Zombie's Bite
Prologue It
came in the middle of dinner. An impossibly long, impossibly hot, impossibly
mosquito-filled dinner on a terrace overlooking what a tourist brochure would
call a vista and Kit Marlowe called a swamp. The once starched collar on his
dress shirt had gone limp and was sticking to his skin along with the curls at
the back of his neck, and that was despite the fact that vampires don’t sweat. Or,
rather, they usually didn’t. But everything sweated here. Even the diaphanous
curtains around the French doors were hanging sad and dispirited, and the quiet
murmur of conversation was broken by forlorn little drips from the rapidly
melting ice sculpture in the middle of the table. It was a cherub, which should
have been ironic considering that he was in hell,
but was surprisingly apt since what looked like tears were streaming down its
fat little cheeks to splash into the drip pan below. Kit
slapped another of the flying vermin and grimaced. What
genius had decided that al fresco dining made sense here? Under a sea of swaying lanterns, which might as well have
been runway lights guiding the greedy bloodsuckers straight to their own dinner—of
his flesh. He hoped vampire blood gave them a sour stomach. He hoped it
poisoned the lot of them. He hoped they’d rise after three days under his
command, because he had a target in mind, oh yes, he did. The
target in question was visible through the sculpture, the dark eyes, perfect
profile and wine reddened lips distorted by the ice into a ferocious scowl
that, Kit reflected grimly, probably provided a truer glimpse of the creature
than the usual flawless façade. Since his own were likely equally as distorted,
Kit allowed himself the luxury of scowling back. Mircea,
the suave bastard, was having a good night. He had somehow managed to turn a
disaster of a meeting between the mad-as-a-hatter Latin American consul,
ostensible leader of all vampires south of the border, and their own
had-it-up-to-here-and-then-some lady, into something almost . . . Well, pleasant was hardly the word considering
the venue, but at least nobody had died. Yet. But
how long that would hold true was anyone’s guess. Alejandro, the useless twit
of a consul, was losing his grip on his senate, although he was too far gone to
know it. That had suited Kit, since the last thing the North American Senate needed
was an aggressive, expansionist neighbor. Alejandro was an idiot, but he was a
predictable idiot, making him manageable. Until
recently, that is, when the master vampires who populated his court had started
running amuck with what amounted to zero supervision. And soon thereafter had
also run here, and not for the gumbo. Louisiana had become a hot bed of illegal
paranormal activity, none of which followed the North American Senate’s laws or
even seemed to realize that they existed. And
the usual threats didn’t work. Not when Alejandro’s masters knew that their
not-so-beloved consul was ultimately going to be held responsible for their
actions, and didn’t care if they lost him, and would probably prefer it at this
point, if half the things Kit had heard were true. And they were, he’d had his
best people on this for over a year. No, Alejandro wasn’t the problem; he was
just the figurehead his court kept around to take the fall if anything went
wrong. Someone else was the driving force behind this farce, this virtual invasion, and God, the thought of those
bastards trying their usual tactics in his territory just— Damn
it, he’d bent his fork. He
slowly put it down. He couldn’t taste dinner anyway, not tonight, not without
knowing who. Who he was after, who
was the target he’d been chasing for so long, whose head they had to cut off
before anything was going to change. But they couldn’t decapitate a shadow, and
Kit didn’t have a name, after almost a year he still didn’t, and it galled him. Even more so with his lady’s
eyes on him, sloe dark and assessing, waiting for him to point out the culprit
from the assembled villains when that was the problem—they all bloody were! His
eyes swept the rogue’s gallery around the table once again, only to be
interrupted by a picture of his own scowling face that flashed before his
vision. Thank you, Mircea, he thought viciously,
but schooled his features into a slightly more benign expression. Or maybe not.
Another image flashed, this time of him looking cross-eyed and constipated. He
sent back an image of his extended middle finger, which stopped the flow of
visual rebukes, but was exactly no help otherwise. Bugger
it all! The smooth son of a bitch was looking cool and calm and decidedly not
bug-bit as he laughed convincingly at some comment by that idiot Alejandro, who
thought he was a wit. And he was, if you put a “nit” in front of it, Kit
thought, as the wine steward stopped by his elbow. “Make
it a double,” he told the man, who hadn’t been bringing him wine. Not that it
had helped. God,
the things he had on that vampire. God, how it galled him to sit here,
simpering and smiling—or watching others do so—and paying court to an
addlepated blight providence should have removed from the Earth centuries ago.
God, the things he’d like to— Careful, Mircea’s warning
murmur was enough to let him know that he had started to project. Not that it
mattered. Not with the level of incompetence in this— He felt the scream rather than heard it, a soul-level reverberation that caused him to knock the glass the steward had just filled out of his hand. He saw it bounce on the table as if in slow motion, hitting the pristine white cloth and rolling off the side, crashing to the floor like a cymbal to underscore the voice in his head. The one crying out a single word: “Master.” Chapter One “Is
it always this hard to find a room in New Orleans?” Dory asked, as the owner of
the crappy little motel fumbled with his keys. “Nawlins,”
he told her, glancing over a beefy shoulder. And taking a moment to smile
appreciatively at the tank top that sweat had molded to her torso and the short
cap of brown hair sticking to her skull. Dory
frowned. “What?” “You’re
down south, little lady. Got to pronounce it right. Like the French with Paree,
you know?” “Okay,
so is it always this hard to find a room in Nawlins?” “Nah,”
he rattled the door, which appeared to be about as sturdy as the rest of this
place, which meant that Dory was amazed it hadn’t fallen in on its own. “It’s
Jazz Fest. Ain’t as bad as Mardi Gras, but it’s close. Used to be just a local
thing, but they keep on advertisin’, and every year it gets bigger. We were
sold out the whole week ‘till a guy did a no show. ‘Course, he could still turn
up later, but don’t you worry, darlin’. I got your back.” Literally,
Dory thought, as a meaty hand found the back of her jeans. Dory
indulged herself with a brief image of ripping it off and beating him with it.
It had been that kind of day. But it would be a bitch finding another room. “So,
uh . . . so are you in town for the music?” the guy asked, looking vaguely
concerned when his bicep was pinched, causing the hand to magically spring away
from its resting place. “No.” “Oh.
Uh, okay then,” he said, renewing his efforts to find the right key. A few
fumbling moments later he managed it, causing the door to swing open with an
audible groan. “Here, I’ll just help you with—” He
stopped abruptly, having just discovered that the large duffle bag she’d sat
down while he fiddled did not move when he pulled on it. Or when he yanked. Or
when he put both hands on it and heaved. “Good
God, girl, what you got in there? A body?” Dory
swung the pack up onto her shoulder and slipped past him. “Not yet.” She
kicked the door shut. And
scowled, because the action had stirred up the air. The room smelled like
mildew, stale microwave popcorn, cigarettes and sex. She tossed her gear onto
the bed, sending up evidence that the comforter hadn’t been washed since
possibly the 80’s, and threw open a window. And just as quickly regretted it. Bayou
is not an attractive smell. Bayou smells like somebody’s old socks wrapped
around a dead skunk, at least this one did, and the wind was blowing this way.
After a second, she decided on the popcorn and cigarettes, since the screen
over the window was torn and the tiny winged vampires that abounded down here
were being drawn in by the overhead light. At
least they were until it flickered and went out. She
sighed, closed the window, and fiddled with the air conditioner poking out of
its bottom half by the dim light from the parking lot. The grumpy old item
belched like a freight train for a couple seconds, sending a cloud of dust into
the room that coated her sweaty skin and clumped on her eyelashes. And then
sent forth a tepid stream of air only barely cooler than the sauna outside. Damn,
it was hot. Louisiana
in spring might not be hell on Earth, but it was running a close second. Dory
mentally added another grand to the tally sheet for this job as a heat tax. And
then another for the mosquitoes. And what the hell, a third for the freaking smell, because it didn’t matter anyway
since it was looking less and less like she was going to collect a damned
thing. She
flopped onto the bed, having forgotten the state of the comforter, which was a
hell of a name for something that reeked of sadness and bourbon. She tore it
off, threw it into a corner, and then lay back down the sheets. Which might be
cheap and paper thin, but at least had seen the inside of a washing machine
recently. And, finally, finally, she breathed a small sigh of happiness,
because the air conditioner’s trickle of relief was pointed this way. She
toed off her shoes, and felt it tickle her soles. Oh,
yeah. Yeah,
that was better. Somebody
knocked on the door. “Compliments
of the management,” floated through the thin wood. Dory
narrowed her eyes, and pulled a couple items out of her bag, because this
wasn’t the sort of place that had management. And because it wouldn’t be the
first time the hunter had become the hunted. She took up a position to the side
of the door, gun in one hand and stake in the other, wishing the crack around
the facing was big enough to see through. And
then she didn’t have to. “Aw,
come on, open up. I got the good stuff,” a familiar voice said. Dory
sighed and opened up. And found the front desk guy, who also appeared to be the
place’s only employee, perusing the label on a large rum bottle. “Spicy,” he
told her, holding it out with a grin. She
shoved the Glock into the holster at the small of her back. “I brought my own.” “Yeah,
but it’s prob’ly warm. Everything’s warm this week.” The guy swatted a
mosquito, which left a worryingly large smear on his neck. “You’d think it was
the middle of summer already.” “I
noticed.” “So
let me in. I got ice,” he said temptingly, and picked up a plastic bucket. He
held it out in one hand; the other still proffered the rum. He waggled his
eyebrows. “Thanks,”
Dory told him, and took them both. And
shut the door. “Hey!” There
was no mint, but the ice was fine and the rum, surprisingly, wasn’t half bad. After
making herself a tall one, Dory pulled over her bag and liberated a packet. The
latter was the case file she was currently running down, which as usual
involved a vampire. Not as usual, this one was a master, and at third level,
was powerful enough to pose a challenge. That
was okay; Dory liked challenges. She especially liked challenges that came with
this kind of price tag. And the possibility of many, many more big payouts
later on, the kind that could put her always shaky finances on solid ground for
the first time in . . . well, ever . . . if she didn’t screw it up. She
took a moment to admire the official bounty papers, which had the old timey
scrolls and elaborate flourishes of the Latin American Senate. Who had missed
their very bad boy repeatedly when he was in their territory, and had decided
that their luck wasn’t likely to improve when he fled to the States. So, they’d
hired her, because it seemed she was getting a reputation as someone who never
missed. And they wanted this guy dead or alive, with a preference for
dead-and-in-little-pieces. That
suited Dory; manhandling a body through customs was never fun. She
let her finger trace the seal, which was done in red wax like a prop out of an
old movie. She’d never seen it before this mission. How could she have? She
hunted vamps; she didn’t work for them. Well, not officially, anyway. There
were always masters who had ended up with revenants, the mad results of a
Change gone wrong, and been glad to pay her to clean up their mess. Or a vamp
who needed info on a rival that nobody else—nobody vampire, anyway—could get
close enough to get. Or a master who’d been ordered to deal with a subordinate,
only to find out that he was stronger than expected, and in over his head . .
.. But
a formal commission? From
a senate? Yeah,
she didn’t get a lot of those. Or, you know, any, because senates could clean
up their own messes. Senates were made up of the strongest of the strong, the
beautiful, charming monsters who ran roughshod over everybody else in the
vampire world. Senates didn’t need to employ a dirty little dhampir. Until,
suddenly, they did. Or one did, and one was really all she needed, wasn’t it?
Dory folded the pretty paper, and dreamed of future commissions. Official ones,
lucrative ones . . .. Somebody
knocked on the door. She
picked up her gun, and did a repeat of the side-of-the-facing thing. “I
brought mint,” a familiar voice said hopefully. She
eased open the door. And a bunch of the saddest, most wilted mint leaves she’d
ever seen were thrust in at her like a bouquet. She regarded them for a moment.
Then she regarded the beefy face above them. “I thought we could make mojitos?”
the front desk guy said hopefully. “No.” “I
brought sugar,” he added, fumbling in his pocket as the door started to close.
“I found some little packets in the coffee room that—” “No.” “I
get off in an hour,” he said quickly, peering in the tiny slit that was left.
“I could run to the store and get some better—” “No.” The
door shut. Dory
went back to the bed, and picked up the photo that went with the file. Unlike
most, her prey looked like a vamp—the Hollywood version, anyway. Slicked back
dark hair, too-pale face, menacing expression. Visible Adam’s apple. No scars,
of course. Vamps didn’t have them unless they came pre-Change, and even then,
they’d usually be covered by a glamourie. Not that it looked like tall, dark
and creepy was worrying with one of those. That
was the only break she’d had so far. Because this was not the sort of guy you
forgot. This was the sort of guy who gave grown men the willies in broad
daylight, and would probably send sensitive types screaming after dark. This
guy . . . was memorable. At
least, she hoped so, because she was tired of eating his dust. Bastard was
slick as the oil in his hair. Despite a rather broad experience to pull from,
Dory had missed him not once, not twice, but three freaking times already. That
did not happen. That
was not going to happen again. She
was only getting paid once for this job, no matter how many weeks it took her.
Too many more and it was going to stop being a windfall and start edging into
liability territory, even with the heat tax. It was also starting to be frankly
embarrassing. Son
of a bitch was going down. But
not tonight. Dory liked challenges, but she wasn’t stupid. Tomorrow, in
daylight, when even third-degree masters were sluggish and slow, would be quite
good enough. She
rooted around in the bag and liberated a plastic-wrapped shrimp po’boy and a
bottle of Louisiana hot sauce. There was no dessert, but the dime bag of weed
in her jeans would do fine. She was going to eat, shower and take a little nap.
And by morning everything would probably look a whole lot more — There
was a knock on the door. “Oh,
give it a rest!” Dory said, around a mouthful of shrimp. Right
before the door was kicked open, and her prey stood there, staring at her. For
a split second, Dory stared back, lettuce falling from her lips because there
was a sandwich in her hand instead of a gun. And then shrimp were scattering
everywhere, and she was hitting the floor behind the bed with her gun now where
it was supposed to be. And preparing to do the patented
shoot-his-ankles-and-wait-for-him-to-drop maneuver. Only
to discover that the bed was on a platform. Shit! Her
duffle was on the far side, where she’d dropped it to remove the comforter. But
it didn’t matter because the motel furniture was old wood and splintered
easily. The next second a chair was history, a makeshift stake was in her hand,
and she was leaping over the bed— And
stopping, but not because he’d used power on her, which usually didn’t work
anyway. But
because he hadn’t. He
hadn’t done anything. Dory
stood there, breathing hard, the jagged edge of the wood actually denting his throat, and he still didn’t.
Her eyes locked with his, but there was none of the anger she’d expected, none
of the vengeance of a vamp who has realized he’s being tracked and has decided
to turn the tables, no anything. Except for pained pleading, which was so
wildly out of place that it threw her. “Is
this some kind of trick?” she snarled, after a moment. The
vamp didn’t say anything. Dory’s
hand tightened on the stake, slipping on sweat and possibly blood, she was
gripping it so hard. But she didn’t move. Not even when he suddenly grabbed her
arm, because it wasn’t an attack. More of an entreaty, despite the strength
that was enough to bruise the muscle. “Kill
. . . me . . ..” the pale lips whispered, right in her face. “What?”
She stared at him. “Kill.
Me.” And then, before she could process that, he started yelling it— “Kill me!
Kill me! Kill me!” and pushing her into the room. He was shrieking it into her
face, and okay, if this was a freak-them-out tactic, it was a really damned
good one, Dory thought, wondering why she didn’t just do what the maniac
wanted. But
she didn’t get a chance. Because
a moment later, he had grabbed the stake, and was wrestling her for it. And
when he couldn’t separate it from her fingers, he stared around, spied the one
she’d left on top of her bag, and dove. And turned to face her a moment later,
blood coursing down his shirt from a slit in his throat, and a grin of pure
relief spreading over his features— Until
he toppled over and hit the nasty floor, face first, and stayed there. Courtesy
of the stake he’d just plunged through his heart. Well
. . . shit. |