Chapter Twenty
Houston, Texas
A deferential knock sounded on the door to Jabril's private suite. “Come,” he said, his attention focused on the last of his cufflinks. He looked over his shoulder as the door opened.
"My lord, you wanted—” Asim stuttered to a halt, hunger warring with revulsion across his face as he surveyed the blood-soaked aftermath of his master's rage.
"Asim,” Jabril said calmly, drawing his lieutenant's eyes away from the carnage and over to where he stood in the bathroom doorway. “I want the guards who were on gate duty at the sunrise shift change, both vampire and human, in my office ... no,” he said, changing his mind. “Better make it downstairs somewhere. There's likely to be a mess."
"The isolation chamber, my lord?” Asim said faintly.
"Excellent choice, Asim. Yes. The isolation chamber. See to it, will you?"
"Yes, my lord. Sire..."
Jabril cocked an eyebrow at him. “Asim?"
"About this.” He gestured toward the enormous bed that took up most of the room.
Jabril glanced around, as if seeing it for the first time. Blood covered every surface, spattering the walls and furniture, drenching the sheets and pillows. The remains of what had been his favorite blood slave lay in the middle of the bed, her long, blond hair dyed red, her throat torn out and her eyes glassy and staring. Deep, clawing furrows had ripped across most of her torso, partially concealed by the body of a second blood slave, who hadn't been a particular favorite of his, but who'd had the misfortune to be chosen to serve him late last night. Which meant she'd been with him this night, when he'd woken to the realization that Mirabelle was gone. Stolen away by that cunt, Leighton.
A red haze covered his vision as raw fury threatened to overtake him once again, but he fought it down, bolstered by the life blood of the two slaves he'd recently feasted upon. Well, at least their lives had been well spent, then, he thought with satisfaction.
"Yes,” he said absently, answering Asim's question. He was already thinking of other things, like how he was going to retrieve that ungrateful little bitch Mirabelle. She would pay for this little rebellion when he found her. It would be a very, very long time before she ever dared consider challenging his dominion again. “Have this cleaned up before morning,” he told Asim. He turned to his closet—thankfully the doors had been closed, his entire wardrobe could have been ruined—pulled on a fine, tailored jacket and shot the cuffs of his shirt to precisely one half inch, before crossing the room toward the door. “See to the guards first, however, Asim. I want to know how this happened."
Asim nodded silently, leaving his head bowed and his eyes downcast as Jabril strolled past him and into the hallway. His lieutenant maintained his respectful posture until Jabril moved into the elevator and out of sight. Perhaps it was a good thing to demonstrate his power on occasion, Jabril considered thoughtfully. It reminded his minions of the price of failure—something the guards would be learning very soon.
Chapter Twenty-one
Los Angeles, California
Cynthia double-checked the address Eckhoff had given her, pulling to a stop in front of a two-story brick building. The street was quiet and dark as she climbed from her Land Rover; the only noise the sound of cars passing on Olympic Boulevard a couple of blocks away and there was little traffic this time of night. She looked up as she rounded the hood of her truck. At first glance, the building was indistinguishable from any other on the mostly commercial block, windowless and dark except for a few security lights around the perimeter. But the brick walls were new, and hidden among the security lights were discreet video cameras that tracked her progress as she made her way to the front door. There was no lock, just a keypad entry with an intercom.
Cyn wondered if she should announce her presence by pushing the buzzer. When Eckhoff had finally called her, he'd been adamant that this visit was off the record. She'd been at Luci's dropping off Mirabelle when the call came. At first Mirabelle had been nervous about staying at the runaway house, but the kids had greeted her with their usual friendly suspicion, neither knowing nor caring she was Vampire. To them, she was one more of life's casualties, damaged but not yet broken. The tip-over had been when Luci had emerged from her office, gone directly to Mirabelle and given her a motherly hug. It never ceased to amaze Cyn that Lucia could hug a kid who topped her by a full head or more and somehow make the child feel safe again. When Cyn had left to meet Eckhoff, Mirabelle was sitting in the living room with the other kids, watching television.
The door opened while she was still contemplating the intercom. “How long you gonna stand there, Leighton?” Dean Eckhoff was tall and skinny, with washed out blue eyes and hair that had once been red, but now showed mostly gray. To say it was thinning would be kind. He was dressed in his usual dark slacks and tweed sports coat, his button down shirt neatly pressed.
Cyn shrugged. “I've never been here before. Is it new?"
He nodded, his eyes scanning the street outside quickly before he hustled her inside and closed the door with a firm push. “Some bright light decided we needed a special holding facility for vamps. You know, no windows and all that. Then it was pointed out that maybe we should have a special morgue too. For their victims."
Cyn frowned. “Their victims?"
"Yeah, for when they rise from the dead after three days,” he drawled.
She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, these guys need to stop watching Buffy reruns."
He snorted. “You're not suggesting someone should actually study the matter before making a decision, are you, grasshopper? You know better than that."
"Right. Sorry. What was I thinking? Okay, so you're telling me the powers-that-be have decided the latest vics should be stored here in case they rise from the dead."
"Got it in one. You always were my best student. Come on, it's downstairs."
"Of course, it is.” In her experience, morgues were usually in the basement. She didn't know why that was. Maybe the practice dated back to when there was no refrigeration and bodies had to be kept underground to stay cool. Or maybe it was some sort of symbolic burying of the unwanted dead.
They walked past the elevator to a fire door. Eckhoff pushed through and headed down the stairs with Cyn right behind him. The basement door opened to that indefinable morgue smell of chemicals, cleaning fluids ... and something else, the smell of death. It wasn't putrid, nothing like rotting flesh or visions of zombies. But it entered her lungs with the over processed air and lingered, taking up space and making her work twice as hard to catch a breath.
"Cyn?"
She looked up and realized she'd stopped walking. “Yeah, sorry. It's been a while."
Eckhoff grunted. “You're not gonna wuss out on me, are you? Not gonna faint or, God forbid, puke? It'd be embarrassing."
Cyn grinned at him. “Gee, Eckhoff, I didn't know you cared."
"Not for you, Leighton. For me. I'd never live it down if one of my own rookies tossed her lunch over a dead body."
She punched his arm lightly. “Don't you worry, old man. I'll be fine."
He led her through a set of double doors, slapping the flat, metal switch on the wall to open the doors well before they reached them. It was designed for gurneys, so the techs could get the doors open ahead of the corpse.
A wiry blond looked up as they entered, his eyes gliding over Eckhoff and settling on Cyn. He rose from behind his painfully neat desk and removed a pair of reading glasses with one hand while closing the folder he'd been looking through with the other. He seemed too young to need reading glasses, and Cyn wondered if it was an affectation.
"Detective Eckhoff,” he said in a low, whispery voice.
Eckhoff swung his arm, making a quick introduction. “Ian Hartzler, Cynthia Leighton. Ian's the night tech here at the para facility. Used to be downtown, but when they opened this place up, he volunteered."
Cyn studied Hartzler. He was about average height, maybe five-foot-eight, with shoulders that were narrow but square and well-formed. He had wispy blond hair and eyes so pale they nearly blended into the white around them. Those eyes stared at her, almost unblinking. It kind of weirded her out.
"Why?” she asked him.
He raised his pale eyebrows in question.
"Why'd you volunteer? I don't imagine there was exactly a rush for the position."
He smiled, a thin stretching of his lips that bared no teeth. “I am intrigued by the unusual, and vampires are certainly unusual, don't you think?"
Hartzler shot up on the weird meter from kind of to definitely, but Cyn kept that opinion to herself. “Well, they're different; I'll give you that,” she conceded.
Eckhoff made an impatient gesture. “Yeah, okay. Let's get this done before someone shows up."
"Certainly.” Hartzler walked over to a bank of gleaming stainless steel doors, placing his hand on one of the handles before he looked over his shoulder to ask, “You'll want to see all five? In order of death?"
Cyn nodded. It didn't escape her notice that the tech knew exactly which drawer to go to without checking the file or even glancing at the tag on the door itself.
Hartzler gave a satisfied smile, then pulled the door open with a dull thunk of releasing seals. Stepping into the opening, he slid the body out, glanced up at Cyn, as if to make sure she was paying attention, then pulled the pale green sheet back with a flourish. “Patti Hammel,” he said. “Age twenty-two; cause of death, blunt force trauma to the skull."
Cyn frowned. “Blunt force?” She looked at Eckhoff.
"Exsanguination was post mortem."
Cyn's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Post mortem? But that's almost impossible. He would have had to drain her within what?” She looked at Hartzler. “Ten minutes, maybe?"
He dipped his head slowly, like a small bow of respect, or maybe pleasure that she'd asked him the question. “The heart stops, the body dies and blood begins to clot within five minutes,” he confirmed. “Exsanguination would almost certainly be impossible after fifteen."
