Midnight Bites (29 page)

“What is this?” he asked her. Her head was bowed, and she slowly shook her head. Fine, pale hair had fallen to cover her face like a
mourner's veil. But in truth, he did not need her to tell him. He'd seen such a thing before, in terrible places where the dead had been murdered with brutal efficiency, their belongings put into order for later use.

This cellar was a lair all its own, and whatever beast had made its nest here had been red indeed. From the carefully sorted loot, dozens had died here, at the least.

Another chained wooden door led out of the cellar, and he waited to see what she wanted him to do . . . but Clemencie gave him no sign. No sign at all.

No help for it, then. No way out but forward.

He strode forward, grabbed the rusted chain that secured the door, and yanked. It broke apart with a dull thud, and the door sagged on its hinges. Not quite as rotten as the trapdoor, but on its last days.

Beyond was pitch-darkness. Even vampire eyes had trouble without
some
spark of light, but Myrnin could smell the death here. A century on, it had its own powerful stench.

So many bones.

He turned back to Clemencie's broken skeleton, with the dull rags of her hair still spread out on the dirt floor, and shook his head. “It appears to me that whatever fate your family suffered, it was one they well deserved. Still, no one chooses their family, and this is a vile place to call a grave,” he said. “I'll take you out of here and bury you in a cleaner spot, if that's what you wish.”

He looked at the ghost still waiting in the corner. She raised her head, and she was smiling. Oh, not a smile of thanks, or of relief, or of any sweet thing.

That, Myrnin thought, was an evil smile. A truly, truly evil smile.

“No,” Clemencie Vexen said to him, and her voice was full of screams and whispers and pleas and cries. It was the voice of hell given tongue and lips. “You took away my new friend. You will take
his place. You will bring them here as my grandfather did, and my father, and my mother, and my uncle. You will sanctify them, and their worldly goods will fund our great works.”

I never should have touched a ghost,
Myrnin thought.
Never never never. My mother was right.
His mental voice seemed high and strange, and if he had not been through so much in his long, long life, he'd have broken in pieces at that moment and gone utterly mad. Her eyes had taken on a glow; they were not merely blank. They were full of things he most earnestly wished to unsee.

“Very kind of you to offer,” he said aloud, “but I already have a job. And that of pet monster has never suited me very well.”

She came at him, of course, but by then he was already moving, leaping straight up for the open square of the cellar's entrance, and as he rose, he caught the edges and vaulted up like a tumbler, rolling across the filthy floor and up to his feet and running as hard as he could, because he knew that the little demon wouldn't take no for an answer. He had no idea what kind of harm she could do him, but if she could make the house itself into a weapon, then he imagined it would be quite a lot of harm indeed.

“There's nowhere you can run!” Clemencie shrieked behind him, and then in a flash she was in front of him, a cold wrathful shadow that he only glimpsed before veering away and up the stairs, past the faded photographs of her loathsome family. He ducked as a kitchen knife flew in a steel whirl toward his neck, because while neck
snapping
might be survivable for a vampire, neck
bisection
was not, and he leaped over the yawning gap where he and her last friend, Lucian, had crashed through the floor, and landed catlike in the room beyond . . .

. . . which held another ghost.

Myrnin halted in an instant, because this one was standing facing
him not three feet away, and like Clemencie, it seemed to be a soft, sweet girl. Younger, though. And indefinably . . . different.

“Ah, another sister. You must be—Trothe?” Myrnin asked. “Your sister's already made the offer. I've refused.”

Trothe held out her hand.

“No,” he said. “I think I am quite finished shaking hands with your family of killers.”

Trothe gave him a look of utter incredulity, and then
rolled her eyes
, exactly like Claire's friend Eve might have done in similar circumstances. She drew a line across her throat with her finger. Then she pointed past him to her sister, who had slowed and stopped at the entrance to the room . . .

. . . as if she couldn't come into it.

“Ah,” he said. “Clemencie cut your throat. And those of the rest of the family, I suspect. Let me speculate. . . . To your parents, murder was only a practical business as a means to robbery. To her, it became less a career and more of a calling.”

Trothe seemed to sigh, but she nodded.

“And what do you want me to do about it, girl? You're dead. I'm a vampire.
She's
insane. I don't see this having a positive outcome.”

At the door, Clemencie howled. It was the mother of all screams, straight from the pit of despair, and despite himself, Myrnin shuddered.

Trothe just seemed impatient and slightly bored, which was impressive in the face of such madness. It spoke volumes about their home life, when they'd had a life. And a home.

Like Clemencie, Trothe
could
speak when she wished, because she finally found her voice and said, “I want you to
leave
, man
.
” In contrast with her sister, she sounded completely normal for a girl of her
apparent age. “I want you to go outside and then burn this house to the ground to be sure it's finished.”

That seemed . . . surprisingly sensible. Myrnin raised a hand. “Problem,” he said. “Your sister won't let me leave.”

“
I
will,” young Trothe said, with a grim determination that Myrnin recognized. He'd seen it before, in Claire, who, although she was a bit older than Trothe Vexen, had the same steely resolve. She simply used it in ways that were not so bent on insanity and murder. “Go out this way.” She walked to a boarded-up window, and pointed.

He hesitated.

“I told you that he was mine!” Clemencie shrieked in triumph, and the sound was like razor blades on a chalkboard. The screaming seemed to ring in his ears like lost souls, and he wondered for a brief moment if he was as lost as poor bedeviled Lucian, who'd been spelled into carrying on Clemencie's evils. It was possible that the poor devil might not have begun quite so badly as he'd ended.
“He is mine!”

“You see how she is,” Trothe said. “I really can't stay in this house with her anymore. It's unbearable. You need to send us both away.”

Myrnin gave Trothe a frown as he said, “You know that likely means sending you both to hell. Assuming you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw my parents there. I was there myself. But Clemencie escaped and came back here to . . . do her work. I had to come to try to stop her. I haven't done very well, though.”

“Until now.”

“If you don't disappoint me.” She looked as if she didn't have much faith in him, which was a bit insulting considering how much he'd already survived in this cursed place. “Promise me you'll do it.”

“Oh, I'll do it,” he said. “This place deserves to burn.”

“So do we,” Trothe said. “Don't let her tell you different. We did so many bad things. Don't let her do it to you, too.”

Clemencie shrieked again, and the sound drilled at him, clawed bloody furrows in his fragile mind, and he could
almost
hear,
almost
know,
almost
see what she wanted him to become.

Worse, it almost seemed tempting.

No time left. If he intended to survive these bitter ghosts, he had to trust that Trothe could do as she promised.

“Now, go now!” Trothe cried, and he glanced back to see that Clemencie had broken whatever barrier had kept her at bay. She was rushing at him, and this time, he knew that if she touched him, his mind would shatter like a thin glass bowl.

Myrnin took a run at the window, leaped, and hit the boards with a crash that rattled his brain in its bones . . . and the boards broke away, and he soared a bit in cold desert air before arcing down to an ignominious rolling stop in the dirt.

That damned scorpion, or its close cousin, scuttled at him across the sand as he sat up. He didn't bother to warn it this time, just picked it up and threw it hard enough to send it to Mexico, and turned his attention back to the Vexen house.

It was still and quiet and lifeless in the fading moonlight. Dawn was a dull blue edge on the eastern horizon now.

“You took your good time,” Oliver said from behind him, and Myrnin managed not to flinch. Somehow.

“I thought you'd be well gone.”

“It occurred to me you might need help.”

“Thanks for not providing it, then. You did that very well.” Myrnin stood up and slapped sand irritably from his clothing. The amount of it that had trickled down into his boots was going to drive him mad. Again.

“What happened in there?” Oliver's face, when Myrnin glanced back at him, was less cynical and guarded than was normal for him. He seemed . . . worried. Perhaps he'd sensed something in that house, too.

And maybe he'd been worried that Myrnin would emerge as mad and savage a beast as their vampire quarry, Lucian.

“Ghosts,” Myrnin said. “And I'm about to lay them to rest. Do you happen to have a lighter?”

Oliver raised his eyebrows, but he fished in a coat pocket and brought out an ornate silver thing, engraved with a dragon. “I'll want that back,” he said.

“Of course.” Myrnin picked up one of the tinder-dry broken boards that had come through the window with him, and searched around for a bit of sun-rotted cloth to wrap around the end of it. It caught on the first flicker of the lighter's flame, and he held it upside down to feed the greedy fire for a moment, then walked back to the house.

Upstairs, in the window he'd exited, he saw Trothe Vexen, smiling down at him.

She blew him a kiss.

“That's unsettling,” he told her. “Do give your sister my regards when you see her in hell.”

He threw the burning board inside a broken window, and whatever control Clemencie Vexen had over that house, she could not keep fire from seizing hungry hold of all the rotten, ready-burning things in it. In ten seconds the glow was visible at the window, and in thirty, flames were leaping and spreading throughout the structure.

Myrnin withdrew to a safer distance and stood to watch the Vexen house burn. Oliver stood with him, silent, as though he understood this was a necessary vigil.

Trothe stayed in the window staring out until the house collapsed
in upon itself in a roaring rush of flames and sparks and ashes, and then it was done. Completely done.

“Whatever did you do with Lucian?” Myrnin thought to ask as smoke rose up in the dawning sky, and the Vexen girls vanished back to whatever fate waited for them.

“He fell,” Oliver said. “Tragic dismemberment accident.”

“Ah. Pity. How do you feel about a hearty breakfast?”

“I could murder a Bloody Mary,” Oliver said.

“Two Bloody Marys sound better.”

Oliver fixed him with a long sober look. “Are you sure you're quite all right?”

“As all right as I've ever been,” Myrnin said. He was well aware, in fact, that it was not a reassuring answer. But what was one more whispering ghost at the back of his mind? He had a chorus of the wretched things. It was hard for someone to drive him to insanity when he'd already crossed those borders and taken up residence.

Amateurs.

Dedicated to Kelley Armstrong (and her readers) for her support of the Morganville digital series Kickstarter

I was so awestruck that no less than the fantastic urban fantasy / YA author
Kelley Armstrong
helped us get our Morganville digital series off the ground, and she then donated the custom hardcover to one of her readers. She allowed me to choose the characters for this story, and I decided to explore one that I particularly love and have never written in point of view: Hannah Moses. This is a mystery story with Hannah as our detective, unraveling the story of a girl left for dead and a mysterious peddler of anti-vampire drugs, with bonus Monica Morrell, being heroic against her will, mostly. Glimpses inside the Morganville Police Department we've not previously been able to see, too.

I love mystery stories, and getting to write one like this was a total treat. Thanks, Kelley!

A
s with most things in Morganville, it started with a body. This one just happened to be alive.

Hannah Moses watched as the paramedics rolled the unconscious young woman away on a gurney, and then turned her attention back to the pavement where the victim had been found. It was dry asphalt, except where blood cast darker shadows. Not much use doing fancy analysis on that; the stains had been smeared around on dirty asphalt, then baked in the sun, and it probably wasn't going to be any help at all. Not like Morganville, Texas, had much in the way of crime scene forensics, anyway.

“Problem?” The unctuous British voice made her stiffen, just a little; she could never get used to the way some vampires could sneak right up on her, even in daytime. Oliver was the worst. He got a hell of a kick out of it.

“You could say so,” Hannah said. She turned and put her hands on her hips. It emphasized the gun belt she wore, and she had to use every trick in her intimidation book to deal with Oliver, Morganville's biggest snake and Amelie's—what the hell was he, second-in-command? Boyfriend? God, she didn't even want to know.
“Got a resident who was attacked here sometime this morning. Nobody found her for hours.”

He stood in the shadows cast by a brick wall, unsettlingly close. He could easily step into the light if he wanted, even without the cover-ups, but she thought he liked the drama. “Quite a lot of blood,” Oliver noted. He sounded casual, as if they were chatting about the weather. “Not my work, of course.”

“I know. You're so neat when you eat,” Hannah agreed. It wasn't a compliment, and from the sharp-edged smile he gave her, he didn't take it as one. “She was bashed in the head. She hung on, waiting for somebody to save her. Paramedics aren't giving her much of a chance at recovery, though.”

“Well, you can't save everyone,” Oliver said, in the same uninterested tone as before. “In point of fact, you can't save anyone, in the end. Unless you make them immortal, of course.”

“That's a hell of a long view you've got there.”

“It's practical. I learned long ago not to accept responsibility for things outside my control.”

“Then why are you here? Didn't think the problems of regular people-on-people crime were your business.”

“Everything that happens in Morganville is my business, Chief Moses, since I am the Founder's . . . What would you call it? Man on the street?” She just stared at him until he shrugged. “The girl's one of mine, technically. I felt obliged.”

“You. You're her Protector?” A vampire Protector was, at least on paper, someone who looked out for the humans assigned to him or her—a mutually beneficial arrangement, blood deposited in the blood bank for a guarantee of safety. Problem was, it was too often a one-sided loyalty.

“She was the property of one of my . . . employees,” he said. “Said
employee was killed by the draug during the recent unpleasantness. I believe I've inherited her.”

He said it as if the girl were an old piece of furniture he'd been left in a will. Hannah felt a weary surge of anger. “Didn't do a very good job of it, did you? Protecting?”

Oliver gave her a silent, warning stare, and then he said, “What suspects have you?”

“Have a little patience. This isn't
CSI
. We can't just run a funny-colored light around and find the killer in ten minutes.”

“I thought it usually took a full hour for that, although I admit that I am not fully
au courant
on the rules of television dramas these days.” When she didn't give him the satisfaction of a comeback, he lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “I want to be kept informed. Send me updates when you have them.”

He started to turn away. Hannah took a step toward him—fast, before he could pull his usual disappearing act. “Wait. What do you know about the girl? Friends? Enemies?”

“I know nothing worth telling you. Now get to work.”

He was gone almost before the last words reached her ears. Typical vampire nonsense. Morganville was the ultimate in seagull management style: fly in, crap all over everything, fly away. And still, she'd made the choice, for whatever insane reason, to return here to her toxic hometown after her deployment with the military ended. She'd imagined she could make a difference.

Some days, she was still convinced of that . . . but maybe not today.

“Chief?” One of Morganville's uniformed patrol officers at the end of the alley gestured toward her. “I think you should hear this.”

She walked toward him, and as she did, she spotted the red convertible parked at the curb, and the girl lounging against the fender. Pretty, spoiled Monica Morrell. She'd gone blond highlights again
for the summer. Unfortunately, it suited her, and so did the skintight tube dress she had on. It showed off curves and perfect skin. Even the sunglasses were designer. How she managed all that flash when her family had lost everything . . . but then, she'd probably terrified people into buying all her goodies. It was her life strategy.

“
Chief
Moses,” Monica said. She somehow made it sound mocking, as if it were some kind of honorary title she hadn't earned. People like Monica made it hard to hold on to that professional smile. “I didn't know you were still in charge. I thought somebody more, you know, important would have the job by now.”

Really
tough to hang on to that smile. “You have some information, Miss Morrell? I'd sure love to hear it.”

“Fine.” Monica yawned and inspected her fingernails, which were a perfect dark blue to match the dress. “I was driving by about noon and saw the body in the alley.”

“Body? Last I heard, she wasn't dead.”

“Well, she looked it. Anyway, I'm the one who called it in. So I guess I saved her life.”

“Probably.” Hannah didn't want to say it, but sometimes you had to give the devil his due. “She'd been lying there for hours, bleeding.”

“Can't blame me for that. I didn't get the memo.” Monica cocked her head to one side. “Huh. You'd think the vamps would have come running to the all-you-can-eat, what with the blood everywhere.”

That . . . was actually quite a good observation, and Hannah had to pause to consider it. Under all the hard gloss, Monica Morrell was clever, if not smart. “Did you see anything else?”

“Like some weirdo lurking in a hoodie? Miss Scarlet in the library with a candlestick? Nope. Just the girl and the blood.” Monica was quiet for a second. “I know her. Lindsay. I mean, it's not like we're
besties, but she wasn't a total loss. I don't suppose you'll ever figure out who did this, though.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Well, it's Morganville, and she's just human, so why bother, right?”

“It almost sounds like you don't care for that. That's a change, isn't it? I thought the vampires could do no wrong; don't you have that on your family crest?”

“Look, the vampires do what they want—we both know that—so let's not get all Internet rage-aholic about it. Nobody's going to go on strike for better living conditions. So enough already. Am I done?” Monica waved a hand in Hannah's face that she was very tempted to flex-cuff, just on general principles. Too bad she had no real reason.

“Sure,” Hannah said. “Get off my crime scene.”

Monica got behind the convertible's wheel and pulled away with an insolent squeal of tires that was probably meant as a middle finger, but Hannah didn't much care. She was used to disrespect. When she felt it was necessary, she drew the line, but Monica didn't matter enough to deserve the effort. Hannah had already forgotten her before the smoke faded from the tire scratch.

She walked back to the place where a girl named Lindsay had silently hung on to her life alone, waiting for someone to come save her. All that blood, dried on the pavement.
Vamps must have known she was down and bleeding. Why not check it out?

It was a really good question. One that deserved an answer.

Hannah documented the scene with meticulous care, took all the necessary samples, and logged the evidence.

And then she went to ask Oliver some questions at his coffee shop, Common Grounds.

•   •   •

Eve Rosser—no, Eve
Glass
these days; hard to get used to that—was on duty, and was her usual Goth-chipper self. Hard to tell under all that dyed-black hair, pale makeup, and abusive eyeliner, but she was a pretty thing. Not delicate, no—strong. Had to be, growing up in Morganville. She'd taken her fair share of trouble around here, survived, and even thrived; Hannah respected that. As usual, Eve had nothing but a bright smile for her as she approached the counter.

“Chief! Hang on a sec, let me think—how about a
corretto
? I just learned how to make it.”

“Doesn't that come with a shot of booze?”

Eve's dimples deepened. “Why, Officer! I think it might.”

“Then I'm going to have to pass, and I won't even cite you for attempted bribery. How about just a straight-up coffee?”

“One of these days, I'm going to expand your horizons, Chief—see if I don't.” Eve got out a chunky white mug with the Common Grounds logo and poured from a carafe in the back. “Here you go. Hot and black.”

“Thanks. I'm going to need to talk to Oliver.”

“Don't we all? Because it's payday and he's nowhere to be seen, and I'd really like my sweaty, coffee-scented, pathetically small check.”

“He's not here?”

“Nope. Hasn't been in all day. It's weird. He's usually here, or at least calls.” Eve shrugged. “Guess he's busy.”

Hannah sipped her coffee and thought for a while in silence. Oliver being oddly busy—not to mention being all up in her crime scene business—was something that gave her pause.
Not going to learn anything sitting around drinking Colombian,
she thought. She idly scrolled numbers on her cell phone, considering, and then selected one and dialed.

Three rings. One more than courtesy, but at last, the line picked up, and the head vampire Amelie's cool, calm voice said, “Chief Moses. I'm surprised to hear from you.” The implication was pretty
clear that mere human cops didn't have the Founder's permission to call up to chat.

“This isn't a social call,” Hannah said. “Did you send Oliver to dig around in the assault of a human girl?”

The pause was long, which was suspicious, but it also didn't tell her much. Amelie's silences were never telling, just ominous. “Oliver's business is none of yours,” she said. “And I know nothing about this girl.”

“Then how about this? The girl was down and bleeding, and no vampires came to check it out,” she said. “Must be a good reason why.”

“Must there?” Amelie had a gift for sounding completely uninterested; had to give her that. “I'll have to look into it.”

“Isn't that what you've got Oliver doing right now?”

Silence. Deep, dark, uninformative silence. And then Amelie said, “Thank you for your call. Do let me know how I may assist you in the future.” The same disconnected, disinterested tone, and then dead air.

Hannah wasn't sure if she'd burned a bridge or built one, but either way, she'd taken her best shot. She put the phone back in her pocket and glanced up. Eve was staring at her. She quickly looked away to wipe down the bar.

“So who was it? The girl, I mean.”

“Lindsay Ramson.”

“Oh
shit
!” Eve put her hand to her mouth in obvious dismay. “I know her. Is she going to be okay?”

“I don't know.”

“Was it . . .” Eve mimed fangs in the neck, the universal sign for the most common kind of injury in Morganville. Hannah shook her head.

“I don't know what it was,” she said. “But damned if I'm not going to find out. You see Oliver, you tell him to call.”

She counted out dollars, and Eve didn't argue; they'd had that battle before over paying for things, and as police chief, Hannah didn't like to be beholden to people like Oliver, even for so much as a free cup of coffee.

She threw in a tip for Eve, which the girl tucked into her shirt with a nod.

“Be safe,” Eve said.

Hannah let a snort express her scorn for that thought, and left for the hospital.

•   •   •

Lindsay Ramson wasn't dead, which was a nice surprise. Hannah had gotten so used to assuming the worst that she'd thought the poor girl would kick off. For a moment, as the doctor spoke, it felt like a heavy gray cloud lifted off her . . . and then settled slowly back down as he continued.

“She's alive, which is the good news. The bad news is that there are going to be significant issues,” the doctor was saying. “I don't think there's much danger of her succumbing to her injuries at this point; she's proving pretty tough. That makes it all the harder to tell her parents that the injury to her brain is likely catastrophic. She may wake up on her own, or she may never wake up. If she does wake, she'll almost certainly have severe impairments.”

Hannah swallowed back the metallic, familiar taste of rage. “Such as?”

“The blows to her head could have any of a range of effects, from loss of language skills to motor skills to vision. Seizures would be likely.”

“Or she could recover just fine?”

The doctor—his name was Reed, and he had a good reputation—looked weary. “That's not very likely, Chief Moses. I wish I could tell you that I thought a miracle would happen, but it's not often I see someone that severely injured still holding on. We might have already used up our backlog of miracles. I'm pretty sure that cognitive impairment is going to be part of the landscape.” He hesitated for a few seconds. “I know it's not professional to ask, but . . . any suspects?”