Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) Read online

  Ever since then, I’d pretty much kept to myself. I had my work, trading patriotism for a gun-for-hire shingle. That was good enough for the likes of me.

  Detox had been a bitch. A trade-off. Camos for adrenaline-soaked leather and a gi that sometimes fit too tight. Skin sliding over razors, ragged-edged. The dojo offered penance and redemption. Just the thing for a hard-ass bent on self-destruction.

  Sasha somehow reminded me that it could be different. And suddenly, different seemed to make a hell of a lot of sense.

  The Haven was on 25th. It was still early so I found a pizza joint, chowed down and weighed my options for the evening.

  For a change, they looked pretty good. That made me cocky and careless, a bad combination.

  I was thirty-five years old, looking back on nineteen, meaning to misbehave.

  I got more than I bargained for. I got déjà vu.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Haven

  The building, an old warehouse, possibly from when clothes were still made in this country, fronted on the East River and faced a motley collection of docks and ramshackle storage shacks, all still in use. The beehive of activity had shifted elsewhere, sucking the air out of the district.

  The lines formed on either side of a solid metal door, a narrow sluice pouring flash and flesh through the gates of Hell. The surveillance cameras angled both up and down the four lane on a lazy sweep as tourists exited a public transportation system intent on seeing to them having an authentic Goth experience.

  Shrugging past the mob, I pulled VIP status with a generous donation to the Council’s widows and orphans fund.

  Management had done an upgrade since I’d last been, replacing Scandinavian chic with tacky Vlad-inspired accents. Velvet-lined booths, tasseled pillows, ocher stressed faux paneling, and Dollar Store battery-operated candles added ambiance and gag-worthy authenticity.

  Trina would not have approved, not with her rich cultural heritage of maniacal despots and schtick you couldn’t buy with Benjamins.

  Asta e un rahat.

  The r’s rolled, too guttural and deep from such a swan-like throat, the veins already ropey, distended. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said trans-sexual.

  But I did know better.

  And that made me hard. Rock hard.

  At five-foot-ten and change, she was no runway model, no Twiggy. But the flesh was spare, shrink-wrapped over tight muscles and an even tighter cunt.

  God damn.

  I looked up at her, shitkickers adding an inch or two or three. Yeah, looked up and liked it, liked she had me staring at her neck, vein bulging, inviting.

  No, she’d said, no plastic, those tings, shite, you need me pure.

  Oh, I needed. Fuck pure. I craved dirty.

  My ‘tings’, the fake dentures and blunt tips, amused her.

  I lived for her entertainment.

  She shoved the buckets and mops into a corner, making space. Backing me against shelves, edges biting hard, the pain good. Real.

  She pricked the vein with a talon, blood red, pointed, let me lick, teasing me as the leathers vanished and the flow cascaded down my throat.

  At nineteen, I would have sworn that nothing… nothing… could be better than being fucked senseless.

  I was wrong. This was better. Hot serum coating my innards, then expelling in gut-clenching violence, every nuanced molecule spewing in garish Technicolor.

  Light-headed, empowered, pushing the platinum-blonde dreadlocks lower, mouth, tongue, spikes piercing, blood and semen…

  Praying to the gods of porcelain, I’d vowed to man up, keep it down. Next time. Always next time.

  The hot sultry stink of et tu fe coated the walls. She said she would wait in the alley. Round two. If I was ‘up to it’. A sultry laugh. A sly uptick to the well-shaped brow.

  She would see to it.

  She liked it public now. Pushing boundaries. Hers or mine, I couldn’t be sure.

  The poseurs paraded past the alleyway entrance. The door slammed behind me, locking me out. Casting me into null space.

  Gone.

  Sixteen years gone.

  The music was still the same, in-your-face rap, the kind moms and pops blanch at when the second-hand rides pimped out in surround sound pause at red. Those same moms and pops stared google-eyed, toes tapping, absorbing the performance art that went with the obscene cover charge.

  Leather was the new black, with full-body or strip-steak versions warring with spandex or fishnet.

  Personally I liked net. The tease was good. Especially if metal was involved.

  Trina had had certain adornments, strategically placed. I might have added a few to my own skinny anatomy, given enough time. But when Uncle Sam was done with me, I’d seen too much metal in too many bodies.

  That didn’t diminish the appeal… in others.

  A short young blonde thing sidled up to the bar next to me. I’d been nursing Stellas, waiting for the tourists to lemming out the door, the turnover like clockwork; but the hard core had a special entrance, off to my left… surreptitious with retro beads covering the opening. The hall was long, ugly, and smelling of piss and sex. They wore it like perfume, spreading onto the dance floor in bursts. Some couples, but mostly gaggles of chicks trolling for thrills.

  My jeans and tee-shirt reminded me I was here in an official capacity. Gathering information. The cute young thing next to me hardly qualified as a valid source, so I turned to her and let my gaze wander up and down the goods on display.

  “I’m buying.”

  She wasn’t legal, not even close. But then, I hadn’t been either.

  “Tequila.” She flashed a smile and turned so I could get a better look. With most of the looky-loos gone, they’d lowered the lighting to eye strain. The mirror behind the old fashioned teak bar reflected the weak lumens just enough for me to catch a glimpse of silver nipple hoops peeking through the gauzy net shirt. Her breasts were bulbous, heavy and ripe.

  The bartender set the shot glasses down and shoved a bowl of lime slices in our general direction. I laid a fifty on the counter. Stale pretzels and trail mix followed.

  We skoaled to each other’s health and tipped the amber liquid down in a single swallow. I looked to my right. The fifty was gone but a mostly full bottle had taken its place. I held up two fingers for more Stellas.

  We did the do you come here often dance followed by a little samba as she slid off the stool and gyrated to the beat of music set to ear bleed volume.

  I didn’t care. If I wanted to talk, I’d go to confession.

  She pressed closer, the leather skirt barely brushing her pubic bone. I doubted there was anything other than skin underneath. What I never doubted was finding out if my guess was right or not.

  She licked plump lips outlined in black, the inner landscape an artful glossy flesh tone, oddly attractive. Murmuring, “I’m Morgana,” I thought of course you are but got further distracted by the tongue stud’s clever taunts.

  It’s never a good idea to lose track of your surroundings. Not when what I did for a living made for unattractive sparring partners and grudges.

  We had company. Make that… I had company.

  It was a she, as tall as or taller than me judging from where taut nipples stabbed through the thin cotton of my tee.

  A shot of fear and longing pulsed in my gut, then translated into lust. I was sandwiched, in a most pleasant way. The night suddenly developed endless possibilities and I was very good at math.

  Morgana moved toward the dance floor. I followed, shadowed by the unknown stalker. The air sat heavy on my shoulders, like a storm brewing, the body bubbled in a dead zone while all around ions charged and discharged in random patterns.

  The chick behind drew my hands back, ratcheting the shoulder joints until they nearly popped, a knee braced against my thigh, pinning me in place. Finger tips, like knife edges, needle-stroked and prodded, my jeans stretched taut.

  A whispered, “Come outside.” Not a request.
I smiled at the double entendre and followed the jailbait through the beads and down the hall, holding my breath against the stink.

  The alley was too narrow for vehicles so dumpsters guarded the entrances, leaving most of it in dank shadow, the center sunken, like a canal for carnal runoff. One of them backed me against rough brick, my palms lancing on jagged edges. Warm blood trickled down my wrists. One of them hissed.

  The stranger spun me like a rag doll, bouncing my skull against the hard surface and I smiled my approval. Blondie took up a position between us, her head tilted to the side, listening. It was pitch, coal tar dark, the air reeking of sweat and lust. The blood pounding in my head made rational thought impossible.

  Pinioning my arms above my head, the tall Goth chick growled, “Don’t move.” I couldn’t if I wanted to. Blondie was unzipping the jeans and lifting the tee-shirt, freeing my cock. Cool fingers stroked the length but I barely noticed, my eyes locked in mortal combat with the warrior woman. Black soul-less orbs bored into my psyche, stripping me and laying waste to my inhibitions.

  She lifted the girl and seated her with my cock tickling the moist entrance, the folds thick and yielding. Morgana crooned to Goth chick’s sibilant mutterings, a language tickling memory, could it be…?

  Gripping the girl’s hips, the woman bared fangs, then rammed Blondie’s slick cunt viciously down, nearly dropping me to my knees.

  Oh sweet Jesus, it hurt, it hurt so good.

  Wake up, wake up.

  She nodded yes. I didn’t remember asking.

  Numb, frozen. Up, down, in, out… slow slow slow, pain, not mine, not yet.

  Lowering my hands, I peeled the netting away, the pale metal rings strobing in the weak ambient light. Dropping my head, I licked the exquisite chill, seizing a ring and pulling gently at first, then with sharp wicked tugs…

  Don’t leave me.

  Wake me up.

  Oh God, I can’t wake up.

  She arched, her throat exposed, sticky. Who is she? Morgana. Her name’s Morgana. Sweet heat, coppery, acrid scents bit my nostrils.

  Can’t wake up.

  Claws raked my neck, the blonde’s heavy breasts nestled solidly into my chest. My hips took over the rhythm, thrusting, unfeeling, flesh shredding against the unforgiving brick.

  Dead, dead inside. Wake up. Can’t wake up.

  Distended, pulsing lava hot, the vein begged… please. Me. Let it be me.

  Nu vrei asta?

  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

  Searing pain, the orgasm hit like a freight train, my mouth yawned in an ‘O’ of terror and pleasure, the vein pulsing with each draw, lips and tongue sucking hard.

  Oh dear God. Wake me up!

  Empty me, take it all…

  Wake up.

  Wake up.

  Can’t wake up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dawn

  The East River flowed past with oily splendor. I don’t remember how I got there.

  Sirens screamed in the distance.

  They were coming this way. Curious, I turned away from the depths beckoning me, aching in a way I couldn’t explain. Weak. Sated. I touched my neck. It was sore but… whole.

  The sky to the east lightened imperceptibly, the pearls of light on the other side of the river still solid and real… my world.

  Without knowing why, I paced back toward the cluster of buildings, instinct and the smell of fear and longing pulling me forward. More sirens, the burp of a cop car, tires skidding on hot pavement.

  The tape was already up, the alley sealed, uniforms swarming the area. I was invisible at the far end. I needed to get closer.

  Fumbling for my ID card, I ducked under the tape and approached cautiously. No one seemed to care.

  The body lay crumpled next to a dumpster, her skirt hiked to her waist, loose netting torn, breasts obscene in repose, the silver flashing red, blue, red, blue. A small pool of blood cradled her face, pale, no longer lushly full-cheeked. Two puncture wounds in her neck. My DNA coating her cunt.

  I backed away and dug my cell out of my pocket. Staggering down the street, I made the call.

  “Talon? It’s Micah. I’m in trouble.”

  I sketched details as fast as I could while Talon considered what I’d told him. I needed proof, otherwise he’d hang me out to dry.

  But I knew, KNEW, I was right this time. Right about Trina. Right about the shadows I’d only sensed, hovering at the edges of my vision. Blood ran fast and hard, pounding through my veins, relentless.

  “Go home, boy.”

  “But…”

  He hung up.

  I made my way to a subway station and, eyes blind to everything around me, rode the express clear to Spanish Harlem. I exited and walked the neighborhoods, quiet now on a Sunday morning, the hookers and pimps and homies finally calling it. I could safely negotiate the mean streets for a short time. My favorite bodega was just opening. Juan beckoned me in with a big smile.

  “Hola, Micah. You look like shit, man.”

  I smiled. I always looked like shit to my friend… probably because I only saw him when I was in a world of hurt. Right now I was as close to terminal as I ever got.

  On the flip side, I was strangely exhilarated when I should have been shitting myself in fear.

  Why had she let me go and not the girl? It was like she sensed something about me. I thought about Trina as I sipped the hot coffee Juan pressed into my hands. He busied himself while I settled onto an ancient metal stool behind the counter.

  Trina.

  Dear God.

  It was like a spider web of need, weaving through my soul, trapping me from the inside out. I ached, the corded vein in my neck stretched like a rubber band. I fingered the bulge, remembering the intense pleasure.

  “Micah?”

  I blushed. I couldn’t help myself.

  Wake up. Wake up.

  I needed to find her. She was the proof, the answer I sought. I jotted down notes, descriptions, impressions… the bloodhound in me on auto-pilot.

  I wanted the truth. But it was the lie that lingered like bloody chum on troubled waters. What I really wanted was something forbidden, denied to me.

  I wanted into her world.

  The newsroom was strangely quiet, even for a Sunday afternoon. I should have just gone home but being alone didn’t appeal.

  Finding Talon waiting at the door to the newsroom appealed even less. He was not surprised to see me.

  Fuck the damn desk guy. I’d bet the farm he’d been given instructions to alert the gendarmes as soon as I set foot in the door.

  Before I could get a word out, he barked, “My office, now.”

  I’d been to the woodshed often enough to know this wasn’t going to be pretty.

  An ass-whooping was the least of my problems. Talon motioned to the chair. I sat.

  “That was the fucking stupidest stunt you’ve ever pulled, Shephard.”

  No ‘Micah’. I was thinking it was time to prepare for my last rites as a private dick when he interrupted that chain of thought.

  “And it’s possible you stumbled onto something big.” He picked up the overflowing file folder and stack of photos I’d left on his desk the day before and handed it over.

  Big. No shit, Dick Tracey.

  I might not have said it out loud but he knew and glared hard enough I wanted to crawl into a hole. I wasn’t exactly awash in clients, so losing this one wasn’t an option.

  I hadn’t given Annie much thought lately. But now her admonition to keep our clients happy surfaced, too late as usual. She was the one who was good at blowing sunshine up a client’s ass. Not me.

  Talon interrupted my agitated thoughts. “I need for you to pursue a lead.” He flipped another folder open and yanked a sticky note off the top sheet. “I want you to clear your calendar.”

  “What—?”

  He handed the note over, leaving me to stare, clueless, at the scribbling.

  “Nawlins.” He pronounced it like the sout
hern gentleman he’d once been. “Upstairs broke the piggybank. It’s mostly loose change but you’ll have three days, all expenses. Within reason.” He glanced at his watch. “Your flight leaves Tuesday at two-fifteen. Better get home and pack.” He handed over the other folder, dismissing me with a glare.

  I didn’t know what to say so I just bolted out of his office, needing to get home to collect my iPad, notebooks, passport and underwear. Between now and the flight, I’d have enough time to work through the new information. So far hard facts hadn’t yielded squat. I wanted to go back and visit with Sasha, though with the edge off, it seemed less compelling than the day before.

  I still didn’t understand why the paper needed to hire an outside consultant like me to do the snoop-dog routine on a rash of killings that had all the earmarks of a Hollywood thriller. It had all of the ‘been there done that’ vibe that might titillate the tabloids but the Post was respectable, conservative old school. The only thing that interested them was power: who had it, who wanted it, and what were they willing to spend to get it.

  I flagged a cab and sat in irritated silence, mulling over options I hadn’t been aware of. Dead hookers, even drained dead hookers, simply should not be blowing a breeze up anyone’s skirt. Yet there it was, sitting on my lap—a prime directive of sorts. An all-expenses paid jaunt to the Big Easy. Names, addresses and a pass to hang and soak up some jazz.

  Déjà vu.

  Back to the beginning.

  Back to the end.

  If I hadn’t had my little epiphany in the alley, I might never have connected the dots… or agreed to this trip. The Vamp feeding on me had awakened memories someone had tried hard to erase. I was betting that had been Trina, maybe someone else. That I might never know.

  I also knew whoever was draining and killing innocent and not-so-innocent victims in my city was a different animal altogether from any vigilantes or sick fucks with a hard-on for messy.