The Vampire Diaries: Bound By Blood (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

Dear Bloody Diary,

Yes, I love to kill. Or rather, I love to feed. There is a difference, I suppose, but the distinction gets blurred. After all, the blood—that which gives me my greatest strength, and that which protects me and nourishes me—comes from the living. Hey, I do not make the rules. I am bound by blood. We all are. At least, those of us who walk the night—and, of course, the very few of us who exist by day.

We won’t get into a whole rehashing of my ring. Another day, another sunrise.

Indeed, one does not need to kill to be a vampire. We can feed and compel and be on our merry way. Those of us who are smart do just that. And we live a very long and happy life, hidden from society, and hunted and sought by no one. Bite wounds are obvious, too. Those of us who are smart might use a fingernail to puncture a vein, or even use a knife blade. Then we compel the victim to report a botched mugging.

Smart. A vampire with that kind of forethought could exist forever in a big city, and many do.

There are, of course, some of us who do not possess such restraint. There are some of us who cannot stop when the body is nourished, if there are leftovers. There are some of us who enjoy sucking the complete life force from our victims. There are some of us who clean our plates, so to speak.

Likewise, there are some of us who turn off our emotions, and who live recklessly.

A death wish of our own, perhaps.

Kill or be killed, I say.

Speaking of which, I can very much be killed. A stake to the heart, vervain, fire, decapitation. The usual crap. I wasn’t immune to worrying about my own mortality. I was not hugely attached to it, except I’d gotten used to this body. Hell, I’d even grown fond of this crazy world. I’m in no hurry to exit it.

Which is why I perked up when I first heard the whisperings of a way for a vampire not to die. Not ever. Yes, it had been the young witch, Bonnie, talking—I had overheard her from across a crowded room. Young or not, she was the town’s most powerful witch, and she came from a long line of freaks. Of course, I’m not an idiot—or rather, not always an idiot. I checked it out. And by “checking it out,” that meant I had stolen the grimoire in question. Apparently, most witches keep such grimoires—books of spells—and some date back centuries. Many are handed down from witch to witch. Where Bonnie had gotten this one, I hadn’t a clue, nor did I care.

What was important was what the grimoire had prophesied
:
something of great importance to me and to all those like me.

On the night of the meteor, the Four Elements would appear. And, according to the grimoire, the Four Elements were the key to a vampire’s true immortality.

To never, ever die.

Yes, that sounds good to me.

Very, very good.

D. Salvatore

The Mystic Falls sheriff’s office was surprisingly busy for a small town.

Then again, Mystic Falls wasn’t like other small towns. I locked my gun in my glove box and parked in the town square, where women in sneakers were power walking during their lunch breaks, and young mothers with strollers were walking and texting. Maintenance workers were still sweeping up popcorn from last night’s latest Movie in the Square showing of
The Wizard of Oz
. I hadn’t yet gone to the showing. It seemed more like a date night thing. I didn’t have a date with anything other than a bottle of cheap bourbon. That was how low I’d sunk since my last girlfriend had faded from the picture.

As I stepped inside the entrance of the sheriff’s office, located under the town square’s clock tower, deputies came and went with determination in their strides, as if they were on high alert. Another rash of murders tended to do that … shake everyone up, especially law enforcement. Years ago, I’d worked with Sheriff Forbes on a missing person case, and that person had stayed missing. That was the tragic thing with private eyes and cops alike. Sometimes, our cases didn’t get solved.

I hated when that happened. The cops had their cold cases, and I had mine.

So, when I showed my mug at the check-in window, I got buzzed in. They knew me. I worked my way through the crowded halls in the sheriff’s office. I was reminded of a precinct in New York. Not one in a quiet town in Virginia.

Okay, maybe not so quiet.

I found Sheriff Forbes sitting at her expansive desk and surrounded by far too much paperwork. I rapped on the open door and stuck my head in. “Have a minute, Sheriff?”

I could tell she didn’t have a minute. Her blonde hair caught some of the afternoon sunlight and so did her steely blue eyes. “Mr. Long,” she said. “The desk just buzzed me and told me that you had that look in your eye, the one you save for me every half-decade or so.”

“May I come in?” I tried to hide the fact that she knew my name and my intent. She and I had only crossed paths on a couple of occasions over the past 10 years.

“I only have a few minutes.”

“That’s all I need.”

She nodded and motioned toward the leather visitors’ chairs arranged in front of her desk. “Have a seat.” She set down her pencil and folded her hands over whatever she had been working on.

Despite knowing my time was limited, I could not help but say, “You remembered my name.”

“I know all the private dicks in town, Mr. Long, though most of them have left, unable to find paying work. I may not have spoken to you for years, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what you’ve been up to lately. So, do you have any clue who’s been stealing blood at the hospital?”

“No.”

“Us neither. How else can I help you?”

I cleared my throat, a little disarmed by her sharp mind. Not to mention her blonde hair was glowing almost radiantly in the sunlight. If she hadn’t looked so irritated and hurried, she might have been pretty. I did like my blondes.

“I’ve been hired by a client to look into the deaths of Tonya Lockwood and her boyfriend, Brent Curtains.”

She nodded and tilted her head, catching more of the sunlight. Her face was momentarily hidden in shadows. “Who hired you, Mr. Long?”

Normally, I wouldn’t divulge this information, but if I wanted the Sheriff’s help, then I was going to have to give her a little something, too. “Her estranged sister.”

Sheriff Forbes pursed her lips a little and sat back. She kept her hand flat on the file in front of her. I very, very badly wanted to take a peek at that file. My every instinct told me that the information I was looking for was right there under her palm.

“Did she now?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you are a fine detective, Mr. Long, but we are doing all we can to find the answers.”

“Answers to what, exactly?” I asked.

She held her smile. “I can’t talk about that, Mr. Long.”

“Call me Max,” I said. “Gracie heard her die, Sheriff.”

“I understand that. We spoke at length.”

“She wants answers.”

“We’re working on it.”

“Has an autopsy been performed?”

Forbes didn’t answer. I may not have worked many high-profile murder cases, or high-profile cases of any sort, but I had spent 10 years honing my investigator instincts. I may not know much, but my every instinct told me that there was something very wrong here.

It’s Mystic Falls,
I thought.
Of course, there was something very wrong here.

“Mr. Long,” she said, emphasizing
Mister
, making it known there would be no informality here, “we are very busy getting answers to a case that I am not at liberty to discuss with you. Now, good day.”

“I can help,” I said.

“We don’t need your help, Detective Long. And I strongly suggest that you leave this case alone.”

“I was hired to do a job.”

“We have this covered. I suggest you return the money to your client.”

“Just one problem, Sheriff,” I said at the door. “I kind of need the money. Good day.”

Dear Bloody Diary,

I almost regret killing the campers. Almost. They tasted too good to regret for long, but it turns out that one of them was a Lockwood. A distant Lockwood. Oh, that’s great. Just ducky, in fact. A Lockwood gets drained, and the town is in an uproar again, and so is my hero brother. So, what else is new?

Truth was, I hadn’t intended to kill them. I had spent the night looking for the damn Four Elements. I’m beginning to think they don’t exist. I’m beginning to think the prophecy is bogus, and that I’m an idiot to go looking for it. My search for the Four Elements was turning out to be as elusive as a unicorn in the garden.

Again, what else is new?

But the promise of the Four Elements is too great. Too powerful. If it is here in Mystic Falls, I will find it. Before anyone else. Not much gets past me.

Lord help any campers—or anyone else, for that matter—who get in my way.

D. Salvatore

Now packing heat again, I parked at the campground located just outside of Mystic Falls.

Through my preliminary research, I’d discovered that no less than eight people had been killed or had gone missing in these very woods. There should have been a big sign above the dirt parking lot that read: “Enter at Your Own Risk.”

Well, I was entering, and I was risking. I had a job to do.

Besides, I had been in these woods plenty of times. Dozens, in fact. These days, it was a favorite venue for teen raves. And, yes, I had been a teenager once, partying with the rest of my peers, though not with the kinds of substances the kids use these days to get high. But still, it was a coming-of-age tradition that Mystic Falls kids would go to the woods to cut loose in debauchery and delinquency. Even the rich kids. Especially them. Despite the recent deaths and reports of animal attacks, people still partied in these woods—and camped in them as well. Mystic Falls residents were either a very stubborn bunch, or very stupid. Sometimes the two went hand in hand.

I got out of my old truck and shut the door quietly. After all, there was no need to alert whatever the hell was out here that Max Long was about to stumble through the sun-dappled woods.

I shook my head. Crazy thoughts, for sure.

Just relax, Max,
I thought, reciting my most popular personal motto. I liked it that my motto rhymed with my name. I said it often enough in my head that it had become my mantra.

I could see why the location was so popular. These deep and breathtaking woods were my home. I damn well wasn’t going to let anything keep me out of them or stop me from doing my job. And investigating the crime scene was my job.

There it is
, I thought, as I shouldered my backpack and stepped out of the dirt parking lot and onto the trail. The Mystic Falls stubbornness.

Or stupidity.

That caused people to go missing or turn up dead.

Stay out of the woods!
parents would warn. Kids never listened. Hell, even I wasn’t listening to my own inner voice screaming that there were
things
in the woods. I hoped that the worst thing that would happen to me today was that I would pull a tick out of my sock.

Anyone who grew up here had that stubbornness and stupidity embedded in their upbringing, as if it was taken for granted that we locals marched to our own drummers, even if we damn well got killed doing it. The woods were a plaintive siren’s call in a small town with very little entertainment for the younger generation.

The morning was cool, and I was wearing a light jacket, jeans, and hiking boots. In my backpack were two big water bottles that I could hear sloshing and three peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Good enough for a day hike to the campsite.

Thanks to a quick call to Gracie Lockwood, I knew roughly where her sister had been camping. Once I got there, it would only be a matter of finding the most trampled area. The truth was, I had been to the very same spot myself at least two or three times. Hell, most of Mystic Falls had been out there. There was a beautiful waterfall there. It was a much photographed local attraction because of the way the dappled light broke through the trees to illuminate water droplets with rainbows in them.

And now, Mystic Falls was the starting point for two lost souls who had departed this plane and gone to who knows where.

The morning quickly warmed, and just as quickly I worked up a sweat. The trail continued on through old-growth woods, filled to overflowing with sprawling spruces and giant oaks. The sun was mostly blotted from the sky, due to the extensive canopy above. I could have been walking in a leafy tunnel.

The hike out to the camping spot would take me nearly two hours. That was a long way from civilization, and a long way from help, which is why my backpack was also burdened with my .44 Magnum in a side pocket. I might have been stupid, but I wasn’t a total idiot, which is why I had brought “Maggie” along for the ride. Hell, two people had been killed out here just last week. And, what was it that Gracie’s sister had said?

Someone is out there.

Not some
thing
, as in a creature.

Someone.

Interesting,
I thought, as I reached around and patted the weighed-down side pocket to reassure myself that my gun was indeed still there. It was a damn comforting feeling, knowing I was packing some serious heat. I never carried my handgun on me when hiking in rough country. I had my reasons, most of which included not wanting to fall on it and accidentally shoot myself. That had almost happened to me once.

The trail wound through the dense forest, and I spent the bulk of my time not tripping over exposed tree roots or jagged rocks. The trail varied from being well-maintained to hardly visible. Luckily, I had my Virginia Trail app on my smartphone to keep my boots pointed in the right direction. And I had my memories of a boy who had thoroughly partied in these woods himself, once upon a time. So many girls kissed. But now, they had all gone to leave me in the forest with the mosquitoes, the leaves, and the wild bunnies.

Shortly before noon, I heard the sound I had been waiting to hear: falling water.

The closer I got, the more thunderous the sound became. Yes, I knew I had a job to do, and yes, I knew there was more than likely a killer stalking these very woods, but once again, I felt the familiar draw of the sound of running water. I’d always been drawn to water. Water was beautiful, mysterious, and relaxing. I had been known to sit quietly next to the James River and watch it for hours.

Then again, I also didn’t have much of a life.

I was single again. My latest girlfriend had decided that I wasn’t what she was looking for. A private detective in his early thirties who barely got by—and who lived in a one-bedroom apartment above his rundown office—probably wasn’t what any girl was looking for. My sporadic income was even less impressive than her paycheck-to-paycheck office job. Mine was freelance job to freelance job. I didn’t blame her for bailing on me. Our dates at McDonald’s, followed by Netflix at her place on her bigger TV, were marginal dates at best—I knew she had felt consistently underwhelmed by my attempts to do something besides have sex with her. I missed her more than a little bit.

Oh, well, I thought, as I stepped off the trail and headed over a leafy area that would lead, I knew, to a wonderful observation point. I probably should have brought her to the falls, and would have, if it hadn’t have been full of killings. The closer I got to the ledge, the more the magnificent waterfall was revealed as the leaves parted for my arms and legs. I felt my heart thudding in my chest. I was, as always, transfixed by the sight of the rushing water, now falling through the air majestically. I moved closer to the edge, knowing it was a straight drop down—it was nearly a hundred feet to the churning pool below. The spray flew up and the sunlight caught it. I was mesmerized by the sparkles.

I took in a lot of air and briefly closed my eyes. I reveled in the sound of water, which seemed to emanate from the Earth itself. So beautiful. It even smelled good here. Clean, fresh, and damp. I opened my eyes and stared for many minutes at the falling water and the drops of spray sparkling on leaves. So much power. So beautiful. So right.

Did everyone feel this about water? Or was it just me? I didn’t know, but what I did know was that I had a job to do. I reluctantly tore my gaze from what photographers hiked through the deep woods to snap, and young lovers idealized as one of the perfect local places to get next to each other.

I began my minute inspection of the area. Step by step, I looked up, down, and around, seeking anything that looked out of place in this verdant, clean forest. It took me 10 minutes of searching, but I finally found the remains of the yellow police “caution” tape. It was still tied to the branch of a bush. It fluttered there in the breeze like a dead butterfly’s wing. My eye caught the movement and somehow, I stepped from my profound admiration of this ethereal place and landed right into the reality of the crime scene.

I stood back and took in the scene, knowing that here, in this lovely place, two people had been killed. The fluttering yellow police tape marked the spot.

By whom or
what
they had been killed remained to be seen.