And To Cherish

“We Kill for Profit”

23rd
in series

Copyright 2015, Jackie Ivie

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Quick. Clean. Efficient.

Her sword hand lopped off the man’s head. The other hand caught it. A rivulet of blood pooled in her hand, starting the hunger. Her teeth grew. Her lips parted. The need to feed was sharp. Intent. She fought it. Her sword flashed bits of light as she shook. And then finally, willpower won. Her canines receded. Her victim’s body had finished a slow drop from the sofa onto the floor. She placed his head back in position atop his neck. As if he slept. She stepped back. Looked him over. Nodded her approval. They called her Cherish. It didn't fit. Nobody had treasured or cherished her in her mortal life. She hadn't expected it. And after a time, she hadn't wanted it.

So now, she returned the favor.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, Cherish was gone. And that’s when the man’s girlfriend finally started screaming. Other than a quirk of her lips, Cherish didn’t respond. Said girlfriend was easily overlooked and just as quickly forgotten. She wasn’t even the one that had been in the man’s photo. She must be a new model. So new, she probably didn’t even qualify as a mistress. So. New girlfriend had two options. Report the murder and what she’d seen. Or run. That’s what came of taking up with a married man. A
rich
married man. Cherish added to the description. The girlfriend was not only cheating, she was consorting with a man known for the further complication of a jealous, vindictive, and very vengeful spouse.

Cherish rather suspected the girlfriend would take option two.

Not that she cared one way or the other. The night was young. A full moon bathed the St. Louis arch in shades of blue and gray. Moonlight also touched the Mississippi River, lifting the slightest haze of fog. St. Louis was a beautiful sight. Especially when viewed in her afterlife. Maybe she’d drop by the Rock House later, if she had time. That building was a supposedly haunted section of Edgewood Children’s Center. She could always add to the rumors attached to the place. It would be like a homecoming. Only back when she’d lived there it had been called the Orphans’ Asylum. St. Louis hadn’t been nearly as large then.

Nor as beautiful.

Cherish turned from the view. She had one more hit on her list for the evening. A woman this time. A rich woman in her mid-fifties with frosted blond hair and a surgically toned frame. That façade hid a heart as evil and black as her newly deceased husband. Cherish didn’t deal in names. She didn’t want to know anything more than she needed to get the job done. It was rather amusing if she stopped to mull it. Rich man had paid for a hit on his middle-aged wife. Wife had paid for hit on her philandering husband. It would have made a great murder/suicide headline if they’d spent the night together.

But no.

The husband had taken his newest arm-candy to a fabulous restaurant, followed by a trip to his company-paid apartment. As for the wife? That woman was attending a charity function of some kind, featuring birds from some wildlife sanctuary. Cherish arrived at the hotel within moments. Skulked around the lobby for a bit. Absorbed the music. People. Ambiance.

One thing was certain. She wasn’t going to fit in. Not in tight denim pants, corset top, leather boots and jacket...and most damning, a recently used sword at her back. Not exactly what was expected. This charity function looked like a black-tie affair with a fairly strict dress code. Women of all ages and descriptions milled about. All of them were adorned in gowns of various designs and materials, sparkling with jewels. Most were middle-aged, in very good shape, and quite a few had frosted blond hair. There weren’t many gents. That was odd. Didn’t events like this bring out men, too? Cherish tagged three men in the foyer area, mainly because they were taller than most of the crowd. They all looked fairly uncomfortable in their finery. Like penguins in a bird-of-paradise gathering.

Nobody seemed to notice her much, despite her attire. Not that it mattered. She was an efficient assassin.

Anytime.

Anywhere.

She was merciless. Fast. Impossible to photograph. And eye witnesses were notoriously inaccurate. Cherish lifted from the floor, subconsciously hovering a foot above everyone. Her job was gaining difficulty by the moment. She might have to call for more specifics. She’d reached the cell phone in an inner jacket pocket when she spotted the woman.

Her hit was wearing a sparkly gold dress that looked glued onto her. Her frosted blond hair was in an up-do, showing off all kinds of spray-tanned flesh. The extent of it was displayed as the woman turned about, showing a fountain of multi-colored jewels cascading down her bare back. That was stunning. Especially if they were real. The woman was heading away from the crowd. Along a hall...

Cherish followed, tagging shadowed doorways as she went. Using her diminutive size and nondescript attire to advantage.

This was interesting. And advantageous. Separating a victim from the herd was a predator’s prime
modus operandi
. Cherish almost smiled at the simile as the woman turned down yet another long hall. This one probably led to an indoor pool if the heated moisture in the air was an indicator. Beads of it mottled the glass-lined walkway, while outside the moon continued to shed a pale glow on shrouded lawn furniture. Cherish watched her mark enter a locker room for women. She passed by the dressing and shower area. Entered a stall. Clicked it shut behind her.

Ah.

Her woman wanted privacy. How...helpful.

Cherish was waiting as the woman exited, washed her hands, took an amazing amount of time freshening her makeup from items fished out of her bejeweled evening bag. Never once did the woman look over her shoulder. As if she was alone. That was interesting. And naïve.

The woman patted at stray strands of hair, before finally turning. Her gasp, followed by the clunk of her evening bag as it dropped was gratifying. It even echoed. And that made Cherish smile. This one was too easy. She should probably give a discount.

“Who are you?”

The woman regained her composure as easily as she did her bag. She really did have a spectacular dress although the waterfall of jewelry cascading down her back didn’t look real. Maybe it was just the reflection in the mirror. She was a very cool customer, however. She didn’t sound or look concerned as she demanded Cherish’s identity.

“Vampire assassin,” Cherish replied.

“Is Gary dead, then? Is that why you’re here?”

“Not exactly.”

Cherish’s smile vanished. As did any good humor. She didn’t want to know anything about her kills. Names. Birthdates. Likes or dislikes. The woman had just violated the code and made it personal. Damn her.

“He isn’t dead?”

“Oh. I didn’t say that.”

“He is dead then?”

Cherish nodded.

“Then what? You want more money? Is that it? You’re extorting now?”

“Not exactly.” Cherish drew her sword from over her shoulder. She watched the woman’s eyes widen, but that was the only sign she gave that it mattered. Nothing about her reflection changed, either.

“Are you threatening me?”

“You should have paid for a divorce attorney. Or used a different service.”

“What?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You newly-deceased husband paid for your assassination. Too.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“No. I’m not. We charged more for you. In case that helps.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

The woman was fearless. She’d fished a small gun from her handbag and aimed it at Cherish as she spoke. Her voice didn’t even waver. If Cherish had the ability to sigh, she’d have done it. Instead she shook her head.

“That won’t work, Lady. I’m a vampire.”

“Vampires don’t exist.”

Cherish shrugged. “Fair enough.”

The woman fired three shots in quick succession. She didn’t get another. Cherish twisted her wrist, deflecting all of them. The sound was loud in the locker room, echoing long after the event. The first bullet slashed at the woman’s throat before hitting the mirror, making a spiral bulls-eye of shattered glass that distorted the view. The next two hit the woman squarely in her surgically enhanced bosom. Shock bloomed across the woman’s features as she sagged to the ground in a puddle of sparkly gold dress, multi-colored jewels, and blood. Cherish didn’t wait another second. The scent and sight of blood was overpowering, sparking need again. Her fangs responded, instantly going to puncturing sharp and feeding thick. She hadn’t much time. The woman had slashed an artery in her neck and taking from a corpse left an unpleasant aftertaste.

Even for a vampire.

She was still pulling air into her chest when Cherish drew back. Replete. Sated. Full. And the woman’s still-living state gave an opportunity to lick the dual stab wounds closed. This victim had been a very tough woman. It took several more long moments of listening to the woman’s raspy breathing as each one got slower and quieter. She even toyed with giving the woman a quick death by beheading, but the sight of her nicked blade stopped that impulse.

Damn
. She liked this sword.

Then again, what did she care how long it took Victim Number Two to die or if it pained? Humanity was a cesspool of hate and cruelty. Always had been.

Cherish stood, wiped her sword along the woman’s gold dress before sheathing it along her back. It had been a good night. Her assignment was over. Both hits accomplished. Nobody the wiser. This one was going to leave a crime scene no forensic department could decipher. The only clues consisted of a slash of blood on the woman’s gown that came from Victim Number One and the bullets might be flattened in an odd fashion. Cherish had wiped her sword for a reason. To link the murders.

It probably didn’t matter. Man and wife were miles apart. Husband’s death was a beheading. Another unsolved murder. The wife was different. She’d been attending a function in a five star hotel. Access was limited. Her evening bag was on the floor beside her. She still wore every one of her jewels. The bullet issue would probably just end up a scrawled note on the sidebar of the report. This death would be ruled a suicide.

Suicide by gunshot.

From more than six feet away.

Cherish studied Victim Two. She wasn’t moving. She’d ceased breathing. It was time to go. But just then the floor roiled, churning with a motion that should’ve cracked tiles. The woman’s body rolled toward the stall area while Cherish went aloft. Something unbelievable went through the enclosure next, lighting the space to a retina-searing hue. The effect was lightning quick, dazzlingly bright, and painfully hot. And then it dissipated. Her heart reacted with a thud that hurt. Cherish dropped slowly back to the floor, her mind racing through explanations. Had the complex been struck by lightning? From where? The sky had been a cloudless span. Nothing made sense. She’d been through earthquakes. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. She’d even been near a volcanic eruption once. This was something else.

And her heart was still beating. Rhythmically. Unmistakably. If she had a reflection, the jagged mirror would have been showing surprise and shock.

And fear.

“Ladies! Ladies! Oh! And don’t let me forget the few gentlemen here tonight! A hearty welcome to everyone! Thank you so much for your attendance and support! On behalf of the Bird Sanctuary, it is my supreme pleasure to introduce the main event. Now. Don’t tell me you haven’t been waiting. I know the truth. So. Before I bore you with more words, let me turn the stage over to our esteemed Ornithologist, and, as you probably know, the sanctuary’s most eligible bachelor...Doctor Samson Reid. Doctor Reid is appearing tonight with one of our favorite nocturnal raptors, a barn owl named Nightshade. So. Without further ado, I’ll just turn the stage over to Doctor Reid and Nightshade.”

Sam was flushed before the introduction finished. He was also a little cold and shaky, but that was probably stage-fright. He fiddled with Nightshade’s equipage. The owl wore a Dutch Hood made of three pieces shaped to fit the bird’s head. Nightshade was a perfectly trained and behaved bird, and, as an owl, he had incredible hearing. He didn’t need his sight to fly or hunt. Samson had brought the hood because the bird had trained while wearing it. This was a much bigger audience than usual. And unfamiliar territory.

Nightshade hadn’t balked at wearing the accessory, and in Samson’s opinion it added something to the bird’s predatory appearance. This hood had been constructed of brown leather, the match to the armband on Sam’s lower left arm, and
jesses
that were tied to the owl’s legs. Sam looped them loosely through the hooks on his armband. Nightshade wasn’t entirely secure, but the straps should hold if the owl got spooked. And Sam wanted some range of movement so the bird could lift and show off plumage.

The entire set-up jarred with the tuxedo he wore, however. The suit was fashioned in black, superfine wool. A satin stripe ran down both legs. His cummerbund and bowtie were brocaded black satin, the shirt shadow-striped white linen. The outfit was perfectly tailored. With his height and shoulders, measurements and fittings had proved time-consuming and tedious. It probably cost more than he made in six months, too.

The trustees hadn’t even balked at the cost. Since Sam had joined the sanctuary, attendance had tripled, donations were pouring in, and the press continually hounded the trustees for interviews with him, especially after that national magazine had done a bachelor spread on him.

Sam wasn’t used to being considered a draw, especially due to his looks. There was no denying it, however. The event had sold out within hours of posting the flyer that had featured his picture with Nightshade on his arm. The trustees were so thrilled with Sam’s drawing power they were trying to talk him into a bachelor auction next. They wanted to offer a date with him as the prize. With a starting price of ten grand. And see what happened.

Was everyone insane?

Sam swallowed a groan as the curtain parted, the spotlight hit Nightshade and him. An array of flashbulbs went off to blinding effect. It was probably a good thing he had the owl hooded. Loud applause erupted throughout the room next, drowning out anything he might wish to say. He didn’t understand it. He hadn’t even done anything yet.

It was just too weird
.

He’d been a tall, extremely gawky teen in high school. He’d had two interests back then: birds and girls. He’d been very interested in the latter. It wasn’t returned. To any member of the opposite sex, he might as well have been invisible. Things hadn’t improved in college. That’s when nature had decided he needed a full experience with recurring and continual outbreaks of acne. He’d received his bachelor’s degree while suffering such a full breakout it ruined the photos as well as any opportunity with women. Good thing he had his birds. They didn’t care what he looked like. By the time he’d received his doctorate and hit his thirties, he was used to being overlooked and ignored by just about everyone. And then, for some reason, the Scandinavian ancestry from his father had kicked in, filling out his frame to match his height. He had to keep altering his wardrobe to fit his shoulders and chest. His hair had darkened, too, going from all sorts of blond shades to a black/brown that really contrasted with his steel-gray eyes. Now that Sam’s bout with skin problems was over, he didn’t hide behind a sparse beard, either – which was all he’d been able to grow. He kept his face smooth-shaven, and – lest he forget – he had his Nordic father’s DNA to thank for the mass of waist-grazing hair that contained all kinds of blond shades toward the bottom.

The hair wasn’t new. He’d been growing it out for years, mainly because his name was Samson and some girl in eighth grade had mentioned how cool it would be. He always kept it tied back, though. Out of the way. Right now it was in a long tail down his back, probably framed and highlighted by the black of his jacket. He’d had this hair for years. Nobody had noticed.

Until now.

Brother
.

It was like someone had turned on a switch in his life or something. Even the press referred to his “Samson-like locks” as something that added to his
mystique
, whatever that entailed. He didn’t ask. He could guess. And things had definitely changed. Women were interested in him now. Rabidly. And he wasn’t at all certain what to do about it, even if he found the time.

Sam approached the mic stand and bent toward it, extending his arm so that Nightshade’s level didn’t alter. He waited for the room to quiet enough he could speak. Good thing he’d studied a bit of theater. Otherwise, he’d be a nervous wreck up here. He was used to doing demonstrations at the sanctuary. Standing before small crowds of tourists. Boy Scouts. School children. Women’s clubs. Scores of women’s clubs since the magazine article had come out.

He cleared his throat. The sound reverberated through the room.

“Um. Hi,” he offered.

His voice had never sounded quite so deep. The room burst into applause again. A bit of laughter. And a lot of sighing. He lifted the arm holding Nightshade and went into his “Doctor Reid” spiel. Because it was memorized. And easy.

“This is Nightshade. He’s a
Tyonidae,
commonly referred to as a barn owl. He’s part of the raptor class of birds. They’re called that because they are hunters. Isn’t he beautiful?”

He jostled his arm a fraction and Nightshade spread his wings as if on cue. Another burst of applause greeted that trick. Samson had to wait for it to die down again in order to speak.

“Nightshade is nocturnal. That’s why I brought him. Most birds of the raptor class are diurnal birds – day hunters. If I’d brought one of them, he’d have probably slept through the show.”

Another bit of applause. Nightshade settled back and tipped his head as if listening. And approving.

“Um. As you just heard in the introduction, my name is Doctor Reid. My field is Ornithology. I guess you could call me a ‘bird-nerd’. I’m also a licensed and certified falconer – which is a different field entirely. Falconry is the term for training and working with raptors. It isn’t a game or a sport, although in medieval times it was considered one. It’s not a bond between bird and man, either. It’s an arrangement, if you will. Raptors are opportunistic creatures. They’ve learned that life with a falconer provides an easy and reliable source of food and protection. That’s pretty much why they obey.”

He flicked his arm again. Nightshade responded with a bit of hooting, and a head butt against Sam. Laughter and applause followed that maneuver. This wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected. Especially since the light shone so brightly on the stage and them, it was difficult to make out faces beyond the front row.

“Nightshade is a fully grown specimen. He stands twenty and a half inches tall. That’s above average for a barn owl. I think he knows it. What do you think?”

Samson tightened his fist and rolled his arm, flexing muscle beneath the bird’s claws. Nightshade responded with a bit of wing flapping that sent more than one loose feather into the spotlight’s haze. The audience responded with another wave of clapping.

“The sanctuary has raised Nightshade since he was a fledgling. As you can guess, a bird that young is the easiest to train. Even so, a raptor is never fully trained. That is why he’s wearing a hood. It’s part of the training process and helps calm him. I think he’s going to be a good boy, though. What do you say that we take it off?”

The audience response was even louder and longer-lasting than before. Sam worked at the strap holding the bird’s hood on, but before he could even get it open, Nightshade opened his wings, started flapping aggressively, and then the bird slipped his
jesses
free. Sam made a grab for a claw, but Nightshade was already aloft, winging toward the ceiling while a spotlight tried to follow him.

Oh. Shit.

“Calm, everyone. Please. He’s just testing.”

Sam pulled the wooden owl call from his pocket and sent a few hoots into existence. Nightshade ignored him.

“Um. Please don’t panic anyone. He’s not a danger...uh. Unless somebody brought a small live rodent with them this evening.”

Sam’s words got a bit of laughter. He tried the owl call again before leaping from the stage onto the ballroom floor. He kept his eyes moving. First to the floor lined with rows of seated, evening-gowned ladies. Next, to the ceiling and Nightshade’s movement as the spotlight followed him. Back to the floor and the ladies. He scanned for footing, ignoring how it felt as if everyone tried to catch his eye. He looked toward the ceiling again and stumbled. That brought his attention back to the floor. And when he next sighted Nightshade, the owl was swooping down to land on someone’s shoulder. The audience gave a collective gasp. The spotlight hit the area. Sam was right behind it.

Whoa.

Life was handing out weirdness tonight. Nightshade wasn’t perched on a nondescript shoulder. The bird was atop one of the most stunning women Sam had ever seen or imagined. Ever. She had a mass of burgundy-shaded hair, amazing eyes of an indecipherable shade...the most pristine perfect skin. And she had one spectacular figure. Tight jeans hugged curves, while that top of hers put one hell of a bosom on display. He couldn’t help but notice as his eyes flicked there more than once.

She was small. She might reach mid-chest on him. He didn’t test it. He stopped two steps down from her, the position placing them at an even eye-level. He didn’t dare go closer. She was on the landing, an open exit door right behind her. Nightshade was too close to escape.

The woman didn’t say anything. She just regarded him with those unfathomable eyes. Shivers rippled over his skin. All-of-a-sudden the tuxedo jacket felt too tight. And Sam’s mouth went completely dry. Despite that, he tried swallowing.

That was stupid.

“Um. I apologize. Miss? Nightshade is not usually this...uh. Yeah.”

Well. Great. Apparently he was still tongue-tied and awkward around women. Especially drop-dead gorgeous ones. The magazine had missed that part.

She didn’t answer. Her expression didn’t change, either.

“Can I have my bird back?” he asked.

She moved her hand to Nightshade, who promptly scuttled to perch atop it. It took an expert to even consider holding a raptor without gloves. Or a fool. It was never advisable. Nightshade hadn’t clawed before, but he was equipped with them. It was always a hazard. She held the bird out to Sam, as if a sizeable predatory bird wasn’t gripped to her flesh. Nightshade’s weight was also above average, yet she held him as if the owl weighed nothing. She didn’t even move her gaze from Sam’s. He was starting to hear a buzzing noise while every inch of him went into a sexually stimulated and interested mode. Or something as primitive and basic. It was uncontrollable. And massive. The tuxedo trousers pinched. Restricted. He only hoped the audience at his back matched her lack of awareness. She hadn’t changed from being calm and collected as she stood there. Nightshade matched her. The owl wasn’t the least perturbed.

This was really getting odd.

Sam had learned falconry from one of the best. His grand-father was a legend in the field. Sam had been apprenticed almost from the time he started walking. Grandpa had been experienced and easy around every kind of bird. This woman surpassed even that. One part of Sam’s brain wondered where she’d learned such skill. The rest of his mind wasn’t cooperating at all. It was fully hooked on absorbing and reacting to the sensual vibes she emanated. They surrounded him. Encasing him with something tangible. Vital. Necessary.

Addictive.

Nightshade hopped along her finger toward him. Still on auto-pilot, Sam raised his left arm for Nightshade’s arrival. This time he looped the bird’s
jesses
through the hooks and tied him in place. Without once taking his eyes from her.
More weirdness.
He didn’t even glance at his arm to check. Because it would disconnect him to the woman, breaking whatever linked them. Despite where they were. The spotlight. The crowd about them. The publicity.

It was her move that did it.

She shook her head slightly, blinked, and then stepped backward, leaving the spotlight to him. Sam jerked, as if he’d just awakened and narrowed his eyes at the shadowed area the woman occupied. He could barely make out her outline. He needed to ask for her name. How to contact her. Her number. Anything. She stepped back farther, fading into the dark, the maneuver leaving him feeling oddly alone. Vulnerable. Lost.

Chilled.

He followed, taking the two-stair difference without looking for steps. The spotlight trailed along, sending light onto the landing. The owl. And him. The room was reacting about him. Waves of sound lapped along the backs of his legs, his back. His skull. As if it had a physical presence. He didn’t seem to have a choice. Sam lifted the arm holding Nightshade and turned around. His arm wavered. It wasn’t noticeable over Nightshade’s graceful demonstration. The owl spread his wings and flapped them a few times before settling back as if he’d done nothing extraordinary. Chairs scraped along the floor. A ripple of movement ensued. The audience was giving them a standing ovation, filling the room with cheers and wolf-whistles and enough stomping that the floor thundered. It didn’t sound at all like a roomful of elegantly-gowned ladies.