Blood Inheritance (The Lazarus Hunter Series Book 1) Page 2

  'There'll be questions if you don't show up again Monica, you know that.'

  'I know Dennis.'

  'I'm telling you this as a friend. We're not the only ones who know that Elizabeth Hastings is here. It's bound to make people uncomfortable. They'll have a lot of questions and be looking to you for reassurance. As our leader, you know that these answers should come from you.'

  'I can't tell them anything they don't already know.'

  'If you're sure?'

  'I am. For now. If anything changes I'll make my presence known. Tell all those people who've been quietly trying to stab me in the back that I'm handling it. Make sure they know everything is fine. I'm just busy.'

  'Okay. I'm just trying to prepare you for the worst Monica. If they get restless it could turn nasty.'

  'Well call me if it does and I'll put in an appearance at the club and talk to everyone. But get that meeting set up ASAP. I'm counting on you.'

  Dennis nodded and slipped out of the door into the hallway. The guard sitting in the wicker chair near the elevator wouldn't give him such a hard time leaving as when he'd arrived. Monica strained her ears for exchanged words, but there was silence. The ping of the doors closing let her know that Dennis was gone.

  Monica was every bit as worried as Dennis. She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes, unable to believe that it was all happening at once. Professor Hastings had been well known to her kind but she doubted they would have a similar grudging respect for his daughter. They would not react well to her intention of meeting Elizabeth. They would no doubt blame her youth and inexperience for making such a mistake. Certain people would point to it being another indicator that she was unfit to lead the family. Perhaps she was. After all, it was hardly a position she had ever asked for. Ironically it was because of Professor Hastings that she had become the leader of her people, so perhaps, in an odd sort of way, she owed his daughter a kind of debt.

  The death of the Professor had rocked the vampire world. He was a feared and fabled man, one who knew all about them. Somehow he had gained access to the secrets and knowledge only the elders possessed. Moreover, he understood them, what drove them and what made them all different. He had not been motivated by a desire to eliminate them. Growing up, she had heard he was a man of compassion. But his loyalties lay, first and foremost, with his own kind. The man who should have been an enemy to every family, whose death should have been a source of rejoicing, instead ignited a short but painful bloody civil war amongst them. Their numbers reduced by almost twenty-five per cent and not a single death inflicted by the fabled Hunter or his followers. Unfortunately, a number of humans had been caught up in the bitter fighting, something that had driven them even closer towards the exposure they feared the most. The murder of the head of her own family had led to even more anger and bloodshed, but also to the need for a new leader. Monica sighed to herself. Even now, she could not believe she had been chosen.

  In each family there was a sacred possession, a device cloaked in history and myths within myths. Since she was a child, Monica had never been entirely convinced by all the hyperbole. For her people, the object was a ring. As a teenager, she had once called it 'The Ring of Bullshit', although not quite loud enough for an adult to hear. A simple gold band with a small stone that allegedly afforded the wearer protection. It could only ever belong to one vampire, the one that destiny had chosen to be the leader of that family. Of course, its protection was not total, but for the most part it was not even questioned.

  Monica could remember standing in line, looking at her watch and thinking that she had an important meeting to get to. She hated when this side of her life interfered with her work. There was a buzz of anticipation in the air, she could remember that much. All the obvious candidates, the ones of the longest and least polluted bloodlines, or those who seemed particularly gifted and strong, had already been tried and dismissed. Even the second most likely group had been ruled out.

  So a general line up had begun, one which would continue until the new leader had been found. It would be someone who had never previously been considered worthy. Once he was chosen, the official period of mourning would be over and a new order would begin.

  Monica had been thinking that the quarterly sales figures were slightly down on what they had been the previous year as she held out her hand and they slipped the ring onto her index finger. She held out her palm, glad to have finally reached the front of the line. The board of directors was not going to react favourably to her report, and she was racking her brains for a positive spin on things when she heard a collective gasp go through the room. She looked at her hand, still outstretched and without a mark on the skin. She realised then that the ceremonial dagger had been dragged across her palm without its sharp blade piercing the flesh. She had been protected from its edge by the power of the ring.

  Despite her worries about the poor sales figures, Monica had just received the biggest promotion of her life.

  6

  Elizabeth was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair when the phone began to ring. She cursed under her breath, knowing there were only a handful of people who knew her whereabouts. A call from any of them at this time of the evening would not be good news. She also knew she would not make it to the phone before it stopped ringing, but was compelled to try anyway.

  With the remnants of soapsuds still in her hair, she yanked at the taps, and was rewarded with a sting of cold water from turning the hot one off first. She groped for the towel and was wrapping it around her rapidly cooling body as she sprinted out of the bathroom. As she threw herself at the bed, silence filled the air. Goddamn it, she thought to herself, mentally listing the potential reasons for the call. She stared at the phone, hoping that whoever it was would try again immediately. Even so, she jumped when the shrill ring filled the room. Elizabeth snatched at the receiver, and suddenly felt very naked, as if the person on the other end could see she was wearing nothing but a towel.

  'Hello?'

  'Hello, is that Elizabeth Hastings?'

  'Who is this?' She was on her guard at once, as she tried to place the voice but her mind came up with blanks.

  'You don't know me. My name is Dennis Eisenhower.'

  'You're right, I don't know you. How the hell did you get this number?' She tried to keep her voice harsh and hoped that he wouldn't register the initial glitch of fear at the back of her throat.

  'I have friends in high places Miss Hastings. I didn't mean to startle you. Trust me, I wouldn't be making the call unless I thought it was absolutely necessary. I'm actually calling on behalf of Monica Carletto, CEO of MaxiData Corp. I don't know if you've heard of her?'

  'Maybe.' Elizabeth was dismissive as she played for time. The name rang a bell, but her brain was crammed with too much information these days. Perhaps she knew Monica Carletto's name from the business section of her newsfeed. Perhaps the woman had been a student of her father's who was using her company position to get people's phone numbers.

  'Your predecessor knew her predecessor – if we can put it that way.'

  'What?' Elizabeth stiffened, realising what the code meant. 'What does my father have to do with this?'

  'I think you know that already Miss Hastings. Over the past year or so it has become clear that you have opted to follow in his footsteps. A very brave choice. Very brave. Very dangerous too, am I right?'

  'Quit playing games with me Mr. Eisenhower.'

  'Please, call me Dennis.'

  'Whatever. What do you want?'

  'Let's just say that it has come to our attention that some people have in their possession some items that once belonged to your father. I believe Miss Carletto wants to help you retrieve them.'

  'And why would she want to do that? Who does she represent?'

  'Who does she represent?' Dennis echoed with a chuckle. 'She represents no one. She's the lady at the top, and we both know I'm not just talking about MaxiData Corp here.'

  'But why would she want to help me
get my father's…missing objects?'

  'Bizarre, I know. She didn't fill me on the details, just told me to set up a meeting with you. But my guess is that she would rather the information they contain be in your hands than in more dangerous ones. Not that she doesn't believe you are a worthy foe, just a little saner than the alternative. That's my guess, I can't say I really know. Any more questions you'll have to ask her.'

  'How do I know this isn't a trap?'

  'You don't, I'm afraid. But you can choose the place of the meeting and you can have someone accompany you, although I suspect Monica will talk only to you.'

  There was a silence while Elizabeth weighed up her options. It seemed too much of a coincidence that things were all falling into place now. After all, her father had been dead for this long and she had been on her mission for a while, so why should it all get turned upside down in a day? Someone somewhere was pulling the strings and she had no choice but to be played like a puppet.

  'Tomorrow afternoon at one, in the café beside the Royale Arch Hotel. I presume Monica Carletto knows what I look like?'

  'It's a little early in the day wouldn't you say?'

  'If she wants to see me that much, she'll find a way. This is her one shot and I don't know why I'm giving her that much. I'll be there at one. It's up to her if she shows.' Elizabeth put down the receiver forcefully, glad to finally have the upper hand in the conversation. She silently prayed that the man named Dennis wouldn't call back. Her demands were deliberately difficult. She shivered and returned to the bathroom to get her robe. All thoughts of a good night's sleep had now vanished completely. At the desk overlooking the street below, she booted up her laptop. Her father may have kept exhaustive notes, but one of the first things she had done was drag things into the modern age. She poured herself another drink as all the security programs kicked in. She typed in her username and password, then another and a final one to access the program she required. She typed in the name 'Monica Carletto' and began the search, pacing up and down with the drink in her hand as the progress bar moved at a painfully slow speed.

  '0 results found' came the response from her first search engine. It was the one that held all the data her father had collected over the years. So either Monica had been flying under the radar back then — and very little had got past her father unnoticed — or she was a relatively new player on the scene. The name was still tugging at a distant memory as she called up her own search engine and typed it in again.

  Back when she had made the decision that this was what she would do with her life, she had tried to pick up the research where her father had left off. She kept these details separately, but still used his original format, often wishing she had his eye for things. The devil was in the details and she prayed she would get better at it in time. The first few months had been so very, very hard, trying to absorb everything her father had left behind, then trying to pick out the salient points of what had occurred since his death. It had been like trying to fit together a giant jigsaw puzzle, but one where there were no side pieces to complete first. His work, now hers too, was one without boundaries, something that she had gradually come to accept.

  She held her breath as the progress bar zoomed towards the end, determined that if this yielded nothing then she was going to Google the woman and be done with it. The laptop made a small 'bing' to announce it had managed to find three references to Monica Carletto in the second database. Elizabeth all but pounced on the keyboard to call up the files.

  It soon became clear why the name had not been immediately obvious. The references to Monica were all in passing as part of bigger stories.

  The first article mentioned that she was the new and rather unfortunate owner of a club here in the city that had been the scene of a night of extreme violence just four months after Elizabeth's father died. Elizabeth looked at the dates more closely and realised that she had made an error. Monica had become the owner just two weeks after the violence. It was an unlikely time to invest in such a venture, that was for sure. But it had been the deaths themselves that had initially attracted Elizabeth's attention, not just because of the number, but also because of the ritualised M.O. she had come to recognise.

  The second article referred to a robbery at a company called MaxiData Corp – a name that now meant a lot more to Elizabeth – and once again Monica was mentioned as the brand new CEO. The rest of the quotes were from an unremarkable press spokeswoman, yet once again there had been a death which had caught Elizabeth's eye. The security guard's throat had been slashed open, but the implement had remained a mystery during the police investigation. It had not been a single cut but ragged, parallel ones, like his throat had been torn into by a wild beast. Elizabeth had read enough of her father's records by then, often replete with gruesome pictures, to recognise the handiwork of a vampire. Again, an unusual death tied to the properties of the same woman.

  The third article was the clincher. Elizabeth had cut and pasted it directly from an online piece in the business section. This one was less than six months old and Elizabeth was surprised she hadn't remembered it sooner. It was also related to MaxiData Corp, but this time to Monica's private arm of the company, under the Data Corp umbrella in name only. Elizabeth could see why it was personal. Monica's company was to take over a failing publishing outfit, one which seemed so far down the drain nothing would bring it back into profitability. Again, the connections were tenuous but there. The company's flagship writer had been killed in what the police had dubbed 'a ritualised, satanic murder' just days before the merger had gone ahead. Monica Carletto could not be that damn unlucky and still succeed in all other areas of her life.

  Elizabeth wasn't sure she wanted to risk facing the woman alone tomorrow. She picked up her phone and called the man she had met earlier that day. She banged her forehead with her palm as the line connected to voicemail and instructed her to leave a message after the beep.

  'David, it's Elizabeth here. I need a favour. A big one. I'm meeting… someone… potentially dangerous tomorrow afternoon. One o'clock, at the Royale Arch Cafe. She'll probably be a no show given the time, but I'd appreciate it if you'd be there to watch my back. If there's a problem, call me. Thanks.'

  7

  The late night train listed dramatically from one side to the other, creating a brief shower of sparks from the cable overhead. At this time of night it was almost empty, and those passengers who had boarded made sure they sat a respectful distance from each other.

  At the far end of the third coach, a young man sat, hunched low in his seat. Dennis Eisenhower watched the boy's reflection in the window, taking care not to get caught making eye contact if the youth decided to look up. It was the tinny hiss-bang of the boy's headphones that had caught Dennis's attention, presumably caused by a brand of grunge-rock music. Dennis assumed this from the way the boy looked, dressed almost entirely in black from head to toe: baggy black cargo pants, heavy oversize workman's boots, a long black coat, topped off by a black beret pulled low on his head. The only things that added a touch of colour were the bright orange-red spikes of hair that descended down from the beret. His skin had the pale, bloodless look of a teenager who has once again forgotten to eat and is trying not to feel the cold. It always felt cold on the night trains, even in the middle of summer.

  Dennis's eyes darted up for another look, and gauged the boy's age at around eighteen, maybe nineteen. To some people, from a distance, he might look quite intimidating. Up close though, he didn't even look like he needed to shave regularly yet.

  As the train began to brake into a stop, the boy got to his feet and swung his backpack carelessly onto his shoulder. He turned suddenly to Dennis and their eyes locked for the briefest moment. There was a quiet intensity within them, a sense of purpose. Dennis could see it now, even in the way the boy was standing. Casual, but strong. The boy looked away and Dennis got to his feet, walking to the door at the opposite end of the carriage.

  It was a popular stop, even at this
time of night, and several other people stepped onto the platform with them. The boy did not even look back as Dennis followed at a reasonable pace behind him, up the concrete steps that led out of the station onto the street above. Dennis found himself walking out onto a residential street, but just one block down from an industrial area of abandoned lots and wasteland. It was residential all right, but not the nice side of the tracks. He knew he would stand out in his suit and tie, the overcoat he wore slung over his forearm. He was glad he had decided to leave his briefcase at the office; he already felt conspicuous enough. Dennis knew the less attention he attracted the better.

  Further along the road on his right, the boy was about to turn the corner and Dennis sped up his pace, not even sure why he was following him, but determined not to lose him. The sound of his footsteps clipped and echoed in the darkness – this was a part of town where every third street light was out. Dennis was relieved. It was easier to blend into the shadows, but apparently the same was true for the boy. Dennis rounded the corner to nothing. There was silence. Dennis strained his ears, but there was no sound in the street. The boy had vanished into thin air.

  Dennis found himself whirling around, completely disconcerted. There had been something unusual — compelling — about the youth, which had made him get off the train a few stops early. Not at any point had he considered the boy potential prey. No, it was more than that.

  Feeling vulnerable and confused for the first time in his life, Dennis turned and jogged back down the street to the station.

  8

  The boy breathed out, his lungs burning with the agony of holding his breath. That had been close. Too close. Certain that the man in the suit had gone, he stepped out from the shadows. He had spent his teenage years mastering the art of blending into his surroundings. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he wasn't scared. It wasn't fear of anything other than his plans being ruined now by an unfortunate turn of events.