Cannot Unite

Cannot Unite

by Jackie Ivie

A Vampire Assassin League
Novella

“We Kill for
Profit”

12th in series

Copyright 2013, Jackie Ivie

Smashwords Edition

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold
or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to
historical events, real people, or real locales are used
fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Flaked iron oxide
.

Jeannette rubbed the particles between her
latex-gloved thumb and fingers, watching the rust turn to fine
granules that floated down and became dust. Same thing was left at
the other murder site. In Philly. That…and a dead body with a lot
of bruising and an equal amount of blood loss. Only difference was,
this time the victim had managed a 9-1-1 call. That must have been
what spared him some of the blood depletion.

“It’s rust, Lady.”

“I know.”

“Forensics already has a baggie full of the
stuff.”

“Well…they missed some.”

“Who the hell cares about a little
rust?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

She ignored the police officer escorting
her. They’d given her an Officer Johnson today. He had a first
name. She’d forgotten it the moment they’d been introduced. The guy
was full desk jockey. Overweight and out of shape. Winded just from
walking with her. Not much different from the policeman who’d been
with her in Philly yesterday.

Jeannette walked around the chalked outline
of a body to where two small spots of blood had hit the concrete.
Forensics had already swabbed and no doubt bagged the evidence, but
that wasn’t what she was looking for. There should be some arterial
spray. Some sign of trauma. Something. Even hunched down in a
squat, she couldn’t see any color other than what looked like a
half-acre of light gray floor. Pretty nice floor, streaked
intermittently with sunbeams from high-placed windows. Looked like
it had even been waxed recently. Everything was nearly identical to
the last time. Only in Philly, the body had been drained of over
three quarts of blood. According to the police report, this one had
lost significantly less. Probably due to that 9-1-1 call. Where
would the blood be?

“You finished?”

“Just getting started, Officer.”

He sighed, loudly and heavily.

“You don’t have to stay,” she offered.

“Oh yes, I do. You’re my assignment for the
day. I get to make sure nothing is messed with at the crime scene
due to your hokie stuff.”

“Then I thank you,” she answered calmly,
keeping the sarcasm out of her voice. It wasn’t easy. It was never
easy around the uninitiated and closed-minded.

The crime scene faded. Warped. Became
nightfall. If she blinked just right, she could end the vision. But
that wasn’t what she was getting paid for. She tensed. Carlos
Carlotti had been a second son. He’d been known for his big
spending ways and his success with the ladies…and his movement to
the top of the firm after the sudden death of his older brother in
Philadelphia six weeks ago. The Senior Carlotti wanted this solved
before they came after Son Number Three. That’s why he’d walked
into her little shop two days ago, with a full retinue of
bodyguards and a job offer.

Saying no wasn’t an option. She’d gotten
that part instantly.

In her mind it was dark again, the cavernous
warehouse lit by large round lights dangling from the rafters some
two stories up. Carlos was lighting a cigarette. Smiling. Waving to
his driver as the guy drove away, leaving him alone…for what? A new
lady-friend? Maybe…a married lady-friend? What else would explain
letting his security force leave him alone and vulnerable? Carlos
reached for his neck, his fingers touching on the image of a
recently inked tattoo...

Hmm.

That looked like a scorpion stinger. She
assumed the rest of the insect graced his shoulder. Interesting
design. Probably looked pretty sweet once he took his shirt off. If
he’d kept up with his work-outs and stayed away from Italian
restaurants, that is. As she watched, Carlos pulled out a cell
phone and started pushing numbers. If she concentrated, she’d have
it…there was a six. Four. Eight.

A length of chain slapped through the area,
clanking and thudding as it looped three times about Carlos’ body.
He screamed. The hand outside the chain embrace shook. And yet,
somehow he managed to hang onto the phone.

Well…that explained the 9-1-1 call.

Before the call went through, a dark shadow
slammed into Carlos, sending him to the floor, rust particles
accompanying the move. The shadow became a man. Jeannette
concentrated. No…not just any man. This one seemed plucked out of
time long past. He was unbelievably masculine. Immense. Extremely
muscular. A wicked-looking sword was strapped across his back. With
that he wore low-slung, scuffed trousers of some brownish material,
and nothing else. As if to show it all off. No…that couldn’t be
right. Someone had damaged him. The portion of his back she could
see was scarred in sections of stripes. How awful. Barbaric. He was
in serious need of grooming, too. Especially his hair. Mid-back
length, it was tied back with what looked like a length of rawhide
about his forehead. And somehow he sensed her…

Watching.

His head turned. Her breath caught. Her
heart stalled. He had vivid green eyes. Impossible to forget
features…

And fangs.

“Hey. Want a breath mint?”

The officer’s voice interfered. Jeannette
started. She was cold. Trembling. She blinked continuously and
rapidly on the sun-streaked floor in front of her until the tremors
calmed. And then she reached for the box of mints he held out.
Jeannette watched her fingers pick out a mint. She put it on her
tongue. Sucked on it. Good. It was spearmint. She liked spearmint.
Always had. The mint melted slowly. She stuck it to the roof of her
mouth, following the mundane back to normalcy. As always.

“You look a bit peaked, there. You
okay?”

Darn. She’d hoped to disguise the reaction.
Jeannette pasted a smile on her face and looked up at him. Not
because he was that tall, she just was diminutive. She had to look
up at practically everyone.

“We can leave now,” she told him.

“Really? You’re done?”

She nodded.

“Great. Come on. I’ll see you out.”

“Thank you.”

She should’ve worn heels. Or put her hair
atop her head. Or, maybe asked for an escort shorter than five foot
eight. He moved the crime scene tape aside for her to precede him,
and put his hand along the small of her back when he’d finished.
She skipped out of reach easily. Maybe it was a good thing she’d
worn flats.

“So. You have any plans for today?”

“Uh…no.”

“Me, either. Want to catch some dinner
later? Maybe a movie?”

He had to be kidding. The guy was about
twenty years older than her, packed enough weight he had a hard
time reaching his steering wheel, and probably had an ex-wife or
two in his past. And some kids.

“No thank you. I have some calls to
make.”

“Well. If you change your mind, or get
lonely—”

“I won’t.” She interrupted him.

The sun outside was golden. Warm for spring.
Ten thirty a.m. Even in the warehouse district, sunshine managed to
reach through to the street. And she didn’t have to jog across the
street to feel it since they were on the sunlit side. Jeannette
looked up, and closed her eyes, letting the warmth leach through
some of the leftover chill. The impact…from that man. He’d had such
amazing green eyes.

…and fangs.

“The spirits aren’t working today, huh?”

Officer Johnson had walked off the step onto
the sidewalk. Jeannette brought her head down and looked directly
across at him.

“I didn’t say that,” she told him.

“We spent five minutes in there and now
we’re leaving. What would you call it?”

“Tell the coroner the item behind the
bruising is chains. Chain links crafted about one inch size…but
flat. And squared. It’s an ancient design.”

“Ah. That would explain the rust,” Officer
Johnson said.

“There is only one perpetrator. In both
murders. Both cities.”

“Same one?”

Jeannette waited. He might not take her
seriously, but he fished a pocket notebook out and started
scribbling in it.

“And they need to look closely at the
deceased’s scorpion tattoo.”

The officer flipped the notebook closed and
gave her a deadpan look he’d probably perfected years before
meeting her. “He didn’t have a scorpion tattoo. I know. I just read
his police record this morning.”

“Check his autopsy report when it’s done. He
had a scorpion tattoo. Just got it. It’s on his shoulder.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“But the interesting section will be on the
stinger portion of his neck. Tell them to look for two puncture
wounds. This far apart.” She opened her fingers about an
inch-and-a-half.

“Right. You want me to tell them we’re
looking for a vampire? Oh, brother. I’m going to get laughed out of
the station.”

“There are no such things as vampires,
Officer Johnson.”

“No such things as psychics, either.”

He had his mirrored sunglasses on now.
Jeannette watched herself smile without much emotion.

“Nice talking to you.”

Jeannette swung her hobo bag over her
shoulder, stepped down onto the pavement, did a forty-five degree
turn to the right, and started walking. The sun felt so good. So
warm. So…
safe
. He called her name once. She ignored him.
There wasn’t any answer she could give that he’d accept, and none
she could invent. She still had to tell her client. And she was
scared.

The least of her worries was Officer
Johnson.

The woman regarded him solemnly, without
blinking, her dark brown eyes large with mystery, while the most
hypnotic spark happened somewhere deep within the brown as she
gazed at him. Nothing about her carried revulsion or disgust. But
there was something. Something…

Rare.

KayNan’s eyes opened and he sat up, scanning
the cubicle of space he claimed. It was claustrophobically small
and stiflingly quiet. As always. Exactly as he liked it. If he
stood to full height, his head grazed the ceiling. The only way to
stretch was lengthwise. The chamber was just shy of a yard wide.
Barely penetrable dim pervaded the area. Cold and dampness kept it
company. A scent of corrosion permeated the very stone walls and
floor. From there it reached out to embrace the eleven loops of
chains dangling from big, iron nails along the three of the four
walls. The entire area reeked of decay. That was how his servant,
Marten, described it, and that’s exactly why KayNan liked it. It
usually kept everyone well away from this section of the
estate.

And that included women.

He finished checking the small area.
Everything was precisely what he expected. Exactly as it had been
for centuries. But that didn’t explain the woman. The one with the
enormous dark brown eyes…large enough he could sink into their
depths and enjoy the trip.

KayNan shook his head at this nonsense,
rattling a small length of chain. That was the problem. He awakened
before evening because he’d rested without undressing fully. One of
the pegs wasn’t carrying its full complement of iron. There wasn’t
a woman. He wasn’t poetic. He didn’t possess an imagination.
Slavery had robbed that from him long before death finalized it.
And he didn’t dream. He never dreamt.

KayNan fingered the small links of his neck
chain, and then stopped as a tingle of sensation slipped from his
finger pads into his palms. It was barely there…but he could swear
he felt…something. He
felt
it! His eyes flew wide and he
dropped the links, barely noticing how they thudded back into place
against his chest. The strangeness was happening to his feet, too.
KayNan stared down at them. The stone beneath him was brought from
an old castle they’d been demolishing in the eighteenth century.
He’d bought it and had it shipped over, and this little room
created, because that’s all he’d known. Space was an oddity he now
claimed, but rarely tasted. Luxuries had the same issue. He rested
in a cubicle that resembled the room he’d shared with three other
slaves, then two. One…then just him.

The tingling moved to encompass his wrists
and ankles, deciding him. The cubicle had a wooden door with a big
iron keyhole. Humans had lost the key when he’d had this home
constructed, around this cell that had been moved and recreated,
stone by stone. The key loss wasn’t an issue. Nobody ever locked
the door.