Forbidden Fangs

Chapter 17

The detectives stopped for coffee and donuts, and then Baker got on one of the main streets going across town while Pete munched and sipped in the passenger seat. They drove to a part of town Baker usually avoided, where gothic arches and buttresses peered out of the shadowy night. It was one of the richer parts of town, where folk with a particular brand of taste chose to live. The driveways were long and the trees were skeletal, almost as if they knew where they grew and accommodated the style.

They parked on the road and got out slowly, one at a time, the police vehicle lurching first one way and then the other on its shocks. Pete dusted sugar from his fingertips and took a final swig of coffee before leaving his cup in the car and slamming the door.

“Damn, these are some fancy digs!” He crowed, looking up at the looming houses. “What do you think one of these places would set you back, Myron?”

“An arm and a leg, or at least a pint of blood.” Baker said darkly. Pete laughed at that like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

“Is this the one?” He asked, taking a step toward the nearest house.

“Yep,” Baker replied, “that's the official headquarters of the only branch of the Gothic Vampires in town. It seemed like the most logical place to start,” he added, wishing there had been another option. He couldn't sandbag his own investigation, though; the Gothic Vampire cult was by far their best lead.

They walked up the paved driveway and climbed the cleanly cut stone steps to the broad, black-painted door. The curtains on the first floor were all drawn, but light shone through, and the long driveway was full of cars. It seemed the headquarters was hosting an event that night. How perfect. They'd have more than one vampiric freak to deal with.

“Your lead,” Pete said with a mock-bow, indicating the doorbell. Baker took a deep breath and rang it with his thick thumb. A deep gong echoed from inside, and after a moment the sound of footsteps followed, and then the door opened.

A small slender man with short black hair and dark gothic makeup looked up at them from the threshold. He smiled and bobbed his head slightly as he took them in.

“Yes, gentlemen? May I help you? You'll forgive me for assuming you aren't guests for tonight's party.”

“Forgiven,” Baker said uneasily. “You're quite right. We're with the Wallgrave Police - I'm Detective Baker, and this is Detective Davids. We'd like to ask you, and possibly your guests, some questions about a murder which occurred last night in the woods south of town.”

“Oh yes, I heard about it.” The small man's dark eyes glowed. “What a tragedy, to lose one so young.”

“There were certain details of the death which were not revealed to the press,” Baker started to say.

“You mean, like the fact that the young man was killed by having his blood drained through his neck? Yes, I thought that might bring the police to my doorstep. Although not so quickly.”

“How did you know that?” Baker demanded.

“My dear detective,” the man drawled, “this is a small town. People talk. Often, they talk to me. And when it is regarding anything in the slightest vampiric… well, I always listen.”

“You'd better start giving my partner some better answers,” Pete broke in, playing the back-seat bad cop, “or we'll break up your party and start hauling your guests down to the station. Until we find out who shared the details of the murder with you.”

“Oh, very well.” The man splayed both palms in surrender. “You may as well come in, then. We'll use my study.” He stepped back and they crossed the threshold and followed him up a spiral staircase to small room featuring four chairs, a desk, and some rather intriguing gothic artwork. They all sat and they took down the man's information. His name was Decker Meeks, and contrary to his appearance and his fancy for vampirism, he ran a local construction company. It only took a few questions to learn that he had gotten his information on the murder from a friend of a friend who knew one of the paramedics that had carted the unfortunate boy away.

“But I'm afraid that's all I shall say on the matter,” Meeks added, displaying his palms again. “If you feel the need to detain me or my guests, so be it, but I shan't go naming my sources. They tend to dry up when you do that.”

“Very well,” Baker said, “we do have other questions for you, though.”

“Oh really? Such as what?”

Baker frowned and blew a sigh through his lips.

“Do you know anyone who would be capable of and interested in killing a man in such way? Anyone who, for example, actually believes that they are a vampire, or that they require human blood to drink?” Meeks laughed like silk falling on a warm breeze.

“My dear detective,” he said, “my friends and I may take ourselves a tad bit too seriously at times, but I assure you none of us are interested in anything so… inappropriate. We drink red wine at these soirees and call it blood. I assure you, that is the extent of our vampirism. Despite my fascination with the culture, I must admit I'm rather squeamish at the sight of actual blood.”

“Really? A squeamish vampire.” Pete chuckled. “Now I've heard of everything.”

“Do you have connections to anyone who takes their fascination with the culture more… seriously?” Baker asked. “Anyone who might go so far as to actually drain a man's blood and leave his body in the woods?”

“Not that I can think of,” Meeks said slowly, “although… there was one strange young man I encountered a couple years ago. He contacted me inquiring about any vampiric texts I might be interested in selling. I assured him nothing in my collection is for sale, and invited him to join our group. He said that his interest in the culture was more… what was the term he used? Practical. I only spoke with him over the phone, but to be honest I felt quite judged.”

“Did you get his name?” Baker asked, spreading his notepad on his knee and clicking his pen several times. This could be the piece of information that got them out of the gothic neighbourhood and back on the road.

“I did,” Meeks said with a nod, “and I don't mind sharing it a bit. He called himself Logan Alluvian.”