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Lee Garrett
Category:
Horror
Publisher: Createspace
ISBN-10: 197693012X
Type: Fiction
Pages: 297
Copyright: Oct 2017
ISBN-13: 9781976930126
Price: $9.99 (eBook)
Faceless vampires bodies are being left behind that will never rise again, and only the mysterious Scarecrow can bring the killer to justice before a vampire and shifter war erupts.
Let the wicked beware for he is the Scarecrow, master of fear, lord of shadows. John Scarrow is human, a tormented soul, and a trouble-shooter for the American Vampire Council. A serial killer is murdering vampires, leaving a trail of faceless bodies that will never rise again. The Scarecrow is on the hunt. While pursued by Violet, a female vamp obsessed with him, his path crosses with Donovan, a sexy red-headed vampire who drinks holy water instead of blood. This one-of-a-kind, ex-Marine loses her heart to John while searching for a way to reclaim her soul. Together, they face down inner demons, werewolves, cat-people, and other-worldly fey. In the midst of the investigation, John's father is murdered by Violet. Staggered by grief, he fights on to save a city on the verge of a vampire war from something much worse--a living Darkness older than time.
Excerpt
Clad in a tight red dress and cropped leather jacket that matched her stiletto heeled boots, Donovan was conscious of lustful glances burning across her at odd intervals. Nothing new there. Her lacquered stick slid over the knuckle ridge of her splayed hand as she teased the cue ball, taking her time. Her nails were painted crimson, clipped short. She preferred them that way; upkeep was easier after delivering lethal blows.
The gloom was thick with clacking pool balls, muttered curses, and alcohol induced laughter. Waitresses circled the red-velvet tables, serving beer.
The red felt of the table made Donovan thirsty. Her tongue slid against a fang, feeling its virgin point. She closed her eyes a moment to chase away the killing impulse. Unlike most of the vamps in the place, she preferred to fight her inner demons, not let them off the leash.
“You gonna shoot or what?” her opponent asked.
Her stick froze. She swiveled her head, locking shaded eyes on the guy.
He grew silent.
After a twenty-count, she returned her attention to the table. Her stick sawed forward and back a few more times, then came a last, smooth stroke. The tagged ball plunged across the tabletop with reckless abandon. Multiple clacks and a kinetic frenzy ensued. Two of the striped balls fell into pockets, leaving two solid, one of them the eight ball.
Donovan straightened, displaying no emotion. She walked past the other player, a young stud in full western gear who stood out big time in the gothic bar. Her stick nosed back to the green, resting on her hand, addressing the cue ball once more. A straight in shot was not possible. The white ball’s path to the eight ball was blocked by the remaining solid, a medium blue. The obvious solution was a bank shot, dropping the eight ball in the side pocket inches away.
“I’m not taking the bank shot,” she said.
“No?”
“No. How much money you got left, cowboy?”
“Enough.”
“Enough to cover a small side bet?” Donovan asked.
“How small?”
“I got five hundred that says I sink this next shot without banking it.”
“It can’t be done!”
“Then it’s a sure thing—for you. You in or not?”
The man mulled it over, which included tipping back his black cowboy hat, taking a draw of beer from his glass, and glowering beetle-browed at the table, as if it concealed the mysteries of the universe. At last, he looked up at her. “I don’t got that much.”
“What’s in your pocket?”
The man turned away to count his cash. A moment later he was back. Two-hun’rd an’ fifty.”
Donovan pulled a roll of bills out and set it on the table’s side rail. She smiled. “I showed you mine. Show me yours.”
The man slapped his money down. “There. Now take your shot!”
“Sure. Side pocket, here.” She pointed with the end of her stick, then leaned out over the table, knowing the cowboy would be checking out her generous cleavage as he and several others had all night. She didn’t mind. Distraction of the enemy was a legitimate tactic of war. The butt of her stick elevated. The tip targeted a point near the top of the cue ball. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly—just as she would when squeezing off a round from a rifle.
She felt many eyes on her. Players from the surrounding tables had heard the action going down and waited to see the outcome.
The stick struck like a bolt from the blue. The white ball hopped over the solid that blocked it. Its arc brought it down, grazing the black ball. The eight-ball rolled into the side pocket, ending the game. A small, satisfied smile briefly twitched the corner of her mouth.
She moved around the table, through a veil of appreciative whistles and awed commentary from the crowd, to scoop up her earnings.
The man she’d just beat shook his head side to side. “Leave it.” The air was suddenly syrupy with menace. “I don’t know how you did that, but you cheated somehow. Leave the cash and take a hike, Bitch, or you’re going to get hurt.”
Donovan eased her shades away from her face. She let the endless hunger torturing her blaze from her eyes, locking stares with the cowboy.
He paled. “I … I’m sorry, lady. Take the cash. You earned it … fair and square.”
Donavan returned her shades to her face, shuffled through her winnings, and stuffed a twenty in the man’s shirt pocket. “Keep this. I never take a man’s last dollar—even when he’s a jerk.”
“Uh, yes ma’am.”
Donovan left the back and entered the main room. The Scarlet Thirst’s red velvet interior put her in mind of hell on a Saturday night. The bar was a black marble island on blood-red shag. She strolled toward it, through a field of gyrating dancers. She never touched those obstructing her way. One glimpse of her and they moved, feeling her contempt like a radiant force. Besides, she was tougher, and ready to prove it. Her strut said as much, along with the jaunty slant of the crimson beret that hid close-cropped hair many shades darker.
A metal Goth ballad filled the air. A local band performed on a modest stage, behind a protective wire fence. Bottles of beer were known to fly at bands that didn’t measure up to customer standards. The drummer's reverberating backbeat gave the music an extra-spatial timbre. A starved stray of a girl with black hair and lipstick, wearing silver studded leather, shared the lyrics of her pain:
Painted lips softly sigh, and
Greet the night's infusion—
Dying flesh, so passionate,
Trade lust for love's confusion—
Donovan reached the bar and caught the bartender’s attention. “The band's almost good,” she said. “Who are they?”
“’The Damned’—at least, that’s what they call themselves.” The bartender donned a protective glove. “You want the usual?”
She nodded curtly.
He produced a silver flask and poured a stream of clear liquid into a crimson shot glass. “I don't see how you can stand this stuff. Hey, how about a nice warm mug of O-neg instead?”
“No, thanks. The flask … it's from the usual source?”
“Yeah, St. Michael's 'round the corner. Pure tap water, blessed and sanctified by a priest. Enjoy your holy water, if you can.”
A sharp bark of laughter escaped her. “I'd be damned if I couldn't.” She gathered in the drink and raised it in a toast. “Hail-Mary-Full-Of-Grace”. Transfixed, the bartender stared as Donovan slammed the glass back, then back down. Her free hand formed a fist as her eyes closed. Raw agony drew a red shroud across her mind. She shuddered and would have sweat blood—if she had any.
A new verse sank into her:
Come closer, lover, where we can see—
You're looking rather tasty—
Why don't you scream with us a while—
The feeding frenzy's back in style—
Donovan threw a crumpled bill on the bar. “Another.”
The bartender shrugged. “You’re a glutton for punishment, know that?” He poured the drink, handling it gingerly, like toxic waste. “Why not accept your fate. You were attacked by a vampire and drained of blood. You're as un-dead as anyone else in here—except the posers and the band. Life may have been sweet, but in the end, the scarlet thirst always wins.”
“The glass, you still got it?”
“We’re going to go through that again?” He sighed and reached beneath the bar, drawing out a bar towel. It held something flat, rectangular.
Donovan took the towel and unwrapped the mirror hidden within it.
“Don't wave that thing around,” the bartender said. “You'll upset the customers.”
She bent over the glass and saw a suggestion of a face; a pale ghost-image overlaying the ceiling. As she watched, her features faded away. Carefully, she rewrapped the mirror and gave it back.
“So, how long has it been since you've tasted blood?” the bartender asked. “We've sorta got a pool going.”
“I never have and I never will. It's not being bitten that makes a vampire; it's the sacrilege of blood. I may be un-dead, but I am not damned. I still have my faith.”
“Think you're better than us, do you?”
Donovan turned to face the questioner. She saw Vito, the club's bouncer. Their stares meshed, and Donovan measured the moment by the slow tired beat of her heart. She kept it running by sheer force of will, refusing to let it atrophy. “I know I'm better than you. I don’t hurt the innocent. No one else in here can say that.”
“Your faith weakens you,” Vito grinned, bearing fangs. There was lust in his eyes as he looked her over, tensing to spring. “Blood is strength. Without it, you're only a mewling kitten. You know what I do to kittens?”
Knowing how violent vampire foreplay could be, she pulled a tanto, a gently curved wooden knife, from her sleeve. She held the weapon casually at her side. “You know what I did to your momma?” she asked.
“C'mon guys, take it outside, huh?” the bartender said.
Vito lunged.
Donovan took a step and quarter-turned her body, letting Vito have the line of his approach. Donovan shoved from the unexpected angle.
Off-balance, Vito fell, his heart impaled through the diaphragm. An older vamp, he burst into dusty fragments.
Donovan returned to the bar. “Looks like you need a new bouncer.”
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