Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood (2 page)

“Can you walk?”

The other man was younger, in his mid-twenties, maybe. He wore a sword on one hip and a holstered handgun on the other.

“I think so.Those things...killed Michelle.”

The younger man frowned. He had long, straight hair the color of a young wolf’s fur. His eyes were the same color as a cup of warm, inviting coffee. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken several times and never healed right.

“Yeah,” he said, “vampires will do that.”

Ian didn’t argue. Of course those things were vampires. If someone back in civilization had told him that he was about to run into a pack of ravenous vampires, he’d have laughed, but out here in this jungle, it didn’t seem so funny. Something about the jungle made it possible to believe in things that shouldn’t exist. Besides, what else could those monsters be? What could look so human and inhuman at the same time? What else could have those teeth?

“Come on, Doc,” the young man said. “We gotta get out of here.”

As they hiked south—which seemed to Ian to be the wrong direction—Ian could tell that the young man, who said his name was Dave Carver, was moving more slowly than he was capable of. He suspected it was too allow Ian to stay close, which the old professor was more than happy to do. The young man positively radiated strength. As long as Ian was in Dave’s presence, he felt safer.

Not safe, but safer.

“You know,” Dave said while he looked over his shoulder for the fourth or fifth time, “I used to watch your show when I was a kid. I loved nature documentaries.”

“Oh...oh, thanks.” Ian shrugged. “That’s very gratifying to hear.”

At that moment, a large, dark shape crashed out of the brush in front of them, drawing a small scream from Ian. Dave smiled faintly, though, because it wasn’t a vampire—it was his partner.

The other man with the sword stared at him for a moment, then spat on the ground. “Uh-huh.” He pulled a small cloth out of a pouch on his belt and wiped a black liquid off the blade of his sword. When he was done he pulled out a canteen and took a swig.

Dave shot a nervous glance at Ian, then looked at the big man. “You got them?”

“Yeah, I got ‘em,” he said. “But there’s a crew of hunters out there, too.”

“Thralls or groupies?”

“I don’t know, Dave. I didn’t get close enough to ask ‘em.” He swallowed a little more water. “Definitely vamp-related, though. They got a coupl’a chupacabras with ‘em.”

That was a step too far into crazy territory. Ian could accept vampires—after all, he’d seen them for himself, even if he hadn’t known exactly what they were. But this? This was...insane.

“Chupacabra? You mean the mythical beast from the southwest?” Ian looked from Dave to the bigger man and back, expecting one or both of them to burst out laughing at the professor’s gullibility. “I did a special on it early in my career. It doesn’t exist.”

“Yeah,” the big man said, “they do.”

“Take it easy, Bill,” Dave said. “He’s a straight—you know how disorienting this can be.” To Ian, he said, “
Chupacabra
is just the word we use for any animal that’s been infected with vampire venom.”

“But...that’s...”

“Impossible?” Dave was grinning now. “Impossible’s what we do.”

“If you’re done coinin’ phrases, Dave,” the big man, Bill, said, “we oughta be gettin’ a move on. This part of the jungle’s vamp territory, clear and proper. We ain’t even s’posed to be here.”

Dave grimaced, but Ian could see that he agreed with Bill. He took a swig from his own canteen, then handed it to Ian, and followed Bill into the jungle. This time neither of them looked back. They trusted Ian to keep up.

“You know,” Dave said, “I’d argue we can be here. Dr. Twine called for help. Table personnel picked up his transmission. That’s a human requesting help against vampires. If that’s not our business, I don’t know what is.”

Bill shook his head and swatted at a giant mosquito. “The vamps ain’t gonna see it that way, kid, and you know it. This is their territory, whether you like it or not.”

“What should we have done, Bill? Let them kill him?”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Ian said. His voice sounded meek, even to his own ears.

Bill snorted and said nothing. “We’ll be at the river soon, and we can call the ship and be outta here before—”

A howl split the air, and Ian was surprised that he recognized this one: the hunting cry of a Brazilian Mastiff.

Bill cursed. “They got our scent. Run!” He set the example, crashing into the bush like a deer disappearing down a trail.

Dave moved to follow him, but Ian hesitated. The young man looked over his shoulder. “What’s up, Doc?”

“I just...I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Look,” Dave said, “I know you’re scared and confused, but right now, if you want to live, you need to run!” And then he was gone, leaving Ian alone with the sounds of a rapidly approaching hunting dog.

Ian ran, faster than he could remember running in his life. He slapped low-hanging branches out of the way, ignoring stinging cuts as huge predatory flies bit his arms and neck. He leaped over rocks and logs and streams, dodged roots and snakes. The jungle turned into a blur, a whirling tornado of greens and browns, accompanied by the perilous sounds of barking dogs. Three dogs, he thought, accompanied by at least four human voices shouting in English.

He was running for his kids, he reminded himself. For Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, and Ellie. He repeated their names to himself as he ran.
Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, Ellie. Ian Junior, Tommy, Miranda, Ellie.
With each repetition of this mantra, he felt himself getting stronger, saw the jungle moving by faster. His arms spread triumphantly, he burst out of the forest into a small clearing.

Panting, for a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. But then his brain caught up and he felt his heart sink.

Dave and Bill were on their knees in the mud, facing a line of tanned men with tattered clothes and machine guns. One of them pointed his rifle at Ian and said, “Get over there and kneel. Hands over your head.”

Behind Ian four men burst out of the tree line. All of them were frightfully skinny and dressed in threadbare rags. One of them held a long-barreled hunting rifle. The other three held leases. On the other end of each leash was a beast that looked something like a bloodhound. The dogs were each about two feet tall and heavy with muscle. Their mouths hung open, revealing needle-sharp teeth. Thick, clear liquid dripped from their jaws. Like the vampires that had killed Michelle, each of their eyes were solidly, completely black. One of them strained against its lead, barking and snapping.

The man with the rifle spoke to the others. “Did you see their swords? These are knights of the Round Table.”

“Here? The Round Table is not allowed in this jungle.”

Bill arched an eyebrow at Dave. The younger man frowned and shook his head.

“What should we do with them?”

“Take their weapons for a start.”

One of the men stalked towards the prisoners. Bill kept his hands above his head as the gunman unbuckled the sword-belt around his waist and tossed it over his shoulder. Dave, though, threw a punch as the man approached. He missed and much of his body weight carried him to the muddy ground. Chupacabras howled in rage. The man cracked him across the face with the stock of his rifle. Dave hit the ground moaning. He came up a second later, though, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, his hair hanging in his face.

“Stop,” the man who was obviously the leader of the gunmen said. “Roberto will want these two alive.”

“What about this one?” someone said, putting a rough hand on Ian’s head. “He’s no knight.”

“Roberto does not wish to be troubled with matters such as these.” The leader looked at Ian now. His eyes were a dark green, not black like the vampires’ had been, but they were nearly as devoid of emotion. A chupacabra barked. The man smiled. “Give him to the dogs.” 

Ian screamed as the hounds closed in on him. Their jaws flashed and closed around his throat, but only once apiece. His clinical mind raced back to his documentary on El Chupacabra: They drained the blood from their victims through a single tiny hole in the neck. These dogs were going to suck him dry.

Ian watched for a moment as Dave and Bill were stood up, their hands still above their heads, and marched into the woods. The last thing he saw was the column of gunmen disappearing into the jungle. The last thing he heard was the snarls of a vampire-dog in his ear. The last thing he thought was his children’s names.

Chapter 2

Nine months later

The door to my apartment was unlocked.

I frowned and shifted my newly purchased case of Miller Light in my arms. I never left the house without making sure the door was locked and bolted. Even if I didn’t live in a particularly nasty section of Chelsea, Manhattan, or grown up in the South Bronx during the nineties, I’d never leave home with the door unlocked. If the last ten years had taught me anywhere, it was that you’re never as safe as you think you are. Sometimes even not in your own home.

Someone—or
something
—was in my apartment.

The case of beer landed on the floor with the clanking rattle of glass bottles. My right hand dropped across my body, reaching for my left hip. It grasped empty air. The muscle memory hadn’t yet caught on to the fact that I was unarmed these days. Whatever was inside my apartment, I’d have to take care of it without my sword.

I pushed the door open and stared into the dimly lit apartment. It was dark inside. Quiet. Peaceful. Seemingly empty. My palms started sweating. My heartbeat sped up. For God’s sake, I was acting like a thousand stupid teenage girls from a thousand terrible horror movies.

I wasn’t, though. Whatever else I was—and these days I honestly wasn’t sure what that was—I was
not
a victim. If this intruder, who-or-whatever he-or-it was, wanted a fight, I’d be more than happy to oblige.

After bending to the floor to pick up my beer, I crossed the threshold into my apartment. I dropped my unused keys on a little table near the door, making as much noise as possible. I whistled softly but with a certain bounciness as I did it.
I’m not afraid of you,
I tried to get the whistle to say.

It’s not a concrete sensation, the feeling that you’re being watched, but I promise you’ll know it when you feel it. I think it’s a leftover instinct from when human beings were prey animals, wandering the savannas with the gazelles and antelopes. We needed a way to know when the lions or hyenas were stalking us. Human beings still are prey animals, by the way—but most people don’t like to think about that. I could feel the slight itching on my skin, as some pair of eyes bored into me. There was an intruder in my apartment, all right. I just couldn’t see him.

My apartment was small: the combined living-room-dining-room-kitchen area took up less than a hundred square feet. The door to the bedroom and bathroom was closed, and since I could still feel the eyes on me, I figured he wasn’t in there. There was nowhere to hide in the main room, but there was no sign of him.

Invisible burglar. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to ever happen to me.

Oh, hell.
I hated magic. As best as I could understand, when you tossed the mystic arts into an equation two-plus-two could equal a banana cream pie with chocolate sprinkles. People who were smarter than me had explained that that wasn’t true, that there were rules to magic, just like anything else, but I didn’t understand them, and anything I didn’t understand I didn’t trust. There was none of the hungry, alien vibes that accompanied supe (sorry, that’s short for
supernatural
) predators like poltergeists or brollachans, so I thought that I had a human magician in my apartment, concealing himself with some sort of veil.

I left the door open behind me. Never enter a dangerous situation without leaving yourself an escape hatch. I flicked my eyes around the apartment, taking in the sights. In the six months that I’d lived there, I’d seen the apartment probably hundreds of times. It was all routine to me. The garage sale furniture hadn’t been moved. The last week’s dirty dishes were still piled in the stagnant water of the sink. Nothing unusual there. The mail on the table that served double-duty, part coffee table and part kitchen table, though, was stacked neatly with an OCD-ish precision that was uncharacteristic.

What the hell?
Did I have a break-in maid?

I took another step into the apartment. A fruity smell drifted into my nostrils. I was immediately bowled over by the scent. It was warm and sweet and pleasant, and it reminded me of a summer’s evening, even though it was late March and New York City was in the last grip of winter.
Strawberries
, I thought.

I smiled, then, and sat down on my thirdhand couch. I kicked off my old leather biker boots and put my socked feet on the table, purposely knocking over the orderly stack of junk mail. I twisted open one of the beers from my case and said, “Hey, May.”

The air in front of my fridge shimmered, like heat lines rising off of blacktop on a hot day. My apartment rippled like that for a moment, before the lines formed into a more or less human shape. The lines solidified even more, until standing in front of my couch was the first woman I’d ever loved.