N. Walters - Damek's Redemption

Luther Kostas rested his elbows on the worn arms of his leather chair and steepled his fingers together as he contemplated his next move. His dark brown eyes roamed over the vast array of artifacts mounted on the wall. Crossbows, ancient swords and extremely sharp daggers all used for one purpose—to slay vampires. Wooden stakes, some darkened from years of handling, others stained with the blood. All lethal. All deadly.

His family had been ridding the world of the vile creatures since medieval times, and Luther took the responsibility very seriously. The vampire was a dangerous creature, mindless in its pursuit for blood. It killed indiscriminately, living only to hunt and claim the victim’s blood. Most vampires he’d come across were little more than animals and, like any wild beast, they needed to be put down before they hurt anyone.

He closed his eyes and pictured his last kill. He’d found the creature just as dawn was breaking over the horizon and, like all of his kind, the vampire had succumbed to the power of the sun and fallen into a stupor. It was then Luther had drawn his sword and beheaded the vampire. Then he’d dragged the head and body into the sun and burned it. There was no coming back this time.

Luther relished the hunt, but lately there was something missing. Vampires were few and far between, and those he’d killed the past few years had been weak, barely a few years old. He’d searched for their sire, but all indications were that the three-hundred-year-old vampire had fled back to Europe. Good riddance to him. But still. Luther sighed and tapped his fingers together. Think of the challenge it would be to hunt one of the old ones, a vampire who could think and reason. His blood hummed at the mere thought.

Then there were those vampire wannabes, the kind who sharpened their teeth, wore leather and makeup and hung out at Goth clubs. He’d slain one or two of them by mistake but, really, it was their own fault for idolizing such vile creatures to begin with. He didn’t lose any sleep over them.

The phone rang and he answered it on the first ring. He made it a policy always to be available to his men. They were a small group, but a dedicated one.

“Kostas.”

“Hey, Luther. It’s John. I’m in Chicago like you asked. Can you tell me why I’m tailing some university professor?”

John Barnes was one of his best. The man was strong, both physically and mentally, and relished the hunt just as much as Luther did. “Because she writes about myth and legend, including werewolves and vampires, and she’s traveled all across Europe in her research. She teaches in New York and has no family in Chicago. She’s not attending a conference or giving a lecture there. I want to know what’s so important that she’s headed for the city at this time for no apparent reason.”

He had a computer program that kept track of various academics and writers around the world, those that delved into the paranormal and bizarre. The program flagged them when something unusual popped up. This trip was certainly out of the norm.

“Her name is Sonia Agostino, and I want to know every move she makes. It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to watch her. Just in case she stumbles on to something interesting.”

“I hear you. It’s been quiet lately.”

Luther knew John was getting as impatient as himself, waiting to find the next vampire. Slaying was in their blood. It was who they were.

“Stay sharp,” Luther warned. It was easy to get complacent during the downtimes. “In the meantime, I’ll keep scanning the papers and Internet for articles on any strange deaths or ritual killings.” That was the way the media and police almost always portrayed a vampire’s kills. No one believed such creatures existed and they always put the blame elsewhere. But Luther knew better.

“I’ll be in touch,” John promised and then hung up.

Luther tossed his phone onto the desk and swiveled his chair around to face his computer. It was time to get to work. There were vampires out there in need of killing.

It’s good to be King.

Damek stood in a dark corner of his club, Inhibitions, and watched the patrons gyrating on the dance floor to the heavy bass thumping out of the speakers. Bodies rubbed together, hands groped and clothing was being pushed away to find the warmer flesh beneath it.

Blood pumped through their veins, a siren’s call to him, and he licked his lips as hunger rushed through him. It would be so easy to wend his way through the crowd and cull one or two for his own use. His fangs punched downward and his vision started to turn red. He could practically taste the warm blood in his mouth, sliding down his throat. It would be delicious. Powerful.

And it would be wrong. Damek turned away from the dance floor, making certain to keep his mouth closed and his eyes downcast until he had control of himself once again.

Business was booming tonight, as it always was. Inhibitions was one of the favorite hot spots of the rich and famous and wannabes in Chicago, and Damek intended to keep it that way. At any given moment patrons might find politicians, musicians, actors and millionaires rubbing shoulders with one another. Its very exclusive nature kept the lineup outside the door long and never-ending.

He glanced toward the chrome-and-glass bar where people were standing two deep while all three of his bartenders worked as fast as they could to fill orders. Waitresses moved among the tables, watched carefully by the large contingent of security that Damek employed. People could do whatever they wanted as long as it was consensual. But his staff was off-limits, and anyone who harassed the waitresses or bartenders soon found themselves barred from the premises.

Alcohol, pulse-pounding music, dark shadows and the promise of sex—was there anything that could make a person lose all their inhibitions faster? If there was, he hadn’t found it yet. And he’d been alive for a very, very long time.

He was king of all he surveyed and much more. Quite a change from the small village where he’d grown up so long ago in an ancient kingdom no one remembered. But those days were centuries past, and he’d made peace with his existence.

Vampire.

The mere word made some laugh in jest, while others cringed in fear. The latter ones were the smarter. Many of his brethren were an undisciplined bunch, treating humans as though they were nothing but game to be hunted and devoured, which was why many of those vampires were dead. It never paid to underestimate the determination of the human race. Having been human once, Damek was always surprised when newly made vampires forgot such a basic lesson in survival.

Damek had lived more than a thousand years precisely because he never forgot what he’d been like as a human—ruthless, determined and dangerous. Those characteristics had only been deepened after his conversion.

“Boss, there’s a woman asking about you.” Byron, his head bouncer stood beside him, his gaze wandering over the crowd. “There, by the far end of the bar. She doesn’t belong here.”

Damek often wondered what the man’s parents had been thinking to name the man beside him George Gordon, after the infamous poet, Lord Byron. Damek had met the poet in England several hundred years ago and spent a glorious weekend in debauchery, lost in women and wine. No, this man was nothing like the poet.

This Byron, who much preferred that nickname to being called George, stood about eight inches over six feet, shaved his head and wore leather pants and a vest, which showcased his impressive physique. He was intimidating, to say the least. That was why Damek had hired him, but not why he’d risen to be Damek’s right hand here at the club. No, Byron was loyal to his core, and Damek valued that trait above all others.