Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood (3 page)

Mayena Strain smiled. (God, I’d missed that smile.) She tucked a strand of red-gold hair behind her ear. The sight of her made my heart ache. Not just because I missed her—I really, really did—but because she reminded me of my old life. The one I’d left behind in an underground pit beneath the rainforest. I had to struggle to suppress a shiver at the memory of what the vampires had done to me in Guyana.

“Hey, Dave. You look rested.”

She wore a loose flannel shirt and heavy jeans. May was as beautiful as ever, but she looked tired, too: Her hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it. Her gray eyes were wide and piercing, but there were thick purple bags underneath them. Her wide, swimmer’s shoulders were slumped. It looked like it took everything in her power to keep from collapsing into sleep. The sword at her hip, though, seemed as sharp as I remembered. A braided leather belt supported the pinky-thin rapier’s blade.

I frowned. She smiled sadly and looked at the floor. After a moment of neither of us knowing what to say, May forced a laugh. “Took you long enough to spot me.”

I snorted. “What was it, a minute?”

“Exactly.” Her voice seemed serious now. “That’s too long, Dave. If I’d really wanted to hurt you, that would have been plenty of time. You need to remember that we’re at war.”

“No,” I said. “
You’re
at war. I’m retired, remember?”

“And you think the vamps will be happy to let you live here in retirement? You’re not dead yet, which is what they want. You need to be careful, Dave.”

“I knew someone was here,” I said. “When I realized it was you, I knew I could relax.”

“Speaking of which—”

“The strawberries,” I said. “Your shampoo. You always used it when we got shore leave. I remembered it reminded you of home.”

She slapped the front of her leg. “Damn it. I thought I had the smell covered.”

“Hey,” I said, “I’m not knocking it. It was a damn good veil, May. If I hadn’t known you as well as I do, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it.” There was a profound look of self-anger on her face, so I hurried to change the subject. “So I heard the promotion’s all official and permanent: Captain Mayena Strain. Congratulations, May. I’m proud of you.”

She shrugged and kicked at the floor. “It should be your job, you know. Everyone knows I was Bill’s second choice.”

I had a flash memory of the last conversation I’d had with May. It had been shortly after she’d rescued Bill Foster and me from Guyana. For some reason she’d thought that I’d be in a hurry to get back to the job. I couldn’t blame her for that, really—if the roles were reversed I would have expected me to jump back in with both feet. The bites on my neck had still been bleeding, and I’d found myself screaming in May’s face. I couldn’t bear a repeat of that fight, so I just frowned and looked at the floor.

May coughed a moment later, clearing her throat. “So this is a nice place. The Table's paying the rent?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess it’s the least we can do after what you went through in South America.” As she looked around the room, I noticed a bright red cut on her neck. I was suddenly aware of the necklace of scar tissue around my own throat.

“What happened here?” I asked, pointing at her cut.

She touched it gingerly—it clearly still hurt her more than a little. “Oh, some teenager got the jump on me in Bucharest.” Her eyes flashed darkly. “Don’t worry—I gave as good as I got.”

It was a war wound. I should have known. For the last six months, my old employers, the Knights of the Round Table, had been fighting a war with the forces of the vampires. With her new job as the captain of the Table’s Nomads, May was the leader of the good guys’ heavy hitter squads. She must have been right there in the middle of the fighting. She’d be busy. She wouldn’t have time to check on a convalescent old boyfriend.

“What are you really doing here, May?”

Her eyes were sad, and she sighed, the way she always did right before an argument. “Bill wants you back.”

“Nope,” I said. “Not interested.”

“Dave, just hear me out. I pulled you out of that hole in Guyana. You owe me that much.”

I glowered, but she was right. If it hadn’t been for May, the Table would have left Bill and me to rot in a vampire prison. If anyone else had come to re-recruit me, I’d have thrown him out and made the door hit him in the ass. But I owed May more than that. I owed her my life. I didn’t say anything, just sat down and waved a hand in her direction. I was listening.

“Jack McCreary’s dead,” she said. “Shot outside the office.”

“Hell,” I said.

“Yeah. Bill wants you to take McCreary’s job.”

After Guyana, my old mentor Bill Foster and I had gone two separate ways. I’d left the Table completely, while Bill had gotten himself elected Pendragon of the Knights of the Round Table. He was the big boss, the head honcho.

Jack McCreary, meanwhile, had been the head of the Table’s New York division. He was one of the Table’s genuine badasses, an expert vampire hunter and a legendary warrior. If he was dead, the Knights’ chances in this war were seriously damaged.

“That means...”

“Yeah, Dave. Bill wants to make you Captain of New York.”

For the nine years I’d been with the Table, my dream had been to wear one of those little medals with the C on them. Captain was the highest field rank in the Table, and while they still technically had to answer to the Commanders Council and the Pendragon, captains had a lot of power in their jurisdictions. It was a lot of responsibility, and I’d have been lying if it didn’t call to me, at least a little.

But I couldn’t just forget about what the vampires had done to me. Three months of torture isn’t something you can just shrug off.

“A year ago,” I said, “I’d have jumped at an offer like this.”

“I know,” May said. “That’s what I told Bill.”

“I’m scared, May.” My inner caveman beat his chest in rage while I made this admission. Confessing to fear? And to a woman? But I knew that if I couldn’t talk to May then I couldn’t talk to anyone. I wasn’t that far gone. Not yet.

“I know you are, Dave. But a pretty smart guy once told me: ‘When you’ve seen this kind of terror, you only have three choices. You can ignore it, you can forget it, or you can fight it.’”

I nodded, recognizing the options I’d given May when I recruited her into the Table, years ago.

She continued: “I know you, Dave. You’re not the kind of guy who can just sit on the sidelines. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life spending your nights drinking beer behind a threshold. You won’t forget what’s out there. That only leaves one choice.”

Fight
. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t force it out. Whenever I tried to sleep I saw the cold, black eyes of a hundred vampires. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I ever saw another vamp. I didn’t want to know.

“I’m sorry, May,” I said. “I can’t.”

She bit her lower lip and squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to apologize to me, man. I told Bill it was a lot to ask. I’m gonna fill in for McCreary for a few days until Bill can find a permanent replacement. If you change your mind, or just wanna talk, you can give me a call.”

May hugged me awkwardly, kissed me on the cheek, and she was gone. Before I knew what was happening, the door was slamming shut and all that remained was the smell of her strawberry shampoo.

You stupid coward! That was your dream that just walked out that door.
The prospect of defending the citizens of my hometown from the scourge of vampires was dizzying. Really, it was all I’d wanted to do for a decade. Psychologically, though, I didn’t think I was ready to go back into the world of swords and supes. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting my thoughts. Expecting May to be back at my door, I opened it. There was a woman standing at the door, but it wasn’t May.

She was about twenty, a good five years younger than May. A brunette with big, blue eyes, she stared at me with a strange intensity. Her lips were pushed together so tight they almost disappeared. Despite the cold, she wore only a lime green tank top and cut-off jean shorts, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Uh, hi,” I said.

“Can I come in?” Her voice was slow and distracted, as if she had to really think over each word.

“Uh, sure.” I stepped back to allow her to squeeze past me. “Are you okay?” I asked as I closed the door. “What’s your name?” I turned to look at her—

And found myself face-to-face with the cold, pitiless barrel of a revolver.

Chapter 3

The gun’s barrel was like a tunnel: dark and cold. The girl’s eyes were equally dark and equally cold. I understood, then, that this girl, whom I’d never before seen in my life, intended to kill me.

I put my hands over my head, moving slowly. “Whoa. You don’t need that.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I do.”

Her finger was on the trigger. It kept twitching slightly. The revolver was aimed directly at the center of my forehead. If she twitched a little harder, the inside of my door was going to get a gory new paint job. Slowly, carefully, I took a few steps away until the doorknob dug into my back.

“Stop moving.” Something about this girl’s voice seemed off, somehow, filtered like it was taking too long for the words to get from her brain to her mouth.

“You got it, sweetheart.” I kept my hands above my head, palms pointing towards the girl. I obviously couldn’t afford to push this girl. The sight of a gun three feet from your face will make just about anybody reasonable and compliant. I did what any intelligent human being would do: I froze.

Of course, I realized, the “standing-still” strategy had a limited shelf life. Like ten seconds, max. And that was if I was lucky. Any longer than that, and the girl would do what she’d come here to do. She was standing close enough that I probably could have grabbed the gun, but her finger was still on the trigger. Any attempt to snatch the weapon would result in nothing but an expensive cleanup bill for the building’s super. This was a tight spot, so I did the only thing that made sense: I started talking.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” she said in the same slow drone. “He told me I have to. I have to listen.”

I frowned. “Who? Who told you that?”

The girl’s head rocked back. A stray lock of pale brown hair fell to her shoulder. “I...I don’t know his name.”

“Okay. What did he look like?”

The finger tightened on the trigger and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the boom. “I can’t tell you,” the girl said, and I opened my eyes.

I tried, unsuccessfully to break my body down into a million tiny particles so I could phase through the door. “Hey, it’s alright,” I said. “What’s your name?”

She stared for a long time like she couldn’t decide if she trusted me enough to answer that question. Finally, she said, “Krissy. Krissy Thomas.”

“My name’s Dave Carver.” I gave her my best reassuring smile. “Now, can you tell me who wants me dead?”

Krissy tilted her head to one side and scrunched up her face like she was puzzling over an obscure trivia question. She lowered the gun so it was pointing at my foot instead of my face. I took my first breath in what felt like ten minutes.

There was a scary focus in her eyes. They reminded me of...well, of me, before I’d leave for a mission. I could see that she’d kill me if it came to that. The hand with the gun was similarly steady, but the rest of her body seemed wired and fidgety. Muscles twitched in her neck, and her free hand ran up and down the denim on her left leg.

Something about that disconnect, that gulf between parts of her body was familiar. It reminded me of some drug addicts I’d known growing up. It reminded me of...

Suddenly I had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

“Krissy,” I said in my talking-to-maniacs-with-guns voice, “can you remember what he looked like? The man that asked you to kill me?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it almost immediately. “No. I don’t remember.”

“Okay. What about his eyes? Can you describe his eyes?”

“Black,” Krissy said at once. “They were all black. They looked empty. Like a dry well.”

Black and empty like a dry well: That was as perfect a description of a vampire’s eyes as I’d ever heard. I’d been right: Krissy had been enthralled by a vampire.

I didn’t blame her—after all, she probably didn’t know vamps existed—but that was rule number one of monster hunting: Never look a vampire in the eye. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then if you make eye contact, even for a second, a vampire can use them as a door. He can then use your body as an extension of his. It’s called enthrallment.

The question was: Why? As far as the vampire elders knew I was out of the game. As far as my friends knew I was out of the game. I was out of the game. Retired, my jersey number hung in the rafters. There was no reason for a vamp to come gunning for me.

Krissy shook and the disparity was gone. Once more her whole body was focused on her task. Energy coiled under the skin like a cobra just before a strike. There was conflict plastered on her face, though. Interesting. Knights of the Round Table receive training in how to shake off an enthrallment. I’d never had any firsthand experience in it, but they say it’s hard as hell. This girl, who presumably had never had any such training, was struggling against the vampire’s reins.

“What’s happening to me?” Krissy asked.

“You’re being remote-controlled by a vampire.” I figured we were at the point in our relationship that required honesty. “Apparently he wants me dead.”

“Why?”

“Tell you the truth, I’m not sure. But I really hope you’re not gonna do it.”

Krissy’s eyes dropped to the gun, and she stared gape-mouthed at it like she was seeing it for the first time. Her finger came off the trigger. It was just for a moment, but that was all I needed.

I crossed the small amount of floor in less than a second. My hand closed on her wrist. I ripped the gun from her grasp and flung it across the room.

She kicked me, more, I think, out of instinct than any attempt to hurt me. It was a good kick—hard, in the shin. I grunted, absorbing the pain. Lunging forward, I wrapped one arm around her waist and picked her up. We both went down into my coffee table. The furniture burst apart with a satisfying smash. Bits of wood and screws flew everywhere. Krissy lay on her back among the debris, her wide, uncomprehending eyes staring up at me.

I was straddling her, holding her in place with the strength in my legs. Her eyes were darting around the wreckage of the coffee table. It took me a moment to realize what she was looking for, and it was pure luck that I spotted it first: the gun. I picked it up, an instant before her hand could have closed around the grip.

“Sorry about this,” I said.

And I smashed the gun into her forehead.

Thralls don’t get any cool vampire powers. They’re not any stronger, faster, or tougher than other people. The pistol-whip drew a bloody gash across Krissy’s forehead, just at the hairline. She slumped down, unconscious.

After waiting a few moments to be sure she wasn’t faking, I got off of her. I checked her pulse to be sure she was
only
knocked out. Her heartbeat was steady and strong. A little too strong, really, but it was slowing down, approaching normal.

I fireman-carried Krissy into my bedroom and lay her down on my unmade bed. Then I opened my tiny closet. There wasn’t much in there: a few pairs of jeans, boots, and T-shirts. Under an old blanket on the floor, though, I found my old footlocker. I began tossing its contents on the floor. Wooden stakes, vials of holy water, and old books began piling up behind me. I slid a couple of throwing knives into my pocket. Ah-hah! There they were: the handcuffs. I didn’t have much use for them, but if this wasn’t the time, when was?

I cuffed the unconscious Krissy to the bed, and went back to my gear. I found what I was looking for under a bag that had once contained about five thousand dollars: my switchblade. I popped the little knife open and ran my finger along the edge of the blade. The silver was slightly tarnished, but that was okay. For my purposes tarnished silver would work just as well as polished silver.

I took Krissy’s free hand and cut a line across her palm. I waited a moment, studying her unconscious face. Nothing happened. I breathed a sigh of relief and closed the switchblade.

Silver disrupts magic. An enthrallment couldn’t be maintained after it had been exposed to pure, one hundred percent silver. Krissy was free. This wasn’t the first time I’d used the switchblade to get out of a jam like this. It had been a gift from an old friend, now long dead. I tucked the switchblade under my coat, just in case, and whispered, “Thanks Nate.”

Krissy was still out cold, and would be for a while. I uncuffed her and arranged her arms in a more comfortable position.

Then I left the bedroom and made a phone call.

May answered on the first ring.

“Listen,” I said, unable to keep my voice from shaking with excitement. “I changed my mind. I want to come back. I’ll take the job.”