The Virgin Vampire
THE VIRGIN VAMPIRE
by
MELANIE THOMPSON
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC
Copyright © 2016 by MELANIE THOMPSON
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68146-489-3
Credits
Cover Artist: Kris Norris
Editor: Merrylee Lanehart
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
Torrid
Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:
www.torridbooks.com
Erotic Flights of Fantasy Books I and II
Cupcake Boys
The Cowboys and the Cupcakes
The Marvelous Mechanical Arm of Octavian Rillieux
The Telltale Heart
Forbidden Fruit
The Virgin Shifter
Werewolf for Hire: Pushing up Daisies
Werewolf for Hire II: The Princess and the Sabra
Secrets I: The Secret, the Shifter, and the Sex-Slave Shanghai
Secrets II: The Secret of the Bloodstones
Saga of the Steampunk Witches
Book 1: Flight of the Zeppelin
Book 2: Flight of the Crow
Book 3: Flight of the Phoenix
Dedication
To my daughter Melanie Fraser, who has been my cowriter, my friend, and an inspiration.
Chapter 1
“This place is a dump,” Enrique Valdavar said as he parked the rented Land Cruiser and climbed out. “I was assured the Jaguar Inn is the best in town.”
“We’re in Flores, not Sao Paolo.” His twin brother Tuco grunted as he lifted Rickie’s suitcase out of the back. “What did you pack in this thing? Bricks?”
“I had no idea what to expect from the weather. I came prepared.”
“We’re in Guatemala. It’s hot. It’s damp and it’ll probably rain.”
They spoke in Portuguese, their native language, though both men were fluent in Spanish, English, German and French. Enrique also spoke Arabic. As a profiler for Interpol, Rickie needed to know many languages. Tuco had learned much of what he knew from Rickie and at university. Tuco was a professor at the University of Guatemala where he taught Mayan history and the history of the indigenous peoples of the Americas.
Rickie’s job took him around the world. Currently he was at home on a holiday. This was fortunate because he had time to respond when their aging grandmother sent them an urgent request to attend her death bed.
“Do you think she’s really dying this time?” Tuco asked as he tossed his backpack into the small room on the third floor. “This is the third time la vieja has called us here in two years. Each time she rises from her bed and proceeds to drive Aunt Cecilia insane before we have been in her house ten minutes.”
“We’re her only grandsons, Tuco. Try to put yourself in her shoes. She wants to see us and we’re always too busy to come. So she says she’s dying. It’s a classic play for attention from a lonely woman.”
“You put yourself in her shoes. If this wasn’t the Christmas break, I wouldn’t even be here. I shouldn’t even be here. I had plans, you know.”
Rickie patted his hand. “Carmina Angel. She’ll wait for you. Trust me.”
“We were heading for the beach. I had a condo reserved for the entire week.” He grabbed his crotch and laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Rickie shuddered. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
After tossing their bags in the miniscule room, the twins walked out into the narrow street. Flores was a tiny town on an island in the middle of Lake Peten Itza. The buildings were old and the streets cobbled. Few vehicles traveled the alleys; only strange little rickshaw taxis could fit through the tiny lanes.
They climbed the hill to the top of the town and stopped in the park to stare out over the calm waters of the lake. As the sun slowly settled behind a bank of clouds on the western horizon, the sky turned orange and purple. On the far bank of the lake the lights of the tiny town of El Ramate were blinking on and the towers of the ancient Mayan ruins of Tikal could be seen cresting the tops of the jungle.
“It’s so beautiful,” Rickie said.
“Well, in minutes it will be so dark and there are very few street lights. You can enjoy the view later.” He grabbed Rickie’s hand and pulled him down the hill. When he touched his brother, he felt an instant connection and chills shivered up and down his spine.
He was the oldest by only a minute. The midwives said he’d been born with Rickie clutching his ankle. Even when they were apart, they could sense each other. Things got complicated and strange when they matured and Rickie’s true nature began asserting itself. Rickie was gay and Tuco was most decidedly heterosexual. He loved full-breasted, tall, dark-haired Brazilian beauties, but he’d take a short blond one or even a redhead just as long as they were female.
And with their looks, he had to fight the women off. Even Rickie had to turn women down all the time. His brother had just broken up with Hernando, a prissy little bitch that couldn’t keep his pants up. Rickie quickly figured out Hernando was cheating and sent him packing. Rickie could read people, which led him to his chosen field. As a profiler in Sao Paolo, his seemingly psychic ability to get into the heads of bad guys had brought him to the notice of the International Criminal Organization known as Interpol. He now got paid the big bucks to track terrorists and bad guys all over the world.
When they reached the bottom of the hill, they turned left on Calle Union and walked the short distance to their grandmother’s home. The house was right on the lake. The front on the street was plaster-over-mud bricks painted tan. A polished wooden arch was set over a red door. Rickie knocked and Aunt Cecilia answered.
“Boys, my handsome nephews,” she gushed. “Come in, come in.” She glanced behind them. “But where are your suitcases? Aren’t you staying?”
“We have a room at the Jaguar Inn,” Tuco said as he walked into the co
ol, tiled entryway.
“Your grandmother will not be pleased.” Aunt Cecilia was a fiftyish spinster dressed in a long black skirt and a white peasant blouse that hung on her thin frame. She clutched a black wool shawl around her shoulders even though it was warm. Her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun. Long earrings with jet beads dangled from large ears and a filigreed silver cross lay on her flat chest.
“There is no room here for us and you know it,” Tuco said as he gave her a careful hug and kissed both her wrinkled cheeks. “We love the house and the view off the patio is delightful. It’s just very small and we don’t wish to crowd you. Where is Grandmother?”
“She is in bed,” Aunt Cecilia whispered. “Her time has truly come. The doctor just left.” Aunt Cecilia sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief that magically appeared in her hand. She shook her head. “He says death could come at any moment. I fear she hangs on just to see you two, her only heirs. She has something she desperately wishes to tell you and she worried you would not arrive in time.”
Tuco glanced at Rickie. His twin lifted one sculpted eyebrow—probably waxed.
Their grandmother seemed a mere husk. She was over ninety. Tuco didn’t know exactly how old she was. Her frail figure barely made a mound under the white, down comforter. She clutched the edge with fingers turned into claws.
Her bedroom opened onto a small balcony. The moon was visible through the glass door; a thin crescent inching its way out of the dark water of the lake. Tonight it would be full. As he stared across the water, his blood stirred and he suddenly felt uncomfortable in his skin. He stretched and flexed his fingers.
Rickie went directly to Grandmother and kissed her forehead. Tuco stood on the other side of the bed with one hand on the coverlet. The old woman’s eyes fluttered open and a withered hand shot out to grab Tuco’s wrist. “I have something I must tell you,” she whispered.
Her grip was surprisingly strong. She drew Tuco closer and he bent his head to hear her words.
“Under the bed. Look,” she said. “You will see it.”
He lifted the comforter to see under the bed. An ancient carved chest of dark wood sat among the dust bunnies. Tuco pulled it out and Rickie walked around the bed to examine it.
The chest smelled fragrant, like cedar, but musty.
“Open it,” she said. “I must tell you a sad truth.”
Tuco looked into her eyes. They use to be black as obsidian but now they were clouded, the whites yellow.
“You are not the sons of Renaldo Valdavar,” she rasped.
Tuco felt sick. What could she mean?
“Your father was a special man. Your mother loved him. She ran away with him and stayed with him in the jungles of the Amazon. She was eight months pregnant with you boys when he disappeared in Bethlehem. Renaldo had always wanted her. When she went to him—desolate, pregnant and grieving—he took her into his home and married her. You were his boys. He loved you as his sons. Never forget all he gave you. Your mother tried to love him. But her love died with Navarre Reis. And she followed him to his grave after only two years with Renaldo.”
“Why didn’t he tell us?” Rickie asked. “Why?”
“He loved you and wanted you to be his sons. He still loves you. He gave you both everything. But you need to know the truth. Open the chest. Merisol brought it here even as she was dying and told me to give it to you when I died. She never knew what was inside. It would not open for her. Its lock is keyed to Navarre’s blood. Open it.”
Tuco glanced once at Rickie. His twin nodded. No words were needed. The golden lock had a small indention as if for a finger. Tuco placed the tip of his forefinger in it. A grinding noise came from inside the box and a crack appeared in the solid gold of the lock. It slowly grew wider and Tuco lifted the lid.
Chapter 2
Jax Sequeros grabbed his new partner by the hand. “Erikson, don’t tell me you haven’t seen a dead body before. You look like you’re gonna puke.”
Targ Erikson—tall, broad-shouldered, blond-buzzed hair—had lost all his color. His pale face had two red spots on the cheeks and his bright gray eyes were wide open with shock. “Not one with his own penis stuffed in his mouth. What kind of sick bastard would do a thing like that?”
“Get used to it. This is the eighth one in a month.” Jax pointed to the DB’s chest. Have you ever seen marks like this before?”
Carved into the skin of the dead man’s chest were three strange, intricate symbols. A crime scene tech leaned over Jax’s shoulder and snapped a string of photos.
“They look kind of like hieroglyphics. But they’re not Egyptian. Have all the vics had the same marks?”
Jax shook his head. “Nah, they’re all different.”
“What about the hole in his chest? They all missing their hearts, too?”
“Yep.” Jax leaned back on his heels and ran his hands through his hair. The smell of the blood brought out his inner demons. He stretched his hands and claws briefly appeared. He suddenly realized it wasn’t the smell of blood or death that was causing him to react. There was a subtle odor hanging around the body he should have recognized earlier. He bent down and discreetly sniffed. Vampire.
After pulling on a set of rubber gloves, he lifted the young man’s ruined head and checked under his chin. The neck was ruined; the flesh too torn to be able to discern bite marks. He stood up and went to talk to the coroner climbing out of his van. Ken Ishimoto had a warped sense of humor, but even Ken was horrified by the dead bodies they’d been pulling out of the Capital Hill district of Seattle. There was no smile on his round face as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked toward Jax.
“Same deal?” he asked.
Jax nodded. “Naked, penis stuffed in his mouth, symbols carved into his chest, heart ripped out. I’m sure you’ll find he had sex shortly before he was carved up.”
Ishimoto pulled the gurney out of the van and raised it. “This one makes three this week. The killer is escalating his activity.”
“The moon will be full tonight. Maybe it affects him. Hey, remember the vampire killings from last year? Check the guy for bite marks in intimate areas, will you?”
Ken’s eyebrows were thin and wispy but one flew into his hairline. “Not again?”
Jax smacked him on the back. “Just check, will you? Then we can rule that kind of shit out.”
Ken glanced at the dead body and saw Erikson. “Where’s Martha?”
Martha Merriweather was Jax’s usual partner. “She went out on maternity leave. I think she’s due in two weeks. Her feet were killing her.”
“She was getting as big as a house. I doubt if she could see her feet.”
Jax smiled, thinking about Martha. “She’s short-waisted. The baby sticks out pretty far. There’s not much room for him.”
Ken grabbed the gurney as his partner, Lisa Barton, tossed the bag on top, along with an empty body bag. “Him?”
“The sonogram showed it’s a boy.”
“A male Martha? Now that’s a terrible thought.”
Jax shuddered. It wasn’t Martha he worried about. She was intense and aggressive. The father on the other hand had been a real demon—an ancient vampire. The baby would be a dhampir—half vampire, half human. But Martha had refused to have an abortion. She wanted the baby and swore she would make him good by smothering him with love.
* * * *
Targ Erikson stood up and stared at the dead man. He was young, probably around twenty, and handsome. According to Jax, all of the victims of this crazy killer were young men and all had been found in the Capitol Hill area. Capitol Hill was Seattle’s gay district. This body was propped against a dumpster in a small alley off Broadway. A four-story apartment building from the eighties was on one side of the alley and a brick building housing a gay bar called The Blind Owl was on the other side.
Erikson ran his hand over his buzzed hair as he walked slowly toward the entrance of the alley, skirting the coroner’s van. He glanced
up and down Broadway. The street was filled with people, even at this early hour. He spotted a cross-dresser mincing down the sidewalk in six-inch heels, a street musician pulling his guitar out of its case and several couples—two guys together, two chicks together and even a young man walking with a pretty girl.
Across the street, two older houses were barely visible behind a curtain of thick shrubbery and short fir trees. The bare branches of two deciduous trees brushed the rooftops beneath a heavy gray sky loaded with rain. He shrugged. It was Seattle. Of course it was going to rain. At least it wasn’t snowing.
With his head down, he trudged back to the crime scene. He’d been miserable lately, lonely and depressed. Maybe this new case and this new partner he’d been assigned would catch his interest and keep him busy. He liked Jax, though there was something strange about him Erikson couldn’t name. He was openly gay, living with another man and his daughter, Emily. But that wasn’t it. Jax seemed as though he was always repressing an inner wild animal, some strange aspect of himself that was dangerous and feral. Once, Erikson had even heard him growl. Weird.
He spotted something next to a muddy puddle and bent down to examine it. It was a sea urchin spine, long and pink, probably from a big urchin. He picked it up using a latex glove to grab it. When he held it to the light, he saw a dark stain on the sharp end. Might be blood. But what would the murderer need or use a sea urchin spine for?
He slid by the coroner’s van just as they were loading the DB. When he looked at Jax, his partner suddenly lifted his gaze and their eyes met. It was almost like he’d read Erikson’s mind. “Erikson, did you check the alley?”
“Yeah. All I found was this.” He held up the spine. “I think there’s blood on it.”
Jax signaled one of the crime scene techs. A tiny woman trotted over with a plastic evidence bag. She held it open. “What you got?”
Erikson dropped the spine into the bag. “It looks like there’s blood on it.”