Cold blood, p.1
Cold Blood, page 1
Cold Blood
Synopsis
In a single night, Kalila lost everything—her wife, their son, and even her life. Now, forced to live as the very monster she despises, she’s hunting down the vampire responsible, no matter how long it takes, or how many other vampires she has to kill along the way.
Dorenia is all too familiar with Kalila’s story. Her own vampiric nemesis has tormented her for over a century as retribution for his mistake in turning her. As an information broker in Toronto, the city of fiends, she’s managed to stay one step ahead by gathering all the intel she can and never staying in the same place very long.
When Kalila inadvertently saves Dorenia’s life, the two strike up an unlikely alliance. Maybe together, they’ll have a chance of taking down the vampires who have eluded them all these years. And maybe, in each other, they can find a love worth living for.
What Reviewers Say About Genevieve McCluer’s Work
Olivia
“There’s a playfulness at times, but then the seriousness of the situation hits the reader square in the face. At the halfway mark it suddenly took off for me. There was one heck of a surprise, that I did not see coming at all. I enjoyed the story and would like to read more in this world.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Blog
Thor: Daughter of Asgard
“Norse mythology intrudes on a bubbly romance in this light adventure from McCluer. …Readers will come for the gender bending mythology and stay for the light romance.”—Publishers Weekly
My Date with a Wendigo
“My Date with a Wendigo is a sweet, second chance romance at its furry little heart.”—Wicked Cool Flight
A Fae Tale
“This is an unusual tale, but a very enjoyable one. It’s funny and a bit kooky, but very sweet and romantic too. Genevieve McCluer writes great humorous prose and I found myself giggling out loud a few times in the course of reading this book. Her characters are well defined and fun, and she makes her secondary characters come to life as much as the main protagonists. An enjoyable read.”—Kitty Kat’s Book Blog
Cold Blood
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By the Author
A Fae Tale
Thor: Daughter of Asgard
Olivia
My Date with a Wendigo
Cold Blood
Cold Blood
© 2022 By Genevieve McCluer. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63679-196-8
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: April 2022
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Barbara Ann Wright
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Jessica, Danny, Alexandra, and Kasian for all of your support and help, and to my editor, Barbara.
Chapter One
I stride into the bar, looking around. It’s seedy, dank, dark, and smells of BO, piss, and stale peanuts. It’s exactly the sort of place a vampire would hunt for prey. The sort of bar where people could disappear, and the next day, everyone would forget who they’d ever been. It’s one of my favorite places to hunt.
In any other city.
This is the fifth bar I’ve checked out, and everyone inside seems to be an old drunk. I spent a good part of the last year clearing out Toledo, and when someone went to any seedy bar there, they had—at least before I was there too long—a good chance of catching the eye of a leech. They were everywhere, then, feeding on the desperate junkies who made up half the city. Maybe that was why they’d gotten so careless.
But I’ve been in Toronto for three days, and I haven’t found so much as a whiff of a vampire. I know they’re here, I have a good lead, even if it’s old enough to have gone cold, and there are other hunters in town. I’ve kept my distance, but I’m starting to run out of other options. Someone has to know something, and I need answers. He came here fourteen years ago. It’s taken me this long to track him down. I’m not losing him.
I walk over to the bar, taking my hat off as I sit.
The bartender takes his sweet time coming over to me, so I take another look around the place. It’s even uglier than before. To my right, there’s a fat man in a tank top barely able to keep himself in his chair. Behind me, there are a few older men laughing and drinking. At a table to my left is a couple actually eating in this dive. No accounting for taste.
The slob at the bar turns, seeming to notice me. He waves, his movements so sloppy that he bumps into a bowl of nuts and knocks over a cup of toothpicks. I pick up the eleven, individually wrapped toothpicks, put them back in the container, and right it. “I think you’ve had too much to drink,” I say.
“Must’ve,” he slurs. “Maybe you should take me home.”
It is better than I tended to get in Toledo, but I don’t feel it’ll help my search. “How about we call you a cab?”
“Oh, don’t mind Otto,” the bartender says. He’s an older man with grey hair and glasses. It’s possible he’s been here long enough to have some answers.
“I don’t want to see someone drink himself to death.”
He looks drunk Otto up and down. “Let me call you a cab.” He turns back to me. “And what about you? Can I get you anything, or did you come here to scare my customers off?”
I’ve had to grow used to it to avoid suspicion, but I’ve never developed a taste for alcohol. “Sure, a Coors.”
He grabs a bottle from under the bar, pops off the lid with his bare hand, and hands it to me. Neat trick. I could do it too, but his hands look calloused from years of practicing. “That’s quite an accent you’ve got.”
“I suppose so.” I sip the beer, trying not to let the discomfort show on my face. It’s weak enough that the taste isn’t quite revolting, but I cannot understand how people ever grow an appetite for the stuff.
“Where you from?”
“Toledo,” I say.
“That in Afghanistan?”
I sigh but force a smile. “It’s in Ohio.”
He nods, his eyes narrowing, taking me in. I’m wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt with a leather jacket, so there’s not much to see, but that never seems to stop old guys from judging me. He apparently decides better than to ask whatever wretched thing crawled into his head to make him ask all that in the first place. I was used to far worse back in the States. “What brings you to our fair city?”
Finally, an excuse to get information. “I’m looking for this man.” I take the crumpled photo from my pocket and slide it onto the bar. In it, a platoon of American soldiers sit together in mostly full uniforms. One’s missing a shirt and another has his unbuttoned. They’re posed with their weapons at the ready, grinning like lunatics at the camera. I tap the one with the open shirt.
He stares at the picture, his eyes narrowing. “Who is he?”
I can’t tell if there’s any recognition. He has a good poker face. Another skill I had to learn to get by in America. “He owes child support.” Barring a few assholes, which I have no way of knowing if this guy is one, it’s a story that works with most people. No one likes the idea of a kid being left to starve because his father is too much of a coward.
“You the mom?”
“It make a difference?”
He grunts. “I can’t say I recognize him.”
Is he lying? I stare at him, studying his eyes. They’re brown, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say they looked honest. He has laugh lines all around them. I nod. “All right.”
“You’re sure he’s in town?”
“He was. I haven’t heard anything in a long time.” If I am honest about the date, it will raise some questions on the child support, so I keep it vague.
He purses his lips, studying me before finally nodding. “It’s a big city.”
“So I’m learning.” It has been three days, and I haven’t learned a thing. I bought a new machete and some flex cuffs but barely have enough money left for a few more drinks. “Know any good poker games in town?” I ask with a light chuckle. I can’t exactly get an ordinary job, and it’s looking like I’ll have to bribe a lot of people to get the slightest bit of information. Three days, so many questions, and not a single vampire. It doesn’t make sense. What makes Toronto so special?
“I usually go down to Windsor. They have a nice casino there.”
It is doable in a pinch. I should’ve stopped on the way when I saw the casino, but I wanted to hurry. I’d been so sure I finally had him. Years of killing vampires and hunting for this bastard, and I finally have a clue where he is, only
“Hell, maybe your ex is there. It’s where I’d go if I wanted to avoid everyone and had to make sure I didn’t have money.”
I want to throw up at the idea of him being my ex. Or maybe it’s the beer. “Thank you.”
“Anything else I can get you?”
I gaze meaningfully at my drink as if I strongly want another but am trying to resist. “No. I have work to do. Thank you, though.” I stand, pay my tab, grab my hat, and walk back outside.
No one even follows me.
What does it take in this town to find a vampire? Sighing, I put the hat on and stare at the starry sky. It’s a perfect night for a hunt. They should be out in numbers.
I can practically smell the blood in the air.
But there’s nothing.
It doesn’t make any sense. I kick the gravel of the parking lot, knocking up dust. I’ve been in dozens of towns, and none of them have been this empty. Three days is plenty of time to at least catch a hint of something supernatural.
Could it be because that monster was here? He didn’t seem like he had any sort of control when I met him. It couldn’t be possible that he’s managed to corral a mass of leeches into any semblance of order. But what else can make Toronto so unusual?
I’ll just have to find that out, won’t I? Since no one seems to want to attack me, I climb into my beat-up old Chevy pickup and hit the road. There are plenty of places to still look, and with how weird Toronto is, it might not be dangerous to do so.
That makes it boring, but it could make finding things out easier.
I drive to the nearest blood bank. It’s always a gamble, but maybe it will explain why all the hunting grounds are empty. I suppose I’ll have to hope that it’s not as useless as they tend to be.
Chapter Two
The first blood bank I find on Google Maps is in the basement of a hospital. The place stinks of embalming fluid and cleaning supplies. There’s no way any vampires would come in here, right? As sensitive as their senses are, it would be overwhelming. The fluorescent lights are so bright I can barely stand it.
I have to take a few turns and consult a number of signs, but I finally manage to find a door to the right room. Inside, I find an equally sterile and painfully bright room. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in it, but there’s a desk out front and a bell on it. I ring it and promptly have to ring it again to make sure.
Twice should be plenty. I know I rang it.
I stare at the bell.
I hit it one more time and groan. That was completely unnecessary. Now they’re going to think I’m impatient or playing around, and neither one is useful.
A woman wearing hospital scrubs and a lab coat pops in through a door in the back. “Can I help you?” she asks, eyeing me as if I’m someone who kept repeatedly ringing their bell when they were trying to get work done.
I try a smile but quickly give up, hiding my teeth. I’ve never had a great smile, and I swear it’s only grown less sincere-looking. I have had years practicing this conversation, almost a decade at this point, and it never gets any less awkward. How do you ask someone if they’re breaking the law to provide food to monsters? You either sound crazy or like a cop. Often both. “Has anyone else been coming around here lately?” I try. “Like, who doesn’t work for the hospital?”
She chuckles and eyes me, seeming to study every inch. It makes me feel rather exposed. “What kind of question is that?”
It’s better than telling me to fuck off, which is about what I got half the time in these places. I’ll have to play this cautiously. She’s already suspicious, and I feel like, if I ask anything too strange or probe too hard, she might not give me anything at all, but on the other hand, if I make it too vague, then I may miss out on details that can get me a lot further. Bars are so much easier. At least in every other city. There are enough of them that losing access to one isn’t nearly as big of a hurdle, and they don’t tend to freak out half as quickly when questioned.
Which leaves me one option. Generally, the best one, but I hate doing it. It feels vulgar. “Well, if I’m not the only one coming, it means I’m not barking up the wrong tree.”
She stares harder. Am I taking the wrong tack? It’s always tough to predict.
I should’ve tried the picture. Pretending he’s the father of my child always hurts, but it’s the easiest way to get answers. “I can take my money elsewhere.” I’ve already picked my method of attack, and it’s too late to try to change it, so all I can do is double down.
“You do know what city you’re in, right?”
Now it’s my turn to stare. However, I’m not sizing her up, I’m simply at a complete loss. What could that possibly mean? “I’m sorry?”
“I suppose you’re not from around here. Your kind doesn’t shop at the blood banks here. There are places that cater specifically to you.”
“I’m not…” I take a deep breath, stopping myself. She has to think I’m shopping for blood, even if it means I have to endure the indignity of her believing I’m a leech. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She chuckles. “All I know is, once I started here, I was handed a flyer and told to give it to anyone who looked all sickly and wanted to buy blood.”
“I look sickly?”
She shrugs. “A little. Maybe not as pale as most. The accent is pretty vampiric, though.”
It takes every fiber of my being not to lash out. My accent is vampiric? What does that mean? I’m not Romanian. Is any foreigner automatically a vampire? “What’s this flyer?” I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Sickly and vampiric? I shudder.
“Gimme a minute,” she says and goes back through the door.
I look around. There’s not a proper waiting room, only two chairs and a table. Other than that, there’s the counter and a number of cabinets behind it. Nothing much to investigate, and it’s not like they’d have any files relevant to old vampires anyway.
Before I can sit, she comes back out holding a piece of printer paper. “This should be it. Here you go.”
I take it from her, staring at it. All it says is, Blood Delivery, and a phone number. I turn back to her, trying not to let my confusion show too much. What is this? Is this why there aren’t so many vampires hunting in town? “This is legit?”
“We’re not allowed to sell anymore. I get a bit for referring you, though, so that’ll be nice.”
I gulp. Right, she thinks I’m ordering from them. Well, I suppose I am. How else am I going to see their clientele? He must be one of them. “Are there any other services like this?”
She shrugs. “I think there are a couple. That was the first flyer I found in the back.”
I shake my head, struggling to form words. I open my mouth to question her but close it again and narrow my eyes. What the hell is going on in this city?
She shrugs again. “It’s none of my business. Back in Quebec, I got a bunch of you lot, and now I don’t have to deal with that, and I get paid without having to break any rules. I’m not gonna complain.”
None of this is making any sense. “I just call this number?”
“Like ordering a pizza. Or do they not have that where you’re from?”
I grunt in acknowledgment and head out the door, unable to take my eyes off the paper. I’ve never heard of anything like this. There are nests of vampires all over the world. For a species that’s supposed to be endangered, it’s disturbing how common they are, but I suppose it doesn’t take much for them to reproduce. I touch my throat, far too easily able to imagine it. One night and there’s a new monster. Don’t have to wait nine months and a lifetime raising them.
I’ve been trying to keep up with their growth and keep the population down, but they must be reproducing faster than I’m killing them if there’s enough for this kind of organization.
In so many cities, there’ve been groups of them living together and hunting together. I’ve seen all kinds of societies of these monsters but nothing corporate. It feels wrong. There’s something about Toronto that’s different from anyplace else I’ve been, and I don’t trust it. It makes my blood run cold.
