Sweet Last Drop Page 8

  “They would have been fine. Bex’s vampires don’t kill their prey. As a powerful Master, she controls her vampires,” Walker said. I narrowed my eyes, not liking the subtle dig at Dominic, but Walker continued before I could comment. “They would have fed, clouded the person’s mind, and returned him generally unscathed.”

  “I was returned generally unscathed, but Bex obviously doesn’t have the iron control over her vampires that you’re giving her credit for, bless her heart. Lydia and the Dunbars were completely scathed.”

  Walker snorted. “Bex has been Master of her coven since before we were born—”

  “So I’ve been told,” I muttered.

  “—and in all my experience dealing with her—over thirty years of learning about them, nearly becoming one of them, and eventually hating them—none of her vampires have ever left evidence of their victims. Our experience in the city with Kaden was the first time I’d ever witnessed such a public display of vampire kills. That’s rare, not the norm.” Walker scrubbed his palm over his face. “These murders are not vampire attacks.”

  I snorted. “Both victims were attacked at night,” I ticked off one finger. “The Dunbars were attacked in the exact location that Bex stopped your truck earlier this evening,” I ticked off a second finger. “And you said so yourself that if we didn’t stop the truck voluntarily, Bex would stop it for you,” I ticked off a third finger and stared at Walker, my point solidified. “Something obviously stopped the Dunbars’ car for them, and that something screams vampire to me.”

  “They seem like vampire attacks to you because of your experience with Kaden in the city, and if we were in the city, I’d be inclined to agree with you. But we ain’t in the city, darlin’, and I’m telling you that Lydia and the Dunbars were not attacked by vampires.”

  I sighed heavily. “Fine, I’ll play along. What else could it be?”

  Walker opened his mouth and then hesitated. “Off the record?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You do realize that you brought me here under the pretense of writing a newspaper article?”

  Walker stared at me with those velvet brown eyes, and I could feel my frustration and anger slip away into the depths of his gaze.

  I shook my head at my own weakness. “I have to write something worth publishing while I’m here, and it’s not as if I can write about vampires,” I snapped. Weakness made me angry. “And now you of all people are going to prevent me from writing an article I can actually publish?”

  “Sheriff Pitston needs to play this case close to his chest.” Walker leaned in and tipped his voice low. “You know how copycats are. They might copy the crime, but if they don’t know the details, the police can separate the copycats from the real murderer.”

  I nodded, curiosity humming through my veins at Walker’s tone. “I can keep this under the radar until you give me the go-ahead.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded. “The hearts are missing.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “The hearts are what?”

  “The hearts of all three victims are gone from their chest cavities, completely severed from the aorta and connective tissue. Berry returned to the scene after Lydia’s autopsy, but no evidence of her heart can be found in the surrounding area.” Walker said bluntly.

  I tried not to gape. After everything I’d seen and survived, even before stumbling upon the existence of vampires, I should have taken the news in stride, but the human mind is a curious thing. Despite the violence I’d witnessed for years at crime scenes and stakeouts, and most recently, the horrors I’d endured at the hands of vampires like Kaden and Jillian and even Dominic, Walker’s news took me aback.

  I gaped.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Walker’s expression was grim.

  I touched my chest over my own heart, still not quite accepting the facts. My fingertips brushed against Dominic’s vial of blood, once again securely looped around my neck and dangling low beneath my shirt. Dominic would be pleased that his gift had come in handy, although not in the manner he had intended. Even this far from the city, a piece of him was still with me, protecting me. Keeping my blood in my own body. Keeping my heart in its chest.

  I shook my head. “The hearts of all the victims are gone,” I repeated, coming to terms with this new development and everything it implied.

  Walker nodded. “Berry thought Lydia was so torn apart that we simply missed an organ along with some of her smaller parts, like we—” Walker cleared his throat. “—like we almost did her hand. But both John and Patricia are missing their hearts, too. Once could be chance. Twice could be a coincidence, but three times—”

  “Three times is a pattern.” I rubbed my hands down my cheeks. “I don’t suppose vampires typically include human hearts in their diet?”

  “No, not typically.”

  “So who does? An animal, like you originally thought?” I asked. “Do hearts even offer specific nutritional value that other muscles don’t?”

  Walker let out a sudden bark-like laugh. It sounded bitter and not his own. “No, I can’t say I know of any animal that would eat the heart specifically for its nutritional value. Sheriff Pitston is thinking more along the lines of a killer’s trophy.”

  I blinked. “A trophy?”

  “These are murders, DiRocco. Sheriff Pitston is contacting the FBI. If he’s right about the hearts, we might be dealing with a serial killer.”

  I frowned. “You can’t think a human is responsible for these killings.”

  He shrugged. “It would explain the missing hearts.”

  “How could a human inflict the damage that was done to Lydia’s body? How could a person stop a moving vehicle to attack the Dunbars? That doesn’t make sense, Walker.”

  “Have you forgotten how creative humans can be? Lydia’s injuries could be achieved with a blunt object, like a sledge hammer or an axe, and the Dunbars could have been stopped by someone pretending to hitchhike.” Walker shrugged. “It could have been a human.”

  I shook my head. “But what’s the connection between Lydia and the Dunbars? Nothing, except for the missing hearts and that they were attacked after sunset.”

  “If these are serial murders, there doesn’t necessarily need to be a connection. Their first kill is often personal, but after that, it’s not nessisary for serial killers to actually know their victims. They kill for the sake of killing.”

  “I still think the murderer could be a vampire.”

  Walker made a face. “A serial killer vampire?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. You wouldn’t consider Kaden a serial killer?”

  “All vampires kill humans. They’re all serial killers.”

  “No, most vampires hunt to eat. You said yourself that Bex’s vampires don’t kill humans.”

  Walker shook his pointer finger at me. “I said that Bex’s vampires don’t leave their kills out for discovery. There’s a difference.”

  I sighed, still trying to make my point. “They consider us their food. We don’t consider people who eat hamburgers serial killers, do we?”

  Walker smirked. “A vegan might.”

  I waved away his comment. “But if the intent of the vampire is to kill simply for the sake of killing, then we can consider it a serial killer. In this case, we need to find the one who collects hearts.”

  “Maybe,” Walker admitted, “but I’ve got twenty that says it’s human.”

  “I’m not taking that bet. I’d prefer it be human. At least then I could write an article about it.” I dug the heel of my palms into my eyes, smearing what little eyeliner wasn’t already smeared. The familiar suffocation of helplessness and doomed fate that always accompanied thoughts of vampires swelled over me, and my throat constricted. Being one of the few who knew about the enormity of their influence and power was drowning. “If the FBI get involved, and it’s a vampire, what are we going to do?”

  I heard the deep groan of Walker’s sigh. “The same thing we always
do: deny we know anything, and when the time comes, kill the vampire responsible.”

  I looked up and gave him a questioning stare. “We’re going to deny we know anything to the FBI?”

  “Yes.” He groaned again. “I don’t know. What else can we do?” His frustration was deeply rooted, from the darkest, unexpressed core of his being. I could empathize. Giving in would be like giving up, but until then, the burden of our secret was in itself a slow death. Sometimes I didn’t know which was worse: living in ignorance of vampires and therefore dying their victim or the constant struggle to survive.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Walker called out.

  The door opened slowly. Ronnie peeked her head inside and inexplicably, the bathroom was suddenly too small. Walker’s broad shoulders occupied the majority of the space. The heat of his hip was flush against my shoulder—a heat I hadn’t even noticed until that very moment—and I felt that heat travel to my face, embarrassed as if she’d caught us indecent.

  “Sounded like someone could use a pick-me-up,” she said. She opened the door wider and stood in the doorway between Walker and me, a plate of chocolate chip cookies in her hands. I cringed inwardly. At least they weren’t cupcakes.

  Walker had the grace to smile. “Just what the doctor ordered, darlin’. Thank you.”

  “Of course.” She smiled back at Walker and then offered me the plate.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed a cookie and bit into a clump of chocolate chips. They were gooey and sweet, and despite my bleak mood and sour disposition, I heard myself release an audible yum as I chewed.

  Ronnie smiled. “How about I leave these here with you,” she said, placing the dozen cookies in front of Walker, “so I can finally give Cassidy the tour I promised her.”

  Walker nodded, his mouth already too full of cookie and chocolate to properly enunciate.

  “That’d be great,” I said, anything to escape the confines of that bathroom and Ronnie’s overly innocent looks. I stood haltingly, my hip giving me its usual grief, and snatched another cookie from the pile before Walker hoovered the plate clean.

  * * * *

  At first glance, the house seemed like any other house—albeit stunningly beautiful, well kept, and white glove tested—but unlike any other house, the history was fascinating. I’d known Walker was handy and knowledgeable, but I’d never imagined the extent of his skills. And seeing them here in the house on full display was breathtaking.

  Walker had tiled the backsplash above the kitchen counter himself. He had sanded, stained, and polished the hardwood flooring that spanned the entire downstairs, and the stonework in front of the fireplace had also been hand-laid by Walker himself. According to Ronnie, as she continued her tour and the running list of hand crafted features, Walker’s father had built the house in 1982 for his wife, and when they passed, Walker had taken over the renovations and maintenance himself with the same custom, earthy flare of his father. The entire house was very log cabin-esque, with wood beam structures, exposed brick, and doilies on every flat surface, but I suspected the doilies were Ronnie’s touch.

  The only feature of the house not in theme was the basement, or as Ronnie referred to it, the “safe room.” The basement was a silver box in the ground as protection against Bex and her coven; Walker had stocked it with enough supplies, food, and weapons to keep a small army hidden and alive for weeks, and a small army was exactly what I feared Walker had in mind.

  I reminded myself that I was on assignment—undercover as Dominic’s willing night blood and under orders as Carter’s lead crime reporter—and I’d return to the city in a week. I tried to harden my heart and convince myself that Walker’s problems didn’t have to be my problems. I could choose to leave Erin and Walker in my rear view, but I couldn’t deny that the thought of leaving him behind, hardened heart or not, made a deep, hollow part of my chest ache.

  Although the house’s history was certainly interesting, it wasn’t Walker’s handiness that struck my report’s tuning fork.

  “Did you ever meet Walker’s parents?” I asked, wondering how recently they’d died.

  Ronnie glanced behind her, where Walker was now sharing the crumbs of his cookies with a tall, unnaturally lanky teenager with red hair. The boy had clearly just endured a growth spurt. He was all arms and legs and no coordination, and was just now filled with cookies. Ronnie smiled. She turned back to me.

  “I grew up with Ian. Our parents were the kind of neighbors who borrowed sugar to finish a batch of brownies and walked in unannounced to share a six-pack for a game. Ian’s like the brother I never had,” Ronnie said, and although her face smiled, her voice had wavered. She recited by rote what Walker likely told everyone, that they were like brother and sister, but I’d bet my own brother that wasn’t how Ronnie felt.

  I nodded, pretending I hadn’t heard the waver in her voice. “It must be nice still having your parents so close.”

  Ronnie’s smile twisted painfully. Her hands shook on the granite kitchen countertop she was leaning against, and she crossed her arms to hide their trembling.

  “I’m sorry, was it something I—”

  “No, not at all,” Ronnie said hastily. “It’s been years. Ian could talk about it without batting an eye, but I still—” She took a deep breath, and her voice was steady afterward. “—it hurts like they died yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “No, really, it’s fine.”

  I leaned in close. “I don’t think Walker could talk about it any better than you. I think he just chooses not to talk about it at all.”

  Ronnie wiped away the tears that had spilled over her cheeks. “That’s probably very true.”

  “How long ago was it?”

  “I was five the day of the fire, so Mr. and Mrs. Walker died eighteen years ago. They found my mother the day after. She was buried under the collapsed porch awning. My dad lasted a little longer. He suffered in the hospital for weeks afterward, lost both his right arm and leg from infection, and the pain—” She pressed her fist against her lips and cleared her throat. “—he trembled constantly from the pain of the burns. Ian brought me to the hospital just the one time to say goodbye, but I’ll never forget. That one time had been—” Ronnie shook her head. “—I know why Ian thought I should see him. If it had been his father, he’d have stayed by his side the entire time, tried to ease his passing, and said a proper goodbye, but in nearly every way that a person can be different from another person, I am not Ian Walker.”

  “That and you were five,” I said, reliving the depth of my own grief from losing my parents. “Both of your parents died in a fire?” I asked. I fought to keep my voice even so she’d continue her story, but all I could see from the description of her father’s suffering was my own mother, trembling and dying from her burns.

  “In the same fire,” Ronnie said. “We were having a movie night or watching the Giants. I don’t remember exactly what was on the TV, but we were in the living room and eating popcorn.”

  Ronnie waffled her hand in the air as if it didn’t matter what they were watching, but I knew better. I couldn’t remember the last conversation I’d had with my mother, whether it was in person or over the phone, and the inability to recall our last words still haunted me even after all this time.

  “No one’s entered the house in years,” Ronnie continued. “It’s not structurally sound. I’ve lived here with Ian ever since.”

  “Where’s the house? You said you were neighbors, but there aren’t any houses nearby.”

  “The woods are too thick to see neighbors, but they’re there,” she assured me. “My house was less than a quarter mile through the woods, due south. The path between our houses is overgrown now, but years ago we visited each other every day, and there was a distinct path we used to walk.”

  “You and Walker were lucky to have escaped the fire,” I commented.

  “Yeah.�
� Her face darkened. “We were lucky.”

  “If you were five, Walker must have been around eleven or twelve?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Still, that’s pretty young to escape the fire on his own. You were very lucky,” I pushed.

  “Well, as it turns out, we were never actually on our own.” Ronnie’s voice was clipped. She pushed away from the kitchen counter and led me to the staircase. “Care to see the second floor?” She turned away and walked up the stairs before I could reply.

  I followed behind at my own excruciating pace, and for once, I took my time, wondering about the statistics behind house fire mortalities, and more pointedly, the statistics behind house fire mortalities for the parents of night blood children. My own parents had died in a fire, and during Dominic’s human lifetime, several lifetimes ago, his father had been maimed in a house fire. Although Dominic claimed the kiln explosion had been an accident, I was very good at sniffing out fact from fiction—my job required that skill as essentially as it required long days, longer nights, and the competitive drive to expose the truth—and the fact that all of our parents had been killed or nearly killed by fire did not smell accidental. It smelled like arson.

  I doubted Dominic had been involved directly in my own parents’ deaths—my existence as a night blood had been quite the surprise to both of us—but he wasn’t the only vampire in the area. From personal experience, his vampires were known to act on their own desires.

  Perhaps Bex had acted on hers.

  It wasn’t until I reached the second floor landing that Ronnie turned the tables on me.

  “Ian tells me that you’re here on business.”

  I nodded, trying to breathe past the throbbing in my hip enough to respond. “Yes, I’m writing an article.”

  Ronnie led me toward the first room, an open parlor that overlooked the living room and kitchen below in a balcony-style sitting area. Decorated with an overstuffed recliner, a three-cushion sofa, end tables, coffee table, and no TV, the room was a classic family room.