The Darkest Colors: Children of Asmodeus

By David M. Bachman

Keith Meyer’s job was simply to track down rogue vampires and bring them in ... or kill them. Simple, of course, until his boss committed the team to the most lucrative and dangerous job of all: to take down an entire bloodline of royal vampires. It was a very tall order, not only because of the risks involved but also because these were not actually rogue vampires. Monitoring their targets in advance, he was beginning to realize that this job was far more than he could reasonably handle, both logistically and morally. As a soldier, he’d always known where the line was drawn, but tracking and killing vampires as a civilian was a messy, chaotic business. Where would he draw the line now, and just how far was he willing to push things to find out? "The Darkest Colors: Children of Asmodeus" is the third part in the original trilogy in the Raina series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David M. Bachman
• Release date: Sep 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301035724

David M. Bachman

Born in the Midwest, and an avid writer since the age of 13, David M. Bachman's works of fiction span over 25 years. His first published work, "When Raindrops Come Crashing," marked the start of his foray into publishing in December 2000. Since then, he has written a number of other fiction novels and short stories, including the carefully-crafted "Raina Fallamhain" series that has involved well over a full decade of composition and over nine full-length novels. He currently resides in the East Valley area of Phoenix, AZ, where many of his recent stories are based.

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The Darkest Colors: Children of Asmodeus

By David M. Bachman

Copyright 2012 David M. Bachman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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Chapter One

As soon as he saw her, he knew that he had to have her. She looked a bit mature for the average age of most folks there in the club, aside from the bartender, but she definitely looked like a seasoned member of the scene. She didn’t look to be that old, but she carried herself with a very laid-back, casual, relaxed demeanor that was not faked or pretentious like the acts put on by the younger ones there. Whether she was twenty-one or forty-one was not really any of his concern. What mattered to him was that she was exactly who and what he needed. The fact that she also was absolutely gorgeous didn’t hurt.

With undisguised interest, he had watched her make her way through the club. There were plenty of other people here, enough noise and people jumping and bumping and grinding around to the music. He knew she would never notice him scoping her out from the far corner. Dark hair, dark eyes, she was dressed like one of those intellectual gals that had made the transition from coffeehouse poetry snob to nonconformist Goth club regular. While he had never been to this club before, she looked perfectly at home from the moment she’d walked in. Being a fresh face to the scene might either work for or against him, depending on what kind of gal she turned out to be when he talked with her. He knew his window of opportunity would be brief, so he immediately arose and approached the bar to take a seat beside her. She turned to face him with a rather bored, tired, and almost vaguely annoyed expression. She forced a cynical smile to curve her burgundy lips.

Hey, she said quite simply.

Hey, he replied with a smirk, taking the same casual tone. You here to dance or to watch?

To watch, she answered. I don’t dance.

That’s too bad. I was about to ask you to join me on the floor.

She shrugged. You could always buy me a drink.

Sure. What’re you having?

It’s already on the way, she replied calmly, folding up the ten-dollar bill she’d been holding before slipping it back into her tiny black purse. I’ve got a thing for the house wine.

So, I take it you come here a lot?

Every now and then, yeah. It depends on where my job takes me. I’m only planning to be here for the next day or so before I have to head out again, she explained as the bartender came over with a glass of red wine for her.

He casually flipped a twenty onto the bar and asked for a glass of the same. The short-haired, mature blonde bartender gave a smile and a nod before taking the twenty and heading off to fill another glass.

I’m Rick, by the way, he said, offering his hand.

She took his hand and gave it a brief but firm, confident pump as she replied, Karen. Nice to meet you.

So, what kind of business brings you out to these parts, Karen?

She rolled her eyes and let out a slight chuckle. If I told you, you’d probably just run away screaming.

Let me guess. You sell Bibles?

No, not exactly.

Vacuum cleaners?

Nope.

You’re a Mormon.

She lowered her chin and looked up at him with a displeased look as she held up her glass of wine. Do I look like a goddamned Mormon?

Sorry, just running down the list of possibilities.

Let’s just say that I love my job and I love my pay, Karen said, but I hate to talk about work when I’m off the clock.

Fair enough.

How about you?

He shrugged. Same as you. I go here to get away from my job.

The bartender returned with the second glass of wine and change for his twenty. He left her a five for a tip. Karen raised her glass high in a toast, and he went with the gesture.

To the day jobs that finance our nightlife, she declared. May the two never cross paths.

Amen to that, he answered as their glasses clinked together lightly.

He expected her to be the sipping type. Instead, Karen tilted her head back and promptly downed the full glass in a few quick, deep gulps before setting it back down upon the worn old polished wood of the bar.

Jesus, he laughed, did you actually even taste a drop of that?

Karen shrugged. I slow down a little after the second drink. You smoke?

Only after sex, he said with a smirk.

Then maybe you’re the one that needs to slow down.

He blinked at her. What?

Friction?

Oh, he responded, pretending to get it. He still had no idea. She waved it off.

Never mind. Wanna come outside with me while I burn a quick one?

He shrugged and gulped down the contents of his own glass before setting it down and nodding towards the front door. The wine wasn’t bad – definitely not great, but far from horrible. He wasn’t sure if it really was going to be this easy with this chick, or if it was going to take a bit more work to really get her alone. She sure seemed to be going for it. He didn’t have a game, nor did he have a set routine that he used to pick up his midnight treats. He just followed his instincts. He’d always been good at that. The only times it had gotten him into trouble had been the two times when he’d almost been caught by a jealous husband, and the one woman that had shown him one night of pleasure in exchange for a lifetime of hell. Although now that he had more or less refined the acquisition phase of his hobby to a near-science, that hell was becoming more and more tolerable.

He wasn’t all that bad to look at, or so he had been told. He was what most women seemed to be after – tall, dark, handsome, lean, and a sharp dresser – and he knew how to talk them up. As long as he was carefully selective, he could always get what he wanted … or rather, what he needed. In this case, Karen was both what he wanted and needed. Survival was one thing, but the thought of getting her in the sack would be a helluva treat. She sure did seem to have a lot more potential than the others he’d been hooking up with and taking down lately. She wasn’t fat, ugly, or desperate by any means. She was selective. And, thus far, she seemed to approve of him.

Okay, so maybe it really could be this easy sometimes. Everyone got lucky now and then, right?

These new laws are a damned joke, she complained bitterly as they headed outside into the steady drizzle of a rainy Missouri night in August. They pass these laws to ban smoking in public places, but then they force us to stand out here in the rain. Death by lung cancer or pneumonia, either way you lose.

I guess that's the idea. Killing off smokers one way or another, right?

She dug around in her purse for a few moments, then briefly checked the pockets of her coat before letting out an annoyed huff and flopping her hands to her sides.

Shit. I left my smokes in the car, she said as she turned toward him. Look, I know this’ll probably sound really lame, but could you come with me? This club is okay inside, but the wildlife outside here is a little too wild for me, y’know?

He hesitated. Well, ah … are you sure that’s a good idea?

Why not? She smiled broadly at him. You look like a big, strong, strapping young lad. Can I trust you to stop any bad guys from jumping me?

This part was always difficult. They usually picked up on it right away, but apparently Karen had not. Of course, he had been practicing a lot at keeping his teeth concealed by talking in front of a mirror, so maybe it was paying off. Perhaps it was stupid to be this honest, but he figured the odds of spooking her would be lower if she knew what he was before they left the place together. The last thing he needed was for her to panic and try to jump out of a moving car.

You, ah … you do know that I’m a vampire, right?

Duh! she quipped, rolling her eyes. Why else do you think I invited you out here with me? Odds are that I’m safer taking my chances with you than going out here alone and getting mugged by a random gang of crack heads.

Oh. So, ah … lucky guess?

Hardly! The pale skin, the blown pupils, and the lack of facial hair were kind dead giveaways, she informed him with a gesture to his face. Plus I saw your fangs when we were talking. It’s not like you’re not the first vampire I’ve ever met in my life.

Oh, ah … well, that’s kind of a relief, he said as he followed her down the sidewalk around to the alleyway parking lot, their shoes splashing softly in the shallow puddles that had gathered upon on the sidewalk. Just wanted to be sure. Y’know … so there’s no misunderstanding.

Nope, she said as she walked on, no misunderstanding at all.

He could hardly believe his luck. She was practically giving him a green light. Unfortunately for her, her theory about being safer with him was completely off, but he wasn’t going to point that fact out to her. Of course, he had to be on his toes with this gal. If she was seasoned enough to have so easily spotted the fact that he was a Commoner, then there was a pretty good chance she could be packing some protection – garlic-pepper spray, silver-plated knife, a pistol with silver-jacketed bullets, or something else along those lines.

She led him across the narrow alleyway parking lot to a late-Eighties, beige Mercury Grand Marquis with darkly tinted windows. As she went around to the driver’s door to poke in her key, he waited back by the rear bumper. The car had an Arizona license plate on it, which was quite a long drive away from where they now stood in Kansas City. Atop that, she didn’t sound like she was from the West Coast or even the Midwest, but rather from the Northeast – a New York or Jersey Italian gal, he figured. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d hinted that her job involved a lot of traveling. He wondered what the hell kind of a sales or marketing or whatever job would take her completely from one end of the country to the other … and in an old car like this one, no less. It didn’t matter much, though. He’d be putting an end to her travels soon enough.

He watched with great interest as she bent over to reach inside the car. Damn, she had one hell of a nice ass. He could already imagine what it was going to be like to be all up in that. He would be finding out soon enough, one way or another. He was hoping she’d go along with this willingly so that he didn’t have to do things the hard way, because it always made things so much more pleasant. But at this point, he’d committed himself enough that he had to follow through with it all the way, whether it was pleasant or not. He couldn’t afford to hang out inside that club with her for very long. Too many people would see them together, and too many people would remember him. He wanted to be long gone by the time anyone started to miss her, and to have settled into yet another city and started another hunt before they ever found her body … if they ever found her body at all, of course. The Missouri River was only a few blocks away from that club, after all.

She backed up a bit and peeked around the corner from the center pillar of the open car door. Too easily, she caught where his eyes had been focused, and she grinned. Karen gave that heart-shaped ass a deliberate shake.

See something you like? she asked playfully.

Absolutely.

Then what’re you doing all the way back there? Karen reached down with her right hand and slowly, teasingly began to pull up the hem of her modest black skirt, showing the top of her dark sheer stockings.

Nice.

You wanna go?

Hell yes!

Okay then, she said, calmly turning around to face him with a large pistol clasped in both hands, let’s go.

His heart skipped a beat. He took a half step back and then froze as she aimed the large-framed, black, semi-automatic pistol at his chest. He should have seen this coming. Nobody was ever that lucky. He’d been doing this too long to make a mistake that stupid. He’d been thinking with his dick again – his dick and his fangs, to be more exact – and the prospect of getting laid and getting a full measure had clouded his judgment completely and thrown his sense of caution to the wind.

What … what the hell? he stammered, holding up his hands defensively. What’re you doing?

Shut up and put your hands on your head, she told him sternly, that sexy smile of hers completely gone now.

He was still completely mind blown by this turn of events, but he complied. What the hell, lady? Is this some kind of joke?

The only joke here is you, a gravelly-voiced man declared from not far away. He glanced to his right and saw a middle-aged man with dark hair and blue eyes leveling a wicked-looking shotgun at him. The beam of its laser sight was centered right in the middle of his chest.

And who the hell are you? What’re you, cops? he demanded nervously.

We’re not cops, the man informed him, we’re just part of the neighborhood watch program.

To his left, two more men with guns were approaching. One was a younger white male, average height with a very cop-like look about him, and the other was a huge bald black guy. The white kid with the buzz-cut flattop was aiming an assault rifle of some kind at him, and the black guy was aiming a shotgun similar to the one that the first guy held, except with the addition of a blindingly bright light which he shined directly at Rick’s face.

The neighborhood … wait, what? What’re you talking about? he stammered, trying to shield his eyes from the light with his hands.

What’s your name? Karen asked him … assuming that Karen was even her real name.

He hesitated. There was no point in lying. He was good at lying, but not when he had guns pointed at him. Who the hell are you people?

I believe the lady asked you a question, bat boy. What’s your name? the gravelly-voiced one demanded. He sounded like someone that smoked cheap cigars on an hourly basis and then gargled with broken glass.

Reluctantly, he answered, Like I told her, my name’s Rick.

What’s your real name, Rick? She clicked off the safety of her pistol. Or should I just put one between your eyes and have the coroner ID you from the DNA samples you left in all of your victims?

He was caught. Shit. The game was over. Hunting season was finished. He’d only been doing what he had out of necessity at first, but he’d come to do it as long as he had when he’d realized how good he was at it and what a rush it was. But he’d made the mistake of getting sloppy. He’d gotten careless, and they’d played him for a fool. His balls were really in a vise now. But that didn’t mean he had to make things easy for them.

How about a fingerprint? he asked, raising his middle finger at her with a sneer.

All right, enough chitchat. Go on, kid, put this piece of shit in cuffs, Mister Gravel Voice said to the others, gesturing with the muzzle of his shotgun. To Rick, he said, Don’t even think about making a move, asshole.

The Kid, as they’d called the wannabe cop, clicked the safety on his rifle and let it hang from its shoulder sling as he dug out a set of heavy-duty handcuffs that were joined by a solid hinge instead of a chain in the middle. If they put those cuffs on him, then it really would be over. And by over, he knew it didn’t just mean a lot of jail time. Vampires didn’t really ever do jail. Vamps guilty of violent crimes got the death penalty by default, no ifs, ands, or buts. And being that he had admittedly committed a string of the classic crimes that had given all vampires their well-deserved reputation – a reputation which that new Grand Duchess babe had been trying to dispel ever since she’d taken over the IVC – he was pretty much guaranteed a swift trial and an even swifter execution.

Vamps didn’t get pretty executions like the gas chamber, the electric chair, or lethal injection, because none of those ever really worked that well. Vampires took too long to die by gas, took too many jolts to fry in the chair, and the drug cocktails they had been trying to use for executing vampires had been legally outlawed as inhumane because it took forever to work and caused terrible pain. It was always either hanging or the firing squad … and sometimes even hanging didn’t go right if the initial fall didn’t break a vamp’s neck, so it was usually the latter.

No, death was only inevitable for him if he accepted it. He wasn’t stupid enough to give in to that. And these weren’t even cops, so surrendering to them was even dumber. If he could get away, then he would start over … for real, this time. He’d tried it before, after the first kill, but that was out of guilt. No, after this, he knew he would really have to play by the rules … or at least be a lot smarter about things.

He should have learned before, but it took something like this to give him a reality check. After this, he would have to try to settle into one place, get into a routine, and stop this nomadic outlaw bullshit. He would do it right, get himself fixed up with a steady blood, or maybe he would even try the veggie vamp thing – the nutrition supplements, the no-blood diet, and the group therapy sessions. It was an addiction, just like cocaine or heroin, and he knew he could beat it. He would have to, because the only alternative was death. He hadn’t consented to joining this game for the sake of dying like anyone else. He had let that one bitch be his Maker because she’d promised him eternal life … and he would have it, but only after he got away from these damned gun-toting bounty hunters.

The opportunity presented itself immediately, almost right on cue. Some girls coming out of the club and down the alley saw what was going on.

Oh my God! one girl shrieked.

Go, go! Call the cops! another cried as the trio of Goth bitches started backing away.

Mister Gravel Voice rolled his eyes and turned his head to look over his shoulder at them. The cops are already on their way…!

There it was: his ticket out of there.

The Kid had just about clicked the first cuff around his left wrist. He yanked that wrist down and Rick turned with it, bringing him face-to-face with the kid. His dark brown eyes went wide with surprise as Rick grabbed the Kid’s tactical vest with one hand and the pistol in the holster on his left flank with his other. He knew a thing or two about fighting. He jerked the pistol free, fell back and down, planted a foot in the Kid’s gut, and kicked him up and over, launching him right into Karen. Immediately, still laying upon the ground, he took aim at the black guy, clicked off the safety, and popped him three times in the chest – pop, pop, pop, just squeezing the trigger fast, close enough that he didn’t really need to aim. The black guy fell back, discharging a shotgun blast uselessly off to his left and shattering the window of a full-size SUV parked beside the Mercury, and Rick was up and on his feet again.

Knowing the Gravel Voice Guy was still there, he fired a couple of shots blindly over the trunk of the Mercury, hoping to either hit him or at least make him duck down, before he started running down the alley with everything he had. The wind whistled through his ears like a hurricane, halted only when a tremendous boom sounded behind him. It felt like someone striking him squarely in the left shoulder with a baseball bat. It made him stumble, but he kept running.

The alley came to a T-intersection at its end and he immediately turned right. The loud, rapid pops of semi-automatic gunfire sounded, and this time he felt things punching through his body. He again stumbled, clumsily falling to his knees. Even though his left arm now was too paralyzed with pain and damage to really function, he could still manage with his right arm to push himself up and scramble back onto his feet to run around the corner, safely out of range for the moment.

The alleyway ahead extended behind another building and then opened up to another street – which was it, Main Street? – and there were two large blue trash bins sitting on the right-hand side of the alley. He ducked behind the closest one and used it for cover as he aimed back at the corner he had just passed. He could hear their footsteps echoing in the alleyway, and he knew they weren’t too far behind. He would nail them, or at least one of them, as soon as they came darting around that corner, and then he would make one last sprint for the street at the end of the alley. Even at this time of night, surely there would be some traffic. He would carjack the first vehicle he came across, hop in, and drive off to freedom … that is, freedom, and one last chance to start over and do things right.

His pulse thudded in his ears and his breath came in a panicky, rapid series of gasps. He could do this. He had just gotten through the hardest part. Now that he was away from those damned bounty hunters, that modern-day vampire lynch mob, he could think. The footsteps approaching down the alley came to a hurried stop. There were no shadows cast upon the wall at the end of the alley, so he could not be certain, but it seemed as though the bounty hunter in pursuit was smart enough to know he might be waiting for him.

He waited, and so did the bounty hunter. That was fine. He could stand to wait. He was immortal. He could wait forever, if necessary. But sooner or later, that bounty hunter would have to pop his head around the corner, and he would blast it right off his shoulders. Until that happened, he couldn’t leave, and so he waited. He waited … and he thought.

He was still cursing himself over and over for having gotten himself into this mess in the first place. How had he fooled himself into thinking his luck would never run out? How dumb did he have to be to actually believe that what he’d been doing was right, that the crimes he had committed were justifiable? No, he knew what he’d been doing was sick, depraved, and downright evil. He knew … but he couldn’t help himself. It was just too much of a rush, just too awesome a high to deny. After the first time he’d taken more than a full measure – to really just drain a person dry, to suck down every last drop they had to offer, and to fill himself with as much hot, delicious warmth as he could possibly contain – he knew that nothing else would ever compare. Nothing could beat the feeling, the total high of having one’s mouth completely full of fresh, hot human blood and filling his belly with it. Nothing … except to be taking more than a full measure while also burying himself in a woman. He would drain her of her juice while she drained him of his – a fair enough trade.

As a vampire, everything always seemed so much more intense, so much more vivid. It was no wonder that he’d found himself becoming something of a sexual addict after the Change. The bitch that had been his Maker had only given him a one-night crash course education on what it was like to live as a vampire. He’d had a pretty decent life before then – nothing outstanding, just stable and secure. While it had initially seemed that she had ruined everything he’d ever had by taking advantage of him while he was drunk off his ass, bestowing the Communion of Blood upon him in the middle of sex, he eventually came to realize what a gift it truly had been. His Maker, Liz (or so she had called herself), had opened up a whole new world to him.

He’d never much been into the whole Goth scene, for one thing. He’d always thought Goths were just geeks and freaks, bitchy and bitter plus-sized women and nerdy guys with homosexual tendencies. After he’d decided to start hitting up the places they frequented, however, he learned otherwise. Goths and vampire wannabes were a pretty easygoing bunch, really. As long as he dressed the part and knew what bands and movies were cool, nobody seemed to judge him much. These people were social outcasts, and so they were desperate for acceptance. The girls were usually either fat, ugly, geeky, or all of the above, but because they favored shock value and exploring taboos, they tended to be total freaks in bed.

This, alone, made his status as a vampire an automatic in for getting laid on a regular basis without even trying. Chicks wanted to know what it was like to be with a blood-sucker; he was just grateful for an opportunity to immerse himself in a gal for awhile and maybe get a taste of blood. But the first time he’d made the mistake of hooking up with a gal that was really into pain, she’d encouraged him a bit too much. He’d wound up biting her a bit too hard and a bit too deeply than he should have. Instead of getting a little trickle of blood, there had been a gushing spray of it shooting into his mouth, and the feel and the taste of all that blood, combined with the feel of her clinging to him and moaning loudly as he ravaged her … he had lost all sense of control and reason. He’d totally blacked out, and the next thing he knew, he'd been trying to find a way to dispose of her body. He’d wound up covering his tracks with arson in that case, making it look like she’d passed out and left some candles burning near her bed, and apparently nobody questioned her accidental death. He moved on to a new scene for awhile, hitting up different clubs and bars, but it never was quite the same after that. What was that girl’s name again? Renee? Robin? Something like that.

He’d tried to control it better after that, but the memory of that ultimate rush, the greatest high of all, kept nagging at him for weeks after that. It was an addiction that he hadn’t felt or known until his first kill. After that, the bar had been raised, and everything else paled in comparison. He had tried distracting himself, finding other avenues, other outlets. No amount of booze, porn, or even the drugs that he tried after that could compare. He even got a dose of heroin once, shot it up to see how it would affect him. It was good, but it wasn’t quite the same, the experience was too clinical and too incomplete, and the crash afterward was absolute hell.

At that point, he now realized, he should have sought help. Actually, he should have sought help from the very start, long before he had ever killed that girl … but, dammit, it had just felt so right, so natural. This was what he’d been born to do, or at least reborn to do. Women desired him out of curiosity and romantic admiration, and he desired them for what they could give him in return – again, a fair enough trade, right?

He heard footfalls going down the alleyway again – splash, splash, splash, through the shallow streams of runoff rolling across the blacktop pavement. The pain of his injuries was not getting any better, but rather it was getting steadily worse. That partial load of buckshot he’d taken felt like someone was holding a lit propane torch to his shoulder. The other two wounds to his lower right flank and his upper right shoulder, were also burning and throbbing with pain, but not nearly as much as the shotgun wound. The rifle rounds had passed through his body completely, from what he could see by the bloody holes in the front of his shirt, but the shotgun pellets were probably embedded in his flesh. He couldn’t believe how hot it was, how goddamned hot. He’d heard the term hot lead before, but he hadn’t figured that it would stay hot this long after being shot. Unless…

Oh … shit, he breathed through his chattering teeth.

It was silver. They’d been using silver. Bounty hunters and cops always used silver. Shit. He had to get it out, and soon. He knew it would hurt, but if he didn’t dig those bits of silver-coated lead out of his skin, it would soak into his bloodstream, and then…

A shot rang out, and he felt the gun in his right hand jerk back with the recoil. What the hell? His right hand was shaking badly, and he’d been resting his finger on the trigger, so maybe he’d squeezed it too hard. He moved his finger up to the side of the pistol, away from the trigger. He felt his hand spasm once, like a small electric shock had just shot up his entire arm, and he almost dropped the gun when it happened again, almost immediately. His stomach was in knots, his heart was racing, and his head was spinning. This was bad. This was very bad. Maybe the silver was already in his blood. He was no doctor, but he’d heard enough on TV and by word of mouth. Once a vampire got a good enough dose of silver in their bloodstream, it wasn’t long before everything started to shut down.

Sure enough, just as he had that thought, he felt the start of it. At first, it didn’t quite get his attention over the fiery burn of the shotgun wound and the throbbing pain of the two bullet holes in his torso. It came in a slow, steady, surging wave. At first, he started to develop one monster of a headache to go along with the vertigo, like the worst hangover he’d ever felt but multiplied by five. Then there was the ringing in his ears – the loudness of the gunshots, he’d thought at first, but then becoming worse and worse as time passed. His breathing had already been panicked, but now he was actually hyperventilating. His mouth and throat went dry as ash, and his lungs felt as though they were on fire. The trembling in his limbs became worse, and soon it seemed as though even his insides were quivering. And then finally, the pain in his shoulder was quickly overtaken in severity by what felt like a knife being driven slowly through his chest.

Hurts, don’t it?

He turned his head slowly toward the gravelly voice behind him. It was the older guy, the one with the laser-sight shotgun. He was smiling a little, almost amused by what Rick was experiencing.

What … what did you…?

Silver-coated lead buckshot, he replied, confirming Rick’s suspicions.

He stared at the bounty hunter, having to narrow his eyes to slits to still see him with any clarity. Why?

Why? Well, aside from the fact you just knocked over my lady friend and shot one of my boys, he said, you also have a nasty habit of going from town to town, raping and killing young ladies.

The pain in his chest was excruciating. The imaginary knife in his chest now felt like it was being twisted, and he began to double over with the pain, backing up against the wall.

Don’t move too quick, the Gravelly Voiced Man warned him. I see you’re still holding that gun, so my trigger finger’s real itchy right now.

Oh … God … damn, it hurts!

That silver sure does a number on you ugly suckers. Don’t even have to get hit anywhere vital for it to wind up killing you, he explained. I’d say right about now it looks like you’re already starting to have yourself a little bit of organ failure. Won’t be long, you’ll be going into cardiac arrest. Boy, I bet that smarts.

Just … shoot me! Finish it!

The bounty hunter shook his head. Nah … you’re worth more money if we bring you in alive. And don’t go thinkin’ it’s an automatic death sentence if we turn you in, either. Shit happens with the justice system. You get yourself a good enough lawyer, you might get off on a technicality, or maybe get yourself checked into a program of some kind. That’s not up to me, of course. My job’s just to bring you in. So, unless you just want to stand there and let that silver do you in, or if you really want me to make your head disappear, then I’d suggest you drop that gun and play nice.

But … I’m dying.

Drop the gun and we’ll get you fixed up. Already got an ambulance on the way. You hear it?

Indeed, the sound of sirens in the not-to-far distance could be heard. He couldn’t tell whether it was the sound of an ambulance or a police car, but soon another siren started up and joined it, and then another. Someone, probably those girls that had spotted the commotion in the alley at the start of this, had already called 9-1-1 and alerted the cops. Somebody was on their way. And his chances with somebody else, somebody official instead of this bunch of amateur headhunters, were probably far better. Cops had laws and regulations to follow; these guys were obviously playing by their own rules, preferring to shoot first and then give warning.

Once again, he was faced with another decision that really wasn’t a decision at all. He had to surrender. He didn’t want to die, not like this. And the guy was right. If he went along with this, there was at least a chance that he could make it out of this alive. If they didn’t rush him right into a conviction and march him in front of a firing squad, then he could finally get help. He could finally get himself straight and get on the right track. It made sense. But then, at that moment, anything made sense, as long as it meant making the pain stop. He just hoped there was enough time. He hoped it wasn’t too late.

Okay.

He carefully let the pistol fall from his hand to the wet pavement below, all but praying for it not to accidentally go off by itself. He gave the gun an awkward kick and it skidded away about a yard, stopping right at the feet of the Kid as he came around the corner of the trash bin. The black guy was with him, leveling a shotgun at his face while the Kid aimed that wicked-looking assault rifle at his chest. Apparently, the black fellow had been wearing a bulletproof vest. Those three shots had done nothing more than piss him off.

How’s Karen? the Gravelly Voiced Man asked.

She’s fine. She’s calling it in, the Kid replied.

Good. He lowered the muzzle of his shotgun, gestured for the black guy to stand down, and turned toward the Kid. He’s all yours, Kid.

The Kid hesitated. Sir?

C’mon … before the local fuzz gets here.

He felt his eyes growing impossibly wide. Just like that, he realized just how badly he’d screwed up. He shouldn’t have stopped running. He shouldn’t have tried to out-wait the Kid following after him. He shouldn’t have surrendered. He’d thought that his luck had run out before, but he’d been wrong. He’d been given opportunities, and like always, he’d made the wrong decisions. He should have just taken his chances. If he’d just rolled the dice one last time…

Sir, he … he’s not armed, the Kid said nervously.

Oh, for Christ’s sake… The Gravelly Voiced Man bent down, picked up the dropped pistol, and jammed it into the front of Rick’s pants before stepping back quickly. There!

This wasn’t happening. There was no way this was real. Rick felt the cold wetness of the gun in the front of his waistband, the droplets of rain drizzle upon it quickly soaking into his shirt and briefs. His hand was clutching his chest, but it was just inches away, just inches. He knew what the older guy, apparently the leader, was trying to do. He knew where this was going. But it didn’t mean he had to accept it. The Kid was hesitating. This was his chance, his last chance.

God damn it… the Gravelly Voiced Man grumbled as he and his black associate both raised their shotguns once again.

Quick draw. Wild West. Go on, roll the dice, he told himself. And so he did.

He knew he had it in him. He knew he had the speed, the opportunity. In that brief instant where the Gravelly Voiced Man was jacking another shell into the chamber of his shotgun, Rick had closed his fingers around the grip of the pistol once more and pulled it clear of his waistband. He turned it, aiming for the Gravelly Voiced Man because he was nearest…

The Kid shot first, and the calm night air was ripped apart with a brief but deafening roar of gunfire. While his companions only fired their shotguns twice apiece, the Kid seemed to empty half of his thirty-round magazine into Rick’s body. The Commoner vampire was slammed back against the brick wall of the building behind him before he crumpled to the ground, face-down in a motionless heap. He did not die immediately. The pain was absolute, but Rick could not bring himself to cry out, nor even so much as twitch in response. He could see only the shoes of his killers, black military-style combat boots, as he lay there feeling nothing from the neck down but agony and the certain onset of death. The glistening dark blacktop pressing against the side of his face became dull and a much flatter shade of blackness, creeping around the edges of his vision and slowly eating away at his consciousness. The last thing he thought as he lay there, accepting the darkness that swallowed him, was how surprisingly pleasant his own blood tasted as it drooled from between his lips.

* * * *

Chapter Two

Well, that sure could have gone better.

Keith snapped out of his brief trance at the sound of Frank’s voice, almost feeling the urge to snap to attention at the sound of his boss’s voice. Frank ran his business very much like a military operation, and being that everyone in it was ex-military, it was sometimes easy to forget he was no longer in the service. He met Frank’s pale blue eyes directly as the burly retired Lieutenant drew close to speak more quietly with that growling, sandy voice of his.

You’re not starting to feel sorry for these bats … are you, kid? he asked.

Keith raised an eyebrow at that. Sir?

You hesitated back there. That ain’t like you, Frank said. He narrowed his eyes slightly. There something you wanna tell me?

He hadn’t really thought about it much. It wasn’t the act of killing the vampire, per se, that had really bothered him. It wasn’t his first kill – vampire or otherwise. He had done two tours in Iraq, the first being right after the initial invasion, and he’d been working with Frank and the others for a little over a year immediately after the end of his enlistment. He wasn’t even twenty-five yet, and he’d already seen more action than most people experienced in two lifetimes. He wasn’t worried about getting soft. Just as well, he also wasn’t worried about turning hard; he had already reached that point a long time ago, well before the end of his first tour.

Killing was never pleasurable, but it wasn’t painful to him, either. Killing was … nothing. He felt nothing about it, really. Sometimes it just had to be done. Those that he’d killed, they’d made their choices, and he had made his own. As such, when he pulled the trigger, it was simply a matter of his choices having led him down a different path in life, whereas the choices of the person on the receiving end had made it necessary for him to pull that trigger. He didn’t dwell on it, or at least he avoided it as best he could. He knew what happened when a soldier thought too much about that sort of thing. He’d lost a fellow member of his platoon to that. Anyone who wasn’t secure in their beliefs, who didn’t have a concrete set of standards and personal rules, would drive themselves mad trying to over-rationalize the concept of taking another’s life in the line of duty. Those kind of people had no business doing what he did for a living.

He shook his head. Nothing to tell, sir.

Then what was holding you back?

Honestly, sir, Keith replied, I was only thinking about the reward money. They pay out less for dead ones.

Not this one. The Feds had a big enough file on this piece of shit that we were doing them a favor by taking him out instead of taking him in, Frank explained. You really think they wanted to drag all those poor girls’ families through a trial over everything this asshole did? Those folks have suffered enough already by having someone taken away from them. The trial process alone would have taken forever, and the appeals would only drag it out even more. Those families deserved justice, kid.

Well, now they have it, sir, he replied with a nod.

And now we’re all a few grand richer, Frank added with a smile, slapping Keith on the back. Fifteen grand split four ways. Thirty-seven hundred ain’t bad for two weeks of work, is it?

He afforded a thin smile. Not bad at all, sir.

Things were winding down already. The local cops had swarmed the scene immediately, but as soon as the local FBI agents arrived with the rogue declaration and a fax of the death warrant, the local fuzz lost interest pretty quickly. Frank mostly dealt with the Feds because the pay was higher, and the FBI was actually easier to deal with than local authorities when it came to executing rogue vampire warrants. In the past, he’d tried carrying out local contracts, but it had proven not only to be cost-prohibitive but also frustrating. When dealing with the good ol’ boy system and sometimes shady small-town or remote county law enforcement, especially in the Bible Belt, things got sticky. Warrants weren’t always legit, weapons laws differed from state to state and even city to city, and there was just too much liability involved. Operating under contracted Federal authority gave them a lot more breathing room and made the after-party a lot easier. As soon as KCPD learned that there was nothing for them to do here except clean up the leftover mess, they tagged and bagged the Commoner – one Richard Rick Strider, thirty-two years of age – and they started clearing out.

Karen had a small knot on the back of her head from when the vamp had flipped Keith over into her, but she didn’t show any signs of a concussion and was otherwise fine. Miles, who had taken three rounds at almost point-blank range from Keith’s forty-five caliber Ruger SR1911, was obviously a little sore and would be feeling those welts for the next week or so. At least his vest had caught all three slugs. There was a bit of ribbing over the fact that it was Keith’s pistol that had bruised up Miles, but nobody seemed to have any hard feelings over the issue … except for Keith.

He felt a bit sheepish about the fact that the vamp had given him the slip when he’d gone to handcuff him. Had he known in advance that the subject had been a judo practitioner in the past, and had he known that the payout for this rogue would have been the same whether dead or alive, he would have approached the situation differently. He would have just shot the rogue in the head, nobody else would have been hurt, and that would have been the end of it.

Even so, the aftermath hadn’t been too bad. Being that the Commoner was a fugitive rogue with a death warrant, the main concerns were simply a matter of confirming the identity of the dead vamp, getting an official statement from everyone involved, and holding away the press and rubber-necking civilians while the mess in the alley was cleaned up. Either way, the whole scenario had been Frank’s idea. He was in charge. The orders had been his to give, and it had been Keith’s job to follow them.

They had gathered back at the motel uptown toward the airport to knock back a few beers together and celebrate the end of another contract. Usually, there was a bit of a lag between the end of one and the start of another, during which time Frank and Karen would start looking for another job for the team while Miles and Keith were afforded a little bit of time to decompress.

Keith usually stayed close with Frank and Karen to help out with the contract selection and research process, but Miles was always doing his own thing. He wasn’t much of a talker, even less for socializing. While he did claim to have his own hobbies, they all seemed like more work to Keith – practicing at the shooting range, cleaning weapons, hand-loading his own ammunition, and doing mechanical work on the team’s vehicles. He didn’t seem to be content unless he was busy working on something at all times. It wasn’t that he was hyperactive, not in the least. He’d spent hours with Miles on stakeouts during which he neither spoke a word nor moved a muscle other than to blink and breathe. Miles simply liked to have a project of some kind on hand at all times. The only thing Miles had ever offered as something close to a personal note about himself, during a rare and brief conversation with Keith, was this: Ever since I was a kid, I was taught that if I’m not doing something productive, then I’m just taking up space. Becoming a Marine taught me more of the same. It's what I know. It's what makes sense.

As such, Miles was content to sit quietly, disassembling his shotgun to clean it on a table in the den area of the hotel room he was sharing with Keith. Every once in awhile, he would take a sip from the Bud Light he had sitting aside on the table, and he would pause to listen to whomever was talking at the moment. Otherwise, he seemed to be in his own world, as always. Miles had almost as many vampire kills under his belt as Frank, and even more combat kills in the military than Keith. A Marine infantryman that was still active in the Marine Reserves, he’d been along for the invasions of both Afghanistan and Iraq, and he’d done two tours in the latter country with a return tour in Afghanistan possibly set to begin in the next few months. If Miles was out of the team for a few months to serve overseas, it would be damned hard for Keith to fill his size-thirteen boots until he came back.

Frank was another story. He was laid back, a talker, and a bit of a bullshitter. He wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, but he always had something to say about everything. He had an opinion for anything, and if someone else didn’t agree, his default response consisted of two words. He was bull-headed and arrogant, just like the type of guys that Keith had been glad to get away from when he’d left the Army.

But it was these qualities that made Frank a great leader for their team, his team. If he had been the wishy-washy type that tried to please everyone, there would have inevitably been in-fighting amongst the team, and they would never have functioned as well as they did. Frank knew how the system worked, he knew the vampire-hunting rule book front to back and sideways, and he had both the military and law enforcement experience to competently avoid getting them into any serious trouble. He was organized, efficient, and above all, he was motivated. In short, he had his shit together. Keith respected Frank a lot for that.

Thing was, Frank loved to delegate too much. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of doing things himself, of course. He’d been a lone wolf for a few years before deciding to form up a team, tracking and slaying vampires before vampires were officially and legally recognized as even existing. He had built up quite an impressive resume over the years. But he seemed to think on some level that he was owed something by default for his service, some kind of servitude. Respect, yes, he’d earned that. But Frank somehow had it in his mind that because he’d set up this operation and was keeping it in motion, he should rarely (if ever) have to do any of the dirty work.

He was always right there with Miles and Keith, but he never took point. He almost always let them take the shots. The fact that he had even discharged his weapon that night was something of a surprise. Frank seemed almost annoyed by the fact that he’d even needed to do so, as though he’d been let down in some way. While that perhaps wasn’t an entirely unfair thought, considering that it had been Keith that had flubbed the arrest and turned it into a chase and then an execution, Frank acted the same way even when things went perfectly smooth. Frank apparently saw himself as a literal pack leader, the lion who let the others take down the gazelle but then took the biggest share of the kill.

That was pretty much the long and short of why he’d all but forced Keith to take the kill shot that night, even though Frank had been given a clean and perfect opportunity to do it, himself. And that was also what had been bugging Keith. Frank despised vampires and vampire wannabes, hating them all with a passion. He had a personal axe to grind with their kind, a niece who’d gotten raped and murdered by a random Sabertooth, and an ex-wife who’d left him to be the steady blood of a Commoner. As such, he relished the sight of one or more dead bats at the end of a job. Had Keith been in his shoes, he would have emptied every last shell he’d had in the magazine into that monster, reloaded, and then put another series through just for good measure.

Given that, it didn’t seem to make any sense that Frank would even hesitate to decapitate a vampire with a point-black blast of buckshot to the face. He hadn’t just handed it off to Keith as a courtesy, as if kindly giving him the honor; he’d pushed it upon him almost like a test, or even a punishment. Was Frank having second thoughts about Keith’s loyalty or commitment? The fact that he even suggested Keith might be getting soft was a little unsettling. There were times when Keith wondered if Frank might not entirely be sane, as if the things he’d seen and done over the years had left him a little bit paranoid and insecure in working with others. Still, he wasn’t going to quiz his boss over it. If Frank was going to admit anything that personal, Karen was the only one with whom he’d be willing to share it.

Jesus Christ, my ears are still ringing, Frank complained with a chuckle, digging a pinky into his right ear. Remind me next time to put my earplugs in while we’re setting up.

Actually, I did remind you, if you’ll remember, Karen said, but you just gave me that ‘yeah, yeah’ thing like you always do.

Well, it ain’t like I expected that to go down the way it did. I haven’t put that many shots through my pump-action on a job for a couple of years now. Frank kicked off his boots with a groan before looking to Keith, who was pushing the remaining rounds out of his magazine. I see you didn’t use the whole mag. How many rounds did you wind up squeezing off?

Twenty, he replied before taking a long pull from his beer.

How many actually hit?

At least ten, he answered with a shrug. I know I scored two hits when he took off down the alley.

Not bad. Hell, I was lucky to even wing him. That son of a bitch was fast on his feet. When I ran around to head him off, I was expecting to see him already across the other street and half a block away, Frank said, grunting slightly as he kicked off his other shoe. If he hadn’t stopped and tried to catch you and Miles around the corner, I never would’ve gotten the drop on him like I did.

Karen finally said what everyone else had probably already been thinking: So, why didn’t you?

He turned to look at her with a blank expression. Why didn’t I what?

You said you got the drop on him, right?

Yeah? So?

Why didn’t you just … y’know? she hinted, pantomiming a shotgun blast to the head. I mean, he still had Keith’s gun, right?

Yeah, and he still had it in his hand when the kid unloaded on him. So, what’s your point?

The point is, if you had a clear shot and the guy was armed, then why didn’t you take it? she asked with a shrug. Only Karen could ask him something like that directly, because she knew she could get away with it. The odds of Frank firing his fiancée were pretty much zero.

Because we were trying to take him in alive, that’s why. I didn’t know until after the fact that we had a buck tag for his ass, Frank replied, referring to the federal death warrant. If I’d known that we didn’t even need to bother trying to take him in, we could’ve just clipped him as soon as you two walked outside the club.

It made perfect sense … and yet it also made no sense at all, as it didn’t jive with what Frank had said earlier. Keith wasn’t going to protest it. He took a long pull from his beer, emptying the last of the bottle, and got up to get another one.

Hey, kid, Frank said, waggling his half-empty beer in the air, you wanna buy me another drink while you’re up?

Sure. Anyone else? he asked, giving the others a glance. Miles and Karen declined.

As he opened the mini-fridge and retrieved another pair of beers, Frank got up from where he’d been sitting and changed the channel on the television from a sitcom to a twenty-four hour news station. He turned up the volume a bit and dumped the rest of his bottle’s contents down his throat before turning and accepting another from Keith, who traded him for his empty container. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t long before that night’s events in downtown Kansas City came up as a national news headline.

A bloody killing spree has been put to an end tonight, and the Commoner vampire responsible for it is now dead, the pretty blonde anchorwoman droned on rather dully, probably reciting the story for the fifth time that night. Bounty hunters from as far away as Arizona tracked Richard Strider across several states to a club in downtown Kansas City, Missouri, where they attempted to apprehend the killer. Strider was wanted in connection with a string of reported attacks in Missouri, Illinois, and Ohio in the past eighteen months, and he was believed to have committed at least five murders. A brief struggle ensued during the attempted arrest in an alley outside the club, during which the rogue vampire shot one of the bounty hunters. The rogue vampire was soon shot to death before he could escape. The unidentified bounty hunter that was shot was wearing a bulletproof vest, sustaining only minor injuries. Federal authorities had officially declared the Commoner vampire to be on rogue status and had issued a death warrant for the vampire shortly before the incident took place. Local authorities criticized the decision to approach the rogue in a public setting, but the FBI has already issued a statement commending the actions of the bounty hunters, stating that another murder would have been imminent if they had not acted. No other injuries were reported, and no charges will be filed against the bounty hunters.

All’s well that ends well, Karen said with a nod, raising her own beer in a toast to the others.

Everyone clinked bottles, while Miles simply saluted from afar with his beer silently before tipping it back for another sip. He didn’t seem to have a problem with letting his beer get warm while he cleaned his