The Virgin Vampire Read online

  The tech fished the spine out and sprayed a blend of Luminal and hydrogen peroxide on the stain. It began to glow with bright-blue luminescence. “Did the guy stab the vic with it?” Erikson asked Jax.

  Jax shrugged. “I can’t imagine. Might not have anything to do with the killing, this is Capitol Hill.” He turned to the tech. “Run a DNA test on the blood.”

  She nodded and returned to walking the alley, searching it inch by inch.

  Jax touched Erikson on the elbow. He jumped. “Man, you okay?”

  Erikson shook his head. “I’m just a little nervous. I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”

  They walked down the alley toward Jax’s black Dodge Charger parked on Broadway. “Sorry, man, I hate to hear it. What’s been going on?”

  “Personal shit. My sister is a pain and I just got dumped…again.”

  Jax nodded as he opened the car door and climbed in. “How old is your sister? She live with you?”

  Erikson buckled his seatbelt as Jax backed up and took off down Broadway. “I’ve been her guardian since our folks died four years ago. She’s eighteen and just, well she’s different.”

  They drove by a group of people dressed in dark clothes, wearing heavy makeup and sporting dyed black, red and blue hair. Targ pointed. “She’s like them.”

  Jax grinned. “Oh, she’s a Goth.”

  Erikson nodded. “Yeah, she’s a weirdo. And she’s really possessive. I can’t knock her for it. I’m all she’s got. But it’s hell on my love life.” He paused for a minute. “Who am I kidding? What love life?”

  Chapter 3

  Chan Balam slipped down the damp tunnel beneath his huge house on Lake Union. In one hand he carried the bloody heart of Hunter Bacon, in the other the obsidian knife he’d used to carve it out of Bacon’s chest. The sun was up and he needed to climb in his coffin and sleep. He possessed a bloodstone and could day walk, but he still liked to keep his habits. He believed in an orderly existence, even though he brought chaos to everyone he met.

  When he reached the end of the tunnel, he stopped in front of a locked door. With a pass of his hand, the door opened and he walked inside. He’d been a priest in Tikal three thousand years ago when he met the demon in the jungle. It had crawled out of the earth starved and pale, leaping on him when he walked by. After it bled him dry, it fed him drops of its own blood squeezed from a cut in its wrist. From then on he was its creature, living only to bring it sacrifices. He coupled with it in the leaves like an animal. It told him its name was Camazotz and Balam knew it was so. Camazotz was the blood drinking demon of Xibalba, the underworld.

  When fully transformed, Chan Balam became a demon—a god. He went back to Tikal and resumed his position as priest. He increased the number of sacrifices the gods demanded. The blood of the sacrifices pooled in the basin below the sacrificial altar and Balam drank. He took many sacrifices into the jungle to meet Camazotz and start their journey through Xibalba. The demon had filled out but was still ghostly pale with pointed ears and long fangs. He couldn’t remember his birth or his making. Balam thought he was the original vampire come straight from Xibalba to walk among men.

  When the time of the great famine arrived, Balam left his people and traveled the world. He was invincible. He abandoned his maker and moved into the south. Ages passed and he began to miss his people as he walked among men looking like them, acting as they did. He returned to Tikal and found his home in ruins. He found an ancient text and started searching for a way to pass through Xibalba and rejoin the Mayans in the afterlife.

  He longed to die. Life was lonely and empty without his people beside him. When that codex did not contain the information he sought, he went to libraries, museums and universities all over the world, but still he had no answer. He finally found it in the Egyptian book of the dead. When he studied it and the ancient codex of his people, he discovered a way to cross through Xibalba, pass the tests, please the guardians and open the gates to heaven. All he needed were sacrifices and for the final sacrifice to the jaguar god, Ba’Lum, he needed the perfect sacrifice—a jaguar that walked as a man.

  He came to Seattle, a city blessed by rain and darkness, perfect for a demon of the night, because he learned from a man he killed in Brazil that a jaguar that walked as a man lived there. He began his search, determined to end his quest and pass into the afterlife. He yearned for his people and for the peace of the true death. But he didn’t want to chance a trip through all the tests in Xibalba. He didn’t want to work to get to heaven. He wanted to bypass the tests and the judging. His sins were so numerous he might end up in the underworld for a very long time. He needed a bribe.

  He passed through the door guarding his temple chamber deep under the lake. Ik' Achin, Moon Man, greeted him by prostrating himself at Balam’s feet.

  “Rise and help me with the ritual,” he said as he laid the bloody heart in the stomach of the stone Chac Mul sitting before the altar to the jaguar god.

  He donned his mask, a loin cloth made of snake skin and a cape made of the feathers of the quetzal bird while Moon Man lit the braziers. Soon the smoke of the sacred incense filled the small room. Balam chanted over the heart and sprinkled it with water from the cenote at the entrance to Xibalba, Naj Tunich; the deepest cave system in the world. The braziers began to flicker. Balam took fire in his hand from the braziers and spread it over the heart. The heart blackened instantly and disappeared in a puff of smoke. Balam smiled, his fangs gleaming in the light of the braziers. “Ba’lum has accepted our offering.”

  He tore off his cape and mask and grabbed Moon Man. They kissed deeply and passionately. Balam tasted Moon Man’s neck, his long, thin tongue flicking over his minion’s salty flesh. He pricked the skin lightly with the points of his teeth and tasted his blood.

  Passion rose in him as it always did after a kill. The blood fever was on him as he pushed Moon Man to the floor; tore off his loin cloth and then Moon Man’s. He speared his lover with his aching cock, and Moon Man groaned with ecstasy. Balam pushed deeper into his back passage. Balam grabbed the man’s muscular ass and squeezed as he plunged in and out. His acolyte’s cock was rock hard when Balam grabbed it. He buried his fangs in Moon Man’s neck as they finished together, spilling their seed on the altar to the sacred jaguar, completing the ritual.

  * * * *

  Jax and Targ climbed out of the Charger in front of the King County morgue just as Al Fairfeather pulled up in his green Toyota Tundra. The elf and Jax had been friends for a year, and for a brief period, even lovers. Al was tall and graceful with long blond hair and a carefully tended goatee. He grabbed Jax in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. “Panther-man, what disgusting sight have you dragged me into the city to see now?”

  Jax pushed him away and worked to keep the silly smile off his face. Al’s beauty and aura surrounded him with scents of the forest, flowers and a feeling of peace. “Al, this is Targ Erikson, my new partner.”

  Al looked Erikson over for a moment and finally placed a hand on Erikson’s chest. “You worry over nothing, my friend. Your troubles will soon pass and you will find the one you seek, though it may not be a choice you recognize or desire at first.” He turned to Jax. “Where’s the oh-so-lovely Martha?”

  “Hopefully having a baby so she’ll stop bitching about her feet, her bladder and her back. You can’t take her anywhere without plotting the route around her bathroom breaks. Get too far from a lady’s room and she panics.”

  When Jax glanced at Targ, his partner had a crooked smile on his face and one lifted eyebrow. “Al’s always making cryptic remarks,” Jax said to Targ’s implied question. “It’s part of his charm.”

  Targ and Al were the same height but Targ had broader shoulders and thicker arms. They were both blond but Al’s beauty glowed ethereally, his skin white and his eyes the green of the forest, while Targ was square-jawed with icy-gray eyes.

  Jax grabbed Al by the arm and led him toward the entrance to the morgue. “We’re in the middle of
a string of brutal murders, and so far, we haven’t got a single clue we understand. The perp carves strange markings into the chest of each victim. That’s why I called. I need you to look at them. You’re the expert on historical crap, and Targ and I both think they are some form of ancient writing.”

  Inside the morgue, the temperature was always a chilly sixty degrees. As Jax walked by the desk, he waved at the two clerks and pushed through the big double doors. Three stations contained a stainless-steel table, camera feeds overhead, trays of instruments, a computer and a portable x-ray machine. Ken Ishimoto lifted his head from his work over a body in station two and glared at Jax. “Don’t tell me we have another one.”

  “Nah,” Jax grinned. “Just brought in Al to have a look see at the markings on the vics’ chests.”

  Ishimoto pointed to station one. “The fresh one is there.”

  Jax lifted the sheet over the vic and Al leaned over his shoulder. Jax could feel Al’s breath and closed his eyes for a minute to cleanse himself of the rush of desire engendered by Al’s close proximity. Al was a wonderful lover, but Jax loved Shelly and would never be unfaithful.

  “Quite a mess your killer made,” Al said. “Where’s the heart?”

  “The killer took it.”

  “This is not a killing,” Al finally said. “This is a sacrifice—Mayan is my guess, though the Aztecs removed hearts as well.” He pointed to the symbols. “These are all Mayan. Can you get something to clean up the wounds? Besides being revolting, the blood is obscuring some of the cuts.”

  Ishimoto brought a towel and carefully daubed at each symbol cleaning dried blood and gore from them until they were easier to see.

  “This guy is an artist or at least very familiar with Mayan hieroglyphics. The first one is a number eight.”

  Jax nodded. “This was the eighth victim so that feels right.”

  “The next symbol looks like the symbol for Chamiaholom, Skull Staff. He turns dead people into skeletons. And this last symbol is the symbol for the jaguar god Ba’Lum. Seems like whoever did this is sending this body as a sacrifice to Skull Staff on behalf of the jaguar god.”

  “So we got ourself some kind of Mayan wanna-be priest?”

  Al fixed him with a green-eyed stare. “I’m assuming there are more bodies with more symbols?”

  Jax nodded. “We have pictures. Let’s go to my office and I’ll haul ‘em out for you.”

  On the way back to the office, Erikson rode with Jax and Al drove his Toyota. “What’s with this guy?” Targ asked. “He looked like he wanted to eat me.”

  Jax laughed. “Ignore him. He’s gay and sees a latent homosexual hiding inside every man.”

  “I have no latent homosexual side,” Targ snapped from between clenched teeth.

  And that’s what I thought, too. But Al knows. Jax examined Erikson out of the corner of his eye, observing at him through a totally different perspective. Al was rarely wrong. He could smell gay from miles away. All he saw was Targ’s worry in his wrinkled forehead, his lost, lonely look in the far-away expression of his gray eyes and more tension in his tightly clenched fists and hunched shoulders. Something was bothering his new partner. He was not a happy man. Maybe that’s what Al felt—Targ’s loneliness and vulnerability. Al fed on that kind of shit.

  And then again, maybe Al just knew. The elf was old and could read people like an open book. Jax had never seen him make a misstep or be wrong about anyone they encountered. It was possible Targ Erikson was a closet queen or merely a confused man searching for meaning in life and a satisfying relationship. A year ago, Jax had been that man. He was now happy and blissfully unconflicted. Once you accepted your true nature and quit fighting, the battle was over, and you were free to walk tall and be true to yourself.

  Chapter 4

  Rickie traced the carvings on the front of the trunk as Tuco pushed the lid open. Panthers or jaguars raced across the dark wood chasing demons. When the trunk was open, Rickie and Tuco stared. A folded, black-satin cloak lay on top concealing the contents. Tuco swirled it out and shook it open. It smelled like wild animal, mustiness, crushed leaves and death. Tuco wrapped it around his shoulders and grinned. “Look what our papa left us.”

  Suddenly he shuddered. “This thing reeks.”

  He handed it to Rickie who wrapped it around his shoulders and pulled it close. The hair on the back of his neck slowly rose. Inside his body something stirred. He tore off the cloak and threw it down. Tuco was pulling ancient books out of the trunk.

  He handed one to Rickie. “This looks like a diary. Maybe we can learn something about this man who was our father.”

  Rickie hovered over Tuco’s shoulder. Under the books, weapons lay in an orderly row on black velvet. Rickie laid the diary on a table and picked up a sword. The hilt was encrusted with silver and green gems. They were too big to be emeralds, but that’s what they looked like. Emeralds that size were rare and worth a fortune. He picked up the sword and turned it over in his hand. The blade gleamed in the light of his grandmother’s table lamp.

  “Watch that thing. It’s sharp,” Tuco said as he picked up two daggers over a foot long constructed in the shape of a cross.

  Rickie laid the sword back in the box. Vials of silvery liquid and sharpened wood stakes lay next to the weapons. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was vampire-hunter equipment.”

  When Tuco jumped up, Rickie felt his uneasiness through their bond. His heart was racing and he was filled with the same agitation. “I need some air,” he suddenly gasped.

  Tuco pushed the doors to the patio open and stumbled outside. Aunt Cecilia reached for him and Rickie brushed her aside. “I’ll go with him.”

  In truth, he needed air as well. His skin suddenly felt too tight. He leaned his head back and opened his mouth wide. His teeth suddenly elongated into fangs. He growled and turned to Tuco. Moonlight illuminated his twin in a silver glow. Tuco’s body shimmered, changing shape as his muscles contorted. His clothes ripped with a terrible noise and he dropped to the patio floor on all fours. Rickie gasped as he felt his own body begin to change. Terror gripped his heart. What was happening?

  And then his eyesight sharpened. Suddenly, he could see the far shore of the lake as clearly as if it was only a few feet away. The moonlight was enough to make the world as bright as day. He looked at his foot and gasped, only it was a growl; his foot was a paw covered with black fur and armed with long, sharp claws. He opened his mouth wide and screamed; not a human scream but the roar of a panther. Tuco turned his head and gazed at him out of green eyes set into the silky black fur of a fully mature black panther. Aunt Cecilia shrieked.

  Tuco leaped the railing of the balcony and landed below in the shrubbery. Rickie followed, making the jump with the fluid ease of a jungle cat. They stopped for a moment and stared into each other’s eyes. The bond between them was now telepathic. Tuco told him in his mind of his desire to run. Rickie growled his answer and they took off together into the night.

  The two raced side by side down the causeway to the mainland. They traced the shoreline until the village of San Benito faded behind them and they headed into jungle. The moon illuminated the trees, the vines, the creepers overhead. The sounds of the jungle roared in Rickie’s ears. He could hear the stirrings of howler monkeys in the trees and sense snakes, iguanas and other reptiles slithering through the bush.

  When they’d run for an hour, he stopped. Tuco pawed the dirt beside him. He read his twins impatience in his gestures and his mind. I need to climb, he mentally said and then leaped high into the trees. He climbed out on a branch and leaped onto another tree. Howler monkeys sleeping in the canopy barked warnings and scattered. Rickie felt so alive. He roared as he stood on the end of a branch and surveyed the jungle floor. He’d never felt so powerful or so in control. Out here everything ran before them. They were at the top of the food chain.

  Below, he heard a squeal and a scream. He leaped the twenty feet to the ground easily and found Tuco eating a
peccary. He’d made a kill. Suddenly, Rickie yearned for the taste of fresh blood. He joined Tuco and together they tore the wild pig to pieces and devoured it.

  Meal over, the two took off running again. This time, their journey took them to Tikal, the biggest Mayan ruin in Guatemala. Of course Tuco would come here. This was his world. He taught Mayan history and had immersed himself in the culture most of his life.

  Tuco leaped the steps to the top of the tallest pyramid. He bounded to the platform and stood at the entrance to a room. From his mind, Rickie picked up this was a temple. Tuco leaped onto a flat stone and told Rickie telepathically that it was a sacrificial altar. From far away in the jungle, a big cat screamed. Rickie growled and Tuco leaped off the altar. Together, they stared out over the vast complex of Tikal. To their right lay the main plaza, ball court and a host of other temples rising tall and eerily white in the moonlight. Slightly behind them stood Temple V, the Lost World complex and the Bat Palace.

  A jaguar stalked into the open, confident of ownership. Rickie glanced at Tuco; neither wished to fight the spotted cat for the right to roam Tikal in the moonlight. They bounded down the steep limestone steps and took the causeway into the jungle.

  They ran all the way back to Flores feeling no fatigue. Elated, they leaped to the balcony and as the moon slid behind the jungle to the west, they changed back into their human forms. Rickie’s first reaction was laughter. He roared with pleasure and exhilaration. Tuco joined him as he leaped to his feet and pulled Rickie up with him.

  “That was a hell of a thing,” Tuco said.

  Rickie clapped his brother on the back. “I never felt so alive.”

  They walked through the blowing curtains over the glass door and found Aunt Cecilia weeping over their grandmother’s body. Shamed, Rickie pulled his clothes on. It was hard to feel any sadness over the death of a woman they barely knew, but he truly felt for his aunt who was devastated.