Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood (6 page)

Chapter 8

If you haven’t seen a vampire nest (and the statistics suggest you haven’t) then you probably have a couple of images in mind. For the last couple of centuries pop culture has been pushing the idea of vampires who live in huge castles overlooking foggy moors. They don’t do that kind of thing anymore. The other popular image of a vampire nest is more recent, but no more correct: a sweaty, thumping, strobe-lit nightclub full of young dancers and mysterious figures in black gliding around like sharks.

Both of those images have roots in reality, but neither of them are anywhere near the most common location for vampires. You have to remember that vamps aren’t human, despite their appearances—they’re animals. Typically, they like to lurk in places that are out of the way, dark and secure and near a reliable source of food.

Flavian lived in an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn.

The morning sun wasn’t at its midday height yet when Rob parked his Mustang on the side of the street in front of the warehouse, but it was plenty hot enough to charbroil any vamps unlucky enough to be caught wandering around outside.

From the outside the warehouse didn’t look like much. It was huge, taking up most of a city block, and it towered over its neighbors. It had a suspiciously intact flat roof and huge metal doors. The windows, up near the roof, were either boarded over, spray-painted black, or both. It wasn’t exactly Castle Dracula, but I guessed it was the best thing available in Brooklyn.

“As far as I know,” Rob said,  “Flavian’s been here since the war started. There are a couple dozen vamps in there with him. He’s nervous about some amateur hunter taking a shot at him.”

Rob looked like somebody’s cool, middle-aged uncle. He had chin-length brown hair that was beginning to show signs of gray and a soul patch under his mouth. He wore a tight T-shirt and jeans. His eyes, though, were hard and unforgiving. I wasn’t surprised by the anger there. Not a lot of knights make it to Rob’s age without gaining at least some bitterness.

“Do me a favor and circle the block,” I said. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any guys stashed away watching us.”

“You got it boss.” Rob put the Mustang in gear and pulled out into the street. The engine rumbled (a little too conspicuously for my tastes), but Rob knew to keep the RPMs down. He cruised down the block before hanging a right onto a one-way street. The older knight knew what he was doing—he drove slowly, but not so slowly that we’d attract attention from passersby or cops.

Not that there was much attention to attract. The whole block was empty. No cars, no open shops, not so much as a panhandler or a street musician. This vacancy wasn’t like the one at the Table’s headquarters. That had been like a small town plopped down in the middle of Queens. This, though, was like a forest after a band of poachers had moved in.

If Brooklyn ever seceded from the rest of New York City, it’d be one of the most heavily populated cities in the U.S. Two and a half million people were crammed like salted fish into a space of about seventy square miles. There shouldn’t have been this much empty space in Brooklyn. If Flavian and his retainers had been set up in the warehouse for the last six months, it went a long way to explaining the lack of people. Vampires, like a lot of large supe predators give off bad vibes. For most people it’s an unconscious response, like an instinct, but when there are a lot of vampires in an area, people get out. Think of it like a herd of elk—when a new wolf pack claims territory, they’re gonna get gone.

I wasn’t much worried about the bodega owners and residents of the neighborhood. They’d have gotten out, probably pretty quickly after Flavian set up shop. But the homeless people? It’s a sad fact, but most homeless people have mental illnesses, some of which could interfere with the people’s ability to detect the danger posed by vampires. If they’d stuck around, unaware of the risk, they’d have been turned into a buffet.

My hands tightened so hard into fists that my nails dug furrows in my palms. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. Almost three hundred years ago the Round Table and the vampires had signed a treaty ending the Second Vampire War. Part of that agreement had been the outlawing of such widespread feeding except in certain designated vampire territories. There were millions of people who lived with the very real threat of being turned into a meal for the vampires, and that wasn’t enough for the undead sons of bitches. They wanted more. They wanted my home.

That wasn’t happening. Not on my watch.

All I knew about Flavian were rumors that had filtered down to me throughout the years, and Rob had filled in a few gaps on the drive across the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The vampire who’d taken to calling himself “ambassador” had been trying to establish himself as the mediator in the conflict between the official vampire forces and the Table. His followers called themselves the peaceful vampires. He expected us to believe that he wasn’t interested in a world where vampires were the dominant species and that he wanted to promote peaceful coexistence between humans and vampires. Yeah, right. I’d sooner believe that a lion had converted to veganism.

Rob and I belted our swords around our waists. Rob’s was a longsword, fully four feet long but with a narrower blade than mine. I checked the captain’s badge on my collar. Then, we strode down the sidewalk towards the metal doors of the warehouse.

We passed in front of a long-abandoned coffeehouse. The sign called it the “Javascript ‘Spress.” Two people stepped out of the grungy interior. Both of them were filthy, skinny, and nearly sexless. They both wore baggy clothes, had limp hair and yellow teeth and vacant eyes.

One of them—I was pretty sure she was a girl of maybe seventeen—stepped forward and held her hand out in a
stop
gesture. Clumsily, she pulled a snub-nosed revolver from the waistband of her jeans.

“Whatcha want?” Her speech was as slow and awkward as her motions.

I eyed the gun for a moment. The barrel moved back and forth with jerky, birdlike motions. She’d be more likely to send a bullet harmlessly past my ear than she’d be to hit me. The other kid, an even younger boy, was similarly fidgety. Not thralls, then—they lacked the otherworldly focus. These two were volunteers.

Rob’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. I put my hand on the jeweled pommel of mine. Neither of us drew.

“Do you know what this is?” I asked.

“T’sha a shord.”

“That’s right,” I said. “It’s a sword. A magic sword. I just need to talk to your boss. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

Dirty Harriet’s eyes danced with the electricity of somebody on a heroin rush. She didn’t lower her gun. I kept my hand firmly on my hilt. Not that it would matter if she decided to shoot.

“Wait,” the boy said. “I think he’s the guy.” He tapped the medal on my chest.

“Oh.” Dirty Harriet squinted and leaned forward. “Why din’tya say so? Guy with a shord and a big C on his chest. We’re s’posed to let you in to see the boss.”

She signaled to the boy, who led us down the street towards the warehouse. The kid staggered and stumbled as he walked. If I didn’t know better I would have thought he was drunk.

The boy—Dirty Harriet, too—had been dosed with vampire venom. Vampires have a gland connected to their fangs that produces a kind of thick, clear liquid. Enough of a dose—enough to replace a third or more of the blood—turns a human into a vampire. In smaller quantities have a warming, numbing effect. They say it makes sex even more incredible. But like any drug it has its downsides: Over time, unless the recipient gets turned into a vamp, the venom slows down reflexes and fries brain function. They become totally dependent on a vampire to provide them with their next hit. Which, of course, is exactly what the vamps are going for. Junkies obviously aren’t as effective soldiers as thralls, but they have their uses. As watchdogs, for instance. Still, it was strange that Flavian would leave himself unguarded except for a couple of junkies during a time of war. Sloppy.

The junkie pushed open a sliding door. Light spilled into a darkened warehouse. “Boss,” the kid called, “that guy’s here.” He made an after you gesture. When Rob and I were inside the building, he closed the door behind us, leaving us alone in the dark.

For a moment, everything was silent. Somewhere in the warehouse, an old faucet dripped. I could smell mold and old motor oil, garbage and rotting meat. Permeating it all was the unmistakeable, metallic tang of blood. Definitely the right place then.

Slowly, like an approaching cloud of cicadas,
things
began to hiss. It started quietly, before growing to a thunderous, eerily angry noise. Each individual voice was low in volume, but there were clearly a lot of them, and they were coming from all around us. I took an involuntary step backwards. My ass bumped into the metal door.

I swallowed hard, tried not to think about how much this reminded me of the facility in Guyana, and said, “My name is Captain Dave Carver of the Knights of the Round Table. I’m here to speak with the ambassador.”

I’ve spent a lot of time in places like the vampire nest, and while I wouldn’t say I’m not afraid of them anymore, I have gotten used to them. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, and I could make out a half dozen vampires standing or crouching in a circle around Rob and me. Five or six more hung back, like wild dogs at the periphery of the pack, not yet ready to join the spook show.

Rob’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. I shook my head.

“Not yet,” I whispered.

At that, the lights went on. The floor of the warehouse was completely open—no boxes or storage shelves of any kind. A dozen-plus vampires glared at me, most not bothering with human disguises. Venom dripped from a dozen open, sharp-toothed mouths. Black eyes stared with disgust.

My hand ached for my sword. I was scared, not afraid to admit it. More than that, I was angry. I wanted to draw some vampire blood, to replace the blood I’d lost in Guyana. Any threatening action here—even just
brushing
the hilt of my sword—could be disastrous. There were a lot of them and it would take some time to get the line of retreat open. If it came to a fight, Rob and I would be killed.

“A wise decision, Captain Carver,” a voice called from the back of the warehouse. “No one here intends you any harm.”

I swallowed and said, “You sure about that? ‘Cause I’m looking at some pretty harmful-intending faces.”

The voice chuckled, a strangely warm sound. “Friends, the good knights are our guests. They shall not be harmed.”

All at once the vampires stood down. The tension evaporated and the fanged faces sauntered off to rest on pillows or sleeping bags, watching with interest.

At the back of the warehouse, a squeaky door opened, and a man emerged from the foreman’s office. He strode across the floor, greeting a few of the vampires as he passed. When he got to the front of the floor, he bowed deeply and respectfully to me.

“Captain, I am Flavian. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The vampire ambassador was not what I expected. He was tall, pale, and handsome, as vampires typically are, at least when disguised. His face was narrow and his cheekbones were like glaciers. His slivery hair, which was combed straight back from his face, seemed to shine in the electric lights. Dark eyes were set deep in the center of his face. He reminded me of a college professor. But what was really strange was the way Flavian carried himself. Vampires don’t stride across a floor—they
stalk
into a room like a panther. Flavian didn’t seem particularly inclined to rip out my throat. He seemed genuinely respectful. Weird.

There weren’t a lot of things that could scare me just by walking into a room, but Ambassador Flavian was apparently one of them.

“I was sorry to hear of the death of your predecessor,” he said.

I nodded. “Likewise.” Somewhere in the back, a vampire hissed softly. “Which actually brings us to why we’re here. You wouldn’t know anything about the death of Jack McCreary, would you?”

Flavian’s eyes glittered. “Why, Captain, it almost sounds as if you are accusing me of something.”

“You have to admit, McCreary’s death was beneficial to the vampire cause.”

“Need I remind you, Captain, that I am not associated with the elders?” Flavian was making an effort to slow his voice now. “They are the ones you need to fear. My people have no quarrel with yours.”

“Of course,” I said. “But humor me for a moment. Do you know who killed him?”

His eyes narrowed and his upper lip visibly trembled with anger. Damn, this guy deserved an Oscar. “I don’t know who killed Captain McCreary. If I did I would tell you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, making it plain that I didn’t believe him. “You know a vampire named Roberto?”

“I’m afraid not.”

We stood like that for a moment, Flavian staring at me, me staring at a spot on his forehead just above his eyes. Neither of us said anything, each just waited to see if the other would move or speak.

Finally, I clapped my hands together once. “Okay, then. We’ll be on our way. So nice to meet you, Ambassador.”

Flavian nodded to the junkie boy, who’d apparently entered the warehouse at some point. He rolled the door open. As light filtered in, vampires leapt to their feet and scurried away like cockroaches, retreating into the relative safety of the deeper shadows.