Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (2 page)

Meat Loaf’s “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.”

The Beatles’ “Girl.”

Elton John’s “Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word.”

Nirvana’s “Come As You Are.”

Barbara Streisand’s “Evergreen.”

Tim Pepper discovered her last year in a smoky New Orleans dive. He hooked her up with first class musicians, called the group Rave Lafelle, and booked tours across the United States. He was on the verge of penning a stint at Storm, the newest mega-casino on the Las Vegas strip. More importantly, he was securing material for Rave’s debut CD, and passing judgment on her own compositions—three of which he had already approved.

She felt like a rocket.

Just leaving the launch pad.

Headed for the stratosphere.

At least, that’s how she felt until London entered her life.

Vampires.

Slayers.

SHE DIDN’T DOUBT that living people could be traced to persons who may have been considered vampires in their day. But even so, why would anyone today care? She walked over to the window, pulled the curtain back and looked into the black stormy night. She didn’t expect to see anything, but did.

The Jamaican woman.

London.

Sitting in her car under a streetlight.

Three houses down.

Doing what?

Stalking?

Guarding?

Rave let the drapes swing back and drank another glass of wine. Fifteen minutes later, when Ms. Jamaica still hadn’t left, Rave walked out the front door without slowing down to grab an umbrella and headed straight for the dark silhouette of the vehicle. The woman had her window down when Rave got there.

“What are you doing?”

London pulled a 9mm SIG out of her purse and flashed it. “Like it or not, I’m your guardian angel tonight, sweetie,” she said.

“This is too bizarre.”

True.

But not relevant.

“We don’t know what they look like,” London said. “One of them may be a skinhead with lots of tattoos, but we’re not positive about that one way or the other.”

“You’re really serious about all this, aren’t you?”

London said, “I’m sorry this is happening.”

Rave said, “If you’re going to be here, you may as well come inside.”

Chapter Five

Day One—April 12

Tuesday Night

______________

TEFFINGER SAT DOWN on the workbench where Cameron Leigh had been killed and turned off the flashlight. The inside of the warehouse immediately turned blacker than black. The absence of light made the pounding of the storm louder.

His presence here baffled him.

The scene had already been processed and wasn’t about to cough up any more evidence, even if he was looking for it, which he wasn’t.

Something had pulled him here.

What?

The day had been unproductive. Teffinger ended up in endless meetings and didn’t even get a chance to search the victim’s house.

The day had also been strange.

Paul Kwak called shortly before five and said, “It was blood all right—human blood, not hers. I repeat—not hers. It looks like we got an honest-to-God vampire on our hands.”

“Not hers?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’d bet my split-window on it,” Kwak said, referring to his ’63 Corvette.

“Well that’s interesting.”

“Very.”

“Human blood, huh?”

“Right,” Kwak said. “As in a species other than yours.”

Teffinger chuckled and said, “Do me a favor and call the coroner. Have him check the victim’s stomach to see if she drank any of it. For all we know, someone just planted it in her purse. If that’s the case, this same someone may have killed someone else too, besides Cameron Leigh.”

“Well that’s optimistic,” Kwak said.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, the first thought that enters my head is that she killed someone to get it,” Kwak said. “For all we know, there’s a body lying out there somewhere with bite marks in the neck. Maybe that’s why she’s dead—revenge.”

THAT WAS EARLIER TODAY. Now, thunder cracked overhead. Teffinger laid down on his back on the bench, in the same position that Cameron Leigh had been found, and pictured the death process. The wooden stake would shatter her ribs and sternum, causing unimaginable pain. Then it would penetrate her heart and immediately stop the functioning of that organ.

Blood would stop flowing through her body.

The dying process would be slow.

Her brain wouldn’t shut down right away.

Maybe the stake clipped a lung and filled it with blood.

And maybe it lodged against a nerve.

What was he—or they—doing the whole time?

Shinning a flashlight in her eyes?

Taunting her?

Now Teffinger knew why he had come here. He needed to go through the dying process with the victim. He needed a calm moment that wasn’t jammed up with the hustle and bustle and the thousand little thoughts that came during a crime scene investigation. He needed an imprint in his mind—and more importantly in his heart—of what had actually happened here, and how horrible it had been.

Now he had it.

He sat up.

Then said, “I promise.”

And went home.

Chapter Six

Day One—April 12

Tuesday Night

______________

FRENCH WOMEN UNDERSTOOD THEIR SENSUALITY. It was always there, in the way they walked and tossed their hair and parted their sexy little lips. They had an intuitive animalistic underpinning that didn’t exist anywhere else.

They ran hot.

They understood lust.

They weren’t afraid of it.

Or embarrassed by it.

Tripp cruised the edgier streets of Paris where the whores walked, pulled up to a petite blond in a short black skirt, and powered down the passenger side glass.

She leaned in.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

She did.

Very well, in fact.

“How long have you been out tonight?”

“I just started, why?”

“Where were you beforehand?”

“Getting ready.”

“I mean before that.”

“Sleeping, why?”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m your first customer?”

She nodded.

“I’m squeaky clean, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rozeen.”

Tripp smiled.

Rozeen.

HE PAID HER UP-FRONT IN CASH for the whole night. She was hungry, so he took her to Le Tambour on rue Montmartre, a chatty place with a vintage transportation-chic style, slatted wooden banquettes and bus stop sign barstools. They ended up in a long room that had a retro city map on the wall.

“No one’s ever taken me out to eat before,” she said. “On the clock, I mean.”

Tripp shrugged.

“Their loss. Tell me about Rozeen,” he said. “Who is this beautiful woman I’m with?”

She turned out to be an art student, on her own since age seventeen, who lived alone on the west side.

Tripp liked her.

He liked her face.

The way she moved.

The way she talked.

“Do you feel like getting crazy?” she asked.

He did.

She took him to Rex, a high-energy nightclub on bd Poissonniere. They inhaled drinks and she teased him on the dance floor to pounding music until they were both covered in sweat. Then she took him back to her place—a small apartment without much.

No WC.

That was at the end of the hall.

She gave him the best blowjob of his life.

Then passed out.

At dawn, she woke up and crawled on top.

And stayed there until she came twice.

Before Tripp left he said, “What time did I pick you up last night?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know, 10:30, maybe.”

He opened his wallet, pulled out a thousand dollars in American money and handed it to her.

“Actually, I think we were together since about 7:30, in case anyone ever asks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She took the money and smiled.

“Yes, it was 7:30. I remember clearly now.”

Tripp took a picture of her with his cell phone, programmed her number into the phone’s memory, and called to make sure her phone rang. It did. He promised he’d be back again someday and kissed her goodbye.

Then headed out the door.

Chapter Seven

Day One—April 12

Tuesday Night

______________

RAVE LIT A JOINT, took a deep drag and passed it to the Jamaican woman sitting next to her on the couch. “Columbian,” Rave said.

Good stuff.

Grabbing Rave’s brain almost immediately.

Highlighting the exotic edges of Billie Holiday’s voice.

London took a hit and said, “I shouldn’t be doing this. I need to stay sharp.”

“Right, for the slayers,” Rave said.

“Let me ask you something,” London said. “Do you have any powers?”

Rave laughed.

“You mean vampire powers?”

London nodded, obviously serious. She wore jeans and an aqua T-shirt that played well against her light-brown skin. The gun sat in her lap. “Right, vampire powers,” she said. “Lots of the descendents have them, watered down of course—way watered down, in fact.”

“How so?”

“The most common is a dislike for the sun,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. Everyone can tolerate the sun. We don’t spontaneously burst into flames or anything like that. But some of us just don’t like the sun.”

Rave considered it.

“I like the night better than the day, but that’s probably because I’m a singer and that’s when all my fun happens,” she said.

“But you don’t mind the sun?”

“No, not at all.”

“You don’t need to wear sunglasses?”

Rave shook her head.

“Not really.”

“Me either,” London said. “Maybe ‘powers’ is the wrong word—‘symptoms’ might be a better one. How about strength? How would you classify your strength? Were you a track star or gymnast or anything like that?”

Rave chuckled.

“No, but ever since I was about three, I’ve been able to turn into a bat and fly. Did I mention that?”

London punched her in the arm and said, “Come on. I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what scares me.”

Lightning exploded outside.

Immediately followed by the slap of thunder.

Rave took a deep drag on the joint and said, “I’m not a vampire. I don’t have any powers or symptoms or whatever you call them. I’m just a normal person.”

London studied her and said, “I wouldn’t say that. Look at you. You’re stunning.”

Rave chuckled, waved the fire tip and said, “No more of this for you.”

She had never thought of herself in terms of stunning, but had to admit that she had a sexy, sultry face and a nice, solid body. Thick blond hair cascaded down her back—a pain to wash and keep untangled, but worth it. Her manager, Tim Pepper, called her a “man-melter.”

London asked, “Have you ever come back from the dead?”

The words shocked Rave.

Not because of the question.

But because of the answer.

“THAT’S A STRANGE QUESTION because there actually was an incident when I was small,” she said. “God, I haven’t thought about it in years. When I was about eight, living in Florida, a hurricane blew in one night. Afterwards, in the morning, after everything calmed down and we were all outside checking out the damage, I waded into a ditch that was filled with water. It turned out that a high voltage line had come down into it. I immediately stiffened and fell. Everyone in my family said I died. They said I wasn’t breathing and my pulse wasn’t beating and that they had actually gotten to the point where they had given up trying to save me. Then all of a sudden I opened my eyes and stood up.”

The joint was short and about to burn her fingertips.

She mashed the tip in an ashtray.

“Freaky,” London said.

“Like I said, I don’t remember it,” Rave said. “It could be that I just got knocked out for a while and everyone overreacted.” She chuckled. “It was just one of those things. Trust me, it’s not because I have any latent vampire powers.”

London retreated in thought.

Then she put the gun in Rave’s hands.

“Have you ever fired one of these before?” she asked.

“No, are you crazy?”

“This is the safety, right here,” London said. “You got to flick it like this to get it off.”

They listened to music and chatted for a long time.

Then the buzz of the wine and pot wore off and their eyelids got heavy. Rave left London to sleep on the couch. Then she staggered into the bedroom, closed the door and flopped onto the mattress without even taking her clothes off.

The world went away.

AT SOME POINT LATER—it could have been ten minutes or three hours—something pulled her out of a deep sleep.

A noise.

The storm?

She let herself wake up just enough to study it.

Yes—the storm.

Beating on the roof and windows.

She rolled to her other side and was almost out when a crash came from the living room, something like a lamp falling. She opened her eyes and held her breath.

There!

Again!

Something was happening in the other room.

She ran to the door and opened it. Two black shapes were in a desperate struggle on the floor. She flipped the wall switch. The room burst into light. London’s face was wild and covered in blood. The other person was a white man with a shaved head and lots of tattoos. Blood poured from his nose.

Rave stood there.

Frozen.

Then the man sprang up and charged her.

She knew she should move.

Run.

Do something.

But she didn’t.

The man’s fist swung and caught her on the side of the face. Her left eye exploded in pain and closed shut. Then more hurt came, from her abdomen—so severe that vomit shot into her mouth. She doubled up and dropped to the ground.

London hit the man in the back and he swung around.

He punched her in the face.