Drinker of Blood Read online

  “The ME will have a better idea, but judging by the smell, I’d say at least a day.” Ericsson made a face. “It might just be a therianthrope killing, but the bite marks look wrong. Too human. Could be a wendigo, but I’m kind of hoping we don’t have a grendel and a wendigo on the loose at the same time.”

  “You and me both,” John said fervently. “We’ll take a look.”

  He started up the stairs. Zahira followed, and Caleb came last. The agents stepped well back as he passed, and a shudder ran through Ericsson.

  “I hate it when that thing gets too close,” Ericsson said to the other agent, once Caleb was halfway up the stairs. He kept his voice down, but Caleb’s hearing was sharper than that of anyone unpossessed. “Makes my skin crawl. Be glad you can’t feel it.”

  “I don’t need to feel it,” the other replied, also murmuring. “Just looking at that freak is bad enough.”

  Caleb’s hands clenched. If they realized he could hear them, it would only make things worse, though. So he pretended not to, even as acid etched holes in his stomach.

  Instead, he let himself be distracted by the stink of rot and dried blood, which wafted down from the second floor. “Left,” he said, when John hesitated at the top of the stairs. John gave a quick nod and went in the direction Caleb indicated.

  The master bedroom was no less ostentatious than the other rooms. An antique canopy bed dominated the space, the curtains tied back. Blood spattered the rich carpet, the wallpaper, and the mirror in a gilded frame hanging above the small fireplace.

  The window was open, which meant the full heat of the day had its chance to work on the body. Flies buzzed in an angry cloud. Caleb looked at the shape in the bed—then hastily turned his back on it. Fuck, he’d never get used to this shit.

  “Gray?” Zahira asked. “Did the grendel do this? Can you tell?”

  “There’s no smell of demon—I mean, NHE—left,” Caleb said, without bothering to ask Gray first. “Just blood and…things.”

  “The open window.”

  “Hold on.” Caleb crossed the room, then bent down, almost pressing his nose against the sill.

  The scent was faint. If they’d been closer to the bay, Caleb might have put the trace of rotting marsh grass and stagnant water down to nature. “It’s really faded, but yeah. This was the work of the grendel.”

  * * *

  John poured another cup of coffee and told himself caffeine was almost as good as a full night’s sleep. His eyes felt gritty, and a part of him longed to stretch out on top of the conference room table and just take a nap.

  Instead, he forced a smile on his face as he turned back to his small team. “Nectar of the gods,” he said, lifting the cup.

  “Then the gods have some awfully low standards,” Caleb said. He leaned back, chair tilted precariously on its rear legs. Out of everyone at SPECTR, he was the only one who didn’t seem worse for wear after the last few weeks. No bags under his eyes, or zombie shuffle to the coffee maker in the morning.

  Thanks to Gray, no doubt. What were their limits? Gray’s presence might have altered him, but surely Caleb still needed REM sleep to keep sane. Probably, anyway. Whatever the case, he certainly didn’t need as much sleep as an ordinary person.

  Zahira hid a yawn behind her hand. “Here’s the file on the victim,” she said, waving it in the air. “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

  She handed it to John while she went to pour her own coffee. John sat down and smacked Caleb’s leg. “Feet on the floor, Caleb.”

  “Fine.” Caleb’s chair came down on the front legs with a loud thunk. “So let’s have the run down on the victim.”

  John opened the file. Wilkinson had been handsome in life, with iron gray hair, a fit body, and a face suspiciously free of wrinkles. “Brice Wilkinson,” he said, as Zahira settled in across from him. “Sixty-six years old, born in Charleston. Retired, and his last job was…shit.”

  Caleb perked up. “What?”

  “He worked at the college.” John glanced up, saw Zahira had paused with her coffee halfway to her mouth. “He held a couple of different positions, but for the last ten years he worked as the Dean of Student Affairs.”

  “One victim a current student, and the other the former Dean of Student Affairs.” Caleb’s brown eyes had gone thoughtful. “So maybe this is pointing us toward a student, and away from faculty?”

  “If nothing else, it does seem to confirm the college is the focus of the grendel’s attention,” Zahira agreed.

  “When did he retire?” Caleb asked.

  “At the end of the spring semester.” John scanned rapidly down the page. “I don’t see any other obvious connections between him and Scheffler.”

  “So if we find the connection between Scheffler and Wilkinson, that might narrow our list of suspects,” Caleb said. “Considering I doubt most students could pick any of the deans out of a police lineup, there must be something.”

  “True.” John downed the rest of his coffee, despite the acid chewing at his stomach. “All right. I’ll continue with the exorcist interviews, focusing on any with a connection to the college, no matter how slim. You two go find the current dean and see if they’re willing to help. Or if they even can, given we still don’t have permission from Scheffler’s parents to access his student records.”

  Zahira sipped her coffee. “Do you think that’s suspicious? Surely they should be eager to do anything to help bring his killer to justice.”

  “Hard to say.” John rubbed at his aching eyes. “Grieving people don’t always act rationally. Given their son was the victim, they might just see it as a waste of time when we should be focusing on the killer.”

  “Maybe.” Caleb frowned, his eyes unfocussed. “But when there’s a death in the family, there is one thing some people will go to almost any lengths to protect.”

  “What?” John asked.

  Caleb glanced at him. “Reputation. Either his…or theirs.”

  John considered a long moment…then nodded. “You have a good point. All right. Let’s head out and see what we can find.”

  * * *

  Caleb smelled the ghoul almost the moment they stepped out of the condo. Rot and grave dust, and his belly cramped with hunger that had nothing to do with the take-out they’d grabbed after a long, pointless day.

  The new dean had answered all of Caleb and Zahira’s questions with an air of polite regret. She could speak in generalities, of course, but couldn’t comment on any specific interactions between the former dean and Scheffler, without running the risk of violating privacy laws. What had happened to them both was deeply troubling—frightening, even—but without a court order, her hands were tied.

  A court order they didn’t have, and didn’t seem likely to get. More and more, Caleb was beginning to think he’d been right with his guess, that someone with money and influence was protecting their reputation. Whether that reputation belonged to Scheffler, the college, or someone else, he had no idea.

  As a parting shot, the dean had suggested they find the grendel quickly, before panic could spread among the students. As if they weren’t working their asses off trying to do just that.

  Well, if he couldn’t find the damned grendel, maybe he and Gray would have more luck with the not-demon. They’d left John dozing on the couch, worn out after a long day of harassing other paranormals with no more results than Caleb and Zahira had gotten. After dinner, Caleb had lied to John, told him Deacon had texted him about getting a beer, and not to wait up.

  The lie sent a twinge of guilt through him, but surely it was better than sneaking out after John was asleep. Unfortunately, it also meant he had to leave the condo in street clothes, without the protection of his kevlar-lined coat and ass-kicking boots.

  And now here, on the very street where they lived, was a fucking ghoul.

  Gray roused, and Caleb’s teeth burned. “Good.”

  No, not good. After all these months, the area had to be saturated with Gray’s etheric scent. A regular person wouldn’t notice, but a ghoul’s superhuman nose would surely have picked up on it, the way a mouse would smell a fox’s den. Prey didn’t just waltz right up to its predator’s burrow, not unless it was particularly stupid. Or controlled by a brain parasite; hadn’t he read something about that on the internet?

  “You are wasting time while the ghoul gets away. What does it matter why it came here? It will not live to regret its mistake.”

  Fine. Caleb broke into a jog. There were still a few people wandering around on the streets, but Waterfront Park looked empty, and the trail led straight there.

  But why? Ghouls were scavengers. Was there a dead body in the park?

  A subtle shift in the wind, and he smelled it. Hot metal and burning stone, black earth heaved up into the sun, ancient rock and water.

  The not-demon.

  It had killed the lycanthrope they found last week. Was it after the ghoul now as well?

  “No! The ghoul is ours to eat.”

  Caleb broke into a run, spurred on by Gray. The drakul hovered right under their skin, pushing for control. Hold up, until we see what’s going on.

  The ghoul came into view, flattened against the railing overlooking the marsh, as though it had tried to squeeze through and escape into the tall grass below. But the ghoul wasn’t alone.

  Another figure stood there, bracketing the ghoul between itself and Gray. The faint light from the city glowed off shoulder-length hair so pale it bordered on white. The figure had a slender build, shorter than Caleb, and the breeze off the bay ruffled its hair and billowed the long coat it wore despite the sultry heat of the night.

  Caleb slowed, heart pounding. This was what they’d been tracking all along. The not-demon.

  But what the hell was
it?

  It—he?—looked human. But it couldn’t be, not with that scent.

  The not-demon turned his attention from the ghoul to them. Its eyes were like volcanic glass, lit from within by an orange glow, as though lava boiled deep inside. Its mouth widened in a grin, and ivory fangs flashed in the night.

  Fangs. Oh hell. No wonder it didn’t smell like food. It wasn’t a demon at all.

  It was another drakul.

  Chapter 5

  Gray flashes forward, Caleb falling back in an instant.

  Another drakul.

  He has never met another like himself, not in all his long wanderings on the mortal plane. The mortals who called themselves the Vigilant claimed others existed, but even those were meant to be possessors of corpses. As Gray had been, before Caleb.

  This one inhabits a living body.

  “Oh shit, this is bad.”

  Caleb’s panic flares along their nerves, but Gray ignores it, focusing instead on the creature in front of him. It does not seem insane, as those who enter living bodies directly from the etheric plane are supposed to be. As Forsyth’s drakul was.

  Could it be…like him? Could it have taken a host that returned to life unexpectedly, as Caleb did?

  The ghoul whimpers. It reminds Gray that this drakul has been hunting on his territory, in his city. It has interfered with his hunts.

  Gray’s lips twitch back, and he lets out a warning growl.

  But the other drakul doesn’t seem intimidated. Instead, it stares back at him with something almost like joy spreading over its face.

  When it speaks, its voice is the grinding of rock on rock, deep and powerful. The sound of the world breaking.

  “It is you.”

  “What the hell? Do you know this thing?”

  Gray has no answer for Caleb; he is equally confused. “What do you mean?” he asks the other.

  “It is you,” it repeats, and steps toward them, one claw-tipped hand outstretched.

  Gray jerks back with a warning snarl. “Come no closer. Who are you? Why are you here?”

  For a moment, the joy fades, and the other looks almost…lost. “Do you not remember me?” it asks. It holds out its hand again, etheric energy flaring. “Scent is a thing of this world.” Its volcanic glass eyes remain on him, steady. “As is flesh. But our essence remains.”

  Uncertain, Gray reaches back, and the edges of their energy touch.

  Something cracks open—recognition, memory, from the time before he came to this world. Swooping and diving and hunting. He drives the prey down from the sky, and the other drives prey up from the earth.

  The other. This one.

  “Yes,” Gray says, and the words reverberate through him like a shockwave. “I remember.”

  * * *

  “Wait, stop!” Caleb exclaimed, and held up his hands.

  For a moment, Gray fought him for control. “You saw the memories. I know this one.”

  The sky and the earth. The storm and the earthquake.

  And shit, that was not something Caleb wanted to think about now. The sheer destructive power standing in front of him, waiting to be unlocked…

  I know, he told Gray. But he’s on this side of the veil now, and you damned well know what that means.

  Because etheric entities didn’t tend to fare well in the mortal realm, experiencing things like pain and terror and hunger for the first time. Whatever their natural psychology was, it didn’t equip them for human existence. They went mad, twisted by whatever mortal summoned them. A man dying of hunger might turn an entity into a wendigo. An NHE summoned in rage, to become stronger and punish the enemies of the faust, would twist into a therianthrope.

  But those were low-level entities. Even something like the grendel, as powerful as it was, was way down the food chain from a drakul.

  When drakul ran mad, entire civilizations remembered.

  “I’m Caleb Jansen,” he said, and was grateful his voice didn’t shake. “Let me talk to your host.”

  Because that right there should tell them if this drakul was solid gone. True, it hadn’t been rampaging around Charleston yet—there would be too high of a body count for them to have missed—but if it had taken over and swept away whatever poor bastard it possessed, they were in serious trouble.

  For a moment, Caleb didn’t think the other drakul would comply. Then suddenly, it was gone, all that energy sucked inside and folded up, and Caleb found himself facing an ordinary man.

  Well, not ordinary, exactly. Not with those cheekbones that could cut glass, and eyes like blue chips of ice. Not to mention the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he gave Caleb a grin. “Sorry about that,” he said. Was that just the trace of an accent? Russian, maybe? “Dru’s terrible at explaining things. I thought maybe another drakul would understand him better, but apparently not.”

  At least the guy sounded sane. “Dru?”

  “Drugoy. It’s what I call him. But where are my manners?” He thrust a hand out at Caleb. “Yuri Azarov, at your service.”

  “This is pointless. I wish to speak to the other.” Gray tasted the name. “Drugoy.”

  It isn’t pointless. Hush and let me do this.

  “Caleb Jansen,” Caleb said, shaking his hand. Yuri’s grip was firm but not overly so, his palm cool and dry against Caleb’s. “Sorry, but let’s cut to the chase. How long have you been possessed?” If it was less than forty days, they could still help him. Drakul couldn’t be easily exorcised, but John had made damn sure the Vigilant’s ritual was entered into SPECTR archives. Just in case.

  Seeing them distracted, the ghoul tried to bolt. Yuri kicked it, almost casually. Its body impacted the iron railing with a wet crunch, and it collapsed into a whimpering heap.

  “Around sixty years, give or take,” Yuri said, as though there’d been no interruption. “One loses track.”

  “Sixty…” Caleb trailed off.

  Sixty years. And he looked in his mid-twenties at best.

  Caleb had wondered from the start. Gray continuously healed their shared body, and Caleb always knew there was a good chance that would include the damage done by time. But he’d tried not to think about it, because of all it implied. That if they survived SPECTR and demons and every other damned thing, their big reward would be watching John grow old and die.

  He felt as though he’d been punched by something powerful, everything breaking apart inside.

  Yuri frowned and quickly reached out, putting a hand to Caleb’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve…I’ve only been possessed a few months.” Caleb swallowed. “I didn’t know…”

  To his surprise, Yuri laughed. “Then I have good news, friend. You’ll never have to worry about gray hair and wrinkles. You have what people throughout history have spent their whole lives searching for. Immortality.” His laugh faded, and he frowned. “That’s not cheering you up.”

  “It’s…just a lot to process.” Because no way was he telling this guy about John.

  “Why are you not listening? I know this other drakul.”

  You hunted with him on the etheric plane five-thousand years ago. I don’t know what that even means in terms of human relationships. But I’m not risking John because you think this drakul hasn’t changed in all that time.

  “You were looking for us,” Caleb said. “Because Dru recognized Gray. But how? Gray didn’t recognize him. Not until their energy touched.”

  “Gray,” Yuri said slowly. Rolling the name over his tongue, even as a deeper edge crept into his voice. “We saw you on the television at Fort Sumter, before the feed was cut.”

  God-damned Forsyth. Still causing trouble for them long after death. “Oh.”

  “We knew there was another living drakul. That we weren’t alone anymore.” Yuri glanced away, out over the water, then back at them. “Just for that, we would have come to you no matter what. But Dru was certain there was something familiar about the pattern of the drakul’s energy, when it was fully manifested. Gray’s, that is, not the one you were fighting.” Yuri cocked his head to one side. “What happened to him, anyway?”

  Well, if anyone would understand, it was probably Yuri. “We ate him.”

  Yuri laughed again and held up his hands, as if to ward them off. “Well, then, a good thing we brought you dinner!” He gestured to the whimpering ghoul.