Calling for a Miracle [The Order of Vampyres 2] (Siren Publishing Classic) (9 page)

The screen switched to a man standing on the steps of a police station. The reporter, Destiny, was there as well, but dressed in different clothing. “District Attorney Schwartz,” she began, pressing her microphone in the direction of the other man. “Can you comment on whether any of these women have suffered any other signs of assault prior to their deaths?”

The man appeared rather serious and sternly replied, “I am not at liberty to comment. However, I would like to state, for the record, these are women of our community. They are mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters. Many of them have left families and friends behind. The majority of these women were reportedly camping in what has always been a favorable environment for such recreation. I want to make this perfectly clear. Until whatever is out there is caught, these woods are not safe. Whatever is killing these women is strong and large. Do not be foolish and tempt fate. I would also like to advise the men and women out there planning on participating in the upcoming hunting season. Do not try to be a hero. If you see an animal approaching, use your head. Get to safety or better yet, get out of there.”

The screen switched back to a split-screen shot of Destiny and the man at the desk. “Tragic,” the man at the desk declared.

“It is, Mike. While we wait for the identity of this most recent Jane Doe to be announced, families throughout the community are struggling with the loss of loved ones. We will keep the victims like Dane and Cybil Foster in our thoughts and hope that we can soon bring whatever or whoever is out there wreaking such havoc to justice. This is Destiny Santos, reporting live from Jim Thorpe, Channel Six News.”

The screen cut away and the woman was gone. Cain turned and thought for a moment. Bodies drained of blood. Twelve victims. All women. Could it be?

Movement to his left followed by a soft waking sigh and a warm hand reaching for him under the sheet caught his attention. He had a lot to do. He needed to check on Larissa then he needed to head home to see what was happening with his mother. Perhaps he should have a quick look in the woods surrounding Jim Thorpe before he returned to the farm. But first, he would enjoy the luscious blonde sharing his bed one last time.

Chapter 5

Eleazar stood in the shadows of the trees just off the shoulder of the highway. As the autumn chills approached, greens began to fade and then burst into vibrant hues of plum, sienna, and gold. Every ordinary background was now an extraordinary display of nature’s beauty. Horizons dappled in lustrous shades selfishly detracted from every sunset that would be that season. He had always found fall to be life’s most radiant bow before surrendering to winter’s cold. Yet, there was no sense of beauty where he stood now, only a sense of depravity lurking nearby.

Upon rising that evening, he had felt an undeniable pull to come to this exact place. He recognized it as if he had been there before but his mind knew he had not. Cars rushed by in the dark night, shushing past with the fleeting impression of mortal thoughts tickling Eleazar’s mind. The establishment across the freeway was a nondescript building with several cars occupying the lot. Club Silhouettes.

He frowned. Why was he there? He had gone to bed hours before with a plan to travel east, yet here he stood, decidedly west, watching this place, without a clue as to why. He made to turn and continue on his search, but some deep part of his soul objected, causing his body to pivot once more and take in the slate-colored stucco building. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned. He battled with his common sense telling him to move on and his instincts insisting he get closer.

On a sigh he traveled across the street, hopped the median, and slipped into the lot between two parked cars. He heard a pulsing sound, rhythmic, pumping from deep within what a mortal would declare soundproof walls. His ears prickled at a muffled moan. His black eyes sought out where the moan was coming from. There, inside a shiny black car, was a woman leaning over a man’s lap. The man’s expression was enraptured by what the woman was doing to him. Eleazar felt the need to return to his morally sound home surge through him at the sight of such a public display. The English were hopeless.

Running a hand down his crisp, white shirt, Eleazar moved toward the door of the facility. The brown paint of the heavy metal door was chipped, showing patches of battleship gray underneath. The knob was heavy and cool as it pressed into his palm. Once he opened the door, he was assailed with the scent he was now coming to categorize as human lust. What was this house of sin?

The dark, stained carpet cushioned his steps. A low red light illuminated the small entry room. There were two doors ahead of him. Music pulsed through the walls loud enough to vibrate the soles of his feet. He heard someone approaching from the door on his left. Suddenly the knob turned and a large man entered the tight space. Eleazar took in the other male. He was overweight. A trickle of sweat rolled over the coarse stubble covering his flushed neck. The man adjusted his belt and pressed a few fingers into the waist of his pants, wedging his black shirt inside past his paunch.

“Sorry, man, had to drop the kids off at the pool. If you know what I mean.”

Eleazar did not. He gave the man a tight-lipped smile and probed his mind. Vito was the male’s name. He waited for the man to continue.

Brushing his hands together, the man, Vito, asked, “Are you with either of the bachelor parties?”

“I am not.”

“Okay, then it’s gonna be an eight-dollar cover and there are two-dollar drafts ’til midnight. You got ID?”

“ID?” Eleazar echoed.

“Yeah, a license. Can’t go in if you are underage.”

“I assure you I am certainly not ‘underage,’” Eleazar said, giving the mortal a gentle push to let him pass.

The man stepped aside and he reached for the door on the right. “Wait,” Vito said, eyes still slightly glazed from the bishop’s compulsion. “You need a stamp to get in.”

Eleazar looked at the device the man held in his hand. He then understood the man was waiting for his wrist. He extended his arm and waited as Vito press a red-ink silhouette of a female’s profile into the olive-colored flesh of his wrist. He frowned and decided he would wash off the mark as soon as he found a washroom.

“One more thing,” Vito said as he again made to open the door. “No touching the girls unless you pay for it.”

Pay for touching? The bishop nodded and opened the door. Loud music reverberated from one wall to the other. A voice that sounded almost robotic chanted followed by a raspy female voice singing about sex, chains, and whips. He was almost brought to his knees by the intensified emotions throbbing from the mortals in the room. All males. Crowds mulled around a bar and tables filled the dim room. Men of all ages occupied the seats, some dressed in street clothes, others dressed in formal attire.

Lust. The stench of the emotion was suffocating. But what was causing it? His eyes surveyed the room and found the cause. Along the back wall, was a blue-lit stage, wide in the rear and shaping out like a T, the longest part extending in between the tables of men. There was a pole running from the platform to the ceiling at the end closest to the men.

His mouth dropped slightly open at the sight of the woman dangling from the pole. She was bare breasted and covered in a sheen of sweat. Her hands caressed her hips and her fingers sensuously followed the line of her tapered midsection where they then fondled her large, firm breasts. She was dancing for these men! Completely disgusted, Eleazar turned.

His eyes then caught on another topless woman in sharp, shiny, red boots. Her legs were spread, her rear pressed into a seated man’s face. The woman’s white hair appeared blue in the light reflecting from the stage. Her breasts where also bared and she wore some sort of string contraption between her hindquarters. There were dollar bills laced throughout the string and a wad of more sweaty bills in the male’s hand.

There was no logic behind his presence here. He needed to leave. He maneuvered his way in between crowds and used compulsion to deter the woman serving drinks from approaching him and slowing his exit. The song playing thankfully ended, but was then replaced by the sound of a horn pumping over a woman’s erotic moans and sighs. A voice chimed in over the music. “Next up, the lovely Larissa, dancing to Janet Jackson’s ‘
Throb
.’”

Everything in Eleazar stilled. He turned in slow motion toward the stage. All was dark. The pole that had been there now was mysteriously gone and a wooden chair sat in its place. All at once the tempo picked up. A tall woman wearing a man’s white dress shirt and necktie marched out on stage, her legs smooth and bare, her sharp, high shoes causing the muscles of her calves to press against her glowing flesh, the same muscles that flexed in the midst of a female’s climax. Those shoes had been created to tempt a male. Her face was shadowed by a male’s hat. He could not quite make out the color of the female’s hair, as it was tucked up within the hat.

When she reached the chair, she stood behind it, facing the audience, and grasped the high back with her hand, spinning the wooden seat around to face her. She made to straddle the seat, but rather hovered over the wood, legs spread, her pelvis undulating slowly above the length of the seat. Eleazar swallowed. The music was not music at all, but rather a collection of fast beats accompanied by feminine sighs a woman would make in the throes of passion. The eroticism of the song was so blatant it almost had him blushing, over five centuries old and
blushing!

When she finally did lower her bottom onto the seat, Eleazar found himself also sitting, but had no recollection of finding himself a chair. His mouth had gone dry at the sight of her dainty hands gripping the back of the chair. Never in his long life had he had such a reaction to a female. He noticed the loosely cuffed sleeves of the man’s shirt draping over her petite wrists. He wanted to find the man whose shirt she wore and rip his throat out for some irrational reason.

She stood again, twisting the chair as she did so. The woman glided around the piece of furniture as if she walked on air. She straddled the chair again, now with her back to the audience. Eleazar quickly scanned the crowd, a growl slowly built in his chest at the other men in the audience admiring the girl.

Suddenly she tipped her head back and the hat fell to the ground. Long, black hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall. He knew that hair, knew it better than he had any right to. He knew that it smelled of mixed berries and was softer than silk. He knew that it was thick enough to fill his fist. He saw his fingers running through the long, raven-colored strands, knew the soft weight of it upon his palms, and suddenly a vision clicked into place. He knew, just knew the face hidden under all that luxurious hair.

“No.” He heard himself say under his breath. She turned and his greatest fears were realized. There, dancing like a common harlot upon this stage of ill repute, was his charge.

He stood so fast the chair he had been occupying crashed backward to the ground. His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. Barely containing his rage, he turned to the men in the bar and sent out a mental command. At once, every patron lowered their eyes and tilted their heads away from the stage. Apparently undeterred by her audience’s sudden lack of interest, Larissa danced on. It was as if she could not see the crowd that watched her so avidly with eyes full of lust and minds full of ignominious thoughts.

She danced on, her hips swaying and undulating, mimicking the intimate motions that should be shared only by man and wife. He was ashamed of her.

Her fingers began to work at the knot of the tie. Her left hand worked up and down the narrow fabric. Her actions had somehow stimulated an image of his very own anatomy, her hands working his flesh until he swelled to a point of pain that would be eased only by plunging into her warmth. Dear God, she had to be stopped. Looking back one last time at the practically sleeping crowd, satisfied no eyes were on the stage, he heard the tug of fabric and ping of little buttons across the stage under the blare of music. He turned, lightning fast, and leapt onto the stage.

Larissa stumbled back in her chair and gasped. She grew pie eyed with fear and he smiled, knowing she understood they would be returning to their home that night.

“Bishop King,” she breathed and he sensed her frantically considering ways to escape him.

“Go ahead, Larissa, run.”

She stood and bolted to the door at the back of the stage with immortal speed. He had reached the door first. His chest swelled at the rush of adrenaline from toying with her. Some deep-seated instinct wanted to play and chase her. His heart pounded at some long-forgotten emotion he was suddenly experiencing. Arousal.