Immortal Blood

By James M. Thompson

A DESIRE BEYOND REASON
As a vampire, Elijah Pike (alias Roger Neimann) has been a slave to instinct—consuming human blood to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. As a doctor, he relies on his intellect in the pursuit of a cure that will end not only his craving but also the deadly urges of others like him.

AN APPETITE FOR DESTRUCTION
Master vampire Michael Morpheus’s last encounter with Elijah Pike, in the Louisiana bayou, left him disfigured and consumed by hatred for those he considers traitors to the race. He went underground to lick his wounds—and to gather an army of evil that will follow him in his quest for vengeance.

A CALL TO ARMS
Pike knows that the fate of innocent mortals depends upon his victory in a battle against his own kind—one in which no mercy can be shown. Now, in the frozen wilderness of the Canadian Rockies, he’ll face Morpheus once more—and the snow will be stained with blood . . .

“If you read one horror book this year, read this one!” —William W. Johnstone on Night Blood

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781516104086

James M. Thompson

Dr. James M. Thompson received his medical degree from Baylor College of medicine and has been in practice for over forty years. He is the author of Elijah Pike Vampire Chronicles, and the thrillers Anthrax Protocol and Dust to Dust. He lives in south Texas.

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Prologue

Michael Morpheus stood looking down at his mate on the bed, watching as she suffered incredible agony. Her naked body was covered with sweat and her lips were cracked and dry. She was shivering and had her arms crossed around her body against the muscle cramps and terrible pain of the Rite of Transformation.

He shook his head, feeling sorry for her. She was still fighting the inevitable, as if becoming a member of a superior race was something to fear instead of something to celebrate. He’d never understood the Normals and how they clung to their humanness with such fierce determination. You’d think they would be more than happy to give up their weaknesses, their mayfly lives that lasted less than a hundred years, and that they would embrace the abilities of the Vampyre race he was offering, but such was rarely the case.

Sam, you’ve got to feed, he said gently, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to her. It will ease the pain and make you feel much better.

Samantha Scott moved away from him, scrambling sideways on the bed like a frightened crab, staring over her shoulder at him as if he were a monster. No, she croaked, her voice sounding as if her throat were filled with razor blades. Not again. I’d rather die first.

Morpheus sighed and laid his hand on her shoulder, wincing when she flinched away as if his very touch defiled her. Her skin was hot and wet with her sweat even though she was shivering with pain. You won’t die, Sam, you will merely suffer needlessly. And, you will still become as I am, one of the Vampyri, whether you feed again or not.

A loud crashing came from the living room, followed by a shriek of anger and pain.

Morpheus jumped off the bed and ran into the other room. He slowed, taking in the scene before him: A snarling creature was standing before Sarah, holding a long Japanese sword in her hands with the blade piercing Sarah’s chest and extending out her back; off to the right, two growling Vampyri rolled on the floor, their fangs rending and tearing at each other, each trying for a killing hold on the other’s throat.

With an instinct instilled in him over several hundred years, Michael began his own transformation as he spied another long sword on the floor next to the two wrestling Vampyres. His hands were already turning into claws as he vaulted fifteen feet in one jump and bent to pick the sword up off the floor.

Baring his teeth, which were rapidly elongating into fangs dripping with red-tinged drool, he howled a challenge and raised the sword high above his head in a two-handed killing grip. He would slaughter these interlopers for daring to intrude on the sanctity of his lair.

As he began the killing stroke, a sharp, burning pain erupted in his back as if someone had stuck a hot poker through his spine. Intense pain spread like wildfire from his back to his brain, almost causing him to black out.

He dropped the sword and whirled around, his claws scrabbling at his back trying to pull the knife from between his shoulder blades as he stared in disbelief at his mate. Samantha Scott stood there, naked and covered with sweat, her flashing eyes filled with a burning hatred as they bored into his.

He wagged his head violently back and forth, still trying to reach the knife as scarlet tears coursed down his cheeks at the pain in his back and his mate’s betrayal.

He turned his head to the side as a high-pitched scream echoed from across the room. Once again Morpheus howled as the female creature put her foot on Sarah’s chest and jerked the sword loose from her breastbone. Sarah’s eyes closed and she staggered a few steps, her own claws crossed on her chest as if she could somehow stop the stream of scarlet blood pumping from her wound. Whirling and swinging the sword like a baseball bat, the creature beheaded Sarah with one long stroke.

Morpheus gasped at the gruesome sight, his eyes following Sarah’s head as it bounced and rolled on the floor, her eyes now open and staring the long stare into eternity. He gave up his quest for the knife still sticking out of his back and began to back away as the female Vampyre turned her attention and began to run toward him, sword held high above her head, misshapen lips curled back from red-rimmed fangs as she growled and shrieked her hatred of him.

Morpheus spun, backhanding Sam with a ferocious blow and knocking her unconscious as he frantically looked for some way to escape from the madwoman who was coming for him. The setting sun glared off the sliding glass doors to the balcony, making him squint against the orange light. That was his only chance, he realized, and he sprinted as fast as he could toward the glass doors. Without slowing, he crashed headfirst through the glass and took a running dive over the balcony railing and into the bayou waters twenty feet below.

The cold waters of the Louisiana bayou made the pain in his back even worse as he clawed his way to the surface and looked back to see if the she-creature had followed him. She hadn’t, but was standing on the balcony, her fangs bared in a savage grimace of frustration as she slammed the handle of the long sword on the wooden balcony railing.

He snarled his contempt at her and turned away, swimming toward the far bank, scarlet ribbons of his precious blood swirling in his wake.

He slowed and had begun to tread water when he saw several alligators sunning themselves on the shore catch the scent of his blood and ease into the water toward him.

Ungrateful bastards, he thought, remembering these same animals rending and tearing and consuming the bodies of his victims, thrown to them after he’d drained their blood. After all the meals he’d given them in the past they were now going to try to eat him. He had the irrational thought that it just wasn’t fair.

As they neared, their yellow reptilian eyes glaring at him hungrily as their jaws gaped open, he dove beneath the surface, swimming frantically toward the bottom of the sluggish, green water.

He seemed to remember being told that alligators couldn’t attack under water. Jesus, he thought, praying to a deity he’d long since abandoned, I hope that’s true!

A large bull gator ahead of him slowly submerged, like a submarine doing a crash dive, and angled toward him, his jaws open and his teeth glinting in reflected sunlight beneath the surface.

Morpheus whirled underwater and stuck his left arm out in front of him, trying to ward off the hungry alligator.

With a sudden shake of its head and a snap of massive three-foot-long jaws, the gator grabbed Morpheus’s arm in a viselike grip and chewed, the sound of Morpheus’s bones cracking was audible even underwater.

With a supreme effort, Morpheus ignored the agony in his arm, reached up behind him with his right hand, and finally managed to grasp the handle of the butcher knife protruding from his back.

He jerked it out and stuck it in the gator’s neck, just under the massive jaws still clamped on his arm.

He slashed and tore and ripped the alligator open from jaw to belly, sending dark clouds of gator blood out into the water to mingle with his own.

The alligator released his grip on Morpheus’s arm and rolled over onto his back, writhing and twisting in its own death throes.

Morpheus swam away just as the other alligators began a frenzied feeding on the bull he’d killed, ignoring Morpheus for the moment as they devoured the much larger prize.

Within moments, Morpheus managed to swim to the shore and crawl out into the thick underbrush, his ruined left arm dangling from shreds of tissue at his side.

He rolled onto his back and took deep breaths, trying to block out the agonizing pain in his arm and back as he willed his Vampyre body to heal itself of the terrible wounds.

Slowly the tissues knit together and the worst of the bleeding stopped, but the pain remained like a living thing, burrowing ratlike through his body and into his brain.

Raising his head, he peered back through the bushes at his house and made a vow that those who’d attacked him would live to rue the day they dared enter his life. The thoughts of revenge and how he’d make them suffer gave him the strength to get up and stumble through the woods toward the nearby road, leaving a faint trail of blood in the underbrush.

* * *

In the cabin, TJ O’Reilly turned from the balcony railing when she saw Morpheus dive into the bayou. She moved back into the room and rushed to Sam, who was lying unconscious on the wooden floor. She quickly checked Sam’s pulse. It was thready but regular. Picking Sam up in her arms, she carried her into the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed.

Turning, she went toward the kitchen to get a wet cloth with which to try to wake her. As she passed through the living room, she saw her companion, Albert Nachtman, bending over the dead body of the Vampyre they’d called The Ripper, Jacques Chatdenuit. He had his fangs deep in the ruined throat of his foe and was drinking deeply of his blood as it pumped from the severed neck.

The strong, coppery scent of the blood assaulted TJ’s nostrils, causing her to become immediately aroused as her own Hunger began to surface.

Albert glanced up from his victim and saw TJ’s fur-covered breasts swell, the nipples springing erect. His nostrils dilated at the scent of her sex becoming wet with desire. He raised his head and gestured toward the body beneath him, offering to share his feast with the woman he’d converted to be his mate.

TJ hesitated, her human side warring with her Vampyre instincts as she tried to resist, but the smell of the blood was arousing an almost irresistible desire to feed and mate.

As was usual, the desire for food and sex overrode her human inhibitions and she moved toward the body as if in a dream, her eyes glassy, her breasts throbbing, her nipples hard and her sex moistening.

She squatted next to Albert and buried her face in the warm flow of blood from The Ripper’s neck, drinking deeply and swallowing as fast as she could. As the sweet nectar flowed into her, Albert nuzzled her throat and began to run his hands over her breasts, moaning deep in his throat as his own lust built.

While she drank, she put her hand on his penis and slowly stroked and massaged it, bringing him to full arousal.

Finally, neither of them could wait another moment. Casting the body aside, she turned to him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close against her.

He pushed her gently down onto her back, moved between her legs and entered her slowly, causing her to moan in delight. He lowered his head to her breast and sank his teeth into her tender flesh, drinking her blood as he pumped and thrust deep inside her.

She grasped his head in her claws and pulled him tighter against her breast as she matched him stroke for stroke, delirious with the lust they shared.

One

Dr. Matt Carter, Associate Professor of Emergency Medicine at Baylor College of Medicine in Houston, bent down and examined the hand laceration. James Smith, senior medical student doing his final rotation in the emergency room of Ben Taub Hospital, had done a good job of repairing the wound.

Nice work, Jimmy, Matt said. You’ve got the tendons approximated pretty well, but you’re still making the skin sutures a bit too tight. Remember, the wound edges are gonna swell over the next couple of days and when they do, the sutures will be pulled and will bury themselves under the skin. Whoever has to remove them in seven days will not be happy if they have to dig them out.

Smith’s face fell. Yes, sir, Doctor Carter.

Matt straightened up and patted him on the shoulder. Don’t worry, Jimmy, he said, not wanting to discourage the young man too much. He had good hands and would someday make a fine surgeon. You’ll get the hang of it with a little more practice.

While Smith dressed the wound, Matt stretched and sighed, moving his head around in small circles to ease the aching muscles of his neck. Feeling strangely let down by his work in the ER this night, he stepped up to the big double doors at the ambulance entrance, punched the plate on the wall that would open them, and moved out onto the concrete apron of the receiving deck.

He took a deep breath of the humid night air of Houston, thinking to himself that it was like trying to breathe through a wet blanket. As he stood there, he wondered briefly if he would ever regain the sense of adventure and excitement that ER work and teaching med students used to hold for him. Lately, he’d begun to doubt it. After all, hunting monsters and engaging in life or death struggles with them over the past couple of years had made everything else seem tame by comparison. He shook his head in frustration and reentered the hospital.

I’m too damned young to be this bored, he thought, experiencing much the same feelings as thousands of young men had who’d engaged in mortal combat in war only to return to humdrum jobs when the wars were over.

Speaking of wars, he checked his watch. He was already late for his date. He was supposed to pick Sam up a half-hour ago. Now there was going to be hell to pay.

He looked around and saw that his replacement, Chief Surgical Resident Jeff Strickland, was already at work on a broken leg in Trauma Room 2 and so he hurriedly left the ER and made his way toward the elevators at the end of the hall. On the way, he checked his clinic jacket to make sure there were no obvious bloodstains on it, an occupational hazard of emergency room duty.

* * *

Five minutes later, Matt was in the hospital basement and headed toward the morgue. Even in this modern day and age, morgues were still sequestered in the basements of hospitals, as if to keep their grisly secrets away from the eyes of the uninitiated. He grinned as he fast-walked down the corridor, thinking that never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought he’d be cruising the morgue to pick up a woman.

He pushed through the big double doors, his nose wrinkling at the smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde that permeated the large tiled room. Several pathology residents were busily at work dissecting cadavers on metal tables while dictating their findings into microphones hanging just above their heads.

He gave an involuntary shiver. Even though he’d been down here many times since he’d fallen in love with Sam, the place still spooked him. The smell of death permeated the chilly air and the many bodies split open from stem to stern on cold metal tables was not exactly a sight he relished. For perhaps the hundredth time, he wondered how a woman as lovely and feminine as Sam could elect to spend her career in such a gloomy, depressing place. He’d made the mistake of asking her this on one occasion and she had informed him that pathology was a career made up of more than just cutting open dead bodies, and furthermore, femininity or the lack thereof had nothing to do with it. He had not asked a second time.

Matt glanced around but didn’t see Sam, so he turned to the right and went into the office area.

Samantha Scott, brand new Associate Professor of Pathology, was perched on the corner of her desk, shapely legs crossed, reading the final draft of one of the autopsies she’d done.

Matt slowed, his heart quickening at the sight of her. Five-feet six-inches in height, with auburn hair that turned red in sunlight and startlingly green eyes, Sam was the most beautiful woman in the world to Matt. Her pale, milky complexion with its light dusting of freckles across the nose, tiny waist and full, rounded breasts never ceased to arouse in him feelings of adoration and pride.

Hey, good-lookin’, Matt called when he entered her office, hoping to defuse with flattery any anger she might feel at his being late for their date.

Sam glanced up from the report, her eyes glittering with mischief. Why Professor Carter, that sounds awfully much like sexual harassment, she purred in her soft voice.

Matt grinned with relief and shook his head. It was one of the many perks of dating another doctor. Sam would realize that their lives would never run on an exact schedule and that the necessities of patient care would always have to come ahead of dinner dates.

No way, lady. The sexual harassment comes later, after we’ve eaten, Matt said, his eyebrows waggling and his lips curling in a lascivious grin.

Oh, Sam replied as she signed the report and dropped it in her out-basket. That certainly gives a girl something to look forward to.

Matt glanced over at the empty desk across the room from Sam’s. Where’s Shelly? he asked, inquiring after Sheldon Silver, Sam’s boss and Chief of Pathology.

He’s meeting with the dean for drinks and dinner. He’s going to try and talk him into a new gas chromatograph machine for the department. He says using our old one in like driving a Model T when everyone else has a Ferrari.

Matt was just as glad Shelly wasn’t around. He didn’t want to have to answer any questions about the fresh bandage on his neck. Shelly, in addition to being one of the best forensic pathologists in the country, was also an excellent clinician and his sharp eyes would have seen the bandage and would have wanted to know what was going on—and Matt wasn’t ready to discuss that just yet.

Shelly had helped Matt and Sam treat Sam’s roommate and best friend, TJ O’Reilly, for an infection with the parasite that caused symptoms of Vampyrism the previous year, and then just months later had consulted with an infectious disease specialist in Canada when Sam had been infected with the same bug by a vampyre named Michael Morpheus in New Orleans. Since then, Shelly had kept a close eye on both women for symptoms of a recurrence of the disease. Shelly was altogether too smart not to notice little things like bite marks on Matt’s neck when Sam was supposed to be cured of such things.

Sam jumped down off the desk and put her hands on Matt’s shoulders, giving him a quick kiss. Since Matt was just barely five-feet eight-inches tall, their eyes were almost level. Where are we going to eat? she asked.

We were supposed to meet Shooter and TJ almost an hour ago at Christy’s Oyster Bar, he answered. So get a move on, Missy.

Her eyes flashed, turning from bright green to hazel as her eyelids narrowed in annoyance. Don’t rush me, Matthew Carter, she snapped. I’ve been ready for an hour. It’s you who is late.

I know, he said hurriedly, not wanting to get into an argument when they were already behind schedule. I had this senior student I had to help suture a wound. He’s good, but slow as Christmas.

Sam’s expression softened and her eyes turned green again. Not everyone has hands as fast as yours, darling, she said, the corner of her thick lips turning up in a smirk. And I ought to know!

Matt smiled and kissed her lightly on the lips, his groin growing heavy at the innuendo in her voice.

* * *

Christy’s Oyster Bar, located just a few blocks from the medical center, was a favorite hangout for students, residents, and staff of the many nearby hospitals. The room was filled with people wearing every kind of outfit from expensive suits to scrubs to nursing uniforms. Matt and Sam had to elbow their way through a dense crowd of customers until they found the tiny table in a back corner where Shooter and TJ were sitting.

Steve Shooter Kowolski, a detective in the Houston Police Department, had been Matt’s closest friend since grade school. He was easy to pick out of a crowd with his bright green-and-yellow plaid sport coat, lime green shirt, and black jeans over cowboy boots. With his dark, curly hair that looked as if it had been combed with his fingers and bright blue eyes, he reminded Matt of a young Tony Curtis. Shooter’s date was TJ O’Reilly, Sam’s roommate and final year resident in Internal Medicine at Baylor. She would have completed her three-year residency last year, at the same time as Sam, but TJ had lost a year while undergoing intensive medical treatment after being attacked by a serial killer the year before.

TJ, who had somehow managed to corral Shooter and end his skirt-chasing days, was a bit shorter than Sam at five-feet two-inches and had tousled black hair that usually hung so it partially covered her face. She was pretty without being beautiful and had an IQ in the genius range—none of which mattered to Shooter, who loved her more for her easygoing manner and wild sense of humor than for her good looks . . . though, as he’d told Matt more than once, her looks certainly didn’t hurt!

As they approached their friends, Matt saw a large platter with a couple of dozen empty oyster shells and four empty beer bottles scattered on the table, mute testimony to their lateness.

I see Shooter has been getting ready for tonight with all those oysters, Matt said with a grin.

Shooter glanced at him with a dead serious face. What? Those aren’t for me, pal, ’cause my libido doesn’t need any help. They’re for TJ . . . she needs ’em just to keep up with me.

Do oysters work for women? Matt asked hopefully, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Sam.

Sam gave him a sharp nudge in the side with her elbow. Don’t even go there, fella, she warned. At least not until you can match me in the bedroom.

Matt made a face and looked over at Shooter and shrugged, as if to say, don’t believe a word of it. As they both laughed, he noticed a couple of fresh-looking scabs on the side of Shooter’s neck. The sight of the recent wound made the hair on the back of Matt’s neck stand up and gave him a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he unconsciously fingered the bandage on his own neck. Things weren’t looking good. He made a mental note to talk to Shooter about the puncture marks when they were alone.

Both Sam and TJ had been forced to undergo the so-called Rite of Transformation by vampyres in the last year. Though they’d been partially transformed into vampyres themselves, a radical new treatment devised by a doctor in Canada had seemed to work to reverse the changes. Only recently, Sam had been acting strangely and Matt knew he needed to find out if TJ had been similarly affected by the treatments.

Sit down, guys, and we’ll order some food, TJ said, scooting over so Sam could pull up a chair next to her.

Matt took a seat next to Shooter and reached for a menu. What’s good here? he asked.

TJ leaned across the table and smiled as she took the last remaining oyster. She poured some Tabasco sauce onto the shellfish and dumped it into her mouth. As she chewed, an expression of ecstasy crossed her face and she mumbled, Everything, dear, simply everything.

I think I’ll have the grilled mahi mahi, Matt said after studying the menu for a few moments, with french fries and cole slaw.

That sounds good to me, Shooter said, tipping his bottle of beer toward the ceiling and draining it dry.

Sam, her face buried in the menu, said, I’ll have the filet mignon, rare, with Hollandaise sauce, baked potato, and a Caesar salad.

Ooo, that sounds good! I’ll have that too! TJ said enthusiastically. Something I can sink my teeth into sounds great after those mushy oysters.

Matt glanced at Shooter, but he didn’t seem to notice the incongruity of the girls ordering steaks in a seafood restaurant.

After they gave their orders to the waitress and asked her to bring them some more beer, the group began to chatter as if they hadn’t seen each other for years instead of the few days they’d been apart. Shooter regaled them with his latest dumb crooks stories and had them all in stitches at the stupid things criminals do. They especially liked the one about the robber who went into a convenience store and carried a six-pack of beer to the counter. When the clerk asked him for identification to prove his age, the dunce showed her his driver’s license. While she was ringing up his purchase, he pulled a gun and proceeded to rob the store. It took the cops only a couple of hours to round him up when the clerk remembered the name on his license.

When they finished laughing at the dumb crook’s mistake, TJ sobered a bit and told them she had received notice of a malpractice lawsuit in the mail that morning.

What? Sam asked, staring at her friend with wide eyes. But you’re the most diligent doctor I’ve ever met.

What happened? Matt asked, his voice hard. As an emergency room physician, he was more aware than most of the many lawyers who lined their pockets off the misery of others, and who enjoyed taking good doctors to court for happenings that were out of their control.

This man I was seeing in the free clinic at Ben Taub for hypertension a few months ago came in with a swollen finger and asked me about it. I examined him and told him I thought he ought to get an x-ray and I’d send him to an orthopedist for a consult. He begged off, saying it was just a sprain and he didn’t think he needed an x-ray and besides he didn’t have time to hang around and get one. She took a deep breath. So, I splinted the finger and gave him a prescription for an x-ray and a note to call Dr. Oshman, the orthopedist on call. He left my office and this is the first I’ve heard of it since then.

Well, what happened? Sam asked.

It seems the finger was broken, and, naturally, he didn’t get the x-ray or see any other doctors until it really swelled up. By then, he had a non-union of the fracture and had to have a pin put in the finger.

But, what’s the problem? Shooter asked. It’s not your fault he didn’t do what you suggested.

TJ blushed and looked chagrined. Yeah, but in my office notes I didn’t mention the finger or my orders to get the x-ray. I wrote all about his meds and lab work and how good his blood pressure was and just forgot to put what I told him down in black and white.

So, it’s your word against his, Shooter said.

Yes, and guess who a jury’s gonna believe, TJ said sourly.

The waitress appeared and began to unload their dinners onto the table. Once she was done, everyone dug into their food as if they hadn’t eaten for days.

Matt smiled to himself and thought how a good meal with good friends was just the medicine TJ needed to get thoughts of bloodsucking lawyers and whining patients out of her mind.

After a moment, Matt looked up from his fish and glanced at Shooter. This stuff’s not nearly as good as the fish was in New Orleans, is it? he asked, remembering their recent trip to New Orleans in search of the vampire killer who’d been dubbed The Ripper by the local newspapers.

Shooter agreed. Not by a long shot.

Sam, her cheek bulging with steak, just shook her head and smiled. Y’all are crazy. This steak is excellent.

Yeah, TJ agreed. She had a tiny drop of blood on the corner of her mouth from the rare steak she was chewing. I think you boys just miss being in a distant city, shacked up in a fancy hotel with two beautiful women to keep you company. She looked over at Sam and grinned. What do you think, Sam?

That’s definitely it, Sam agreed. There’s just something about going to a strange town and staying in a hotel with sexy women that makes men horny.

Wait a minute, Shooter protested, holding up his hand. I resemble that remark.

You should, TJ said, laughing out loud,