his left hand. “Stop right there.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me?”

  The guy was nuts. Palmerroy took another step back. “Don’t suppose you’re off your meds?”

  The man’s smile spread, but there was nothing congenial about it. Just made him look crazier than shit.

  The man took another step and Palmerroy raised his .38. “Stop.”

  The smile grew, lips parting. Sweet Jesus, he was baring his teeth at him. Fangs. Right out of a Halloween shop.

  “I will shoot,” said the detective.

  “And you think that worries me?”

  He’d never seen anyone move so fast. The man bridged the five yards separating them before the detective could react. The man wrapped a hand around Palmerroy’s throat and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand hard enough to crack bone.

  Palmerroy was too stunned to feel the pain at first, stunned and scared as the man lifted him by the throat until his feet dangled over the street. Palmerroy weighed almost 210, but the man held him without showing any sign of exertion.

  The detective struggled, grabbing the arm holding his throat and kicking as hard as he could, but there was no reaction. Palmerroy tried to fire his gun, not caring it wasn’t pointed at the man, but he could barely twitch his index finger because of his broken wrist. The only reason the gun hadn’t fallen was that his finger was wedged in the trigger guard.

  The man pulled him in face-to-face. “Thank you for volunteering.”

  His breath smelled sweetly metallic. Palmerroy tried to speak, but the pressure on his neck stopped any chance of that. His struggle became feeble and the panic of dying fired a few bright flares in his mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Calico parked her cute little red Audi A5 down the block from her sister Tabby’s apartment. There were no parking garages in that Denver neighborhood, so finding a spot on the same block as her sister’s apartment was a small miracle.

  Getting out, she double-checked that the car was locked because in this craptastic neighborhood the next person by would check it for her. Crackhead zombies roamed these streets. Hitting his cue perfectly, a man wearing a dozen layers of clothes shuffled out of the night, sniffing loudly and muttering to himself. She doubted he had a Bluetooth headset under his knit cap.

  She slid the long straps of her red-leather Gavriel tote over her shoulder and crossed the street under the amber streetlights, slipping sideways between two older-model cars packed in so tight she wondered how they’d get out when the time came.

  The apartment house looked like it was from the ‘30s, and probably was. It had a funky cool Art Deco flair to the blond brick work. The black and silver stone sign over the door looked like an exaggeratedly large keystone to the entrance’s arch. Once upon a time, this place must have looked quite chic. Now the bricks needed cleaning, especially to remove some random spray-painted tags, and the wrought-iron fence along the sidewalk was worn.

  A tiny vestibule, maybe five-feet square, stood at the end of the red uneven flagstone walkway. She pulled open an ugly Plexiglas door scratched with dozens of declarations and epithets. One of the fuck yous was scratched out, it was obviously offensive, but the one two feet away wasn’t—that fuck you was cool and was even circled as an added highlight.

  Next to a metal security door was a row of battered and locked mailboxes and the call box. She squinted at the handwritten names. It wouldn’t be Tabby’s real name and she didn’t know what moniker her sister was using, so she had to guess. It wasn’t difficult. She chuckled and press the little black button next to the name, A. Cat, as in Alley Cat.

  She pressed the button five times before Tabby’s tinny and irritated voice told her to go away and bug someone else—but not so politely.

  “It’s me. Callie,” she said loudly at the speaker.

  There was a long pause. She knew her sister was thinking about not pressing the button, but then the buzz came. Calico pulled open the security door.

  The foyer beyond was as lovely as the rest of what she’d seen so far. The stained gray carpet smelled mildewy. She had second thoughts about crossing it in her red ballet flats, imagining the mold and decay attacking the thin leather sole, sending tendrils through it and into the skin of her feet.

  She moved on tiptoes. Thankfully it was a small foyer. She turned the corner and found a narrow hallway with a hardwood floor. The wood was probably just as disgusting as the carpet, but psychologically it seemed much cleaner.

  It was a long hallway with too many doors crammed together. It had an almost-cute 1930s vibe with ornate dark wood floorboards and molding around the doors, brass doorknobs, and brass apartment numbers.

  The apartments had to be tiny based on the spacing of the doors. Even for the ‘30s they had to be too small. Google described them as studios with kitchenettes when she tapped in the address to get directions.

  Like the outside of the building, the interior had seen better days with cracked plaster and dirty paint. The wood flooring was worn. It was as cute as a hole-in-the-wall drug den could be—there was a strong skunky haze of marijuana.

  The doors had old locks, looking flimsy enough that leaning against a door would break it. That’s why Tabby’s apartment stood out. The door facing the hallway at the end had a gleaming new SCHLAGE deadbolt that Tabby no doubt installed herself without permission of the landlord. As Calico approached, the deadbolt snicked and the door opened about a foot.

  “What are you doing here?” Tabby’s face was stern. Calico knew it was a mask, but i
t hurt, nonetheless.

  “Visiting my sister.”

  Tabby glared, trying to look pissed and succeeding. She blocked the narrow gap of the opened door. She was a good six inches taller than Calico, standing five feet and ten inches with a strong athletic frame. Her auburn hair was cut short in a pixie as compared to Calico’s blazing red hair with curls reaching down her back.

  “You have to leave.”

  “Sure thing,” said Calico, squeezing her smaller body between Tabby and the doorframe. For a second, Tabby moved to trap her there, but then she sighed and stepped away. Sometimes it was good to be the runt of the family.

  Her sister wore a faded gray tank top and tight black shorts. Tabby’s arms and legs were toned and tight. Her broad athletic shoulders held up the spaghetti straps of the tank top, her breasts large enough to hold up the top without the straps. To put it mildly, she was statuesque. And she topped it all off with a fresh beautiful Irish face. Not that Calico was a slouch—or too freakin’ jealous of her big sister.

  She looked around the pit-stain of an apartment. “Wow, this place sucks.”

  “Thanks. You can’t be here.”

  “And, yet, here I am.” There was a futon couch against one wall that no doubt doubled as Tabby’s bed, two card tables strewn with papers, and the advertised kitchenette. “Cozy, as they say in the brochure.”

  “Seriously, Callie, you have to leave.”

  “Hey, you still have Cait Sidhe.” Atop an old square wooden milk crate fished out of a dumpster perched a stone figure of a cat with gold eyes. The family pronounced it caught shee. It was a fairy cat in both Irish and Scottish mythology.

  Calico scratched the top of the statue’s head, wanting to fling it across the room. It was the size of a house cat, but not a perfect representation, the medieval artisan giving it their own flair or perhaps just lacking the skill to make it truly realistic. It was a family heirloom, passed down through many generations.

  Each of the bandruí gaiscíoch had a familial keepsake. But while Tabitha got the Cait Sidhe statue, the damned cat had haunted Calico since she’d become a teenager. She saw it as her punishment for wanting to turn her back on the family. An ironic delusion.