Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

“You had to drink their blood in front of all those people?”

“Darling, we made sure they were dead first. We didn’t spread the infection, if that’s what you’re worrying about. And the sunlight, it was awful, it left us ravenous. Why let all that good blood go to waste?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Think about it. Those people already saw Jim drinking a person’s blood, so it was no big deal what we did. They probably only thought we were all part of the same satanic cult. And that we must’ve been wearing body armor.”

Metcalf kept pacing, kept squeezing his eyes as if he were trying to fight back a migraine.

“What about the limousine?”

“What about it, darling?”

“The limo and its driver, that will connect back to you, won’t it?”

“No chance of that, darling. We had a previous arrangement with the driver where we always paid him handsomely for his discretion. Whenever we hired him it would always be off the clock so he could pocket the large sum of money we paid him. Even if the police are able to identify his body-which will be hard given that we removed his teeth and fingers, or the limo, which will also be hard after what we did to it, there’s nothing to connect him to us. And we burnt him and the limo to such a crisp before we left that there’s little chance anyone will ever identify him. There’s nothing to worry about, trust me.”

“What if someone saw him parked out in front of your hotel when he picked you up?”

Serena didn’t bother answering that. What was the point if Metcalf was going to ignore her explanations. After an uncomfortable silence, Metcalf asked her how large a party she brought from New York.

“Why?”

“Just answer me, okay?”

Serena counted silently to herself. “Originally five, including myself. Jim killed Henry, someone you never met so I know you won’t be shedding any tears over him, but he was a valued member of my family. Someone very good with swords. I believe he would’ve given you a run for your money.”

“Five of you and you couldn’t handle Jim?” Metcalf groaned, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“The sunlight, darling. We just weren’t used to it-”

Metcalf held out a hand to stop her. The swords that Stefan had cleaned earlier were left leaning against a wall. Metcalf picked up one of them and tested the sharpness of the blade with his thumb. He seemed satisfied with it.

“What about him?” Metcalf asked, referring to Hayes, all the while keeping his stare focused on the blade, at the way the light reflected off of it.

“Mr. Hayes was beginning to put things together-”

“Why infect him?”

The flatness and pure psychopathic edge to Metcalf’s tone left Serena stumbling for words. For the first time she was beginning to fear him. Any sexual desire she’d had earlier was gone and was replaced by an icy coldness that swirled through her body. Once she found her voice, she started babbling. “W-Why? Darling, I thought he could be a useful addition to my family, and that it would be a waste to simply dispose of him, same as I thought with you all those years ago. Besides, as I had already mentioned, I lost one of mine, so I don’t see why there would be a problem adding a new-”

Metcalf swung the sword downwards, lopping off Hayes’ head, then he looked up at Serena. She closed her mouth. She could see what he was considering, that he was trying to decide whether to cut off her head or to make her one of his experiments, weighing how difficult it would be to get her back to Los Angeles if he were to choose the latter. She backed away slowly and thought about the window. They were on the fourteenth floor. She wasn’t sure if she’d survive the fall-unlike Metcalf, she hadn’t spent years obsessed with those types of experiments. Somehow she knew he would know from what height a vampire would die if they fell to concrete, or would end up paralyzed or with broken legs.

“Darling,” she said as softly as she could, trying hard not to stammer-knowing that would be all that was needed to spring him into action, “why don’t you put the sword down? It’s been so long since we’ve co-mingled and there are so many things I’ve been dreaming of us doing. No one’s ever left me purring the way you did.”

“I thought Jim was always your favorite,” he said, his tone mocking her.

“No, darling-”

Metcalf put a finger to his mouth to quiet her and edged closer. She realized then that the window wasn’t an option-she’d never make it to the window in time. He would cut her down before she reached it.

Her cell phone rang and that seemed to break the trance that Metcalf had fallen into. His eyes changed, subtly, but they changed, almost as if a veil had been lifted, and he lowered his sword and stood quietly while she answered the phone.

“It’s Wilfred,” she said, fighting hard to keep the fear out of her voice, although she knew it didn’t much matter. Like a dog, Metcalf could smell it. “He knows where Jim is.”

The moment had passed. Metcalf let the sword hang loosely at his side. He nodded, his expression tired, an exhaustion filling his eyes. “Let’s go then,” he said.

He took the duffel bag and stored the sword in it so he could carry it out of the room without attracting attention. Jittery, her heart beating like a tom-tom, Serena followed him into the hallway. Slowly she got her nerve back, and whatever fear she had was replaced by a white-hot rage. Not only did he sexually reject her, but the sonofabitch psycho was going to kill her-or worse-and now had the audacity to act as if she should just forget about it and go on as if nothing had happened. She decided then that after they took care of Jim she was going to kill Metcalf. Maybe have Stefan cut his legs off first, but she was going to be the one to deliver the death blow.

Jim found the Harley parked behind an apartment building. The building was different than the tenements that surrounded it; grander, older, as if at one time it had been a residence for a more moneyed crowd, but over the years had declined along with the rest of the neighborhood. While the other tenement buildings bordering it were brick, this one was stone, and had a cast iron gate surrounding it with each post topped off with a dagger-sharp spike. The gate was locked and a key was needed to open it. Jim scaled the gate, and once he reached the back door, used his shoulder to break it open. If anyone heard the noise, no one bothered to check it out.

Once inside he took out Ash’s cell phone and dialed Raze’s number-the one Drum had given him. The phone kept ringing until it would go to voice mail, then Jim would hang up and redial. He did this while he walked the hallway along the first floor, moving past each apartment, listening, then when he was done he would move to the next floor. At times, dogs would start to whine from inside an apartment, making distressed, agonizing noises, as if they were being tortured, but after Jim would move on their whining would stop. He repeated this at each floor until he reached the seventh and top floor. There he stopped outside an apartment where he heard a phone ringing from inside. Shortly afterwards he heard Raze’s voice complaining how the asshole just won’t stop calling.

“Why don’t you tell him to fuck off,” a different guy with a smoker’s rasp said.

“I’m not giving the asshole the satisfaction. Let him keep dialing all fucking night if he wants. It ain’t going to get him back his bitch.”

Jim stood silently trying to quiet the noise in his head so he could identify how many voices were coming from inside the apartment. He counted four. As he stood frozen, concentrating, he detected a familiar scent. Carol’s. She was in there, there was no mistaking it. Everything got so quiet then. He kicked the door in and found himself in an empty room. A Blood Dragon emerged from a connecting room, locked eyes on Jim, but before he could get a word out Jim fired off two shots, one missing wide, the other taking off a good chunk of the biker’s jaw. The gang member fell back into the room as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. Jim raced across the empty room into the one the biker had fallen into. Raze was there with two other Blood Dragons, all of them looking wide-eyed at him, their faces pinched, surprised. One of the bikers leveled a shotgun towards the doorway and pointed it at Jim’s chest. Jim slowed down when he saw Carol lying on the floor. Her hands and feet were tied, a gag stuffed in her mouth, her eyes yellowish and in pain as they met his. He took a step towards her and was knocked back by a shotgun blast. The biker who shot him was grinning. Jim turned on him and the grin quickly faded. Before the biker could get off another shot he was dead, Jim’s sword slicing his chest open. Another biker lifted a Glock and fired rounds at Jim, who reacted to the bullets the way a man might push through a hail storm. He cut off the biker’s arm. The Glock still gripped within the biker’s dead hand continued to fire after it hit the floor, a half-dozen more rounds strafing the wall before the gun finally came to rest. The biker stared dumbly at his arm while Jim cut him in half at the waist. The only biker left was Raze. He was the same person with the fire-scarred face that Jim had ripped off in the men’s room the night before.