THE HUNGER

An Urban Fantasy

By

Doug Dandridge

“What the hell are you?” he screamed as the weapon clicked on the empty chamber.  He reached frantically into his jacket, trying to fumble another magazine, then tried to ram it home.  But as his hands shook the new magazine refused to go where the old one still resided.

Lucinda took off in a sprint toward the man, moving faster than humanly possible, faster than the swiftest sprinter.  She lowered her shoulder and took Carlos in the ribs, feeling the bones crack as she lifted him into the air.  The man struck his right shoulder and arm against the wall, grunting out his breath.  Lucinda was past him and into the living room as he slid down the wall to the floor, the machine pistol falling from nerveless fingers as consciousness fled.

Lucinda pivoted on her right foot, turning toward the family room, as more bullets whizzed past her, the sound of cracking plaster and breaking porcelain sounding to her sensitive ears.  One large man, with the mass of a football player, came straight at her from the glass doors, lowering his shoulders and reaching his arms out into a classic tackle.  Lucinda leapt into the air and brushed the ceiling as she flew over his form, which was falling to the floor after not meeting the resistance it had been preparing itself for.  The vampire did a turn in the air, as she thanked herself for the gymnastics lessons her mom had insisted that she take, and landed lightly on her feet.

She could sense that the door before her was locked, and she didn’t have the key.  So going into a crouch and out again she sprung toward the double doors and crashed through the glass, leaving jagged hanging splinters behind her.  Women screamed as she propelled her naked form across the flagstones.  One man dropped his drink and made a grab for her, but a strong backhand lifted him from his feet and into the pool.  By the time he hit the water with a splash Lucinda was speeding across the grass lawn, reveling in the cool passage of the night air over her bare skin.

From ten feet out she went into a quick crouch and sprung into the air, her feet clearing the ten-foot privacy fence as more rounds cracked past her.  Dogs barked at her as they struggled to catch her and were thwarted by the fence.  Her feet hit lightly onto the grass of another lawn and she sprang ahead, swerving to avoid another large dog that was coming at her across the lawn.

Lucinda leapt into the air again, spreading her arms as she arched up to twenty feet.  She willed the transformation again, feeling her limbs shorten and the fur thrust out through her skin.  She gave a screech to the night as she flapped her wings and disappeared into the darkness.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Hazel Angelina (Roy) Dandridge, 1920-2009.  You believed in me when others didn’t.

Copyright © 2011 Doug Dandridge

All rights reserved.

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http://dougdandridge.net

Chapter 1

The hunger gnawed at her, a craving that suffused her very being.  Lucinda had to have it soon.  She wouldn’t die without it, not immediately, but she would wish she were dead.  She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, the cramps in her stomach, the quivering of her muscles.  Without it she would go mad, and her actions would make the rest of the world wish she were dead.  Make them try to make her dead, for real this time.

Lucinda looked down from the roof of the building to the man standing across the street.  Her target for tonight.  A tall, muscular black man, the streetlight glinting from his shaven head.  His girls were walking the street around him, looking for the men who would give them the money they needed to support their own habits.  The men who would keep their lord and master from beating them within an inch of their lives.

Lucinda remembered, looking at the man with the heat of hate rising from her gut.  Remembered the nights when she had not done enough Johns.  Had not made enough to score what she needed, and keep heavy hands from beating her into the ground.  Until the night they had beat her to the brink of death, and cut her throat, leaving her to bleed out.

“Come here, bitch,” she heard the man call, breaking her out of her thoughts of the past.  A white woman with stringy blonde hair framing a pale face came running toward him, her mouth and eyes twitching with terror.  Lucinda could smell her from here, the musky scent of fear that made the saliva drip from her mouth.

“What the hell you doing, bitch?” Leroy McKinnon yelled as he grabbed and jerked her arm behind her, twisting her around as his other arm came around her neck.  “You need to shake that ass, bitch.  How the hell you expect to suck the Johns if you don’t give them something to lust after.”

The woman nodded her wide-eyed head as she went still in his grasp.  Her lips moved as she tried to speak, to say the right thing to keep the big man from hurting her.

“And you want your rock, don’t you bitch?” growled Leroy.  “You better shake your ass if you want your rock, cause it don’t come for free.”

Leroy released his arm lock around her throat and pushed her away.  The woman scrambled to keep her feet.  Failing, she fell to the hard concrete of the sidewalk.  She lay there for a second, her breath coming ragged.  Leroy took a step and raised a leg to kick at her.  The woman pushed herself to her feet and walked quickly away, blood oozing down the scrape on her right knee.  She staggered away from the big black man, looking over her hunched shoulder to see if he was following her.  Then with a resigned shake of her head she started to shake other parts of her body, trying to draw in the flies to her honey.  The flies that would pay to sample her honey.  And pay for her next fix.

Lucinda felt the hunger grow as she watched, threatening to make her mad.  A mother pushing a baby carriage walked on the sidewalk directly below the building.  She felt the pull of the hunger, the thought of young baby blood, and the vital energy it contained, coursing through her veins.  The dark side of her soul trying to drag her back into darkness.  Shaking her head and pushing the dark side to the back of her mind, Lucinda brought her concentration back to the crack dealer/pimp across the street, ignoring the mother who must live in such a rundown area of town.

Another woman came up to the man, a black woman as thin as pipe stems.  She whispered something to him and Leroy nodded, a smile coming to his lips.  A smile that did not go as far as his eyes.  He motioned to the alley across the street and the woman led the way.  Lucinda’s eyes followed then as they entered the semi-darkness of the narrow space between the buildings.

Lucinda pushed her hearing up to hyper, listening in as the deal was being made.  She knew she didn’t have much time, as these kinds of deals didn’t last long.  Going over the top of the rooftop she placed her fingers on the rough brick and scrambled like a lizard onto the wall.  With a quick motion of arms and legs she moved silently down the five stories of wall into the end of the alley, coming to stand behind some barrels filled with the foul smelling remnants of people’s lives.

Her eyes focused and the darkness faded in front of her.  She could clearly see Leroy and the skinny black woman concluding their deal.  Money went into the dealer’s hand and a small package of foil was placed in the woman’s.  She nodded and smiled, then ran out of the alley, to head home and blast her sorrows from her tortured mind.  Leroy watched her go, waited a moment, and then started to walk out himself.

Lucinda came around the barrels then, into clear sight of the dealer.  Her hair was now long and stringy, her body thin, looking the part of the crack whore in search of a fix.

“Hello, sugar,” she said in a husky, seductive voice that pulled at the lust inside of all men.

Leroy spun around very quickly for a big, muscular man.  A gun appeared in his hand, a heavy .40 caliber automatic that an instant before had been stuck in his waistband.

“Easy, honey,” purred Lucinda, no fear in her voice, only pure seduction.  Her eyes looked into Leroy’s, and she could see the blank glassy look that came into his gaze as she gained control.  She walked slowly toward him, and the gun dropped to his side.

Leroy shook his head for a moment as he shoved the gun back into his waistband.  His eyes remained glued to her face, but he had broken some of the spell.

“I only want a little of what you got to sell,” said Lucinda, moving closer to the man.

“Who you work for?” asked Leroy, lust for a new piece of meat taking control of the man.

This is not going to be as easy as I thought.  Lucinda looked at the man and realized that her hypnotic spell was not taking charge.   But it will happen.

“I’m an independent,” she replied, moving closer to the man.  “I work for myself.”

“The streets is dangerous,” he said.  “You need someone to protect you.”

“I’m safe enough,” she replied.  “I just need some of that good stuff.”

“Bitch,” growled Leroy.  “These streets is mine.  No one works them without coming to me.”

Leroy swung a hand toward her face, animal lust and anger shining in his eyes.  Lucinda brought up an arm in a blur of speed, stopping Leroy’s blow like the swing of an errant child.  The hunger swelled in her chest, and the deceptive appearance of human fell from her face.

“What the hell are you?” screamed Leroy, trying with all his strength to pull his arm out of Lucinda’s grasp.  His other hand reached toward his waistband, closing onto the grip of the gun.  With a twist and a flick of her arm, Lucinda sent Leroy flying through the air and into the barrels at the end of the alley.  The pimp hit hard, in a clatter of metal hitting concrete and brick.

Fear kept Leroy conscious.  And fear made his movements swift.  The gun came out of the waistband and swung toward Lucinda.  His finger squeezed the trigger quickly, over and over, sending death streaking through the foul air of the alley.

The first bullet missed, cracking through the air close to her ear.  The second went through her chest, continuing intact after meeting no resistance.  Baring her elongated canines she walked to stand over the now shivering man.

“What the hell are you, bitch?” screamed Leroy.  “What are you?”

“Your worst nightmare,” hissed Lucinda, reaching down and pulling the man up to his feet.  Leroy struggled, trying to get away, but Lucinda held him like a child and pulled him close.  She could hear voices at the opening of the alley now, people talking about what they thought was going on in the passageway.  But no one brave enough to do anything.  The faint sound of sirens told her that it wouldn’t be long before people showed up who would be brave enough to try the alley.

Stretching her jaws wide, wider than humanly possible, Lucinda plunged her canines into her victim’s neck, puncturing his jugular vein.  Jerking the teeth out of the holes she sucked at the pulsing blood, feeling it slide down her throat.  Feeling the life force that the blood symbolized flooding into her body.  To feed the hunger within.  Within minutes she had drained the energy from the now lifeless body.  Still holding it up with one hand, she pulled a long knife from a sheath on her back.

Never again, she thought, as she swung the knife with all of her strength, aiming the blade at the corpse's neck.  She would never leave another of the scum intact, to come back from the dead and hound her.  The blade sliced through the neck with the inhuman strength behind it.  The head flew from the body as the last bits of blood in the corpse splashed into the alley.  Lucinda tossed the body through the air with a one armed push, to smack limply against an alley wall.

“This is the police,” called a voice from the alley entrance as the beams of flashlights stabbed into the darkness.  “Stop what you’re doing and put your hands up.”

Lucinda ran swiftly to the blocked end of the alley as shots rang out and bullets struck brick walls with showers of sparks.  She stopped at the far wall and turned back, her undead eyes showing her the trio of cops coming up the alley with drawn weapons.  She bared her fangs as her instincts bid her to attack.

Not these, she thought.  These were not her enemies, though they would think themselves such.

She reached her arms into the air and felt the pleasure of change come over her.  Limbs shortened, body shrank in on itself, as clothes were absorbed and short fur grew from every pore.  Flapping her wings in the cool air, screeching her call to the night to generate the sound needed to sense surrounding objects, the vampire flew into the sky, leaving the alley far behind.

T  T  T

Tampa Police Department tried to wave him away.  A push of the badge out the open window of the Mustang had the cops shaking their heads as they waved him into the crime scene.  He pulled between a police cruiser and a forensics van and got out of the car as another uniformed cop, with sergeant stripes on his sleeves, hurried over to the car.

“I know you don’t want me here,” he said in his best Ivy League accent to the tall, white police sergeant.  “But I am claiming jurisdiction in this one, sarge.”

“Since when is the FBI interested in a local homicide?” asked the sergeant.

Agent Jeffrey DeFalco ran a meat hook of a hand through his short brown hair, and looked the sergeant in the eye.  He wasn’t as tall as the sergeant, but he figured he definitely had him in the muscular development department.  DeFalco was proud of his body, with his heavy shoulders, chest and legs, joined by a narrow waist.  He used his athletic image many times to cow the local boys, while his Law Degree from Princeton was enough to gain the respect of the non-law enforcement professionals he had to deal with.

“If this murder has the earmarks I think it has,” said DeFalco, “there’s a chance this was performed by the same killer who has left a trail from Boston to Atlanta.”

“OK,” said the sergeant.  “But you need to talk to Lieutenant Smith.  He’s the officer in charge here.”

“He was,” said DeFalco.  “And where can I find him?”

“Where the action is,” said the sergeant, gesturing toward the alley where the shadows of people moved in the powerful lights set on stands around the scene.

“OK,” said DeFalco as he walked toward the entrance of the alley.  He looked over to where plain clothes cops were questioning some street scum and pointed at them as he walked. “Don’t let anyone go until I have a chance to see their statements.  I might have some questions you haven’t thought of.”

DeFalco swaggered into the alley to the sound of loud voices arguing.  He saw a wiry man as black as night standing over a headless body, arguing with a man wearing a blue vest, Forensics lettered on the back.

“There’s not enough fuckin’ blood,” yelled the forensics tech, pointing a black light at the wall.  At a gesture the tripod mounted spots dimmed to darkness.

“Look here,” said the tech in a loud voice, pointing to the splatter of glowing red on the wall.  “Here’s the blood from where the body hit.  There should be a shit load of it, not a couple of small spatters.”

“And here,” the tech said, pointing the light toward the floor of the alley.  “Here’s where the blood from the decapitation poured out before he was flung against that wall.  There’s not enough.”

“And here,” he said while pointing the light to another section of alley wall.  “Here’s the splatter from the blade taking the head off, and flinging blood into the brick.  A little better than the others, but still not enough.”

“Shit. So what are you telling me?” asked the black detective as the light came back up to reflect from the shaven head.  “Someone took the blood out of him before they cut his fuckin’ head off.  Is that what you're telling me?”

“Did you find any puncture marks in the neck?” asked DeFalco, walking up to the men.

“And who the fuck are you?” asked the detective in a voice brimming with anger.

“Are you Detective Smith?” asked DeFalco.

“I asked first,” growled the detective.

DeFalco raised his ID for the man to see and waited for a reply.

“Yeah, I’m Jamal Smith.  Lieutenant of Homicide in this beautiful sun drenched city.  What the fuck has the FBI interested in a local murder?  I could see the World Inquirer.  But the FBI”

“Were there puncture wounds in the neck?” asked DeFalco again, a trace of Brooklyn creeping into his voice as his frustration grew.  He hated dealing with local cops.  Always the unwelcoming attitude when they found out that he belonged to a higher order of law enforcement than they did.

“Couldn’t tell,” said the tech.  “There are ragged edges on the neck where the blade cut through, could have covered up puncture marks I guess.”

“Why ragged edges?”

“Because, agent” said Smith, “the experts believe that it was a dull blade that was used to separate Mr. Leroy McKinnon’s head from his body.”

DeFalco shrugged and tilted his head in a questioning gaze.

“Mr. Leroy McKinnon was the resident scumbag of this section of the City,” said the detective.  “Lord of a six-block area.  No dope or pussy moved here without his permission.”

“And someone used a dull blade to cut through his neck.  How many swings would that take?”

“That’s the thing, DeFalco,” said Smith.  “The experts,” he nodded at the forensics man, “think from the single blood splatter that it was one.”

“And it covered up the puncture marks,” muttered DeFalco.  “Girl’s getting smarter.”

“Couldn’t have been a woman,” said the tech.  “You know what kind of strength we’re talking about here.  I’m thinking maybe a body builder.  Or some kind of professional fighter.”

“And what did your officers see when they came in the alley.  I heard that they thought the perp was still in here when they started their sweep.”

“Couldn’t have been,” said Smith.  “Look at those walls.  The shortest is four floors.  And we didn’t find any ropes or hand holds.”

“I didn’t ask about what you thought,” said the agent.  “I asked what the cops saw when they came down this alley?”

Smith glared at the agent for a moment, his lips moving in a silent curse.

“The cops thought they saw someone at the end of the alley.  They said it looked like the person blurred, changed somehow.  Then they weren’t there.”

“Anything else?”

“One of them saw something fly up to the rooftops.  A bird, or…”

“A bat?”

“I know you now,” said Smith.  “You’re the man they call the vampire Hunter.  I hear that the FBI isn’t too happy with you right now.”

“I’m still an agent in good standing,” said DeFalco, more Brooklyn coming out of his voice in his anger.  “And as the agent in charge here I want all the information you have.  At police headquarters.  First thing tomorrow.”

“You really believe it’s a vampire?” asked Smith.  “I heard the Inquirer called her the Avenging Angel.  Only kills the scum of the Earth.”

“You tell that to Francine Lopez,” said the agent in an angry hiss.  “She was no scum of the Earth.  She was an innocent person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And this Avenging Angel killed her just as dead as Mr. McKinnon here.  Drained her of her blood and left a young, vital woman a corpse in an alley in Philadelphia.”

“Well, avenging angel or no,” said Smith, “we’ll get her.  I read she only works at night.  The night is my shift, and I’ll get her if she keeps killing in my town.”

“You can’t get her in the night,” said DeFalco over his shoulder as he walked from the alley.  “You can only hurt her in the day.”

T  T  T

“Crazy mother fucker,” said Detective Jamal Smith as the FBI Agent walked out of the alley.

“You think that he might have something with this vampire thing?” asked the forensics man.

“In sunny Tampa?” asked Smith, shaking his head.  “I don’t believe in ghosts or goblins either.  No, this was done by a living breathing human.  Probably a big strong male human.  And the cops who arrived on the scene let their imaginations get away from them.”

Still Jamal felt himself shivering as a chill ran up his spine.  Like something monstrous was watching him at this very moment.  What if the FBI man was right?  Could there be something to this.  The Inquirer seemed to think so.

“Shit,” said Smith.  “No fuckin’ way.”

“What was that lieutenant?”

“No fuckin’ way that this is supernatural.  You just find everything you can find, and make sure that a copy of it gets on my desk.  We’ll find this mother.  And he’ll go down in a Florida prison.”

T  T  T

Marcus LaMons watched from the top of a building across the street from the alley, his supernatural vision looking through lights and darkness alike.  His supernatural hearing listening in on the conversation.  So one of them knows, he thought, watching the human in the cheap suit getting into the black Mustang.  One who would bear watching.  One who might lead him to the renegade.  And one who would finally feel the fangs of the one once known as Marcus of Alexandria.

He could feel a touch of the hunger now.  An urge to go into the alleyway across the street and begin the slaughter.  But with a thought he suppressed the urge.  An ancient like he was no longer a slave to animal instincts.  He could go for weeks without feeding, with little discomfort.  Or hibernate for decades without the life force of another.

His blue-green eyes glowed in the night as he looked up and down the street, wondering where the fresh meat had gone after doing her work.  At least she is doing a better job of covering her tracks with the humans, he thought.  Not that it would do any good.  Mistakes would be made.  And the humans would catch on to the mystery that was his race.

Just as the Vandals and the Goths had destroyed the people of his birth, the humans were a threat to his present race.  The race of night stalkers had power, it was true.  But the humans had progressed in their abilities in the last two thousand years, to the point where they could destroy the planet if they so desired.  And if a great number of humans knew of the race that lived on the fringes of their society, that fed on them like the cattle that they were, they would demand a war against the race.  A war that the race could not win.

Marcus reveled in the feel of the night breeze flowing through his long, sand colored hair.  He looked at his artist’s hands, beautiful in their clean, manicured perfection.  He had been large for the people in his time.  He was not so large as the people in this time.  But the blood of patricians flowed through his veins.  And the strength of the warriors of the night dwelled in his muscles.

It is time to go, he thought.  The sun would soon be on the horizon.  The first rays of dawn could destroy even an ancient like him, if he were caught unawares.  Later, after a sleep in the soil of his resting place, he would be able to walk the streets in comfort, contrary to the popular belief of most of the mortals.   But he would lose his special abilities, and be no more than one of the blind, deaf, crippled creatures who walked the streets of this city.  No, the night was the time to walk the streets, with no fear of the mortals.

A mist began to gather around Marcus, a mist that soon engulfed his form.  A fog coagulated on the roof top, thicker and thicker.  The predawn breeze from the ocean blew through the mist, spreading it out, breaking it up, until it was gone.  And gone with it was the ancient vampire named Marcus of Alexandria.

T  T  T

This is a nightmare, she thought as she walked in the ankle high water of the storm drain.  I hide like a rodent in the earth during the day, not like a human being.  Because I am not a human being.

She could feel the imminent rise of the sun, when she would lose all of her powers and become as the mortals.  With a difference.  They were alive, living and pursuing their lives under the powerful light of the sun.  While she had to hide in the bowels of the Earth and wait until the night, or at least the afternoon, when she could walk as a mortal.  While in the night she was almost invulnerable.  Almost unstoppable.

I felt him tonight, she thought.  He’s here.  The Vampire Lord had followed her to Tampa.  She had sensed him in Atlanta as well, but had been able to avoid him while she made the city streets safe for the innocent.  And a terror for the truly evil.  She had gotten out of there before she had to face him.  A confrontation she was sure to lose.

But here he was again.  Before she had even made her presence known to the city.  Every time he got closer.  And he was only one of many who sought her death.

I would welcome death, she thought as she crawled through the small opening in the side of the storm drain.  An end to this hellish existence.  A selfish thought she knew.  Wallowing in a sewer of pity and regret.  She had so much to do.

I’ll never be done, she thought as she finished the crawl and stood up in the small side chamber used by maintenance crews to store equipment.  This one had the look of not being used for years, and the manhole cover overhead was rusted in place.

There would always be street scum preying on the desperate and hopeless people of the cities.  No matter how many she killed there would always be more.  A feeling of hopelessness washed over her.  She realized that her best efforts would be like thrusting a hand into a bucket of water.  No matter how hard she pushed her hand in, or how often, the water would always return to fill the hole.  Just as new scum would always come to fill the roles of those she killed.

Lucinda looked down on her coffin sitting in the middle of the chamber, her supernatural eyesight penetrating the total blackness of the chamber.  The hated bed.  My prison on this Earth. I don’t know if there is a hell, but this is close enough.

She could forgo her sleep for this day if she wanted.  She felt some fear at the thought that Marcus might be here, looking for her.  She could use the day to get away, get out of town, go someplace he would never think to look for her.  But if she didn’t sleep she would not regain her strength, and she would be weaker when the night came.  And then she might have to face Marcus, or one of the others, when they were at the height of their powers.

No, she thought as she climbed into the coffin and lay down on the soil of her resting place.  The soil of the grave that she inhabited in the three days that passed before her rising.  The pauper’s grave in the city that she called her home.  I’ve just come to this place.  I’ve only begun my work here.  They have not yet come to fear the night.  They think it is their cover, and their playground.  But soon they will learn it is mine.  And they will come to fear the streets.

With that final thought Lucinda laid her head on the loamy earth, closed her eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter 2

Lucinda screamed a silent scream as the dealer, her pimp, punched a rock like hand into her stomach.  The slim contents of that stomach surged up her throat as she vomited on her pimp’s shoes.

“Bitch,” yelled Derrick.  “You fuckin’ whore.  Don’t you dare to came and ask for dope until you sell enough ass to pay for it.”

Lucinda felt the hunger through the nausea of her retching.  The dope sickness that came with withdrawal from the Heroin.  A hunger that only one thing could feed.  And this trash in front of her was the only person who could give her the food she craved.

“Please, Derrick,” she whined through coughing up what little food she had eaten that day.  “I need a fix.  I need one now.  Please give me a fix.  Then I’ll sell ass all night long for you.  You know I’ll pay you back.”

“You know the deal, Lucinda,” he said with a smirk on his dark tan face.  “No credit.  You wouldn’t sell yourself for credit, now would you?  So the answer is no, you whore.  You can have a fix when I have my money.”

Derrick turned to walk away, out of the tenement building and back to the street where he usually conducted his business.  Lucinda felt the pain of the hunger coming over her, and knew that she couldn’t move from this spot until she had fed it.  And her source was walking away from her.

“Wait, Derrick,” she cried as she lurched to her feet and stumbled toward him.  He turned to look at her and she slammed into his legs with all of her little bit of strength.  She clasped his legs tightly with her arms and felt him fall under her tackle.  He hit the floor with a grunt as the loose floorboards vibrated from the impact.

“I have to have it now,” she screamed as she crawled up his body and clawed for his eyes.  “Now Derrick.”

“Bitch,” he yelled as her nails scratched his face.  “You fuckin’ bitch.  You’re dead.”

Derrick grabbed her wrists and roughly pulled them from his face.  With a roar he let go of her left wrist and brought his hand back, then swung it straight into her face.  Lucinda could feel the cartilage of her nose shatter as the fist hit her.  Then she was falling off of him to land on her back, the air pushed out of her lungs.  She struggled to draw a breath and get back to her feet.  Derrick stood up, pulled a knife from his pocket, and flicked it open.

“You’re dead,” he repeated, reaching down and grabbing her short red hair, locking his finger into the strands.  With a jerk that brought tears to her eyes he lifted her to her knees.

“No one touches me bitch,” he growled into her face as he leaned over her.  “No one.”

He brought the sharp knife up to her throat, pressed it hard into the flesh, and drew it across her windpipe.  At first she thought the blade hadn’t cut in.  All she felt was the pressure coming across her throat.  Then she was gagging on blood as it flooded into her air passage.

Derrick shoved her head back and let her fall to the floor.

“You’re dead, bitch.  And I hope it takes you a long time to die.  You’ll be an example to all of the others.”

With that Derrick turned and walked out of the room.  Lucinda could hear his footfalls in the hall as he walked to the entrance to the building.  The door swung open with creaking hinges, then slammed hard.

Lucinda lay on the floor trying to draw breath through her flooded airway, and failing.  She could feel her life’s blood flowing down her skin to add to the pool under her head.  She knew she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

Lucinda yelled out as she sat up in the coffin.  The dream, she thought.  One of the dozen or so horrible dreams that rotated through her sleep periods.  And this was, in her opinion, the worst.

She looked around the room, but now the darkness was complete.  Her night vision was gone with the night.  She reached over the side of the wooden box, fumbling to find the electric lantern that she had left there.  She closed her eyes as she flicked the switch, then slowly opened them to allow them to adjust to the light.  The chamber looked different in man-made light, not quite as surreal as it had in night vision.

There was her chest of clothing about ten feet away on the farthest wall.  It had been almost as much of a problem pushing it through the crawling man sized opening as it had been to bring in the coffin.  Next to it was the small kitchen chair, the only furniture in the chamber.  The rest of the chamber was bare except for a tall metal locker that contained some of the maintenance tools used in the storm drain system.

Lucinda pulled herself up and stepped out of the coffin, brushing the back of her head with her hand to knock the soil back into the box.  She removed her shirt and did the same, making sure that the precious dirt of her burial place remained where it would do her the most good.  While there was still some earth in boxes at the local Amtrac office freight storage, she made it a habit to be conservative with the soil.  Because when it was gone, she would be unable to rest or restore her powers for the coming nights.

Placing the light on the seat of the chair, she stripped naked and laid the stalking clothes on the backrest.  She then opened the chest and rummaged through the clothing within, coming out with a summer suit and white blouse, along with some sandals and a purse.  She transferred her ID and some toiletries, put everything in a gym bag, and climbed back through the opening and into the storm drain system.

She rubbed her hands over her skin and it was instantly clean, free of the dirt that had gotten on her when she had brushed up against the many dirty surfaces on the way out of the chamber.  She sniffed at her underarms and gave a satisfied shrug as she smelled the neutral odor that resided there.  One of the advantages of being undead, she thought.  She stayed clean and sweet smelling pretty much no matter what.  Her breath stank of death and stale blood, but a shot of breath mint would cover that up for the short periods of time requiring close contact with mortals.

Lucinda walked naked through the ankle deep water to an exit chamber of the storm drain, a chamber with a man tall door and a painted ladder leading up to a working manhole cover.  Lucinda pulled on the clothes and strapped on the sandals, then climbed up the ladder and listened for a moment at the manhole.  The alleyway above sounded quiet, so she decided to risk it and pushed the manhole cover up and away from the opening.  She raised her head into the shadows of the alley and looked around.  There was no one observing her exit, so she climbed nimbly out of the hole and pushed the cover back over it.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light of day that flooded the street the alley opened onto.  Once she could see fairly well she stepped out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.  An elderly couple stared at her as she flashed a warm smile at them.  They muttered to themselves as they turned and walked the other way.

The skin of her face, hands and feet were stinging a bit as the warm sunshine impacted on her.   She knew it would continue to sting as long as she was in the sunlight.  But unlike in the movies, books and TV programs she would not burst into flame and fall to the street a blackened skeleton, at least not from the afternoon light.  Nor would her strength be any greater than that of a normal human, and she was susceptible to injury from a variety of sources, though still hard to kill.

Lucinda wandered down the busy street, looking at the vehicles in the asphalt, many expensive luxury cars and convertibles.  The sun was gleaming off of the cluster of high rises surrounding the downtown skyscrapers.  A pair of hot air balloons floated lazily through the blue sky, while a trio of military fighters from McDill flew high in the air, leaving white contrails behind them.  A line of thunderheads gathered over the bay.

The sidewalks were swarming with people.  Some sweated in suits and dresses, many were in states of unclothing that would have garnered stares in northern cities, shorts, tank tops and sandals.  Sunglasses were the norm.  There was a diverse group of people, happy and sad, rich and poor, prospering and declining.  White, Black, Hispanic and Asian.  But all living relatively normal lives, not unlives.

Lucinda turned down a smaller side street, then stopped and stared at the headlines displayed in the newspaper machine by the wall of the bank.  Man found dead in alley, drained of blood, screamed the headline, while the story below right said Vampire in Tampa?  She felt a rage come over her at that moment.  If blood had still pumped through her veins, she knew that her heart would be pounding.  If she still had body heat her face would be hot.  But instead all she had was the cognitive sensation of rage.

The fools, she thought.  Don’t they know that I’m doing this for them?  This would bring the others here to hound her.  The tabloid writers, the supernatural experts, the law, the church and all of the others that sought to destroy her.  Now things would become more dangerous for her.

But she didn’t know how else to kill the scum that were her targets.  Sure, she could kill them in a way unrelated to her state.  She could push them off a building, crush them under a car, shoot or knife them.  But she had to feed, every night.  And they were the source of her food.  If not them, then who?  The innocents that she was trying to protect?

She looked up finally after wandering many blocks.  She was in a seedier part of the city, off of the main thoroughfares.  The buildings were mostly two to three story brick low rises, some with boarded up windows.  The people were shabbier as well.  Crack addicts stared at her from the steps in front of the buildings, sizing her up in their need for the money to buy still more drugs.  One young man, tall, gaunt and feral, tried to stare her down.  One glare from her deep blue eyes, reflecting red from the sunlight, turned his face away.  He recognizes a predator when he sees one, she thought.

She turned down another street and made her way back toward the business district.  He’s why I do this? she thought.  Not just for the respectable people who lost sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandsons and granddaughters to the dark side of the city.  But to the direct victims of the scourge.  The addicts and hookers who fed the beast as their lives went from bad to disaster.  The old people, living in poor housing on small pensions, while worrying each night that their lives might be threatened, their meager belongings stolen by the desperate souls seeking to relieve their hunger.

She looked up and down the busy street as she came back to the more prosperous section of town.  A young businessman in an expensive suit whistled at her, winked her way, and followed her with his eyes as he walked by her.  She looked back, feeling a smile tug at her lips.  The smile turned down to a frown as she turned and continued to walk down the sidewalk.

I never thought I would miss sex, she thought.  The touch of a gentle hand, the breath on the hot spots on my neck, the sigh as I let the feeling take me.  She had thought that the years of selling herself on the street, the shame and the guilt of using her body to get money from sick people to feed her own sickness, would have made her revolted at the thought of the hands of another on her body.  But having death as a constant companion had made her yearn for the life-affirming act that other people took for granted.

How would he feel once he smelled breath as musty as the grave?  Hands as cold as ice? Didn’t feel a heart beating in my breast?  Could he stand the gaze of a hungry predator staring at him?

She shook her head as she walked down the street.  She couldn’t get that close to any mortal.  She would be endangering them, and she would be putting herself at risk.  She couldn’t do that to anyone, or to herself.  She had a mission, she couldn’t let her personal feelings or desires get in its way.

Before she knew it she was back at the alleyway that led down to her world, the world of darkness.  The afternoon had passed faster that she had realized, and the sun was down behind the big buildings.  She could feel that it was touching the horizon now, and would soon disappear.  She waited for that moment patiently, leaning against the wall of a building.

Lucinda could feel it happening, the last sliver of the sun disappearing around the curve of the world.  She could feel the strength suffusing her muscles; the dark shadows could no longer hide what they covered from her vision.  Quiet conversations on the street came clear to her ears.  She could smell the aftershave on a man on the other side of the major thoroughfare.  She could smell the stench of urine and feces blocks away in the seedier section of town.  She could smell lust and anger and fear.  She relished the least feeling, a feeling she would raise to terror in some lucky mortal tonight.  And the smell of fear brought just a little bit of the feeling that she dreaded, the hunger that she must quench before the night was over.

With a thought she triggered the change.  Mist began to form around her, as she felt her own body begin to fade, becoming mist itself.  The mist billowed, filling the alleyway thick as it rose above the first floors of the surrounding buildings.  Then it started to thin as suddenly as it had filled the alley.  It flew through the tiny openings of the manhole, gathering in the storm drain below, which filled with white moisture as the alley became clear again.

The mist swirled down the storm drain, making its way from junction to junction, until it reached the opening of the unused access chamber that Lucinda had made her own.  The fog poured through the tunnel to the access room, twisting into a vortex of mist that got thicker toward the center.  The mist condensed in the center as it thinned at the edges.  And then it was gone as a human figure stood in the center of the room.

Lucinda felt a shiver course down her spine as she reveled in her power, the abilities of a super heroine.  Then she shuddered in revulsion as she thought about where her powers actually came from.  They were a gift from Satan, bestowed upon her that she might bring hell on earth.  But he is not my master, she thought.  He might get my soul when I die.  But until then it is my soul.

Lucinda dressed for the night, dark clothing that would look normal on the street, but blend into the night when she wanted it to.  Black shirt, black skirt, and black stockings into black boots.  She attached the sheath with the large dull knife to the back of her throat collar, hanging the sheath down the back of her shirt.  With a thought she changed her physical appearance, red hair lengthening as it flowed down her back to cover the bulge of the knife.  Her face rounded, her eyes darkened to hazel and her lips became fuller.

With another thought she began the transformation back to mist, flowing out of the room and down the storm drain.  She flowed quickly down the miles of drain until she came to another chamber that she had scouted the night before.  The mist turned up as it flowed through the holes of another manhole cover.  Filling the alley it rose into the air and settled on the rooftop of a three story low rise.  There it began to once again coalesce, forming into the human shape, until Lucinda stood on the rooftop, looking over the bright lights of the city of Tampa.

T  T  T

Marcus’ eyes opened as the sun went over the horizon.  He had felt no need to wake this day.  The odds of finding her in the city during the day, when all of his infernal abilities were inactive, were remote to say the least.  So he had slept through the daylight to make sure that he was at his strongest this night.

Marcus sat up in the marble sarcophagus and let his gaze settle on the quartet of naked thralls kneeling beside his resting place, their foreheads to the floor.  Two large men and two petite women, they guarded him in his sleep.  And provided food when he wished to hide his presence from the world.  Marcus climbed from the coffin and onto the floor, allowing his thralls to continue to grovel for a moment.  He savored the rank smell of their fear, for it was a sure indication that they would continue to serve him to the best of their abilities.

“You may rise,” he said in his deep resonant voice.  The thralls came to their feet, their wide eyes locked on his face.

“Any news of the quarry?”

“Yes, master,” said the large black male, Frederick, handing Marcus the newspaper he had been holding.

Marcus snatched the paper from his hand.  His lips curled back to bare his fangs as he read the headlines and the story beneath.

She has again given us away to the mortals, he thought.  So far the idiots, or most of them at least, think it is nothing but a human playing at vampire.  But how long before they begin to believe?  And begin to seek us out and destroy us?

“Frederick.  You are to continue monitoring the media for news of the quarry.  Matthew,” he ordered of the muscular blond man standing next to Frederick.  “I want you to shadow the dealers and the pimps of the city, so I may know their daily movements.

“Tonya, Gloria,” he said, turning to the shrinking females.  “I will need to feed at nights end.  If I don’t find a source tonight in the city…”

He knew what they were shivering about as he made the statement.  They would provide his food tonight if he didn’t think it was safe to make a kill.  They knew that he would not kill them.  He would bring them to the brink of death, and then let them heal for several days, building up their blood levels and life force for his use again.

Marcus turned away from the mortals, sure that they would follow his wishes to the letter.  He walked from the room with the heavy draperies to one that overlooked the bright night sky of the city, thinking of where the quarry might go tonight.  To one of the high crime districts, he was sure.  But there were many in every city, and he must guess correctly if he was to find her.  Not the neighborhood she had frequented the night before.  Of that he was sure.  She would worry about police patrols staking out the streets, and the other hunters she had attracted.

He looked at the map of Tampa tacked to the wall, a red pin showing where she had hunted last night.  There were nine other areas outlined in red marker.  The high crime districts of the port city.   The places where drugs were dealt, women were sold, and life was cheap.

So much like the cities of my time, he thought.  Despite the superficial changes in technology.  Still the scum of the empire congregate on its streets, while the rich dwell in their guarded enclaves and ignore the problem, as long as it doesn’t land on their doorsteps.

Tonya and Gloria came into the room with his clothes for the evening.  Marcus raised his arms over his head and allowed the thralls to undress him, until he stood naked before them.  Gloria rubbed her hand over his taught body, and Marcus wished he would feel himself stirring physically, even as psychological lust grew in his mind.

It is not to be.  The hunt is the only thing that arouses me.  Only the feeding leads to satisfaction.

Marcus nodded and the women began to dress him.  Soon he was clothed in something that would pass as normal in the warm night streets of the Florida city.  Khaki slacks, boat shoes, and a green Izod shirt.  Tonya handed him a silver headed cane to complete the ensemble.

Marcus twisted the head of the cane and pulled the slender sword from its sheath, slashing it through the air to his front.  Satisfied that he was prepared he pushed the blade back into the cane proper and twist locked it into place.

Marcus walked up the stairs to the rooftop.  He had rented the entire building through Matthew, so he had no worries that anyone would be on the roof.  He came out into the soft night air under the full moon on the horizon.  Pulling the sweet smell of crowded humanity, his cattle, into his nostrils he bared his fangs again.

Marcus spread his arms wide and willed the transformation.  He could feel his bones changing, growing smaller and changing shape, as his skin and muscles followed suit.  He could feel the clothing absorbed into his skin, even the cane, as fine hair grew all over his body.  He made to roar his pleasure and a hypersonic screech came from his throat as he flapped his wings in the cooling air.

Marcus clawed the air with his fur-covered wings as he gained altitude, until he was high over the city, looking down on the streets filled with cars below.  He wheeled around his building for a moment, getting oriented to the city.  Then, with a strong flap of wings he headed to the northwest, reveling in the freedom of flight.

T  T  T

Julio Rodriguez cursed softly under his breath in Spanish as he watched the girl wiggle her ass as she walked up the sidewalk.  I could break her fucking neck, he thought as Carla crossed the street and homed in on a John, an elderly man who was looking as Carla walked as if he wanted a little of that.  She sidled up to him and ran a hand down his chest, laughing at something he said.  He nodded to her question and looped his arm into hers.  They turned and walked into the building he had been standing in front of.  Carla’s apartment was in the building, as well as her three children.

Julio knew that Carla was holding out on him.  The whore had been one of his best producers until recently.  He was sure that she still made the money she had.  She took too many Johns into her apartment.  Too many of them left with smiles on their faces.  She was still taking in money, no matter what she had told him.  So she was putting away his money and not giving it to him.  That was like stealing as far as he was concerned.

In fifteen minutes the man was out of the building, a smirk on his face.  Five minutes later Carla was back on the sidewalk, her dress not mussed and new lipstick on her face.  She walked up and down the sidewalk, shaking her ass and smiling at the men who walked up and down the street.  She waved at a man in an expensive car who rolled down his window and called to her.  The buxom woman leaned into the window and talked in accented English that Julio could hear from his station at the front of his building.

“Julio,” called out another of his girls, as he watched the man pulled the car over to a curb and get out to follow Carla back to her building.

“What is it, Maria?.  You got my money?”

“I’m a little short, Julio,” said the short, dark skinned woman in Spanish.

Julio glared at her, towering over her as he clenched his fists, his biceps standing out on his bare arms, his chest heaving under his wife beater shirt.  They’re all holding out on me, he thought.  They’re all a bunch of thieves.

“Come inside, Maria,” he said through clenched teeth.  Time to get rough, to make an example for the other girls.  Maria cringed and backed up, as Julio reached out and grabbed her arm.  The woman cried out as his grip tightened and he dragged her up the steps and into the building.

Julio flung her into the living room as he slammed the door behind him.  Maria fell to the floor on her hands and knees, crying as her skin burned on the rug.  Julio flexed his arms, reveling in his strength, gained from hours each week in the gym.  He walked heavily over to Maria, feeling a rush of adrenalin as he looked down at the frightened woman, smelling the sweat of her fear.  He reached down and gripped her hair and pulled, lifting her up.

“Please no,” she cried as tears came to her eyes.  She rose up as he pulled.  He had hoped to pull some of her red hair out of her head, but she was frustrating his effort by her quick scramble.  His rage flared as his face grew hot.  His right hand struck before he could think, slapping her hard in the left cheek.  She grunted and cried as he brought his hand up over his shoulder and then backhanded her on the right side of her face.

“Puta,” he growled.  “You don’t hold out on me, you hear.  What you get with your pussy is mine.  You hear me.”

“Please,” she cried as he released her hair and she fell back to her knees.  “The ninos.”

“I could care less about your brats, woman,” he hissed as he stared down into her eyes.  “Your pussy is mine.  What you make is mine.  And you will give me all of it.  You hear, whore.  I’ll give you what I think you deserve.  And if you don’t have enough for the ninos then you must work harder.”

He grabbed her arm and jerked her back to her feet.  He grabbed the purse from her grasp and opened it, rummaging around and pulling out a small wad of twenty-dollar bills.  He quickly counted the money and shoved it into his pants pocket.  Then he grabbed her arm again in a tight grip, bringing tears to her eyes that ran down the bruising flesh of her face.  He then jerked the arm hard, spinning her toward the front door.

“Now get out of here,” he yelled.  “If you ever hold out on me again you’re dead, you hear me.  Dead.”

Maria fumbled at the door for a moment before pulling it open and stumbling outside.  She left the door open in her haste to get away from him, and Julio cursed under his breath as he walked to it and looked at the woman walking quickly up the sidewalk away from his house.

“And close the fucking door next time,” he screamed at her back.  “I’m not trying to air condition the world.”

He slammed the door behind him as he walked down the steps and onto the street.  As he looked up he met the eyes of Carla, standing by the car that was beginning to pull out into the street.  Her eyes were wide with fear.  Your turn next, bitch, he thought, motioning her over with a finger.

T  T  T

Lucinda stared down at the giant of a man who was crooking a finger at one of his girls, while another of them stumbled down the street with tears streaming from a face quickly swelling from the abuse it had received.  She had listened in on everything that had gone on in Julio’s apartment.  She had gripped the lip of the roof wall so tight that concrete had crumbled, wishing that she could burst into that hovel of despair and rescue the woman Maria.  But she was bound by the ancient restrictions of her kind, and could not enter any dwelling for the first time uninvited.

The prey was motioning to one of his women to come over to him.  Probably so he can beat the hell out of her, Lucinda thought, feeling the rage build up in her, battling to crowd out the hunger that had been taking hold of her for the past hour.  She started to turn to go to the backside of the building when a snatch of song came from the man’s pocket.  She stopped and turned to watch the prey pull a cell phone from his pocket and put it up to his ear, waving the woman away.  Lucinda sharpened her hearing to listen in on the conversation.

“Yeah,” said Julio.

“How’s things going, Julio,” said the tinny voice on the other end in Unaccented English.

“Very good sir,” said Julio, his voice instantly losing its normal sarcastic undertone.  “What can I do for you tonight, sir?”

“Just calling to make sure my boy is OK,” said the voice.  “You read the paper today?  Or watched the news?”

“No sir,” said Julio.  “I’ve been kind of busy with the girls tonight.  And you know I sleep during the day.”

“Well, someone out there is killing my people,” said the voice.  “You watch yourself.  And make sure to call me if you see anything suspicious on the street, OK.  You’re one of my sets of eyes out there.”

“Sure thing, boss,” said Julio.  “Maybe I’ll even get the fuck for you.”

“You just watch yourself and let me know if you see or hear anything.  I’ve got people to take care of this kind of thing.  People I pay very well to get rid of…, nuisances like this.  You take care, Julio.  And stay in touch.”

“I will, Mr. Giovani.  I will.  Bye now, sir.”

Julio folded the phone and put it back in his pocket.  He glared for a second at the girl across the street before walking up the short steps to his porch stoop and opening the door, walking into his house and slamming the door behind him.

Lucinda walked to the back of the building she was on top of and climbed to the top of the wall, looking down at the small fenced in yard below and the triple line of laundry hanging over some cheap plastic children’s playground toys.  She listened for a second as her eyes scanned the yard.  Nothing moved, to her sight or her hearing.  She sniffed the air for a moment.  She could smell the dog howling at the night a block down the street.  But the dog in the building she stood on was not out in the yard, but still barking in the second floor apartment its owner lived in.

Lucinda leaped into the air and fell the two stories to the ground, landing lightly on her feet.  She ran and leapt at the eight-foot privacy fence, grabbing the top and swinging herself over, landing on the grassy patch between two buildings and waiting for just a moment.  After making sure that no one had seen her from the street she walked onto the sidewalk and crossed the road between the sparse traffic.  She walked up the steps to her prey's building and pushed the ringer.

“What do ya want?” called a harsh voice from the first floor apartment to the left.

“I need to talk to you, sir,” said Lucinda in a quavering voice, trying to put into it a feeling of fright that she did not feel.

A curtain was drawn and she saw Julio’s face at the window, looking out at the porch and breaking into a smile as his eyes landed on her.  Lucinda knew she was beautiful to men, and that she attracted them as a snake attracted a bird.  She tried to look nervous as she gazed back at the man, setting an alarmed look on her face.  The curtain fell back into place and moments later she heard a door opening and footsteps coming down a hall and up to the door.  The door swung open and she found herself looking up at the tall, muscular man.

“Senorita,” he said to her, licking his lips.  “Ain't you a little young to be out this late at night.”

“I ran away from home, sir,” she said in her frightened, teenage voice.  “My daddy was raping me and I couldn’t get mama to believe me.  So I ran away from home and came to the city.”

“You don’t have a place to stay?” asked Julio.  “Maybe you’re looking for one?”

“I heard that you can help girls get…, established on the street,” said Lucinda.  “I scared, sir.  I would do anything, sir.  Anything at all.”

Julio motioned with his hand and turned to walk down the hall.  He turned back when Lucinda did not follow.  Lucinda felt as if she were rooted to the spot.  She wanted to follow Julio.  The Hunger was almost overwhelming at this point of the night.  But she couldn’t, yet.

“My mama taught me to wait until I was invited in before entering a man’s home,” she said, licking her lips nervously.

“Come in, chica,” said the man.  “My casa is su casa.”

Lucinda felt the barrier that was between her and the house come down as she hurried into the hallway, her movements still showing her to be a frightened child looking for a refuge.  She followed the man to the first door on the right of the hall as he pulled it open and motioned her in.

As she entered the living room she almost gagged on the stench coming from the kitchen.  The living room itself had bags of garbage piled up by the door, beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays on the tables.  A high-end stereo system on the bookshelves filled with CDs played Latin music, while a baseball game played on the wide screen plasma TV against one of the walls.  A couch and a weight pulley machine completed the furnishings.  A large mirror was on another wall, and Lucinda looked at it in fascination as it portrayed an image of the room.  An image she did not occupy.

“So,” said Julio, turning as he loomed over her.  “What can I do for you?  And more important, what can you do for me?”

Lucinda could smell the lust in him as he looked down at her.  See the hunger in his eyes, the hunger that almost matched the hunger that was growing in her.  She smiled up at him, a feral smile that made him recoil and step back a bit.

“Who the hell are you, chica?” he said, reaching behind his back to pull an automatic pistol from his waistband.  He started to raise it toward Lucinda in a side reaching gangsta pose.

Lucinda exploded into a burst of speed.  The man seemed to slow to a standstill in front of her.  She pulled the gun out of his hand like jerking a toy out of the hands of a child, and then threw the weapon at the mirror.  The speed left her and the world returned to normal, as the man backed up from her.

“What the fuck are you?” he yelled, stooping to pick up a heavy dumbbell from the floor.  With a roar he flung it at her, aiming at her head.

Lucinda reached for the dumbbell and caught it as it flew toward her, tossing it over her shoulder.  She took a step toward him as he backed into a corner.

“I’m your worst nightmare, chico,” she said to him, her hand grabbing the front of his wife beater shirt and twisting the fabric, pulling him toward her.  The fabric ripped apart at that moment, exposing the small silver crucifix on the dark skinned chest.

A feeling of panic overwhelmed her.  She dropped the grasp she had on the remnants of the shirt as she stumbled back.  Her eyes burned at the sight of the holy symbol, and she flung her hands up to cover her face as she hissed in terror.  She wanted to kill him, to drink his blood and feed her hunger.  But the holy symbol on the unholy man put a barrier between her and the man.  A barrier of animal fear that overrode all of her other instincts.

“Are you on drugs, cunt,” yelled Julio, grabbing another dumbbell as he watched her out of frightened eyes.

Lucinda backed away till she was near the door.  Her instincts told her to go through the door, to flee into the night.  Then her heel struck the dumbbell that had been thrown at her moments before.  She fought down the fear for a moment and reached down to grasp the dumbbell, picking it up as she turned back toward Julio.  She lifted it over her head and threw it at him with all of her might.

The dumbbell hit Julio in the stomach, blasting the breath from his body.  He went down to his knees, grasping at his stomach as he coughed up the contents of his gut.  In that instant the cross on his chest was covered up.

Lucinda felt the panic ebb as the holy symbol left her sight.  The hunger grew in her, building with the rage that was directed at those who enslaved other humans for their own greed and lust for control.  She took running steps toward Julio, her left hand grasping his long hair as she pulled him to his feet, her right hand flying to the cross around his neck as she felt the panic begin to come over her again.  Her hand enveloped the cross, which burned into her flesh like hellfire.  A high pitched scream erupted unbidden from her mouth as she pulled hard with her right hand, jerking the cross from the chain and tossing it behind her.  She looked down at her throbbing hand, the red shape of the small cross burned into her palm.

“You have no right to wear that symbol, you unholy scum,” she growled as she bent his head back with the iron grip she had on his hair.  “Now tell me who you work for, scum.  Tell me.”

“Lucian Giovani,” grunted the pimp through pain tight lips.  Julio swung a heavy hand into Lucinda’s face, followed with another.  Lucinda rocked from the to her feeble punches and pulled his head to the side, exposing his neck.

“Now I send you to your true master,” she hissed, baring her fangs.  With a thrust of her head she buried the fangs into his neck, her instincts driving the canines unerringly into the pulsing jugular vein under his skin.  Blood spurted into her mouth as she closed her lips over the wound, drinking the life force from his body.  The life giving fluid flowed down her throat, feeding her hunger.

He was a big man, and she felt satiated before the last of the blood was sucked from his body.  Still she continued to drain him as she sensed his heart fluttering to a stop.  She held the heavy man up with her one hand as she sucked till nothing more came into her mouth.  She moved her mouth away from the neck and jerked on his hair as she lifted the lifeless body high into the air, his toes trailing the floor.  Then she reached her left hand over her shoulder and grasped the hilt of the big knife, pulling it free.

With a measured swing she took the head from the body.  She held the head in her hand by the hair as she kicked the falling body into the weight machine, where it hit limply but heavily and fell over the bench.  She tossed the head on top of the piled bags of garbage near the door and walked from the room.

There were loud voices on the street, people talking about the commotion that had come from Julio’s apartment.  Soon there would be police, as well as other hunters, all intent on finding and destroying her.

The door swung open onto the back yard behind the building and she strode out into the night.  She was physically and spiritually satiated as she walked away from the building and into the darkness.  She could hear the sirens in the distance as she ran through several yards, putting distance between herself and the site of the murder.  In one yard she dodged as a dog on a long chain lunged at her.  She fought down the urge to kill a beast that was only doing its job, protecting its master from a perceived threat.  She left the barking dog behind as she slowed to a walk and headed down the empty neighborhood street.

T  T  T

Detective Lieutenant Jamal Smith swore softly to himself as he looked at the multitude of gawkers standing on the sidewalks, lit by the rotating blue and red strobe lights of the blue and whites at the scene.  Why do these fools always have to come out and get in the way, he thought.  Uniformed officers were out on the sidewalk taking statements, three quarters of which he knew were going to result in a waste of time and manpower.

The forensics van was parked close to the entrance of the building, and a muffled flash seen through the curtains let him know that the cameraman was at work inside.  Smith pulled a pad of paper out of its holder in the car and put a couple of mechanical pencils in his jacket pocket.  A sergeant walked toward his car as he got out.

“What’s the word, McCraw?” asked Smith, the sergeant falling in beside him as he walked toward the building.

“We have several statements from people who were on the street at the time of the murder,” said the sergeant.  “Two of them are going to come down to the station tomorrow to do pictures with the police artist.”

“And what did they say they saw?” asked Smith, stopping to look over the gathered crowd.  Whore, addicts, dealers and pimps, he thought.  Not the most reliable of witnesses, but all that we’re gonna get.

“A red haired woman entered the dwelling after talking with the victim,” said McCraw.  “About five eight to nine, slender, in solid black clothes that were not too expensive nor too cheap.”

“And they saw no one else enter the place?”

“Not until the first unit arrived and the men went inside to find the body.”

“Decapitated, I assume,” said Smith as he walked up the step to the front door to be waved into the building by the officer guarding the door.

“Yes sir,” answered the sergeant.  “Stephens thinks that it had to be a large, strong man.  Not a woman.”

“Ok,” said Smith, looking back over the crowd as a flash bulb flared, causing him to squint his eyes for a moment.  That’s just great, he thought.  Now I’ll be on the front page of the tribune.  “Keep the press clear.  We don’t need them stepping over our evidence.”

Smith stepped over the yellow tape that blocked the doorway and walked the few steps into the hall.  There were several officers in the hallway, talking about vampires and werewolves and other such nonsense.  Smith shook his head as he walked into the ground floor apartment, to the sight of uniformed officers and plainclothes forensics men bustling through the room.  He noted that the doorknob had the white powder used to dust for fingerprints, and one of the techs was snapping a picture of a dumbbell near the body that had already been prepped for prints.

“Lieutenant,” said a soft voice behind him.  Smith turned to look into the eyes of Doc Stephens, the chief of the forensics unit, bagging a head as if he were putting his lunch into the plastic container.  “Two nights in a row, huh.”

“Still think it was a man, doc?” asked Smith.  “We have witnesses saying that a woman entered the premises about the time this happened.”

“No way is was a woman,” said Stephens, pointing with his free hand at the chalked outlines of where the body had lain on the bench.  “I believe that whoever took our boy’s head off was holding him up high, above his normal height.  With one hand, because they needed the other to swing the knife.  I got that from the splatter marks on the wall.  And then they pushed the falling body against the weight bench.  He didn’t fall from where he stood.  He weighed about 230 or so, before his head came off.  It took a strong man to lift him up by the hair and take his head off with a single swing.”

“So no way a slender woman could have done this?”

“No lieutenant.  Maybe she let the killer into the house through the kitchen door, which was wide open when the uniformed officers got here, by the way.  But a slender woman has nowhere near the strength to do this.”

“She’s not a normal woman,” said a gravelly voice from the doorway.  “I’ve been trying to tell you that.”

Smith swore under his breath as he turned around to the sight of Jeffrey DeFalco.  The agent looked like he hadn’t slept since last night’s murder.  His eyes had bags under them, and there was beard stubble on his face.

“Still sticking with that vampire nonsense, eh Agent DeFalco?”

“It’s not nonsense,” growled DeFalco as he staggered into the room and closed with Smith.  Smith could smell the rancid odor of alcohol on the man’s breath.  He frowned in disgust at the agent.

“It’s not nonsense,” repeated the drunken man.  “And she’ll look different the next time she strikes.”

“It’s a man, Agent DeFalco,” said Smith into DeFalco’s face.  “And you are a disgrace.”

“It’s the dreams,” said DeFalco.  “I need to deaden the dreams.”

Smith waved a uniformed patrolman over to him while he stared at DeFalco’s bloodshot eyes.

“Take this man back to his hotel,” he ordered the officer.

“I’m an agent doing his justifiable duty,” slurred DeFalco.  “You have no right to send me away from this crime scene.”

“And place him under arrest if he refuses to go,” ordered Smith.  “Drunk and disorderly.  And public intoxication.”

“Just make sure that you send copies of all the transcripts to my office, detective,” said DeFalco in the Brooklyn accent that had taken the Ivy League right out of his voice.  The uniformed officer took his arm and started to lead him away.  “Everything, you hear me.  Don’t you be holding out on me.”

“A real nutcase,” said Stephens.

“Yeah,” agreed Smith.  “But you don’t think there might be something to what he’s saying, do you?”

“Vampires,” said Stephens, shaking his head.  “I don’t believe in them, or Werewolves, Zombies and Ghouls.  No, this was done by a living, breathing human being.  A large and strong human being.”

“OK, doc,” said Smith with a nod.  “It was just a thought.  Now I’m counting on you to give me what I need to get this sick bastard.”

“The prints are being sent to the FBI in Washington as we speak,” said Stephens.  “If our boy left his prints on anything, and he’s been in the military or has an arrest record, we’ll find out who he is at least.”

“And if he doesn’t have a military or arrest record?”

“Then you’re just going to have to catch him in the act, detective, before he can leave the scene.”

And to do that we’re going to have to establish some kind of pattern, thought Smith, in a city of four hundred thousand.  And that’s not counting the million and a half people in the entire bay area.  Our jurisdiction ends at the city limits.  But the killer has no jurisdiction.  So we’re probably going to have to count on luck to get this boy.

“Just find me what you can, doc,” said Smith.  “Just find me what I need to catch this maniac before he decides to kill some upstanding citizens.”

T  T  T

Marcus stood outside the building, blending in with the crowd.  He knew he appeared calm on the outside, but inwardly he fretted about all of the police in the neighborhood allowing the trail to go cold.  He could smell her.  The scent of the hunter that he needed to track, before she caused too much damage to the race.  But he couldn’t get into the building to pick up the start of the path she had trod.  And there were too many police wandering around the neighborhood looking for clues to risk a circumference of the scene to pick up a trail that was getting colder by the minute.

Marcus growled low in his throat as a reporter tried to stick a microphone in his face.  The man turned away to find another victim, as Marcus smelled the fear in his sweat.  Marcus cursed to himself as he turned away from the reporter and pushed his way out of the crowd, listening to the protests of the mortals that got in his way.

I need to be more careful, thought Marcus.  Humans get curious about that which makes them afraid.  And I can’t afford to bring any more attention to our kind than is already being offered to them on a silver platter.

Marcus circled the crime scene from several blocks out, blending into the shadows whenever a roving police car or foot patrol came near.  At three blocks out and to the north he came across the scent he had been looking for.  The scent of a hunter like himself.  He followed the scent through backyards and across streets until he came to an alley, where he could scent the change that she had gone through.  As a bat she had lifted into the sky at this point, and severed the trail that had been leading the Vampire Lord on.

Marcus growled into the night, his anger building, and with it the hunger that he had controlled for many days.  Tonya and Gloria would not feed him tonight.  He needed to kill something, and his thralls were too valuable for that kind of treatment.  But he must be careful.  It must be someone who would not be missed, and the body had to disappear.  A shadow stumbled down the street, and Marcus focused his night vision to see a shambling hunched over man in dirty clothing, a paper bag grasped in one hand.

No one will miss a wino, he thought, as he began to silently trail his victim.

T  T  T

The sun was just coming over the horizon when the 7:03 express from Atlanta came into the renovated Union Station in downtown Tampa.  O’Connor had been able to sleep most of the trip in the comfortable seat, but had woken an hour before the dawn and stared out into the darkness as the train made its way south.  He had watched the lights of towns and lone dwellings go by the windows, wondering about the people that lived there.  Their ordinary lives passing by, with no knowledge of the terrors that inhabited the fringes of the world.

O’Connor had an easy time spotting the welcoming committee on the concourse.  Picking out a black cassock and white collar among the few people waiting for family and loved ones was relatively simple.  I wonder if this will be the red carpet, he thought, or the cold shoulder.  He knew that the Bishop of the Diocese of St. Petersburg would not let him come into town without questioning his motives.

O’Connor grabbed his carpetbag and walked to the exit of the car, making his way down the steps and out onto the concourse.  The young priest was looking at a photograph in his hand, looking up at the people coming out of the train, then back to the photo.  The priest did a double take as O’Connor walked out, put the photo into a pants pocket, then hurried over to O’Connor with a bowed head.

“Your excellency,” said the young priest, going down to one knee with his hand out to accept the hand of the man he had come to meet.

“No longer,” rumbled O’Connor in a resonate voice that had kept the attention of congregations through the years.  “I’m officially just a Monsignor, though I prefer to go by the name of John.”

“But you were the Archbishop of Washington excellency, on your way to becoming a Cardinal.”

“That was a lifetime ago, my son,” said O’Connor.  “Now I am a simple priest, father….”

“Johnson.  Timothy Johnson,” said the priest, standing up and holding out a hand, this time in the traditional sign of greeting between two men of almost equal rank.  O’Connor took the hand in a firm grip.

“John O’Connor.  Glad to meet you.  You have a car I assume?”

“Yes Monsignor.  I’ve already arranged for your bags to be at your hotel.  Can I take that?”

“No,” said O’Connor.  “I need the exercise.  Lead on.”

Father Johnson led the way through the station and onto the street to stop at a late model Taurus with a clergy plate on the front.  He opened the passenger door and motioned for O’Connor to get in, then closed the door behind him, moving around the car to get into the drivers seat.  With a beep of the horn and the twist of the wheel Johnson accelerated into the flow of traffic, to the honking of horns and curses of other drivers.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked O’Connor after saying a quick prayer.

“No sir,” said Johnson with a chuckle.  “I grew up in the City, New York.  Lost the accent at Notre Dame.”

“You know you could have stayed at the Diocese Cathedral in St. Pete,” contiuned Johnson.  “You didn’t have to spring for a hotel room.”

“Then I would have too many people asking questions of me,” said O’Connor.  “You know how people like to talk.”

“About vampires,” said the young priest.  “That’s what everyone has been talking about the last couple of days.”

“No comment,” said O’Connor with a frown.  “My mission is my mission.  And I require no cooperation.  Only that people get out of my way.”

Johnson turned his attention back to the road as O’Connor gave a satisfied grunt.  The young man might think me a nutcase, thought O’Connor.  But being thought a nutcase serves me well.

T  T  T

Bishop Wislowski’s Tampa office was nowhere near as opulent as his abode at the Cathedral in St. Petersburg.  But the Bishop was known as a very hands on ruler of his domain, and an office in the other major city of the Diocese were keeping in character.  He stood up as O’Connor was ushered into the room, coming around his desk and holding his right hand out.  O’Connor went to one knee and took the Bishop’s hand in his, bringing the signet ring of the church hierarchy to his lips.

“Have a seat, Monsignor,” said Wislowski, moving back to behind his desk, as O’Connor took a seat in the upholstered chair set in the center of the room.

Like the chair of a victim of the inquisition, thought O’Connor.  And where are the inquisitors?

“I’ll get right to the point, Monsignor O’Connor,” said Wislowski, looking over his steepled fingers.  “I don’t want you here.  The Council of American Bishops doesn’t want you here.  The police and the city officials would not want you here if they knew of your presence.”

“But I have the permission of the Holy Father,” said O’Connor, playing his trump.  “He puts more faith in me than all of the rest of you combined.”

“Because he was raised a peasant in a land of superstitious peasants,” said the Bishop.  “A man who was raised with stories of vampires and werewolves with his mother’s milk.”

“Are you so sure that they are untrue?” asked the priest.  “The Holy Father believes that there is evil in the world.  Do you not?”

“Oh yes,” said the Bishop with a nod of his head.  “There is evil enough in the world without bringing fantasy into the mix.  Men have become experts at the doing of evil through the centuries.  I am sure that no imaginary creature of the night can compare with some of the men in our jails.  Or roaming our streets.”

“The Holy Father believes in my quest,” said O’Connor, standing up from his chair to walk toward the desk.  “As long as he gives his blessing to this enterprise you have no say in where I go or what I do.”

“I knew you would have an attitude,” said the Bishop, standing himself and glaring at the priest.  “Yes, you have the permission of the Holy Father to engage in this witch hunt.  And I will put no obstacles in your way.  Nor will I allow any of the resources of this Diocese to aid you in this insane quest.  Do you hear me, Monsignor O’Connor?”

“I hear you, Bishop Wislowski,” said O’Connor, placing his hands on the desk and leaning to bring his face close to that of the Bishop’s.  “I ask for no aid or comfort from your precious Diocese.  But I also will still put my life on the line for you and your parishioners, as well as all of the other innocents who live in this city.”

“Just remember what I said,” cautioned the Bishop, drawing back from the intensity of the man.  “If you land afoul of the authorities it is on you to get yourself out of the trouble you caused.  If you land in jail then you will have to make bail, or rot in a cell until they decide to let you go.”

“Fine with me, your Excellency,” said O’Connor.  “I prefer to work alone.  Are we through here?”

“The audience is ended,” agreed the Bishop.  “You know I don’t approve of your methods, but I have no power to make you leave.  So go with God my son.”

The Bishop held his ring hand out one more time, over the desk.  O’Connor took the hand and brought the ring to his lips, showing his respect for the office if not the man.  Then he turned and walked out of the office, his footfalls sounding heavy on the polished wooden floors.

O’Connor picked up his rental car outside of the offices, a late model Thunderbird.  It was a short drive to the hotel near I4, and O’Connor was in his room minutes after the end of the audience.  His laptop was out of the carpetbag in an instant, even before he had taken the time to unpack his other bags.  With a couple of keystrokes he was at the Vatican Website.  A password and a couple of more strokes granted him access to the hidden areas of the site, and the database that he was one of the few on Earth privy to.

T  T  T

Tashawn Kent didn’t have access to any sophisticated databases.  But his instincts were normally good enough to get him what he wanted.  Especially since he had become one of the undead.

“I don’t understand, Tashawn,” said his boy Marvin as Tashawn pulled himself out of his coffin.  “We had it going up in Philly, man.  With you as enforcer we had no problems with any of the other players.  So tell me again why we’re here in this little burg.”

“I want her blood,” said Tashawn, flexing his twenty-one inch thick arms.  He had tried to stay in shape in the years since the Eagles cut him from the squad.  It had been difficult to keep his defensive tackle’s body in that kind of shape.  But since crossing over it had been no problem at all.

“Her blood will make me stronger.  Her blood will make me invincible.”

“My god,” said Marvin.  “You can already lift a luxury car over your head.  How much stronger do you need to be.”

“I am still a child, brother,” said Tashawn.  “You know the thing about living forever?”

“Sure,” said Marvin, twisting the top off a bottle of beer and offering it to his lifelong homeboy.  Tashawn shook his head and Marvin brought the bottle up to his own lips to take a swig.  “You live forever as a vampire.  But most of you actually die before the first year.  Cause you’re stupid.”

Tashawn bared his fangs and laughed as his friend blanched at the display.

“I don’t mean you’re stupid, brother,” said Marvin.  “I mean your kind is when you first start walking the night.  So for most of you the eternal life thing is so much BS.”

“But we can gain the strength of the vampires we kill and drain,” said Tashawn.  “We get stronger, and gain their experience too.”

“But she hasn’t been around all that long,” said Marvin.  “You told me that yourself.  Why not find someone with more time under their belt?”

“Because they might be too much for me,” said Tashawn.  “And with her it’s personal.”

“She made you a vampire,” said Marvin.  “I thought you liked being a vamp.  I mean man, you are the shit on the street.  Weren’t no one would take you on.”

“Do you want to join me?” said Tashawn, baring his fangs again.  “I could bring you over easy.”

“Not me man,” said Marvin, backing up till his back hit the motel room wall.  “I like being alive, man.”

“You’re choice,” said Tashawn.  “The bitch didn’t give me a choice.  And she was trying to do me for good.  If something hadn’t interrupted I wouldn’t be a vampire.  I’d be rotting meat in a Philly graveyard.  So it’s personal, and I want to return the favor to her.

“But enough of that,” said Tashawn.  “I’m hungry.  Let’s go get me something to eat.”

Marvin nodded his head as he put on his jacket.  Tashawn could smell the fear in his friend.  The fear that one day he would be on the menu of his old friend.  Maybe that day will come, thought Tashawn.  But not now.  Now it was nice to have a mortal who could think for himself, unlike the thralls he had seen in other vamps.