The Vampire Hunters (Book 2): Vampyrnomicon (23 page)

“No, ma’am.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

With the barest of nods, Akers turned and rushed out of the apartment. Once the door closed behind him, Chiang Shih stood and moved over to Walker. “Are you sure your plan will work?”

“I guarantee it.”

“Then I’ll leave it all to you. Once the hunters have the
Vampyrnomicon
, we’ll take it from them and make them regret that they ever challenged us.”

*     *     *

Racing around his
kitchen as he made preparations for his guest, Mike Fletcher was practically giddy with anticipation. Moments like this were few and far between, and had to be carefully planned and skillfully executed. Such preparations dictated the infrequency of these trysts. When he did manage to pull one off, it usually ended up as a quick tawdry event that ranked high in thrills but little in meaning. Tonight would be different. Tonight he would be meeting his guest at his house where they would be safe from prying eyes, just as he liked it. He did not need to get caught in the act because he knew full well how society would respond if they discovered his secret—that Mike Fletcher, the vice principal of Washington’s largest junior high school, was a pedophile.

Mike felt his anger rising and forced himself to relax. He despised the word pedophile. It sounded so demeaning. It wasn’t like he had a penchant for grade schoolers or little boys. And he never forced anyone to do anything they didn’t want to anyways, unlike all those fag priests who used to preach against sin on the pulpit, then in the back room would tell the impressionable altar boys “Hail Mary, full of grace, stick this penis in your face.” He didn’t consider himself a pervert. He liked girls between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. They were still innocent and inquisitive, and were only looking for a good time, unlike most women he knew who entered relationships with a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage. Lots of cultures didn’t frown on teenage girls marrying older men. In Japan it was perfectly legal for men to get head from girls as young as fourteen. Hell, an entire industry developed around that fetish.

Mike considered himself a fetishist, not a pedophile.

He knew damn well that the courts, the school system, and his family and friends would not see it that way. He also knew that getting caught would land him in a world of shit, which determined why he always showed great caution when fulfilling his fantasies. The most important rule was never shit where you eat, so he never dated any of the girls from his school, or in the Washington area for that matter. He never used the Internet to search for his porn because that left an electronic trail that easily could be traced back to him. Instead, every two months he met a man in Silver Springs who, in exchange for $100, would pass him a USB flash drive containing one Gigabyte of pictures of teenage girls either in the nude or performing various sex acts. He would then view the images directly off the flash drive, never loading them onto his computer so they could later incriminate him. He conducted his instant messaging of potential dates anonymously from different Internet cafes and Starbucks using a laptop and e-mail account he had set up under an alias.

Most important of all, he never dated at his house because of the danger of exposure. If some nosy reporter or vice squad sting team showed up at his door, they’d have him dead to rights. Or, God forbid, one of the little cunts tried to blackmail him. To avoid any hassles, he did all of his dating in the Baltimore area under a false name. He used his own car, but with a fake set of license plates that he would switch off when he drove up to Maryland. He never rented a hotel room or used his credit cards, which could link him to that city and to a particular time. The system had been nearly foolproof in preserving his anonymity. By necessity, each date had been a quick encounter in a public place, usually in the backseat of his car, or occasionally in an isolated park.

He had been playing it safe for nearly twelve years, fulfilling his desires without letting them become a self-absorbing addiction. So far his caution had kept him out of trouble. Tonight, though, things would be different because he had invited one of the girls over to his house.

Mike finished his preparations, setting up a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries. Once he had everything in order, he went over to the full-length mirror in the hall and checked himself out. Not too bad for a guy just shy of fifty. About twenty-five pounds overweight. A bald spot. Less body tone than he would have preferred, but still in a hell of a lot better shape than most men his age. And with more than enough downstairs to satisfy any teenage pussy.

Something told him that Vampgirl1648, as she called herself on line, was no ordinary teenager. They had met in a chat room five days ago. At first, he had been of dealing with her because of her obvious maturity, fearing she might be a cop. After engaging her in conversation he sidelined those concerns. She had a childishness about her that could not be feigned. He could not explain how he knew this, but after twelve years of dealing with teenagers on a daily basis, he knew a teenage girl when he talked to one. When she suggested they meet at his house for something special, at first Mike hesitated. As luck would have it, however, his wife would be out of town that night. With excitement overriding common sense, he arranged for Vampgirl1648 to drop by at eight o’clock.

Mike puttered around in the living room, closing the curtains and setting the lights on dim, when the doorbell rang. His body tensed in anticipation, and he felt the familiar stirring in his groin. His hands began to sweat with nervousness. Wiping the palms on his hips, Mike forced himself to stroll to the front door so as not to appear overly anxious. He stopped, took a deep breath, and opened it, hoping the risk he took would be worth it.

The instant he set eyes on Vampgirl1648, he realized it would be.

A beautiful young girl who could have been no older than thirteen stood on his front porch. She had an angelic face, with shoulder-length blonde hair that set off a stunning pair of blue eyes and cherubic cheeks. Yet while the face implied innocence, the body screamed slut. She wore a short, green-plaid skirt and sheer white blouse, with white bobby socks and black low heels. A catholic school girl with a touch of whore. The little cunt sure knew how to tease a cock.

“Are you Mr. Fletcher?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.” He offered his hand. “Please, call me Mike.”

“I will, Mike.” She took his hand and gave it a single, dainty shake. “I’m Vampgirl.”

“What should I call you?”

“You can call me anything that turns you on.” The teenager entered the house, stepping so close to Mike that her tits brushed his arm. She spun around quickly, causing the short skirt to twirl, revealing red satin underpants. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Mike practically slammed the door shut. “Let’s go to the living room.”

“Lead the way.”

Vampgirl held out her hand like a Southern belle. Mike took it and escorted her into the living room. Her hand was surprisingly cool. Almost cold. Yet it hummed with a sexual energy. He felt himself growing hard.

They sat beside each other in the sofa. As Mike settled in to talk, he leaned forward and poured himself a glass of wine. He held a bottle up to Vampgirl. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Mike sat back into the sofa. “It’ll break your inhibitions.”

“I don’t need wine for that.”

Vampgirl slid sideways on the sofa and leaned back against the armrest. Keeping her left foot on the floor, she swung her right onto the sofa. With her legs spread, Mike could see under the short skirt. He could not stop from staring at the satin panties and the mound underneath. Nor could he prevent the raging hard-on that strained against his trousers.

“Tell you what,” said Vampgirl. “We both know how tonight’s going to end. And I can see by that bulge in your pants that you’re horny as hell. How about a quick blowjob to break the ice? That way, when we get to the main event, you won’t cum early?”

“Y-you’re serious?”

“Of course.” Pushing herself out of the corner, the teenager slid across the sofa alongside of Mike. Her hands glided down to his crotch, one holding the top of his trousers while the other pulled down his zipper. She reached into his trousers, wrapped her fingers around his cock, and pulled it out. She stroked it, her fingers sliding gently across the skin. Mike felt his balls churning, and knew he would not be able to hold out much longer. Not wanting to waste his load in her hand, he placed his hands on the back of Vampgirl’s head and forced it into his crotch. Rather than resist, Vampgirl sucked him into her mouth until his entire cock plunged down her throat.

Mike leaned his head back into the cushions and moaned. He’d never forget tonight.

Melinda stood in
front of the bathroom mirror, using a facecloth to wash off the blood from her face and hair. Luckily it cleaned up easily. Mike had doused her really well, which wasn’t really surprising. Feeding on a human during sex or terror, when the heart pounded and pumped blood, always resulted in an abnormal amount of splatter. Not that she minded. Melinda loved to be covered in blood. She found it sensual. The touch of it on her skin excited her.

Unfortunately, the blood did not come out of her clothes. Mike had sprayed across her chest, soaking her white blouse. Stepping into the master bedroom, Melinda opened the closet and rummaged through. More than half of them were women’s clothes. Melinda chuckled. Wouldn’t Mrs. Fletcher have a surprise waiting for her when she got home? Not that she felt any sympathy for the woman. Her husband had preyed on children to satisfy his own deviant pleasures and paid a just price for his sins. She would be better off without him.

Finding a turtleneck sweater, Melinda yanked it off the hanger and slipped it on. The sweater hung a little big on her, but it served its purpose in covering the blood-soaked blouse. Closing the closet doors, Melinda headed back downstairs.

Mike lay flopped back on the sofa, his head leaning to one side. He sat in an expanding pool of blood that soaked his trousers and seat cushions, and flowed down the front of the sofa to stain the rug. Melinda had left his fly unzipped, exposing the raw gaping hole where his cock used to be. He had thrashed around so violently when she fed that it came off in her mouth. The bastard’s prick was so small she barely felt it go down when she swallowed. Leaning over, she placed two fingers against his neck and felt for a pulse. Surprisingly, his heart still beat, albeit slowly. He would bleed out completely before too long.

With a barely audible moan, Mike tried to turn his head, but did not have enough energy left. Placing her hand under his chin, Melinda turned his head to face her. Their eyes met. A look of sheer terror replaced his vacant stare.
Good
, she thought. Let him suffer a little more before he died. Bending over, Melinda kissed him on the lips. He tried to back away, but could not.

“Thank you, Mike. I had a wonderful time. I’ll see you soon. In Hell.”

With a final gasp, Mike left the world forever.

With nothing of interest here for Melinda, she left the house, pausing just long enough to look out the front window and scan the street, making sure no one was around who might witness her departure and identify her later. Minutes later, she was several blocks away, safe from being linked to the crime scene.

D
rake called a
taxi to take him to the office because he needed to carry the replica medieval weapons he had purchased at the Freer. Walking to work would have been difficult since each weapon was in a heavy wooden crate. Though going to work by taxi did not preclude him from asking the taxi driver to stop for a few minutes so he could pick up an iced coffee. Now he regretted being a slave to routine. Lugging the two awkwardly-sized wooden crates and his iced coffee up the front stairs of his office building turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. With the drink in one hand, the handle of one wooden crate in the other, and the second wooden crate precariously lodged under an armpit, he struggled up the front stairs. He nearly dropped the box under his arm, steadying it with his coffee hand in the nick of time. Now he stood at the top of the stairs, unable to open the front door or even ring the bell. With no other options left, he gently began kicking the glass with his toe.