Blood and Lace - Chapter 1

Della stared up at the roof of the cargo van, watching light-patterns from streetlights and cars drift across the rust-adorned metal. Every time Drus took a turn she felt herself slide across the metal floor, bumping against one side or the other. At one point he accelerated so fast that her head hit the rear doors, sending painful sparks dancing across her vision.

Just when it seemed their journey might last all night, the van slowed and stopped. A flutter of dread moved within her, but it was distant, fading the same way her hopes had. The chassis rocked as the driver’s side door opened and Drus got out. Scuffs of boots on asphalt and then a mechanical click as the rear doors were wrenched open. The van dipped again and Drus leaned over her, his alabaster skin almost glowing in the dark, the long pale locks of his hair brushing her cheeks. His eyes were gleaming and hungry and…amused.

“Wake up, licorice-twist. We don’t want you to be late for your big night.” His tone was a low seductive rumble, and now Della felt a jolt of primal terror. Drus grinned, the light glimmering off his perfect white teeth.

She was roughly grabbed and heaved up onto one shoulder. He set off at a fast pace, handling her as easily as a bag of laundry—and with the same lack of care. Her stomach complained as it bounced repeatedly against him. Della watched crumbling asphalt passing below and for the first time took solace in the idea that it would soon be over. She was jerked up a cracked cement stoop.  There was a loud rusty creak and another step. She glimpsed scarred hardwood floors covered in chips of plaster. They stopped. 

“How are we doing?” Drus’s tone was couched low, not at her.

“Almost got the dead weight loaded up.” It was a man’s voice, unpleasant and with a edge of whine. “What’s with the dress?”

“I wanted my girl going out in style.” The light-hearted humor in Drus’s voice was obscene. “I’ll drop her off and then we’ll finish up.” The other man assented and she was moving again.

Drus went fast, giving her only fleeting impressions. Moldering curtains…a shadeless lamp throwing harsh light across broken furniture…the smell of urine and rot. It was some sort of abandoned townhouse, though the floor molding suggested it had once been opulent. They went up a set of narrow steps that turned twice, and then she felt a crack of agony as her shoulder bashed into a newel post.

“Whoops.” His chuckle was rich like dark chocolate, squeezing more despair from her by its sheer incongruity.

They were moving along an upstairs hall, past one doorway, then another.

“Ah, here we are. You’re too good for the floor, licorice twist.”

A disorienting lurch and suddenly she was sprawled onto a battered and stinking loveseat. Footsteps…the snap of a light switch. A single yellow bulb bathed the room in jaundiced light. Drus came back into view, his black leather jacket creaking as he knelt down beside her.

Della’s skin crawled as his hands carefully arranged her feet and arms, his impossibly angular and perfect face showing the concentration of a hobbyist with a beloved model. He folded her hands over her stomach. Della’s bloody, broken nails were in stark contrast to the white lace.

“There we are. Nice and comfy.” Drus smiled at her. “This is how I want to remember you. Beautiful till the end.” He kept the stare for several seconds. Inside Della was screaming.

Please… She flailed in her mind, appealing to a higher power, any higher power to listen. Please just let me close my eyes. But Drus just kept staring, eventually turning his ice-blue gaze down to her hands, her wrist. Gods…please.

He lifted her left hand and rubbed the band of brown, discolored tissue that ran like a burn across her pale flesh. Hints of exotic swirls and filigree were still visible beneath the scarring. His thumb felt rough on her smooth skin.

“I know it disappoints you that I never got your brand,” he said mildly, “but please don’t think I wasn’t fond of you, Del. I really was quite taken at one time.” For an instant the cruelty parted and she saw a tiny flash of genuine disappointment. “You were always just…too damn weak, you know? I was embarrassed so many times.”

He dropped her hand and then darted forward to kiss her dead, stiff lips. She resisted with everything left in her being, but nothing happened. She was as still as the grave. Drus pried her mouth open with his tongue and swiped the inside. Time became soft and uncertain and awful. Della was aware of moisture on her cheeks when he finally pulled back and grinned.

“Oh, hey now…don’t cry.” He reached out with his hand and brushed her face. It came away red. “You’re going to ruin your dress.” He licked the blood off his hand and laughed.

Drus stood up and walked to the open doorway. He looked back, one hand on the frame.

“Don’t worry, Del, it’ll be quick. The blood bags may be zealots, but they’re too piss-scared to leave you alive for long. See you in Hell, licorice twist.” A harsh laugh accompanied his fading footsteps.

Della sat in the yellow silence, immobile and rigid. After a long time, a tiny keening sound passed between her partially opened lips, a frail noise that contained a gulf of despair.

Nicholas stared up at the roof of the van, watching the shadows of his teammates move and shift across the painted metal. He could feel every bump in the road as the truck flew down the highway, noise thrumming through its frame like the promise of imminent violence. Their transport had started its life as a delivery truck, but after the Guild had bolted in some benches it became a troop carrier.

Hunters filled the seats on both sides, laughing and joking in the timeless manner of soldiers about to be tested in combat. Their words were muffled by the clear masks over their mouths, but that just made them talk—and brag—louder. From his place at the end, right next to the door, Nicholas did his best to shut them all out.

He kept his hands against his own mask, like he could somehow make the seal even tighter, and breathed deep. His chest burned and his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. The Gilda Devota had tried nearly every trick to make Compound-G less caustic, but so far their success had been limited. It seemed this batch had been sweetened with vanilla, and the only result was that Nicholas never wanted to have ice cream again.

His stomach gave another roll and he suppressed a heave. If he was being honest, Compound-G might not be the only reason he felt sick. The coming battle against honest-to-God monsters might have added a little nausea of its own.

There was a tap on his shoulder. He turned to look into the sympathetic gaze of Frank, his own mask fogged from labored breathing. The warm brown of his friend’s face had gone somewhat gray, and Nicholas was relieved he wasn’t the only one struggling with the compound.

“Don’t sweat it, man.” Frank’s voice was distant through the plastic. “You’re going to clear the minimum. Your numbers have been getting better and better.”

Nicholas didn't trust himself to speak without throwing up, so he nodded and gave Frank a thumbs up. Unlike the other hunters, Frank never ignored him or treated him with latent hostility. He was more grateful for those kind words than he let on, but he didn’t want Frank to become an outcast by association.

The group-wide cold shoulder was making everything harder. At first he thought it was because he had transferred from a non-combat section. Then he wondered if the age difference—being several years older—was the cause. But why hunt for obscure reasons when the obvious explanation was right in front of him?

“Five minutes out!” their section chief shouted from the front. He stood up between the two benches, glowering at his team. The barely suppressed aggression and anticipation climbed another notch. “Breathe deep, ladies and gentleman. Saturation checks as soon as we hit the ground.” 

This might have been his first raid, but Nicholas suspected the fever pitch of excitement was higher than usual. WHIRLWIND REAP was the biggest operation their cell had ever launched. Bigger than last year’s GARBAGE DISPOSAL, which had bagged five leeches with zero casualties. Scuttlebutt was saying this might be the biggest Guild operation ever. It had double the hunters of DISPOSAL, so it was probably even safer.

Yeah, and self-delusion is a perfectly healthy coping mechanism. Nicholas grimaced and sucked in another breath of the foul gas.

The truth was that they were in enemy territory in more ways than one.

GARBAGE DISPOSAL had been a cozy daytime operation aided by a sympathetic sheriff. WHIRLWIND REAP was more secretive. Their target was a leech shelter in the heart of the urban sprawl, and everyone knew the vampires and their stooges owned the city, so they would have to go in late to avoid human authorities. Right when their targets were most active.

Nicholas’s grimace turned into a humorless grin and he filled his lungs as deeply as he could. The violent cough that followed nearly knocked his mask loose.

Frank chuckled beside him. “Go easy, killer.”

“Two minutes,” the chief barked. “Stakers, check your pressure gauges. The rest of you lock and load.”

The crowded space filled with the metal sounds of extended magazines sliding into assault carbines. After confirming the safety was on, Nicholas dutifully slid a mag in until it made a satisfying click. He pulled the charging handle to chamber a round and he was ready. Locked and loaded.

His mind drifted back to weapons training, an exhausting three-day course taught by a wiry Vietnam vet with the rasp of a lifetime smoker. That first day he had set a Guild carbine down on the table and let the hunter trainees crowd around to admire its sleek, deadly lines.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” the man had drawled, waiting for the murmurs of assent before continuing. “Illegally modified to fire full-auto with a fifty round mag. ‘Load it on Sunday and shoot all week,’ as the old saying goes.” This had elicited a laugh as the group started to loosen up. He chuckled and continued showing it off, pointing out everything from the tactical stock to the thick cylinder of the suppressor.

“The suppressor’s real important if you’re trying not to wake the neighbors!” More laughter.

Then he reached below the table, all humor suddenly gone from his eyes. He held up a misshapen piece of metal. At first Nicholas was confused. Then, with sluggish comprehension, he noted the parts they had just covered. It was a carbine, only twisted and contorted. Almost unrecognizable. The suppressor had been squeezed until it had split like dry clay. He could see the impressions of fingers in the metal. Nicholas’s mouth went dry as dust.

Each and every trainee was raked by the old vet’s gaze before he tossed the mangled weapon onto the concrete floor. Everyone flinched at the sound. “Take a hard look,” he had rasped in the graveside silence, “and never forget that these were originally made to kill humans, not vampires. They’re very good against humans. To a leech? It’s a BB gun. So hold down the trigger and aim for the face, kids, but don’t make the fatal mistake of thinking you have an advantage.”

Nicholas was pulled back to the present by a sudden nudge. Frank elbowed him again and jerked his head towards their chief. He realized the man had been talking for some time. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

“…remember to stay close and cover your assigned zones. If you see a man get taken under the yolk, don’t hesitate. Put a bullet into him. He’d do the same for you. Oh, and for my headhunters”—a few of the brawnier men up front chuckled—“keep the machetes stowed. There’s too many for that macho bullshit. Strict ‘stake and bake.’ Nicholas, you’re on clean-up. I want to see some hustle.”

Nicholas nodded crisply. No one said anything, but he knew what they were probably thinking. The new old guy can’t be trusted on assault. Keep him back where he can’t get anyone hurt. God, he hoped it was that. Even the cruelest swipe at his competence was better than “his mom told the section chief to keep him safe.”

There was a jolt as the van jumped up onto a curb and then a turn that had them struggling to stay seated. A moment later the vehicle shuddered to an abrupt stop. The interior lights went out and the rear doors were flung open. Two hunters in similar black tactical garb were waving them out.

“Move it, section three. Gas check is right over there. Line up!”

Nicholas and the others pulled off their masks and hopped out into the crisp fall air. Their van had parked in a garbage-strewn lot next to a few inconspicuous support vehicles. He knew that there would be two other vans within a quarter-mile disgorging their own assault teams at the same moment.

Without hesitating he trotted over to a man holding what looked like a high-tech price scanner. It would analyze how much Compound-G had been absorbed into the bloodstream. If his number wasn't high enough he would still be vulnerable to the yoke—the everpresent fear of all hunters. There were stories of fighters emptying their rifles into best friends, reloading, then blowing their brains out all because one vampire willed it. That’s why anyone with a low absorption ratio had to be scrubbed from a mission. 

Nicholas slung his rifle and pulled up a sleeve so the man could hold the device over his wrist. He didn’t want to be a liability, but he had also chosen his place deliberately. Last in was first out, giving him the best chance for a good saturation number.

The device chirped. The man frowned, then took a second reading. Nicholas felt a ball of ice form in his stomach. 

Goddamn it. Not again.

He had spent weeks building up his tolerance to the gas after getting tossed from last month’s raid. It had been the latest humiliating obstacle to proving himself.

“I’m on clean-up,” he said to the man in an attempt to sound casual. The message was clear: even if his numbers were borderline, he wasn’t likely to come face-to-face with one of them. After a slight hesitation the man waved him past.

Nicholas trotted to the assembly area with a profound sense of relief. The hardest part was yet to come, but he had finally been cleared for an operation. In just a few minutes they would all form up and close on the target. That townhouse and its monstrous tenants would be struck like the wrath of God, and he would be there, one of the avenging angels.

WHIRLWIND REAP was underway.