Blood and Bullets (7 page)
Well, tonight's attack changed all that. Vampire equals top of the priority list.
Number one with a silver fucking bullet.
“Have there been any reports of vampire activity on our Web site?” Kat shook her head no. Larson looked over at me.
“You have a Web site?”
I snorted through my nose. “Of course.” Who doesn't, I didn't ask. “It's how we get work to do sometimes.” I turned back to Kat and she shook her head. “The problem as I see it is that there is a ton of stuff we don't know.” I ticked my points off on the fingers of an upraised hand. “We don't know who the bad guy is, why they tried to kill me, how they accomplished the setup, why Larson here was used as bait ... In fact, all we know is that the problem is a vampire-related one, and someone tried to take me out.” I stroked my goatee, thinking. “Does anybody know of any big happenings in the vampire world, anything that maybe doesn't have anything to do with us yet, but will?”
They all looked at me. I could see them reaching for conclusions and could also tell that they were not going to come up with any. Time for a different tack.
“Okay, Kat, find out if there is a major vampire player that may have recently dropped off the radar. Maybe the person setting me up has had a new development in their unlife and they are blaming me for it.”
Kat's quick typing caused the screen to change to the Internet. Web sites popped up and dropped off as Kat searched the net the way only she can. She would stop on a Web site for a second, rapidly read some bit of information, switch screens, and go off on another search. It really would be amazing if you could keep up with it. I couldn't, so I just let my eyes go unfocused and dropped into my head to think about the problem at hand.
A lot of folks get scattered when someone is trying to kill them. I don't. Panic does no one any good, except for the people who are trying to kill you. I only care why someone was trying to kill me so I could figure out who was trying to kill me.
One problem at a time.
Also, since I know and have come to grips with the fact that I will not live to a ripe old age and die in my sleep, I was going to be proactive. Find the bad guys, kill their ass. That was my goal, figuring out why was just a means to an end. I had a plan forming in my head to smoke the bastard out. I just needed a name and a place to start. For that, I waited on Kat.
Looking over at Father Mulcahy, I saw that he was sitting still and quiet, like he normally did. Years of monastery training ensured he could sit like a rock. That and being an army sniper somewhere in the world that had gone to shit before joining the priesthood.
Larson was also sitting stone still, enraptured by the screen as Kat worked. He wasn't blinking and his mouth was hanging open slightly in awe. I told you it was amazing if you could keep up. Apparently Larson could. My eyes slipped closed so I could think some more, and I didn't open them until I heard Kat give a quiet, but triumphant, “aha,” and stop typing.
A picture filled the screen. It was a vampire. He looked pretty normal for a corpse. Vampires are always a bit off, especially the older they are. The vampire in them doesn't quite get the human side, and when you throw in fashions through the ages ... Well, let's just say they usually act and look a bit
dramatic
.
dramatic
.
This one had long, wavy black hair with sharply trimmed sideburns that met across his face into a thick, Fu Manchu-style moustache and a soul patch. Pale, he had a heavy brow and a sharp nose. Dark eyes rimmed in red sunk over sharp cheekbones, one of which had a strange star-shaped scar on it. He must have gotten the scar before becoming a vampire, or he had been wounded with a blessed object.
Vampires can close any wounds, unless they were caused by something holy. The picture was taken from the waist up. He looked like he was slender, but broad of shoulder, and dressed in a high-dollar pinstripe suit. Admittedly, he was a good-looking corpse. I didn't recognize him, but he looked like a player.
Kat's voice cut across the room, clear and concise. “Gregorios, no surname. Owns a vampire dance club downtown called Helletog. That's his legitimate business. Illegal businesses include several vampire bordellos tucked away in different parts of the city. They also double as distribution centers for dealing crack and finding victims.” She clicked some more. “Supposedly over six hundred years old, and with the largest kiss in the city. He normally keeps a pretty high profile and is a minor celebrity in the Goth and fetish scenes, but very recently has dropped out of sight, only making minimal appearances at his club.”
This bloodsucker fit the bill. A big player, but laying low. It was as good a place to start as any. “Send the addresses to my phone and me and Larson here will go knocking and see if we can find this asshole and figure out what he knows.”
Larson looked at me sharply, eyes wide. “Why am I going?”
I held up my hand to stop him from speaking. “You don't get a choice on this either, pal. You are in this and I want to know why. They used you to get me in a trap, so you are stuck with this until the end.” I waved my hand in a flourish as I stood up. “Besides, you wanted to be a vampire hunter. Here's your chance to see how it's done.”
I knew he had probably changed his mind about being a vampire hunter after the attack earlier. Seeing the monsters in action will do that. They are not nearly as horrible in theory as they are in real life. Again, fiction paints vampires as cool and sexy. In real life, they are vicious, deadly creatures and we are their food. I was taking Larson with me to learn more about why he was involved, but I also wanted to turn him away from wanting to hunt monsters. He wasn't up to the job.
Hell, I am a little more than human and some days I'm not up to the job. Going down this path, I am going to die. I have made peace with that, but that didn't mean I was going to just let him follow the same path to the same end.
I mean, I'm an asshole, but I'm not a fucking asshole.
6
We were in the Comet cruising down Interstate 75 heading into the city of Atlanta. That's where Helletog was. Here in the South you do a lot of driving. It's like the city is where you go to do certain things, but most of us live outside of it in the suburbs. There is space in the South for us to spread out and we take advantage of that. We have MARTAâwhich is public transport consisting of a few trains and busesâbut there is no true subway in Atlanta, and if there were, it damn sure wouldn't go to the suburbs. So we drive. Parking is plentiful, the streets are wide, and we love our cars.
I have a few vehicles, but I mostly drive the Comet. I love this car. It was built back when cars were meant to go fast and last a long time. It's older than I am. A '66 Mercury Comet, it's two tons of metal. Long in the hood and with a wide set of doors, it looks vaguely like a shark, menacing and sinister.
The engine is a 351 Windsor, which is car talk for eight cylinders built for nothing but power and speed. Of course the car is painted black. The interior is from a Lincoln Continental, so it is plush and soft. You can ride in comfort for hours. I am a big guy, and I need a big car to ride for any length of time.
I can drive anything, but the more comfortable I am, the better I do so. It gets jack for gas mileage, but I am okay with that. I don't drive this car to save the environment. I drive it because I love it.
You may not understand, but if you ever got behind the wheel of a car like this you would. It's a hotrod. I love the sound of the motor as it roars to life. I love the rock of the car in idle because the motor is like a beast chained to a stake, waiting for the links to break so it can roar forth and wreak havoc. The rich smell of gasoline and oil that comes through as you drive, the scent of metal and leather inside the car, these bring me peace. There are no antilock brakes and very little power steering. When you brake, you brake all of a sudden. When you swing into a curve, you hold that car or it will get away from you. The Comet is the loudest, fastest, most dangerous car I have ever driven.
And I love it.
Larson and I were in the front seat. He was seat belted in and his knuckles were white as he held on to the door. I would bet it was the first time he had ever ridden in a muscle car that was being let loose to do what it was made for, which is eating highway miles. Highway 75 is a wide, sweeping stretch of asphalt. Up to sixteen lanes on each side and smooth as silk. The Comet was wound up in her high-range and we were cruising down the road just a peg over a hundred miles an hour.
My finger pushed buttons on the face of the MP3 player mounted on the dash of the car. I love digital technology, so the Comet's stereo was compatible with my player. Using MP3's gives me the range of music I listen to in an easy, portable form. It took a second, but I finally found what I wanted. One last push of a button sent music flooding over the noise of the motor.
An electric organ started off with a light blues boogie run. It danced lightly above the sound of the engine. After a few seconds, a slap bass, guitar, and drummer kicked in, driving the organ into a blues funk corner. That's when she started singing, whiskey-tinged gospel voice cutting in, carrying with it the promise of everything that is woman. Larson's eyes got wide and he leaned over to me.
“Who is
that
?”
that
?”
I smiled. “Susan Tedeschi.” My fingers rested on the volume knob. “Sit back, shut up, and learn something.” Turning the knob pushed the music through the speakers, filling the inside of the car with the blues.
Susan Tedeschi sang about having evidence that her man was a two-timing dog. Her voice was proof enough for me. Nobody else can touch her, the only one better was Koko Taylor. If some people consider Diana Ross a torch singer, then Susan Tedeschi is slinging napalm.
From there the music shifted to the blues rock of the Allman Brothers Band and their “Whipping Post” all about a man done wrong who isn't putting up with it anymore. Son Seals sang out how he just wanted to go home, his guitar driving the point in front of his smooth vocals. By the end of that we were turning off the highway onto North Avenue and we were right around the corner from Helletog.
Pulling to a stop at the end of the off ramp, the road in front of us was crawling with college kids walking to somewhere. One of the South's biggest colleges is on North Avenue, so seeing wandering groups of kids is not uncommon.
Waiting for the light to turn, I watched them pass by a homeless man with a sign that just said PLEASE in shaky marker on dirty cardboard. His clothes hung on a frail body in tatters. Grime and dirt filled the creases on his face, and a new trucker cap gleamed on top of dirty gray hair. The cap was white and red, and he obviously hadn't had it long. It probably came from a homeless shelter just that day. Reaching out a thin arm that held a cracked plastic cup, he beseeched the groups of passing kids for change.
Most of them ignored him and kept walking. A few kind souls waved or nodded at him as they shuffled by, their high-dollar jackets pulled close against the evening coolness. At the end of a group one frat boy took notice of his fellow man.
Frat boy was big, not muscular, just bigger than average. Dirty dishwater blond hair and a chin that was weak all sat on a fat neck. He was dressed in hundred-dollar jeans that looked like they came from Goodwill and a red sweater. He moved toward the homeless man with a bad look on his face.
I've seen the same look on the face of a dog that is getting ready to bite.
A sharp push on the horn of the Comet made the frat boy's head snap up and look at me in the car. I held up my finger and shook it at him, telling him no. Mouth breathing, he stared at me for a moment. Scowling, he flipped me off and walked away to join his friends. Tough guy.
The homeless man smiled and gave me a little bow of appreciation. His teeth were black and his clothes were rags on his thin, dirty body, but he was polite. A glimmer drew my eye to his hand. He held a box cutter with the razor extended. I hadn't seen it before, and I knew the frat boy hadn't either. So instead of saving the bum, I saved the asshole. Seems about right. The light turned and I goosed the pedal to pull out onto the road.
We were not on the road very long before I pulled off at a small, stand-alone restaurant that looked like a pagoda with a drive-through. Neon flashed on the sloping tiled roof and B
ENTO
B
OX
blinked into the night. The restaurant had no dining room, it was drive-up only. There was a walk-up window in front and a few tables with benches outside, but the weather was a bit chilly for folks to be out, so they were empty. All the customers were in the drive-through. Pulling into line, I turned down the stereo and turned to Larson.
ENTO
B
OX
blinked into the night. The restaurant had no dining room, it was drive-up only. There was a walk-up window in front and a few tables with benches outside, but the weather was a bit chilly for folks to be out, so they were empty. All the customers were in the drive-through. Pulling into line, I turned down the stereo and turned to Larson.
“Hungry?”
He looked around at the strange-looking building. “What is this place?”
“Bento Box. Drive-through sushi. Best damn sushi in the state of Georgia for that matter.”
“I don't eat sushi.”
Turning back to him, I studied his features. “You don't eat sushi because you don't like sushi, or you don't eat sushi because you have never tried it?”
“I just don't think I would like it. Raw fish doesn't sound good to me.”
The car ahead of us pulled away. A tap of my foot pulled the Comet up the speaker box. It sat on a miniature version of the restaurant itself. Behind it was a huge sign with colorful pictures of sushi and writing along with prices. The bulbs were kept fresh so it was almost blindingly brilliant.
“So I am ordering for the two of us,” I said.
Before he could say anything else the speaker box squawked and a woman's voice called out of it, tinny and staticky. “Rel-come to Bento Box, rah-t is you order, prease?”
Leaning on the door, I spoke into the round speaker. “Hello, Katsumi, how are you and your honorable father tonight?”
A loud click sounded through the speaker and the static disappeared. So did the fake accent. “Deacon! It has been too long since you came by. Father is well, and I know he has missed you also.” Enthusiasm filled the smooth tone of Katsumi's voice.
“It has been too long indeed,” I replied. “I will come back soon to visit. Unfortunately, I cannot stay tonight.”
“That is unfortunate. Will you be having your regular order?”
“I will, and if you could double it, that would be great. I have company in the car with me.” Silence poured palpably from the speaker. “It's okay, Katsumi. It is good company.” If Larson had been bad company, then when we pulled around to the drive-through Katsumi would have been holding an Uzi out the drive-up window to distract him while one of the ninja sushi chefs came around to slit his throat. The Takakage family take my safety seriously.
“Very good. Pull around.”
The Comet rolled up to the cleared drive-through window and we pulled even to see Katsumi's smiling face. It was a good face. The Takakage family is a family of beautiful daughters. Katsumi had glossy black hair piled on top of her head and held in a thick bun with ornamental chopsticks. Her big brown eyes were outlined in heavy kohl eyeliner, making them appear liquid and unreal. The skin on her perfect heart-shaped face was flawlessly smooth. Blood-red lipstick outlined full lips that would make a priest bite his knuckles. Just ask Father Mulcahy.
She was wearing a ridiculous sheath dress with a mandarin collar that was painted-on tight and showed her shapely torso. I knew there was a long length of just as shapely leg under that skirt. She looked like a young, vibrant, Japanese woman. She looked human.
She wasn't.
The Takakage family was Tengu.
Tengu are figures from Japanese folklore. There they were called demons, even though they are anything but demonic. What they are is some form of raven shape-shifters who gave birth to all the ninja legends. To my knowledge, Katsumi and her family were the only Tengu on American shores.
A few years back, I helped her father, the patriarch of the clan, get his daughter back when some dumbass mafioso had kidnapped her. Jimmy Legbone was a feral little two-bit gangster who thought he could climb the organized crime mountain if he could harness some heavy firepower. He had kidnapped Katsumi's baby sister, trying to force Maasakki to kill for them. I had helped him get her back, and ever since they never let me pay for my sushi.
Katsumi handed out a large paper bag, which I took and passed off to Larson. When I turned back she had two large cups filled with sweet tea. I took those, too, and handed them over as well. “Any chance you will let me pay this time?”
She waved a perfectly manicured hand in a shoo-shoo manner. The nails on it were about three inches long, painted blood red, and I knew could turn diamond hard and razor sharp. “You pay for it by promising to come visit my father as soon as you can.”
See, they never let me pay. I used to feel bad about it, but the sushi is just too damn good not to come here. I promised I would visit soon and told her we were eating in the parking lot before leaving. Katsumi leaned out the window, the edge catching her dress as she bent at the waist, pulling the fabric even tighter. Those blood-red nails lightly touched the back of my head and my chin. Strength vibrated down those shapely arms as she pulled my face close and kissed me on the cheek, leaving a thick imprint of lipstick. I left it there as I pulled away. I would wipe it off after I parked. I didn't want to insult Katsumi in any way.
Once the Comet was parked facing out into the lot with a brick wall to the rear I unbuckled my seat belt and took the bag from Larson. Inside were two beautifully painted wooden boxes. The black lacquer on them was broken by colorful paintings of feudal Japan. Samurais, geishas, and mythical creatures swirled across them in breathtaking designs. Both of them were hand painted and unique. Usually, the food comes in preformed plastic Bento boxes, but they always gave me the fancy ones. I had a whole collection of them at home.
Handing one to Larson, I opened mine on my lap. He watched warily as I slid the top open to reveal the contents. Inside, the box was divided into sections, each compartment containing different forms of sushi.
I love sushi. The only kind I don't care for is octopus or squid. Both are too chewy for me. The sushi in the box on my lap was all of my favorites. Eel, salmon, and tuna arranged on tiny beds of rice. Also, there was a veggie tempura roll and a dragon roll. Opening the soy sauce, I poured it into the space provided to hold it and grabbed the chopsticks that were stuck in the side. They were lacquered black to match the box but sharpened on the end into points. I used them to pick up a portion of my favorite sushi from the box, dip it quickly into the soy sauce, and pop it into my mouth.
Delicious.
“What the hell was that you just ate?”
Swallowing, I looked over at Larson. “It's a Southern Deacon Roll. It's tempura, which means âfried.'” I held up another piece for his inspection. “It's a fried catfish sushi.” Maasakki Takakage had created the roll just for me. It was incredible. A lot like a tempura California roll, but with catfish instead of crab meat. Popping the piece into my mouth, I chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “You should eat up. We have a long night ahead of us.”
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