Sins of the Blood: A Vampire Novel

  SINS OF THE BLOOD

  KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH

  WMG Publishing

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  For Jenny,

  who understands how fiction can break the silence.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks on this one go to Tony Gangi and Jeanne Cavelos for their enthusiasm, to Nina Kiriki Hoffman for all that pizza and the use of her VCR, to John Betancourt for forcing me to think of this idea in the first place, and to Dean Wesley Smith who looked beyond the short story and saw the novel hidden in each sentence.

  SINS OF THE BLOOD

  "Suitcases?"

  He stood at the door, holding the cut-glass knob, the rich iron taste of his evening meal still warm on his tongue. Laura put the baby in the wooden bassinet, her hands shaking. A slamming door down the hall let him know that their daughter had already hidden.

  The dining room looked the same. The new oak table was set for company—as it always was—with a lovely linen tablecloth protecting the surface. The collectibles hid in the matching china hutch, and the hardwood floor was bare.

  Except for the suitcases.

  And Laura, huddling protectively over the bassinet

  It was only midnight. He had arrived home early—usually he barely escaped the dawn—because the atmosphere in the house had been tense. He hadn't slept much the past few days, listening for odd noises. He had known that Laura was planning something, but he hadn’t known[C&F1] what it was.

  Twice he had caught her in the middle of the afternoon, clothes strewn about her feet, crying as she rocked the baby.

  He pulled the front door closed behind him and kicked at the molded plastic Samsonite luggage he and Laura had bought for their honeymoon. The large travel case slid along the floor, scratching it, and banged into the leg of the oak table he had bought just last week. The delicate bone china rattled.

  "Are we going somewhere?"

  Laura shook her head. Her trembling hand brushed long, dirty hair away from her white face.

  "The suitcases are full."

  In two long steps, he was across the room. He grabbed her shoulders. They felt thin and bony under his palms. She wasn't eating well. She had to keep eating to keep him strong.

  "What were you planning, Laura?"

  "Nothing." Her voice came out in a whisper.

  "Nothing?" He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "My son is wearing his traveling clothes. There are suitcases on the floor, and I wasn't due back until dawn. That doesn't seem like nothing to me, Laura."

  She tried to pull her head away, but he tightened his grip. A little more effort and he could snap her jawbone. He liked the strength that was coming to him. He liked the power. He had thought she would too.

  "We were going to go see my mother. Please—"

  He let go of her head and she stumbled back.

  "I would have let you know." Two bruised spots already appeared on her jaw.

  "When? Next week? Next year? You were going to take my son, Laura." He brought his hand back and hit her across the mouth so hard she stumbled into the table. The wood cracked. She grabbed the tablecloth, trying to remain upright, but instead it and the bone china his father had brought from Germany slipped to the floor. Dishes clattered and broke, and the baby started crying.

  He picked up a shard of china and tossed it at her. Then he took her collar and pulled her to her feet until her face was inches from his. "You are my wife, Laura. You go nowhere without my permission and you go nowhere without me. Is that clear?"

  She nodded. The baby's wails grew louder.

  "Good." He flung her away from him. She hit her head on the wood and slid to the floor like the cloth had done. As he crouched over her, he saw a small blonde head peek around the doorway.

  "Go to bed," he said.

  The sound of a door closing the second time meant that his orders had been followed. The baby's cries turned into deep bellows. Maybe he should have his daughter return and take care of her brother. Laura couldn't.

  Laura never did take care of him properly.

  Blood matted the hair on the back of Laura's head and stained the tablecloth. He sank his hands in it, feeling the warmth, the richness. It was time. She had betrayed him. He saw no trace of the woman he had once loved in the white, bruised face. He wished her eyes were open, so that she would know what he was going to do.

  But he couldn't wait. The coppery scent teased him like a lover.

  He bent over her and sank his teeth into her neck. They went in easily—how he loved cows—and he sucked, sucked, sucked until there was nothing left.

  When he finished, he leaned back on his heels and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. The baby was still crying, but the sound didn't bother him as much as it had earlier.

  He stood and walked over to the bassinet. His son had a round face and wide blue eyes. When the baby saw him, the crying stopped. The boy reached up. He put his hand on his son's cheek and stuck a blood-covered thumb in the baby's mouth, smiling as the boy sucked.

  "You are mine, now," he said. "All mine."

  Part One

  Chapter One

  i

  The address Cammie had memorized placed the eradication in the new development behind West Towne Mall. She repeated the address to Whitney, then climbed in the back of the white minivan to pull on her gloves and prepare the equipment.

  The van rumbled as Whitney turned the key in the ignition. His freckles stood out against his skin, his bright red hair reflecting the sunlight streaming in the windshield. He drove cautiously over the speed bumps in the Center's parking lot.

  Cammie turned her back on the front seat. She hated watching the neighborhoods go by. That was why Whitney drove, even though he had more experience. Other teams usually put the partner with the least experience in the driver's seat. But early on, Cammie had learned that if she watched the roads she traveled every day, she would see nothing but threat in her off-hours. She rarely went out after dark as it was, and when she did, she always brought her emergency case.

  Whitney didn't seem to mind this quirk or any of the others that Cammie displayed. He had a few of his own. Red foods made him ill. He rarely went into Italian restaurants, and never ordered anything with marinara sauce or red wine. He preferred Middle Eastern cuisine, with its spicy brown and white sauces.

  In the two years they had worked together, Cammie had never asked him about the roots of that prejudice, just as he had never asked about hers.

  The windows in the back of the van were tinted so dark that it was impossible to see in or out. She flicked on the overhead light, grabbed the rubber band off her wrist, and scooped her hair into a ponytail. Then she pulled on her black gloves—the third pair she’d worn this month. She would have to put in an expense voucher for equipment, even though the Center hated that. The gloves were thick and heavy, made of black leather with a sheepskin lining[C&F2] , the best protection money could buy. She had barely been able to afford the last pair. She wouldn't get paid for another week, and the fifty dollars remaining in her checkbook had to last until then. Maybe if she were[C&F3] careful, this pair wouldn't get ruined.

  The van bounced over potholes, and swayed side to side as Whitney drove. Even though Cammie couldn't see out the windows, she knew where they were: the sharp curve on Gammon Road, heading the back way toward the mall.

  Not much time left. She checked the pack, making sure there was a stake and mallet for her, and another set for Whitney. The lock picks were inside, as well as the gun. Then she adjusted her necklace so the cross was outside her dark sweatshirt. She attached a vial of holy water to her belt, and made sure the pouch of garlic was in her front pocket. Whitney always carried extra garlic. Like her, he didn't believe the religious symbols had much effect. The garlic seemed to work better.

  Still, they carried the religious icons to cover their own asses. The Center's research had shown that a vampire, raised in a particular religion, would fear that religion’s icons. According to his file, the subject of today's eradication had been raised Catholic. The vampire they had eradicated two weeks ago had been a Jew, but apparently had stopped practicing long before his change. He had ripped the Star of David off Whitney's chest.

  Cammie closed her eyes. She still dreamed about that eradication. The vampire had grabbed Whitney and pulled him so close that Cammie saw the flash of fangs against Whitney's neck. Fortunately, she had gotten there quickly enough to prevent the breaking of Whitney's skin.

  "Ready?" Whitney's deep voice had a tremble she hadn't heard in a long time. He hadn't forgotten their last eradication either.

  "As I'm going to be." Cammie brought the pack into the front seat, then sat down. She blinked in the bright sunlight, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Whitney had turned the van into the parking lot of a development of blue condos. Behind them, cars streamed along the Beltline. The whoosh added the comfort of civilization.

  The condos had been built in mock-colonial style—with columned doorways and wide arched windows—and they had a look of understated elegance. Cammie sighed. She had placed her name on the list when the condos were first under construction, but when she found out the asking price, she quietly withdrew. Still, over six years later, she still felt a stab of envy for the people who lived there.

  Until now.

  "I thought there would
be too much ambient light in these things," she said.

  Whitney shook his head. "I had one here just after they were built. The middle condos are as dark as a tomb."

  Cammie didn't laugh. Whitney had not intended the comment as a joke.

  They pulled up in front of a middle condo, as Whitney had predicted. The numbers on the door were elegantly lettered in black script. The developers had added a number of touches like that, designed to make the residents feel like they lived in a house instead of a condominium complex.

  Whitney shut off the motor and sat for a moment. His red curls framed his face like a halo and the mid-morning sunlight gave his green eyes a brightness they didn't normally have. Cammie rolled her shoulders to get the tension out of them. Mid-morning eradications were usually the safest, but there was still risk. Two months ago, another team had nearly died on an 11 a.m. job.

  Cammie took his hand. It was cold and clammy. "I'll be there for you, partner," she said.

  He nodded and squeezed her fingers. "I've been doing this too long."

  She took a sharp intake of breath. Whitney had been her only partner. She couldn't do this with anyone else. "The last time just scared you."

  He glanced at her. His freckles seemed darker than usual. His lower lip was chapped. He had been licking it—a nervous habit she wished he would break. "Every time scares me."

  "Me too." She swallowed. Their attitude was wrong for an eradication. She made herself take a deep breath. "But we're tough, right?"

  He grinned, obviously recognizing the tactic. He had used it on her numbers of times. "The most macho pair of eradicators I've ever met."

  She nodded and handed him the pack. They were ready now. He got out and slung it over his shoulders. Cammie let herself out the other door. Its slam echoed through the entire neighborhood.

  The air carried the scent of freshly mown grass. Cammie thought she saw a curtain move in an upstairs window on one of the side condos, but she wasn't sure. Even though a handful of cars dotted the street, the neighborhood had the deserted look left by nine-to-five professionals. Good. Cammie hated coming out of a job and explaining herself to the neighbors.

  She adjusted her ponytail and tugged her gloves a final time. Whitney double-checked the address against the one he had written in his notebook, then trudged up the walk. Cammie followed.

  Her mouth was dry. She had done nearly fifty eradications, counting the ones she had trained on, and still she felt nervous before entering a house. Whitney took the step up to the stoop and placed duct tape over the bell. No need to have some door-to-door salesman wake up their vampire. Cammie hated condos. They couldn't snip the phone lines: too many times a team would snip the line to the wrong apartment.

  Whitney tried the knob, but it didn't turn. The door was locked.

  Cammie mounted the step and unzipped the pack, pulling out the picks. Whitney took them from her. He selected the tools with an accuracy and precision she had yet to master. He slid the picks into the lock, juggled them around for a moment, then stepped back as the door slid open.

  The smell hit her first: rotting flesh, ancient blood. Cammie swallowed back nausea and followed Whitney inside, closing the door behind her.

  The living room was not completely dark. A thin, filtered gray light from the arched window etched everything in outline. A matching couch and love seat faced an oversized television. A bookshelf stood in the back corner. Cammie walked over to the end table, and took the black princess phone off the hook.

  They followed the smell into the hall. The darkness grew, hiding the details of the photographs lining the walls. A thin, reedy sound that took Cammie a moment to identify as music bled in from another condo. She was suddenly glad she hadn't bought one, if the walls were this thin. She took the mallet, stake, and flashlight out of the pack and handed them to Whitney, then pulled out the second set for herself. Her heart was pounding.

  She hated this moment, walking into the darkness. She was always afraid the vampire would wake up and attack her.

  Whitney turned on the flashlight. It made a round hole in the gloom. The carpet was a beige weave and the walls were paneled, all designed to make the room darker. Cammie doubted that the paneling was in the original specifications.

  A bathroom door stood open. Ahead, one more door was open, and two were closed, including the one at the end of the hall. The reedy music continued, adding an odd counterpoint to the brush of their footsteps.

  Near the door to their right, the smell became overpowering. The rancid thickness of decay made Cammie wish she had brought a handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth. The nausea returned and she had to grip the wall for a moment, to keep dizziness at bay.

  "You okay?" Whitney whispered.

  Cammie swallowed and nodded. "Never better."

  She would have to report to Eliason after this job. The nausea was growing worse. At the last job, she had been trying to prevent herself from getting sick when the vampire attacked Whitney.

  Whitney grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and shoved the door open. Cammie turned on her flashlight and set it on the floor, adding enough illumination so that they could see, but not enough to wake the vampire.

  The room was large, with its own bathroom off to the side. The closet door was open, and clothes were strewn all over the floor. The dresser had several open drawers and different kinds of jewelry winked on top. The mirror had been broken.

  A California King-sized[C&F4] waterbed dominated the center of the room. It had no bedclothes. For a moment, Cammie thought it a decoy until she realized that the mattress and plywood base were gone. The bottom had been cut out of the center of the bed. Beneath, where the drawers should have been, lay a naked man covered in a handmade quilt.

  Whitney trained his flashlight on the man, careful to avoid his eyes. The light accented the whiteness of his skin. His lips were stained a dark red. One hand lay on top of the covers, his nails untrimmed and dirty.

  Cammie clutched her mallet and stake. She had a better reach from her position. She took a deep breath, the smell not bothering her now. She leaned over, positioned the stake above the heart, and pounded with all her strength.

  The stake pierced the flesh. The vampire roared up, fetid breath covering her, hand grasping for hers. Cammie pounded again, feeling the mallet go in deeper. The vampire screamed, a harsh long male sound. Blood spurted on her, on the bed, on the paneled walls. Still she held her place, letting the ringing sound of the mallet serve as a counterpoint to the vampire's cries.

  His nails raked her skin, and blood dripped off her face. The blood was fresh; he had only been asleep a few hours. He flailed, his legs and arms smashing against the wooden walls.

  Cammie hit the mallet one final time. The vampire arched, and fell still.

  Whitney came up beside her. The body began to twitch. Then the skin started flaking. The smell of decay sweetened, then faded as the body fell apart. Cammie held the stake in place until the vampire was nothing more than bones.

  Behind them, a light went on. Cammie jumped and turned. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, adding a false brightness. A little girl stood in the doorway. She had blonde curls and wide blue eyes. She glanced at Cammie, then took a step into the room.

  "Daddy?"

  Cammie looked around the room. She saw no sign of another human being. Whitney bit his lower lip. The little girl crept across the carpet, her tiny tennis shoes leaving no mark on the weave. She knelt in front of the bed, put her forehead against the wood and whispered, "Daddy." The airy, pain-filled sound was more plaintive than a wail.

  ii

  The women's bathroom in Eliason's office had a large mirror that ran the length of the vanity. Above each wash station were small instructions taped to the glass. Every time Cammie came into this room, she found herself staring at the instructions for taking a urine sample, something she had never done in this office. (1. Wash your hands thoroughly...)

  She was hiding in here, in the bright yellow bathroom, filled with florescent light and instructions for simple things, like urinating. She had never hidden before. Usually she had too much energy—so much that Whitney often had to tell her to sit still on the drive back to the Center. This time, she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. A heavy, cottony feeling of shock enveloped her—and that feeling had started when she first saw the little girl.