He hadn’t existed since the mid-ninth century without having learned how to be cautious. He’d guarded his secret well, would continue to do so.
Oh, sure, every so often one needed a thrill—a bit of excitement—or things tended to get dull. But his kind also had to know where to draw the line.
He’d seen firsthand what could happen when Vampyre got bored. It wasn’t pretty. Villages were wiped from existence. The Anasazi. Roanoke… He shuddered when he recalled what Werewolves were capable of. Entire Human civilizations tended to topple when one of the races became restless. The balance between Humans and Immortals—most especially the Vampyre Nation—
was tenuous at best.
On the other side of the room, Styx lifted a morgue snapshot, his gaze riveted to the sheet in his hand. “Cole, it’s in the numbers…it has to be.”
Lifting two of the crime scene photos, he compared them side by side. He set one down and picked up a third. And then a fourth. At last, he gathered up all the photos and carried them to Cole, depositing them on his lap without ceremony. “In every photo, the number is the only defining element I can find.”
Cole leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees as he spread the pictures on the coffee table before him. Styx was right. The numbers were always present, and in the exact same 21
location. Excitement coursed through him. They might be on to something. These weren’t just random numbers. And they didn’t denote succession of murders.
Was it code? Could it be that simple?
Shuffling the stack into sequence, he directed Styx, “Grab me a pen and a sheet of paper.” A few seconds later, pen and paper in hand, he began making notations. “The first victim’s number was two. The second’s was five.” He shot a glance up at the drummer. “The alphabet, you think?
Two…B. Five…E. The third victim was the number three. C.”
Eight victims. Eight months. Eight letters. He followed the trail until he’d spelled out “Because I…” Leaning back, he stared at the paper before him through grim eyes, then at the gruesome pictures. Numbers. Frowning, going on a hunch, Cole checked the dates. Each murder fell on the eleventh day of each month.
His eyes lingered on the photo of the last murder. The outside shot displayed the alley entrance to a nightclub. Cole’s frown intensified.
He rose and went back to the desk, shuffling through the reports until he found the one he was looking for. The address for this particular nightclub was 1111 South Brooke Street. Eleven-eleven… It was just too damned much of a coincidence.
Too irritated to wait until he found the proper page, he snapped, “Where was the first body found?”
“Ah…” Styx stroked his goatee, his eyes distant as he searched his memory. “One Eleven Holly Lane, I think.” Then, assessing Cole’s ah-ha expression, Styx exclaimed, “You’re on to something.”
“Go with me on this,” Cole urged. He shifted 22
the papers, double-checking his theory. “Each victim was…Odin’s teeth…each victim wasn’t just between twenty-two and thirty-three…they were
either
twenty-two,
or
thirty-three. Multiples of eleven. The murders all happened on the eleventh day of the month. The slayings began in November…the eleventh month of the year.” Excitement glowing in his eyes, Styx drawled,
“Yeah…”
“I need to check, but I’m pretty sure the locations all had variants of the number eleven in the address… By Thor, the guy’s obsessed with numbers, eleven to be exact,” he mumbled to himself as he picked up his phone and thumbed in the number to the TFRA agent assigned to the case. “Agent Crispin…this is Cole Gunnarrson.
We found something you might want to take a look at.”
Interest perked the agent’s voice up to the equivalent of a teenager reading a dictionary. “I can meet you down at the warehouse on Baltimore Street tonight. Ten-thirty work for you?”
“We’ll see you then.” Cole clicked his phone closed with a slow smile of satisfaction. They were getting closer. The killer had a pattern. Knowing this important point, they should be able to zero in on his target zone.
Styx’s voice cut his one shining moment of triumph today short.
“Cole…isn’t today the eleventh?” 23
He pushed the clutter of empty glasses to the side of the table with a wide easy grin. The Party Crasher laid his hand, palm up, on the tabletop between them and angled his body closer, leaning toward her as a lover would…a predator crouching toward its prey. Coiling a brunette curl around one finger, she leaned closer, placing her free hand in his palm.
“You have the most…unusual eyes,” she remarked. Her ruby lips, full and glossed to a high sheen, curved up in a skillful summons.
“Like…liquid gold.” She tilted her head to the side, letting the lustrous strand of hair fall to accentuate
her pronounced cleavage with
cunning grace. “They almost…glow. They’re so beautiful…and…eerie.”
Smirking, he crooned, “Babe, you have no idea…” He knew her name. He just didn’t care enough to use it. “So, angel, what say you and I slip outside for some fresh air?” Her eyes flickered to the door and she hesitated. Reading her unease, he murmured,
“It’s awful hard to get better acquainted when I can barely hear you. We can stay right in the parking lot if you’d prefer.”
“No farther than the parking lot?” she verified.
“Scout’s promise,” he vowed, shooting her an innocuous smile.
Her lips curled again. She picked up her purse and stood. He led her through the crowded 24
dance floor and outside. Once they cleared the gaggle of clubbers on the sidewalk, he angled to the left, tugging her into the shadows at the corner of the building. She immediately resisted, but her efforts were futile. Clamping his hand over her mouth, he wrapped an arm around her waist, jerking her off her feet. In the blink of a Mortal eye, he dragged her around the back of the building and into the dingy alley.
He swept a quick glance from one end of the alley to the other. One last check. All clear.
Spinning her in his arm, he kept his hand fastened over her mouth. Her wet fearful eyes beseeched him. She whimpered against his palm.
Pitiful
.
He shot an idle glance at his wristwatch while she strained, shoving at his chest. Almost time.
He released her waist and sank his fingers into her hair, fisting them. Yanking her head back, he lowered his lips to her taut skin. She sobbed as he ran the tip of his tongue along the bulging vein. Her pulse rushed beneath his tongue, and his eyes burned as they changed. His fangs shot longer, the skin on his face stretched tight. Power surged inside him. The animalistic insatiable need to feed was almost undeniable. But he fought it.
He. Would. Not. Drink.
Thirty seconds. He lifted his head, leering down into wide, horrified eyes. Her jaw worked beneath his palm. Shrieks of terror filled her throat, trapped. She writhed against him, arms flailing. Fingers curled as she clawed at his chest.
Tiny bursts of pain erupted all along his shin. Ten seconds. He opened his mouth…wide…fangs stretched, saliva pooled in his mouth. His nostrils flared. Four. Three. He swallowed the saliva.
There would be no healing for her. And no 25
pleasure in his embrace. This was not a
Kiss.
His fangs sank into her throat, a hot knife through butter. Blood seeped onto his tongue, and his gut clenched tight at the alluring flavor. It would be so easy to drain her.
No, no. She was meant for something else. He could stop off for a bite later. Now he had to focus. Her body stilled against him, her struggles faltered. Turning his head ever so slightly, fangs still buried deep in her vein, he sliced through the delicate tissue, severing the vein. Withdrawing his fangs took a monumental effort. Lifting his head, he grinned down into her dulling eyes, his lips damp as blood gushed from the puncture.
Without a word of warning, he snapped her neck, then he dropped her onto the filthy pavement. Like a used candy wrapper. Drawing a tissue from his pocket, he blotted at his mouth, and he shoved the tissue back into his pocket. He checked his watch one last time. Eleven o’clock on the dot. Perfect.
Bending down, he positioned her head, just so…so that one side of her neck, milky white beside delicious crimson, gleamed up at him.
Swabbing a finger in the blood pooling beneath her, he stroked the number across her flesh.
Straightening, he licked the blood from his finger with relish. Yeah, he’d have to stop off for something on his way home…a redhead would taste good right about now.
Humming the opening bars to H.I.M.’s “Bleed Well,” he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and strolled away.
****
Cole’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he eased his car from the garage. Glancing sideways at Styx, he dug the phone free. Flipping it to his ear, he offered a terse, “Gunnarrson…” 26
He listened for a few moments in silence, and snarled a nasty expletive. He flicked the phone closed, tossed it on the dash, and smashed his palm against the steering wheel.
“Another one?”
Cole nodded, his eyes killing the gravel lane ahead of them.
“Where?”
“Eleven hundred Lusitania Road.” As soon as they cleared the security gates, Cole hit the accelerator, pushing Styx back in his seat.
“Change of plans.”
Having set a new land speed record, Cole down shifted the Corvette and entered the parking lot connected to
Fangs
. A steady crowd milled beneath the blood-red neon sign. Pulsing music shook the windowless building and bumped against Cole’s car. Cole slipped from behind the wheel, pocketing his keys while he strode across the lot.
As they pushed their way through the heaving mass of bodies, Styx eyed a buxom brunette near the door. She eyed him back, and he nudged Cole with his elbow. “How’d we miss
this
place?”
“Keep your zipper up…and your mouth shut.
We’re workin’ tonight.”
With a wistful glance at the invitation in the brunette’s eyes, Styx grumbled, “You’re too uptight. I’m telling ya, man, you need to find a female and get—”
“Save it,” Cole barked, cutting him off.
A pair of broad-shouldered bouncers met them at the door. Heaving a sigh, Cole whipped his baseball cap off and drew his sunglasses down, treating the nearest bouncer to a full view of his face. Instant, startled recognition lit the bouncer’s eyes. He all but fell over himself as he 27
scrambled to open the door for Cole.
Styx snorted as they stepped into the flashing, swirling strobe lights. “You like doing that, don’t you.”
“Hell, yeah,” he chuckled. An arrogant smirk curled the edges of his lips. “Stop bitchin’, if it weren’t for this face, you’d still be out there with them,
junior
.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder at the crowd behind them.
Sympathetic, Styx patted Cole on the shoulder. “You keep right on telling yourself that,
old man
.”
A little of the tension eased from Cole’s shoulders as he ribbed Styx. Grinning, Cole paced across the dance floor beside his friend.
Scantily clad women writhed and gyrated against them until even Cole struggled to remain indifferent.
Cole’s footsteps faltered as a
particularly tasty morsel wound her arms around his waist. Hunger flared as his stare locked on the thumping pulse at the base of her throat.
Heavy breasts brushed at his chest. Invitation danced in her eyes.
It would take nothing at all to convince her to step out into the night with him. By Valhalla, in all probability, he didn’t need to do anything more than he’d done with the bouncers. Give her a flash of his face. As soon as recognition dawned, she’d be the one dragging him from the club.
Then again, if he flashed his face in a place like this, he was liable to start a riot.
He heaved a reluctant sigh. Down boy…
Smiling, he shook his head with true regret as he unwound her arms from his neck. But she was an octopus. As soon as he released her wrists, her arms slithered around him again. She clung to him like Velcro. Cole’s reluctance turned to irritation in the blink of an eye. He tilted his head 28
down, sliding his shades to the tip of his nose so she could see his eyes. His gaze bore into hers with burning intensity.
Go away…
She gave him a sassy little pout, released him, and twirled away. Cole’s gaze followed her for a moment, lingering on the swing and shake of her hips, but his thoughts were of another woman. If only Ms. Sinclair were so easy to control…
When he turned back to the rear exit, his friend’s smirk soured his mood.
Scowling, Cole pushed for the rear door.
Another burly male stepped into his path, a polite but firm smile hovered at the edge of his thick lips. “Sorry, man, this exit’s unavailable.” Cole’s nostrils flared. Vampyre… Shooting a swift glance side to side, Cole smiled, giving the muscle at the door a quick flash of vicious fangs.
The brute’s eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion.
Cole leaned a little closer. “I believe Agent Crispin is expecting us.”
Impassive, the brute nodded and moved aside, allowing them to pass. They stepped into the night, and the door closed behind them, muffling the throbbing music and the scent of sweating, lusting Humans. Warm air, sharp with ever-present smog, pressed against him once more, making him realize just how hot it had been inside the club. A hint of rain clung to the air, and just beneath that, the scent of death.
Vampyre swarmed the dank, shadow-filled alley. Two stood side-by-side, one tall and thin, one short and stocky, comparing notes in hushed tones while a third crouched near the victim snapping photos from various angles. Off to the side, two more waited beside a gurney, silent and 29
still as statues. A short distance away, another Vampyre paced the scene, stopping now and again to lift a piece of rubbish with a gloved hand, sniffing like a bloodhound hot on the trail.
His long overcoat flapped at his calves as he skulked from one item of interest to the next. He wore his long hair skimmed back in a tight ponytail at the base of his skull. When he turned back toward the victim, the dim light above the door cast an eerie pall on the agent’s meticulous, expensive suit.
Cole cleared his throat. The pacing Vampyre retrieved another piece of trash, inspected it, then placed the crumbled piece of paper back in the exact spot he’d picked it up. He eyed the paper for a second, shifting it a fraction of an inch before moving to join Cole and Styx.
His gait was slow and easy, conspicuously unperturbed considering the corpse on the ground only a few short feet away. Despite his impeccable stature, the agent’s eyes reminded Cole of a basset hound. Big, brown, and sad. As he reached them, he held out a gloved hand.
“Cole, sorry to have to do this here…” Cole glanced at the rubber glove, then up to the absentminded agent.
Frowning, Crispin peered down at the glove on his hand, as if forgetting how it had gotten there. “Right, right,” he murmured as he withdrew his hand, nodding a distracted greeting to Styx.
“Close call with this one,” Crispin mumbled in bland tones. “We’ve been staking out every night club inside city limits for the last several weeks.
It’s stretching us a little thin. Happened to have an agent close by when the call came in. Young Human male found the body about an hour ago.
The agent
convinced
him she’d only passed out 30
and sent him on his way.”
The tall, thin Vampyre approached them.
“We’re all done here, Agent Crispin.” Crispin nodded dismissal, and the two with the gurney moved in.
Cole stepped forward, interrupting their work.
“Mind if we take a look at things first?” Crispin gave an indifferent shrug, waving the gurney back. Cole and Styx began their own search. Styx wandered around the alley with deceptive nonchalance. His body was relaxed, but Cole knew his eyes and nose were on high alert.
Cole sauntered to the
body. Crouching beside it much the
same as the TFRA’s forensic photographer, his eyes drank in every detail.
Blonde, five-five…maybe five-six, one-ten dripping wet. His nostrils flared, pulling in the scents of the alleyway, but too many Vampyre had tramped through to isolate a specific scent.
He could smell the blood congealing in her hardening veins, and he was willing to bet his last Grammy the cause of death was a broken neck.
With the back of his knuckle, he turned her head to the side. Puncture wounds.
And the number three.
He added the letter ‘c’ to his list. ‘Because I c…’ The killer was sending them a message all right. He looked up to Crispin, requesting, “Age?
Occupation?”
“Twenty-two…” Crispin glanced to Cole, his stare vague, then his gaze dropped back to the notebook in his hand. He flipped through several pages before muttering, “The female was a receptionist at Phoenix Records.” Cole’s eyes slid to Styx, a grim frown settled between his brows as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Another common tie. In one way or another, every victim had a connection to 31
the music business. A studio manager, a DJ, and a studio intern. An assistant events producer, two back-up vocalists, a publicity assistant, a road crewmember, and now a receptionist.
Crispin meandered over to stand beside the victim, giving the body one last dispassionate visual search. He glanced to Cole, his gaze bland.
“On the phone you said you had something for me?”
Cole blinked at the agent, unaccountably unsettled. Had the man seen so many murder victims that he could dismiss a body…a slain female of any race…with such casual disregard?
Was it professional detachment on his face…or something more?
Distracted, Crispin patted at his pockets, then found his pen tucked behind his ear.
Lowering basset-hound eyes to Cole, he waited to list the latest findings at Cole’s leisure.
Stifling the urge to snort, Cole pushed to his feet. Vampyre or not, this guy was about as threatening as a paper cut. “As a matter of fact, I think we do.”
Styx joined him, and together they outlined their theory about the numbers. Nodding, his face remarkably impassive, Agent Crispin took notes without uttering a word of interruption. When they finished, he promised to take their information under advisement. Stepping back out of the way, he cleared them to continue searching the crime scene, then gave the M.E.’s assistants permission to remove the body.