Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy (28 page)

I was so eager that Dan had only
managed maybe half a dozen thrusts before I begged, “Please, may I
come, please Sir, please, I gotta come!”

“Not yet,” he grunted, ramming even
harder and faster. “Not yet, baby girl, just a minute, hold on.” He
gasped, the strain on his face tightening his eyes and mouth. Dan
looked like our loving provided more agony than ecstasy.

My womb glowed bright, the sensation
tightening down to a pinpoint of white-hot light, condensing,
spiraling tighter and tighter. “Please Sir, oh please,
pleeease!”

“Yes, now, do it now!” he yelled just
before emitting a long, loud groan. He pulsed hugely in my channel,
and the blinding spark in my belly expanded into a starburst of
elation. Dan’s hand moved from my shoulder to my throat, gripping
the slender column.

As my lower parts throbbed, the slight
pressure on my throat took me to a dark, moonlit place beneath the
trees.

The sweet pull of the demanding mouth
leeched from the punctures his fangs had made in my throat. The
other wounds, rendered painless by his glamour, poured my life out.
He didn’t drink from them, probably because he’d sullied those
fountains with his spunk. He didn’t want the proper openings of a
woman. He’d declared them diseased. So he’d made new ones for his
use, laughing as I screamed in helpless horror.

Dank air, the rotting smell of
vegetation, a sense of terror mixed improbably with exaltation. His
skeletal hand closed around my throat, cutting off the last of the
air I barely took in. And the cold, dead voice that held me
prisoner spoke the last words I would hear as one of Earth’s
breathing creatures.

“He said, ‘Why are the strumpets the
ones who taste best?’”

Dan’s voice came through the gloom.
“Who said that?”

I came back to the library. Dan stood
over me, the glaze of orgasm disappearing from his chocolate brown
eyes. He slid my ankles off his shoulders and leaned close. His
hands gently cupped my face.

“Brandilynn, who told you
that?”

I blinked. “The monster who killed me.
Just as I was slipping away, he stopped feeding long enough to ask
me that.”

“He called you a strumpet? Who in the
hell says strumpets these days?”

I remembered who. Heaven help me, I
remembered the whole night of horror now, from the appearance of
the vampire in Todd Spaulding’s house, to his eyes capturing me. I
remembered Todd calmly tying the bedsheet off, climbing over the
railing and dropping over it. He hadn’t died quickly. The vampire
made me watch my customer slowly strangle to death, his gurgled
screams fading as the sheet tightened gradually with his
weight.

I remembered flying through the night
in the cold arms of the monster, of landing on top of a shack in
the swamp. The brutal, inhuman rape and not being able to defend
myself in any way. How afterward my mind screamed, verging on
madness even as I trembled with eager anticipation of his bite. And
the slow, fading death as he sucked every drop of life from my
body.

I remembered it all and wanted to go
insane.

Anger saved me. Raw fury erupted at
having my life ended at the hands of the monster who hated me
simply because I was a woman who bartered her body for money. I
wanted him to pay.

I hadn’t been a terribly good person,
morally speaking. But I’d never killed anyone. I’d never cheated
anyone out of anything. And I’d had dreams, dreams that included
leaving being an escort behind. Given time, maybe I would have
worked past my issues with commitment. Found a nice man. Married.
Had children.

The bastard had stolen those
opportunities from me. And I’m very much an eye-for-an-eye
gal.

I pushed against Dan, forcing him to
let me up off the desk. Ready to do battle, I wore the
military-like outfit Linda Hamilton stomped around in the movie
Terminator 2. I didn’t have the oversized gun she’d kicked butt
with, but that was okay. I was going to find that long-toothed
jerk’s carcass and stake him out in the sun. No bullets
required.

“Dan, let’s go to the police station.”
He’d never believe who the Ripper was, so I had to rub his nose in
the evidence. He had to see for himself.

My Marlboro Man frowned. “I’m not so
sure you should leave the protection of the library. Why are you
dressed like that?”

I waved at him impatiently. “It’s
daylight now. I’ll be fine. Come on Dan, I want to show you
something.”

He regarded me uncertainly, but seeing
my resolve, he finally nodded. “Okay, okay, but I’m driving. Your
aim still isn’t that good.”

“Whatever,” I tried to say, but we were
already in transit.

A few minutes later, we were standing
in front of the dry erase board in the empty homicide division of
Fulton Falls’ Police Department. Everyone was apparently out
solving crimes and saving the innocent citizenry of my
hometown.

Nothing much had changed except the
addition of the latest victim’s picture and notes scrawled about
the crime scene. But I didn’t need to see any of this. Dan
did.

He scowled as he looked over the notes.
“Damn it, Brandilynn.”

I gave him a look, and he rolled his
eyes.

“Excuse me. Will darn it make you
happy? If you remember something important, spill
already.”

I pointed at the scribbles made by
Agents Neuhaus and Heany. “Look at the characteristics of the
killer. Older vamp. Hates women. They got the bit about him being
unknown to Tristan wrong though. Everyone knows the Ripper. He’s
been here long enough to be comfortable to hire Erica and her ghoul
squad.”

Dan shrugged. “Fine, Nancy Drew. You
think you know who he is.”

“I know exactly who the Fulton Falls
Ripper is.” I let him digest that little nugget and then ticked off
the points on my fingers. “I remember the whole thing now. I was
unable to move while Todd hung himself at the vampire’s command.
The killer flew me to the swamp where he bit and drained me. Just
before I died, he made the statement about strumpets tasting so
good.”

Dan pursed his lips. “You were found in
the woods sixty miles from the nearest swamp.”

I gave him a bitter smile. “Not too far
for a well-fed bloodsucker to fly though, is it? Besides, as the
saying goes, you don’t poop where you eat. It’s no surprise he
dumped my body elsewhere. He likes his victims to be found, for his
judgments to be seen, and the swamp is too good at hiding
things.”

Dan’s eyes widened. “The Judge is
looking for an unknown vampire in the swamp. We need to warn
him.”

“Indeed he is. But there’s one last
thing, Dan.”

“What?”

“After I died, you brought me to the
hotel to meet with Tristan and his staff. Remember
that?”

“Yes.”

“That first meeting with the Judge, he
called me a strumpet.”

Dan stared at me. He shook his head
slowly from side to side even as reluctant realization bled into
his eyes. “It can’t be, Brandilynn. You’re wrong. Next to Patricia,
he’s Tristan’s most trusted assistant.”

“That’s why no one suspects him.” I
gestured at the notes on the boards. “Look at the facts. Look at
the personality. Then look at me. I saw his face, Dan. The Judge
killed me and all these other women. Tell me you don’t believe
that.”

Horrified one instant, furious the
next, Dan grabbed my hand. “We need to find Tristan and
Patricia.”

* * * *

We popped into the King George, bugging
everyone we encountered about Tristan and Patricia’s whereabouts.
It was still early in the day, but we needed to find them before
they – and the Judge – went vamp for the night.

“What do you think will happen when
Tristan finds out?” I asked Dan as we swept the hotel’s ground
floor. I had to run to keep up with his long strides.

“He’ll want proof. The Judge has been
part of Tristan’s inner circle for only a couple years, but he’s
trusted with a lot.”

“A couple years, huh?”

Dan tossed a glance at me. “Just about
the time the murders began in Fulton Falls.”

We didn’t check every single room, but
we did look around enough and talk to plenty of people to be
reassured the siblings weren’t at the hotel. Dan didn’t pause to
think about his next move. “Let’s try the theater.”

Before I could ask what he was talking
about, he grabbed my hand and we blurred to that
location.

Fulton Falls’ Ritz Theater had been a
crumbling wreck only ten years prior, its former grandeur losing
the fight against neglect. The whole Main Street of downtown, once
a hub of Woolworth’s and a drugstore with a real soda fountain, had
gone the path of so many downtowns in the wake of the shopping mall
and Wal-Mart. Then the Concerned Citizens Contingent, determined to
restore the dilapidated area to its former glory, came at the
county commission armed with petitions. Their biggest champion to
the cause was none other than Commissioner Tristan Keith, who’d not
only backed their plans, but led fundraisers to revitalize Main
Street and bring the businesses back.

Woolworth’s was gone, as well as the
drugstore that had boasted a real soda fountain once upon a time.
Alman’s Young Ladies’ Apparel, where my mother had bought my sister
and I matching white lace dresses for long ago Easters, was also
firmly lost to the past. Replacing them were locally owned
restaurants, antique stores, a fine art

gallery, and a really good wine and
cheese shop. Tiny landscaped squares with fountains rose between
the more widely-spaced buildings, and people often lingered there
with picnic lunches, or buskers set up to entertain with music,
magic and balloon animals.

The Ritz remained, restored to its
1950’s glory. Even the original rusted marquee had been overhauled
rather than replaced, and the big light bulbs shone at night once
more when theater season got underway or when a musical recital was
held there.

Dan brought me to the old theater, and
I gasped to find myself at the bottom of the Ritz’s grand staircase
with the massive chandelier overhead. The mauve walls hung with
original art and gold decorative trim were a sumptuous feast for
the eyes. You could almost believe you would go from the lobby into
the theater and be transported back to a time when vaudeville
ruled. The Ritz was the crown jewel of downtown’s
revitalization.

A soaring soprano from the auditorium
implored us to think of her, a song that was familiar but I
couldn’t quite place. The season had ended prior to my death with a
hilarious British comedy set in a fur shop. I couldn’t imagine why
a musical would begin rehearsing in March when the new season
didn’t start until October.

It suddenly occurred to me that maybe
the singer wasn’t among the living. We were above ground, but
perhaps the Ritz had a second life, one not seen among the still
breathing. “Shows are done here?” I asked Dan.

He nodded. “We have quite an ensemble
cast among the dead. They’re performing Phantom next
month.”

“How appropriate,” I sniffed, but I
couldn’t deny I looked forward to it. I adore the
theater.

Dan led the way to the auditorium,
where the only ones there were the singer and a man I supposed to
be the director. The soprano sang to the empty seats as if an
audience filled it, hanging on to her every note. The director sat
midway in the seats, his eyes closed as he listened to
her.

Seeing no one else, we backed out
silently. Once we had descended the staircase, Dan explained,
“Tristan and Patricia love the rehearsals as much as the
performances. I thought they might be here, but no sign of
them.”

“Where else could they be?” Weariness
replaced my earlier excitement.

“I can think of two more places. Hold
on.”

He transported us next to the county
commission offices. Only daytime denizens haunted those hallways.
Our next stop was a real surprise.

Sea breeze made the leaves of the giant
Southern oaks rustle, but they didn’t dare fall on the pristine
carpet of trimmed lawn. I looked out at the yachts plying the
waterway before me, at the cyclists rolling down the shaded bike
path that wandered the nearby waterfront. We were on Goose Creek
Island, a state park and former playground of train barons,
financiers and shipping magnates.

I turned to look at Sanderson Cottage
behind me. Imagine the most precious Victorian dollhouse ever
constructed, with cream-colored gingerbread trim, sapphire shutters
and roof, and carnation pink walls. Now blow it up to life size,
and you have

Sanderson Cottage, the
turn-of-the-century winter home of Josiah Sanderson, the former
king of shipping for the eastern seaboard. One of a dozen cottages
that dotted the north end of the island, it was a popular tourist
attraction.

The ‘cottages’, which were bigger than
most people’s houses, all belonged to the state now. As I watched,
a trolley full of tourists pulled up. People tumbled out, snapping
pictures of pretty Sanderson Cottage and the large hump of ground
that rose improbably on the otherwise impeccable front
lawn.