Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (20 page)

“THERE ARE A COUPLE OF REASONS Parker brought you here,” Twist said. “The biggest reason was to find out if we accept you. I think I can speak for all of us by saying that we’re already past that.”

“No problem,” Kat said.

The other woman, Natalie, nodded.

Rave didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but did know that she’d rather be accepted than not; especially since she already, mysteriously, felt a connection with them.

“One of the other reasons is to find out your views on immortality,” Twist said.

The word startled Rave.

“Immortality?”

Twist nodded.

“We’ve done a lot of research on immortality,” Twist said. “The old vampires weren’t immortal in the way that you hear about in the movies. They couldn’t grow a new hand if it got cut off. They couldn’t self-heal a wound if someone stuck a knife in their stomach. They didn’t have any magical powers like that. They were just as susceptible as everyone else to mortal wounds and the effects of outside influences on the body. And, it goes without saying, they couldn’t change shapes, or fly, or turn themselves into bats or anything like that.”

Rave listened.

“Okay.”

“But they were different from others in one important way,” Twist said. “You’ve heard that they lived for hundreds of years. That part of the myth is actually true.”

Rave studied her.

To see if she was joking.

She wasn’t.

“Really?”

“There are several well documented cases,” Twist said. “There was something about their internal makeup that was extremely resistant to aging. If they didn’t suffer a mortal fatality, they could in fact live for a very long time. How long, we don’t know, because they eventually all got killed. But a very, very long time, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Rave said. “That’s hard for someone like me to believe.”

“Is it?” Twist asked. “Think about it. Take a five-year-old kid. He doesn’t suddenly wake up the next day fifty years old. It takes time. There’s a degenerative process that takes place.”

Rave nodded.

That was true.

“Everyone in the world is used to a degenerative process that roughly works the same on all of us,” she said. “When we’re five, we’re young. When we’re eighty, we’re old. But the bottom line is that there’s something in our makeup that causes us to get old at a certain rate. The only thing different between us and the old vampires is that they had something in their makeup that changed the rate. And like I said before, we don’t know how much it changed. Maybe it extended the human cycle three-fold; or maybe it was ten-fold. We don’t know. But we do know for a fact that the rate was different, dramatically different—different enough that they could literally live well over a hundred years and still look young.”

That actually made sense.

And Rave said so.

“Asian women are a good modern-day example,” Twist added. “It’s not that hard to find a 60-year-old Asian woman who doesn’t look or behave or feel any older than a 30-year-old American woman. Aging is not uniform. It’s not set in stone. It’s not one-size-fits-all. Mortality is not one-size-fits-all.”

“True.”

“Of course, the most obvious difference in life cycles is the one between the species. Humans have a much longer cycle than dogs which have a much longer cycle than insects. Compared to a fruit fly, human beings are almost immortal.”

Rave cocked her head.

“So where are we going with all this?”

“We’re talking about immortality,” Twist said. “And let me back up for a minute and say that immortality actually isn’t exactly the right word. I don’t believe that even the old vampires would live forever. I believe that they had a natural life cycle, like every other living creature, that would eventually end even in the absence of a mortal wound. But since their cycle was so long, let’s just refer to them, for the sake of discussion, as being immortal when compared to normal human beings.”

“All right.”

“SO THE QUESTION IS THIS,” Twist said. “How do you feel about immortality? Would you take it if someone handed it to you?”

Rave laughed.

“Sure,” she said. “Give me a handful.”

“I’m serious,” Twist said. “How would you feel if you could live for two or three or four or five hundred years?”

Rave cocked her head.

“Let me see if I have this right,” she said. “I could live for, say, three hundred years if I want to; but I could also kill myself at any time, if I chose?”

“Right.”

“Meaning that I wouldn’t be forced to remain alive if I didn’t choose to,” she said.

“Right.”

“And you want to know how I’d feel about that, if it was an option?”

“Right.”

“You’re basically talking about the fountain of youth,” Rave said. “I can’t imagine a rational person who wouldn’t take that in a heartbeat, if it was an actual option.”

Rave drained the rest of the wine from her glass.

Twist filled it back up.

Then hers, Kat’s and Natalie’s too.

“Here’s the reason I ask,” Twist said. “Bloodline descendents of vampires have the immortality gene inside them—sleeping and dormant, but there.”

Rave sipped wine.

And couldn’t argue.

Conceptually, at least.

“The secret is to wake it up,” Twist said.

Rave smiled.

“That would be nice,” she said. “Except how do you do that?”

“We’re working on it,” Twist said. “In fact, we think we’ve already partially succeeded. Parker is taking the lead in the whole thing.”

“My Parker?”

Twist nodded.

“After we learn how to fully wake it up, and become immortal if you will, the next step is to figure out how to bring others with us.”

She ran her fingers through Kat’s hair.

Then kissed her.

“So how are you waking it up?” Rave asked.

TWIST STOOD UP, grabbed Rave’s hand, and led her to the bedroom.

The three women removed Rave’s clothes.

Every stitch.

And laid her on her back on the mattress, with her arms stretched out to her sides and her palms facing the ceiling.

Rave didn’t protest.

She felt safe.

She felt loved.

“The secret is in the blood,” Twist said.

The other women removed their clothes. Then Twist did something to each of Rave’s forearms, and to her stomach; something that didn’t hurt but started a small trickle of blood at each location.

Then the three women sucked her blood.

Slowly.

Lovingly.

Rave stared at the ceiling for a while.

Then closed her eyes.

And concentrated on the sensation of the women’s lips and mouths on her skin; especially Twist’s mouth, which was on Rave’s stomach.

She had never felt more secure.

Or more loved.

Or more right.

And realized that her life had changed, yet again.

Chapter Seventy-One

Day Seven—April 18

Monday Morning

______________

MONDAY MORNING, TEFFINGER got up early and jogged down Market Street in downtown San Francisco as a cold ocean wind did its best to chill him to the bone. He planned on doing three miles, but only did two. Even now, before dawn, the city was buzzing with drivers who were no doubt trying to beat the even more oppressive traffic to come.

Because of the time constraints of last night, Teffinger hadn’t called ahead to tell anyone from homicide that he was coming in this morning.

So he was prepared for a little delay when he showed up.

He checked in with the receptionist, explained who he was and that he was investigating the disappearance of a woman by the name of Jena Vellone in Denver, and got directed to the head of the homicide unit, a thin, pale man with a twitchy right eye.

A man by the name of Mark Yorke.

A man who didn’t impress Teffinger much.

A man with a weak jaw.

A man who didn’t drink coffee.

Or offer any to Teffinger.

Teffinger kept his friendliest and most professional face on as he explained the situation, anxious to get out of the guy’s office and into a room with the file.

The file on Barbara Rocker.

Who disappeared last year.

And who had been on a billboard, the same as Jena Vellone.

“Time is of the essence,” Teffinger emphasized.

The thin man stood up, smiled, escorted Teffinger to a bench in the hall and said, “Just let me make a few quick phone calls. There’s coffee in the kitchen, which is right over there.”

“Beautiful, thanks.”

Teffinger got a cup.

Drank it on the bench.

Got a second cup.

And drank it on the bench.

THEN THE THIN MAN OPENED HIS DOOR and said, “Come on in.”

Finally.

“We have a problem,” Yorke said.

Teffinger wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the corner of the man’s mouth raised just a touch as he spoke, as if he had started to smile and then forced it down.

“What kind of problem?”

“I talked to your chief, a man by the name of F.F. Tanker, just to verify that everything is on the up and up,” Yorke said. “He said that the case you say you’re investigating, involving Jena Vellone, doesn’t belong to Denver.”

Teffinger swallowed.

Tanker would have had no choice but to say that.

He couldn’t tell anyone that Teffinger was on the case only in an unofficial capacity.

“He said that the case actually belongs to Cherry Hills,” Yorke added. “So I called them up. They told me that you don’t have authority to be investigating the matter. In fact, according to them, you’re actually a person of interest. You were the last person to see the missing woman alive. And her blood was found in your vehicle.”

Teffinger cocked his head.

“I know how this looks,” he said. “But trust me, it isn’t anything like that. Here’s the important thing. Jena Vellone is a TV reporter and her face was on several billboards in Denver. She disappeared on Tuesday and hasn’t been heard from since. I’ve located another woman from Chicago by the name of Kennedy Pinehurst, a radio personality who was also on billboards throughout the city. She disappeared in May of last year and was later found hanging upside down in a spread-eagle position with her throat slashed. I was in Chicago yesterday, looking through the file. Then last night, I learned that you had a similar situation here in San Francisco. From what I understand, the woman’s name is Barbara Rocker and she was also on billboards. These cases are all connected. I need the Rocker file right now, immediately, to figure out what that connection is.”

Yorke cocked his head.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not saying that you had anything to do with the disappearance of this Denver woman. In fact, you seem like a stand-up guy to me. But Cherry Hills has you down as a person of interest. How would it look to the public, or to my superiors, if I gave a confidential investigative file to a known suspect?”

TEFFINGER STOOD UP.

Put his hands on the desk.

And leaned across.

“Screw the public and screw perceptions,” he said. “We’re talking about a woman’s life.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Listen!” Teffinger said. “Sometimes you just have to cut through the crap and get things done. Someone in your position ought to know that better than anyone.”

Yorke stood up.

“And sometimes you just have to follow protocol,” he said. “And our protocol here in San Francisco says that we don’t hand our files over to suspects, even if they’re detectives.”

Teffinger narrowed his eyes.

“Look,” he said. “You need to help me. Otherwise, the woman in Denver—Jena Vellone, who is a personal friend of mine by the way—is going to end up dead.”

“How do you know she’s not already dead?”

Teffinger pounded his fist on the desk.

Then stormed out.

And slammed the door behind him.

So hard that the glass shattered.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Day Seven—April 18

Monday Morning

______________

TRIPP WAS ALSEEP when someone shook him on the shoulder and said, “Wake up.” The voice was familiar but Tripp was too groggy to place it. “It’s four thirty.”

The voice was VanDeventer’s.

Tripp rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up.

The room was dark.

And unfamiliar.

At first he thought they were in a hotel. Then he remembered that they were in Rave Lafelle’s house, waiting for her to show up, and had been waiting all night.

“Four thirty?”

“She’s not coming home,” VanDeventer said. The words dripped with frustration. “Let’s get the hell out of here while it’s still dark.”

Tripp grunted.

“Yeah.”

He walked to the bathroom, took a long piss, flushed, splashed water on his face, and dried it with the vampire’s towel. Then he grabbed the knife, wooden stake and mallet from the nightstand, stuffed them into the pillowcase—the one from the hotel—and followed VanDeventer out the back door.

A dog barked.

From a couple of houses down.

Otherwise the world was quiet and empty.

They walked two blocks, to the car, without talking.

They encountered no one.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Day Seven—April 18

Monday Morning

______________

RAVE WOKE UP IN A COFFIN. The lid was open and she had an unobstructed view of a ceiling twelve feet above her head. She muscled herself into a sitting position and looked around. The room was dark but there was enough light to discern that the coffin was in a bedroom, eight feet or so from a bed that showed no evidence of having been slept in.

She climbed out.

Then used the bathroom and paused briefly when her body reflected in a full length mirror.

She was nude.

The sight reminded her of last night.

Being disrobed by Twist and her friends.

And being sucked.

She checked her arms and stomach for marks but found none.