Dark Blood

Book 2: Elijah Pike Vampire Chronicles

by James M. Thompson

Genres: Horror; Supernatural suspense; Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

AN UNDENIABLE CRAVING For two hundred years, Roger Neimann has never had to know the end that mortals face. But eternal existence comes with a price he cannot accept . . . consuming human blood. Hiding in New Orleans under an assumed identity, he desperately searches for a cure for his vampirism. AN INSATIABLE HUNGER Stalking the streets of New Orleans, a vicious serial killer dubbed “The Ripper” leaves his victims drained of blood. For Houston physician Matthew Carter, it is an all-too-familiar pattern—one that sends him racing to find Neimann. But he is not alone in his hunt. A RAGING THIRST There are those intent on using the powers of the vampire for their own evil ends. A vampire sick with disease and driven into a crazed killing frenzy that will not stop until he has taken everyone he can . . . including the woman Matt loves. “If you read one horror book this year, read this one!” —William W. Johnstone on Night Blood

Release date: February 21, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 352

Sample

The body drifted deeper into the inky black waters of the Houston Ship Channel, arms and legs moving slowly in the sluggish current as if in a macabre underwater dance of death. Lights from searching ships passed close but never touched it as the grotesque shape settled slowly into the foul chemical-tainted mud of the channel’s floor.

The skin and tissues on the edges of the nearly severed neck, pushed together by the body’s position on the channel floor, slowly began to knit together. Microscopic cells, under the direction of the DNA-controlling plasmids coursing through the blood, began to migrate and reattach themselves while capillaries and blood vessels reformed and established new blood paths to supply the new tissue with life-giving sustenance.

As blood flowed into the brain, which had shut down under the onslaught of dozens of 9mm bullets, neural cells began to fire and discharge. Murky thoughts were generated, bringing to consciousness memories of the preceding few hours.

Elijah Pike, born in the early 1800s, began to wake. Flashes of barely remembered scenes flickered into being, like images from an old kinescope film being played back.

Pike dimly remembered a group of men, dressed in black SWAT-team uniforms, daring to invade his lair in the dead of night, drifting through the full moon’s shadows like ghosts as they boarded his ship.

His body jerked under the water at the recalled fury of this invasion, and his teeth gritted and gnashed at images of him slashing the interlopers with his claws and fangs, killing them and flinging their lifeless bodies aside like empty husks.

Dank water caressed his bloodless lips; they curled in a grin of satisfaction at the memory of the black man who was their leader and how his face contorted in agony and surprise when Pike ran him through with his katana, the Japanese long sword he’d had for over a hundred years.

Pike remembered standing over the last of the invaders, his blade pointed down at the man’s heart, when he heard the voice of a friend scream, “No-o-o!”

As he slowly drifted toward the surface of the frigid water, Pike recalled hesitating and glancing at his friend and colleague, Matt Carter, who was walking through the rain toward him, arms outstretched.

“Roger, how much is your life worth?” Matt had shouted. “Just how much carnage can you endure just to go on living?”

Pike had lowered his sword and turned to lean on the rail of his ship, wondering the same thing. How much would I give to let go, let them kill me, and perhaps become human again, even if only in death? he’d thought.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of an automatic weapon as streams of bullets stitched across his back and neck, almost severing his head from his body before he tumbled over the rail and into the ship channel.

Pike came fully awake in the water, his body screaming for oxygen, his arms flailing and his legs kicking to drive him upward. As his face broke the surface, he gasped and grabbed a stanchion on the pier. Unmindful of the razor-sharp barnacles piercing his arms, he hung there in the water, rain still coursing down from darkened skies as he let his body finish its healing.

He floated, swaying on the current, immobile for four hours until the process was complete. The rain was lessening and the ships that had been searching for his body had long since given up and gone back to shore.

Elijah Pike, now fully alive, grabbed hold of the rotting, barnacle-encrusted timbers on the wharf and laboriously climbed to the top of the dock. The creature recalled that he was known as Roger Niemann, doctor of medicine, and was a member of the Vampyre race. He rolled onto his back on the damp concrete, coughed and choked as he inhaled dank, sulfurous air drifting inland from over the channel, and wondered not for the first time in his two hundred years if he should be glad to still be alive.

Niemann slowly looked around, checking to see if the area was clear of the numerous policemen who’d tried to kill him scant hours before.

The area seemed completely deserted, so, with a grunt of exertion and pain, Niemann rolled over onto his hands and knees, his head hanging down, still too fatigued from his ordeal to get to his feet.

He gingerly felt the still-ragged edges of his neck wound, his mind filled once again with wonder at the recuperative abilities of his Vampyre body.

After he caught his breath, still unable to stand, he scrabbled on hands and knees across the wharf until he was in the shadows of the warehouses across the street.

Keeping his back to the wall, ever watchful for guards or policemen who might have remained on the scene, he moved toward his own warehouse fifty yards away.

As he inched his way through the darkness, he glanced back across the street. His converted freighter, the Night Runner, was still moored there, seemingly deserted, festooned with yellow crime-scene tape as if decorated for some obscene celebration.

When he got to the door of his warehouse, he found it heavily bolted and chained, with more of the yellow tape stretched across it. Thankfully, the police must have thought him dead, for there was no guard left to prevent his access.

Grunting, he grabbed the padlock in his right hand and twisted. The tortured metal screamed as it parted under the force of his grip, and he sucked in his breath, worried the sound might bring unwanted visitors to his former lair.

The night remained silent except for the throaty gurgle of the ship channel, the creaking and groaning of his nearby ship as it shifted slightly on the current, and the mournful cry of a distant foghorn.

Niemann opened the door and slipped inside, his eyes seeing clearly in the almost total darkness of what had once been his only refuge.

He moved silently down the corridor, stopping once to look at the chalked outlines of the bodies he’d left behind during the final assault on his domain by the police.

He felt a momentary disgust at what he’d done, but it soon passed as he did a quick inventory and found that most of his precious possessions, acquired over two centuries of living as a Vampyre, remained untouched.

Weak from his rejuvenation, he needed to feed, but there was no time. Moving as quickly as he could manage, he gathered as many of his things as he could and began to move them across the street onto his ship.

Dawn was only a couple of hours away and he planned to be at sea before the sun came up. He needed to put as much distance as he could between Houston and himself before the authorities discovered that his ship and possessions were gone.

He chuckled to himself as he carried another load up the gangplank. “The fools will never believe I survived,” he whispered aloud, a habit he’d acquired after many years of solitary existence. “They’ll just put it down to common thievery along the docks, a not unusual occurrence in this area of high crime.”

Soon he had everything he needed, including his hoard of gold and jewels and cash he would need to set up a new life somewhere else, where the Normals still didn’t believe in the existence of his race.

After disengaging the Night Runner from the dock, he stood at the helm as he eased it down the channel toward the Gulf of Mexico and freedom. Once on the open sea, he would paint over the name and change it to something else to avoid detection by the Coast Guard once the alarm was raised.

He took a deep breath of the salty sea breeze and smiled at the cloud-covered moon, wondering what new adventures awaited him on his journey.

Steve “Shooter” Kowolski, homicide detective on the Houston Police Department, finished packing the picnic supplies in the trunk of his ’66 Mustang convertible. Shooter, known for outlandish combinations of colors in his clothing, was dressed today in plaid madras shorts, a bright-yellow tank top, and leather sandals for a picnic trip to Herman Park. He heard a door slam and looked up as his girlfriend, TJ O’Reilly, came down the walk.

As always, the sight of her quickened Shooter’s heart rate and caused a fluttery feeling in his stomach. A confirmed womanizer and bachelor until he’d met TJ, Shooter had fallen deeply in love with the young woman; he was now entertaining thoughts of marriage and children and a life with her by his side.

TJ, a resident in internal medicine at Baylor College of Medicine, stood five feet two inches and had tousled black hair that partially covered a pretty, gaminelike face. She and Shooter were scheduled to meet TJ’s roommate, Samantha Scott, and her boyfriend, Dr. Matt Carter, in less than an hour.

“Come on, babe,” Shooter called as he slammed the trunk lid, “we’re gonna be late.”

TJ, whose expression was typically open and friendly, blinked in the bright glare of Houston’s summer sun and stared at Shooter for a moment as though she wasn’t quite sure who he was. She searched in her purse and pulled out a large pair of sunglasses and put them on, covering her eyes and half her face. After a moment, her face cleared and she smiled slowly as if awakening from a dream. “OK, OK,” she responded with a short laugh, and jogged toward the car. “Don’t worry,” she said as she vaulted over the door without opening it and flounced into the passenger seat. “They’ll wait for us. We’ve got the beer and burgers.”

Shooter got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled away from the curb, wincing as the Mustang backfired a couple of times and belched oily black smoke from the muffler. He had a brief thought that the faithful chariot was long overdue for a tune-up, but the thought vanished when TJ put her hand on his thigh and leaned her head back against the seat.

As Shooter drove, he cast surreptitious glances at TJ. She seemed to have recovered from the strange episode of an hour before, but he was still worried about the way she’d looked as she sat in his kitchen, blood from the raw hamburger meat dripping down her chin, her eyes glazed and unseeing.

He decided he’d have to say something to Matt and Sam about it, but out of TJ’s hearing. There was no need upsetting her since she apparently had no recollection of the event.

Since it was Saturday morning, the typically horrible Houston traffic was light, and Shooter pulled to a stop in front of Sam and TJ’s apartment twenty minutes later.

When Shooter opened the door and got out of the car, TJ glanced at him. “Why don’t you just honk, sweetheart? They know we’re coming.”

“Uh,” Shooter answered, “I’ve got to run in and go to the bathroom. That beer is going right through me.”

TJ laughed, throwing her head back and looking like the girl Shooter had fallen in love with. “I told you it was too early to start on that stuff,” she said.

Shooter’s heart almost broke. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he was afraid to think about what might be going on inside her even now.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he said, slamming his door and hurrying up the walk toward the apartment.

Matt Carter answered the door immediately after Shooter’s knock. “Hey, pal, come on in,” Matt said, turning and walking over toward a large picnic basket on the couch. “Sam’s almost ready.”

Matt Carter, an associate professor of emergency medicine at Baylor College of Medicine, had been Shooter’s best friend since grade school. Nice-looking, with short brown hair, Matt was a little under average height and had a trim, athletic body. He was dressed more conservatively than Shooter in cutoff blue jeans and a white T-shirt that read BAYLOR RUGBY on the front.

Shooter glanced back over his shoulder to make sure TJ was still in the car before he entered the apartment and shut the door behind him.

“Matt, we gotta talk,” he said, his voice serious.

Matt looked at him, still smiling. “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you forgot the beer?”

“No,” Shooter answered. “It’s TJ.”

“TJ?” Matt asked, the smile fading from his lips when he saw Shooter’s expression of concern.

Just then, Samantha Scott walked into the room, still tying her long, reddish auburn hair back into a ponytail for the ride in Shooter’s convertible. Sam, as she was called by almost everyone, was a junior professor of pathology at Baylor and was every bit as pretty as TJ, though her Irish ancestry had given her fair skin and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks to accent her almost red hair and green eyes. She had on a light summer dress that fell to just above her knees and was low cut enough to have caught Shooter’s attention on any other day.

“Hey, guys, are we ready to boogie?” she asked.

Sam stopped when she noticed the serious expression on the men’s faces. “What’s going on?” she asked, walking over to stand next to Matt as she looked into Shooter’s eyes.

“It’s TJ,” Shooter said. “She’s . . . She’s starting to act weird again.”

Matt and Sam looked at each other. They’d spent many nights over the past few weeks working together in the hospital laboratory to cure TJ of the blood infection the vampire Roger Niemann had infected her with after kidnapping her. They’d been sure they’d succeeded.

“What do you mean, ‘weird’?” Sam asked.

Shooter flung his hands out, his exasperation clearly showing on his face. As a homicide detective, he wasn’t experienced in relating medical signs and symptoms. “Just, weird,” he finally said. “Like, this morning, when we were getting the food ready for our picnic, I found her in the kitchen, sitting there with a mouthful of raw hamburger meat, and she looked like she was in a trance. When I shook her and asked her what she was doing, she kinda woke up and didn’t remember anything about it.”

Matt put his hand on his friend’s shoulder to calm him down. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Shooter. She was probably just daydreaming or something.”

Sam’s lips were pursed and her eyes narrowed. It was clear she was taking Shooter’s concerns more seriously. “Was there anything else?” she asked.

Shooter nodded. “Wait until you see what she’s wearing today for the picnic. She’s covered herself from head to toe almost, and it’s supposed to hit ninety degrees today.”

Matt glanced at Sam and her very skimpy sundress and sandals.

“Did you ask her why?” Sam asked.

Shooter shook his head. “No, I was afraid I might upset her. You know how worried she’s been about what that son of a bitch did to her.”

Before Sam or Matt could answer, the door opened and TJ walked in. “Hey, are we going to go on a picnic or stand around here jawing all day?” she asked, grinning.

She was dressed in long pants, a long-sleeved man’s white shirt, and had a wide-brimmed hat on with the large sunglasses covering her eyes.

Sam glanced at Matt and then back at TJ. “Jesus, girl, what’re you wearing all those clothes for?” Sam asked, walking over to TJ. “You realize how hot it’s gonna be out at the park today?”

TJ looked down at her clothing. “Well, you know how the sun makes my skin itch and burn. I don’t want to get sunburned.”

Sam took her by the arm and led her back toward her bedroom. “We’ve got plenty of sunscreen, TJ. Come on and let’s get you in something a little cooler.”

“Yeah,” Shooter said, a lecherous grin on his face as he tried to make light of the situation, “how about showin’ a fellow a little more skin?”

TJ glanced back over her shoulder, returning his smile. “With your libido, you don’t need any encouragement, big guy.”

After the girls had left the room, Matt said hesitantly, “She looks OK to me.”

Shooter’s face sobered, his eyes still on TJ’s bedroom door. “Well, maybe I’m overreacting, but keep your eye on her and see what you think.”

“Sure,” Matt said. “Now, let’s get this stuff loaded up while the girls are changing or it’ll be dark before we get to the park.”

As Shooter helped Matt take the picnic basket and cooler out to the car, he said, “You know, Matt, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never been to the Houston Zoo.”

Matt grinned as he replied, “Then you’re in for a real treat. Just don’t stand too close to the monkey cages. They tend to throw shit at people who stare at them.”

The picnic started off on a good note. Even though it was a Saturday and the park was already beginning to get crowded, the two couples were able to find a spot with a barbecue pit nestled in a shady grove of oak trees off by itself. There was just enough of a breeze to make the heat of the morning bearable.

Matt spread the blanket while Shooter filled the pit with charcoal and got the fire started. TJ and Sam opened the baskets and got out the hamburger meat and fixings and began to cook the food.

Matt handed everyone beers and before long they were eating hamburgers and potato salad and listening to Shooter regale them with tales of some of the more stupid things crooks had been doing lately.

As Shooter talked, both Sam and Matt kept an eye on TJ, trying to be unobtrusive about it. Both wanted to see for themselves if there was anything in her manner to suggest their attempted cure of her recent infection with the vampire’s blood had been unsuccessful.

They were soon relieved to find that TJ was acting perfectly normal and seemed to be enjoying the day as much as everyone else was.

Shooter finished his story and his hamburger at the same time. He crushed the paper plate, stuck it in the waste barrel nearby, and brushed his hands off.

“Now, let’s go see this zoo I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said. “I’d kinda like to see if the animals here are any better behaved than the ones I deal with every day down at the station.”

The tour of the zoo began uneventfully, with the four friends enjoying ice-cream cones and sodas as they walked among the exhibits.

“OK,” Shooter said, licking ice cream off his fingers. “Enough of the snakes and sea lions. Where are those monkeys you told me about, Matt?”

Matt leaned over to TJ and whispered, “I told Shooter he might find some relatives in the monkey house, and he’s anxious to go see for himself.”

Shooter put his arm around TJ’s shoulders and pulled her away from Matt. “Don’t be going an’ tellin’ her something like that about the future father of her kids.”

“Hell, if that’s true, then we’ve got to go see the monkeys. TJ needs to see the kind of gene pool she’s getting involved with,” Matt said.

Sam pointed to a nearby sign. “The Primate Compound is over that way.”

They followed the signs and were soon standing before a row of cages containing dozens of different species of monkeys and apes.

The animals were running and playing in their cages, climbing fake tree trunks and swinging from old tires hung from ropes, chattering and howling and squealing at each other.

TJ moved closer to the bars, pointing to a chimpanzee in a corner. “Matt, is that the one you said was related to Shooter?” she asked.

The chimp, seeing TJ’s arm out, ambled over to the front of the cage, expecting a handout. When he got close, his eyes seemed to fix on TJ and his nostrils flared. He sniffed loudly and his lips curled back from his teeth in a nasty snarl, revealing fangs three inches long.

He screeched and began to jump against the bars, beating them with his fists and gnashing his teeth as he became more and more agitated.

Others in the cage, reacting to his actions, rushed up to the bars, their eyes fixed on TJ while they screamed and screeched and jumped up and down with flailing arms.

TJ’s eyes widened and her hands went to her mouth as Shooter pulled her away from the cages.

“Jesus!” Matt said, taking Sam’s arm and easing her back. “I’ve never seen them do that before.”

“Me either,” Sam said, her eyes moving from the monkeys to TJ, a worried, calculating expression on her face.

“I’ve had enough,” TJ said in a hoarse voice, shaking her head and walking away from the compound.

“Yeah,” Shooter agreed, glancing over his shoulder at the still-screeching monkeys as he led TJ away from the cage. “Let’s head back. I think we left some beer in the cooler that has my name on it.”

The two couples were silent on the drive back to the apartment shared by Sam and TJ, each absorbed with private thoughts of what had occurred at the zoo.

When Shooter pulled up in front of the apartment complex, he looked back at Matt and Sam. “I think I’ll take TJ on over to my place. I’ve got some new movies on video and we’ll just hang there for a while.”

“That’s a great idea,” Sam said, glancing at the back of TJ’s head. “Our place needs a good cleaning and I’ll get Matt to stay and help.”

“What?” Matt asked.

She patted his thigh. “Just kidding, sweetie,” Sam said. “Maybe I’ll let you beat me at a game of gin rummy instead.”

Matt frowned. “Well, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for tonight.”

Sam winked at him. “OK. Come on in and we’ll discuss it.”

When they got to his apartment, Shooter hastily picked up various bits and pieces of clothing lying around the living room and cleared a place on the sofa in front of the TV set.

TJ, still somber after the incident at the zoo, made no comment about Shooter’s notoriously poor housekeeping, but merely sat on the couch and stared at the blank TV.

Shooter, a worried frown on his face, turned the set on and said, “I’ll make us some popcorn and then we can watch the movies.”

TJ looked up at him, her eyes meeting his for the first time since they’d left the zoo. She patted the cushion next to her.

“Not now, Shooter. Come sit by me.”

Shooter sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her head down against his neck. “You OK, babe?” he asked gently.

TJ put her hand on his chest and looked up into his eyes. “I don’t know, Shooter.... I really don’t know.”

Shooter couldn’t resist the look of hurt and fear in her eyes. He bent his head and kissed her gently on the lips, whispering, “I love you, TJ.”

Suddenly, as if a switch had been turned on, TJ reached up and put her arm around his neck and pulled him into her, opening her mouth and returning his kiss with an unaccustomed fervor.

As her tongue flicked his lips and she leaned back, pulling Shooter on top of her, Shooter responded.

He fitted his body to hers, his hand on her breast as they ground against each other. Moments later, TJ’s hand was on his belt, pulling and tugging until she had it undone and his shorts unbuttoned.

Shooter wasted no time and within moments they were both naked, lying together on his couch, pressing tight. As he moved between her legs, TJ put her hands on his chest and shook her head. “Not yet . . . not yet . . . ,” she murmured.

She pushed him over onto his back and moved her head down his body until her hair was brushing his groin. Shooter laid his head back and moaned as she took him in her mouth.

TJ was like a wild woman, moving and moaning and groaning as she made love to him with her lips and tongue. Briefly, Shooter wondered what was going on. TJ had never been like this before, but then his thoughts were silenced by the pleasure she was giving him and he ceased to think at all.

Just before he climaxed, he grabbed her head and pulled her up on top of him. She clamped her mouth to his as she spread her legs and took him inside her steamy wetness.

When he groaned in final release, she moved her mouth to his neck and began to suck and chew once more as her hips pumped with his.

Moments later, she almost screamed as she came with him, collapsing on top of him, her chest heaving.

Neither noticed at first the small stream of blood trickling down his neck, or the droplets staining her lips crimson.

As I approached my ship, I paused to admire the new name: Moon Chaser. Not as poetic as Night Runner, perhaps, but it would do—and the police weren’t looking for this one.

This space on the New Orleans docks was not as convenient as the one on the Houston Ship Channel, since I now had to walk almost four blocks to get to the warehouse I’d rented to store my possessions in and to serve as a “safe house” in case the authorities got too close again. However, if I’d learned nothing e. . .