Seduced by the Night (42 page)

She trailed a finger down his chest. "Despite the vampires, I've grown rather fond of the nights," she said playfully, lightly kissing each corner of his mouth. "You might say I've been seduced by the night."

He smiled then and the transformation made her heart sing.

"Stay right here," he told her, pushing away from the counter and leaving the kitchen. For a second, she was too stunned by his departure to do more than stand there. Then, as she considered going after him, he returned, strolling toward her with his hands behind his back. "I have something for you." He held the "something" out to her and she gave a small gasp. Sitting in the palm of his hand was the clown doll her grandmother had given her.

Tears filled her eyes as she took it from him. "Where? How?" She'd thought it lost forever. Bringing it close, she hugged it as she had when she was a child.

"I found it at the lair," Dirk explained. "I thought you might like to have it back."

Overwhelmed, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him until the only thing either of them could think about was returning to their bedroom where they could finish what they'd started.

They were halfway to the stairs when a rattling noise stopped them.

"What's the matter with her?" Dirk asked, watching Gem pawing at the sliding glass door. He pulled Bethany after him as he went to investigate.

"What's that?"

Bethany looked at the object lying against the backdoor and felt a small chill run along her spine. "It looks like Dr. Weber's journal," she said in awe, recognizing the book. Dirk opened the door to retrieve it and when he did, Gem shot past him.

Bethany and Dirk exchanged worried glances. About to go after her, they both stopped.

Standing at the far end of the yard was the adult
chupacabra
. Gem ran up to her and they rubbed muzzles in an obvious show of affection. Beside the adult was the lone figure of a man, his red eyes a faint light in the distance.

"Harris," Bethany whispered.

She and Dirk stood watching him. After a moment, Gem ran back to the mansion, brushed past them, and disappeared inside the house. Bethany took the journal from Dirk's hands and held it up so Harris would see that she had found it. She knew why he'd returned it and she wouldn't let him down. She was starting a new life with the man she loved—and now, she had a purpose.

After a moment, Harris raised his hand in farewell. Dirk and Bethany waved back. Then, vampire and
chupacabra
turned and walked away, disappearing into the still, dark night.

Robin T. Popp
grew up watching
Star Trek
and reading Nancy Drew, Robert Heinlein, Sharon Green, and Piers Anthony. She loved the daring and romantic exploits of heroic characters on grand adventures in otherworldly places. It wasn't long before she wanted to write such tales to share with others. Though she was forced to take a thirty-year detour through the real world—which certainly wasn't without its share of adventures—armed now with two master's degrees, a full-time job, and a family, she has taken the first steps toward realizing her original dream of becoming an author.

Too Close to the Sun
, a futuristic romance published in July 2003, was her first novel.
Out of the Night
was her second novel and represents her first foray into another of her favorite alternate realities—the realm of vampires.

Robin lives southwest of Houston, Texas, with her husband, three kids, three dogs, two frogs, one rabbit, and a mortgage. She is living the American dream.

If you hunger for more Robin T. Popp, turn this page for a preview of her next Night Slayer novel

Tempted in the Night

Available in mass market early 2007.

Tell me,
Boehler
, just what the fuck were you thinking?" Assistant Chief Gamble's voice was loud enough to rattle the windows in his small office.

Veteran homicide detective
John
Boehler
remained unfazed as he faced his boss across the desk. "I'm sorry, was that a rhetorical question?"

"What the fuck do you think?" Gamble bit out sharply.

John
thought it sounded like another rhetorical question, but this time kept his thoughts to himself. He was too tired to sit through much more of this "ass-chewing," not that he had any hope of getting to bed soon.

"Why in the hell would you even approach Simon Brody after the trial? Much less threaten him in front of every reporter in the greater D.C. metro area?"

"I didn't threaten him,"
John
said with as little inflection as he could.

Gamble picked up the TV remote on his desk and aimed it at the small television sitting on a nearby bookcase. Soon, the news footage outside the courthouse was rolling across the screen.
John
didn't bother to watch. He didn't want to see Simon Brody strolling down the steps of the courthouse, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. Hearing the little cock-sucker's seemingly heartfelt reaffirmation of his innocence was harder to ignore, especially when Gamble turned up the volume. As it had before, both the tone and the words ignited a slow, white-hot burn of rage deep inside of him. Today, justice had not been served. The jury may have found Brody innocent, but
John
knew the truth.

Then
John
heard himself saying, "Don't get too comfortable, Brody. You're going to hell—if I have to drag your sorry ass there myself."

Gamble shut off the television and the silence that followed was deafening, if brief. "Damn it,
John
, what were you thinking?"

John
didn't bother to respond. At the time he'd uttered his threat, the media had been the least of his concerns. Five long months of hard, by-the-book investigative work flushed down the proverbial toilet because someone in the department had managed to "lose" a critical piece of evidence.
John
had no doubt that Franklin Brody and his millions were somehow involved.

Daddy might have saved his spoiled son from death by lethal injection, but who was going to save the young women of the Washington D.C. area? Now that Simon Brody was free, it was just a matter of time before he killed again.

"I want to know what's bothering you,
Boehler
," the assistant chief continued in a surprisingly sympathetic tone. "You haven't been yourself, lately. You used to be one the best detectives I had. Lately, though… I don't know." He studied
John
's face closely in a fair imitation of the department's psychiatrist trying to see inside his head. "Are you having problems at home? With your wife?"

John
wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question. "I'm not married, remember?" He had been once, fifteen years ago, if one could call a night of drinking, a quick trip to Vegas followed by eleven months of sheer hell a marriage.
John
didn't.

"Then maybe you need to find someone; settle down; start a family."

Yeah,
John
thought, because it had worked so well the first time. Gamble's attempt to counsel him was pissing him off. "I'm fine. Just a little tired." He didn't want to continue this particular line of conversation, so he changed the subject. "Sir, I'd like permission to look into how that evidence against Brody disappeared."

'That's not your job."

"I realize that. However—"

Gamble waved him to silence. "Forget that. You have bigger problems to deal with."

"Sir?"

"First, you practically accuse the late Miles Van Home of being involved with terrorists. Now, you're publicly threatening the son of Washington's
second
most influential man? Is it the rich you hate,
Boehler
, or are you just tired of being a cop? Because I assure you, you're well on your way to committing career suicide."

John
felt himself grow very still. "Van Home wasn't a random target. The
Exsanguinators
killed him because he tried to double-cross them. I'd call that being 'involved.'"

Gamble heaved a frustrated sigh. "Well, his mother disagrees. And now Marcie Van Home has got the D.A. breathing down my neck to reopen the case. I'm having to bring in someone from Internal Affairs to take a second look at the case."

John
wasn't stupid. He read between the lines. Gamble was bringing in IA to investigate him as much as the circumstances of Miles Van Home's death. And if they got too close…

John
wondered how much time he had to "clean" up his files and was about to make his excuse to leave when Gamble pressed the button on his intercom. "Gail? I want to know when Dresden gets here. He is? Good, send him in."

A moment later, the door to the office opened and a short, stocky man walked in wearing a pressed suit, polished shoes and an attitude that said his shit don't stink.
John
hated him instantly.

"
John
, meet Richard Dresden, with Internal Affairs. He'll be handling the investigation into the
Exsanguinator
cases. I expect you to show him the same respect you'd show me—and give him your full cooperation."

Yeah,
John
thought, he'd show
Dick
some respect. Count on it. He managed to keep his mouth shut and his face expressionless.

At his boss' dismissive gesture, he stood and headed for the door. He was seconds from a clean getaway when the assistant chief dropped the last bomb on him. "Don't let me catch you anywhere near Simon Brody or anything having to do with him, got it? Right now, you've got two strikes against you. One more and you'll be so far out, not even God can get you back in the game."

A couple of hours later, it was dark and instead of being at home in bed enjoying another sleepless night,
John
was driving around, scanning the dark streets for… he wasn't sure what, exactly. If anyone had asked, he would have told them he was looking for members of a fanatical group of serial killers—a group he, himself, had dubbed The
Exsanguinators
because of the way they drained their victims' bodies of blood.

Of course, he was more likely to find one of their victims than the actual killers. In over a year of searching, that's all he'd ever found.

His first exposure to The
Exsanguinators
had come when several Navy SEALS had disappeared under violent and mysterious circumstances. Days later, one of them was found dead in an abandoned building. There had been no obvious wounds and yet, the body had been drained of blood. Later victims would be found also drained of blood, but with the two puncture wounds in their neck that was to become their signature mark.

That case was a first for
John
and in his search for answers, he had called in the dead SEAL'S commanding officer, Admiral Charles Winslow.
John
had met the older man years earlier, when the admiral had been a guest lecturer for one of
John
's college classes. They'd instantly struck up a friendship that had survived the years.

To his surprise, the admiral had claimed to be familiar with both
modus operandi
and the group responsible, leading
John
to believe that the problem was something the government was handling. This wasn't the first time the police and the government had worked on the same case, so
John
took more of a support role, calling the admiral or one of the members of his security team whenever he found another victim, but otherwise adopting a hands-off approach.

He hadn't closed his eyes, though, and what he'd observed had raised a lot of questions. The admiral and his team had not been exactly forthcoming with information, leaving
John
to draw his own conclusions which, he reflected as he parked his car and got out, were almost as disturbing as the killings themselves.

No one had ever used the word "vampire" around him; the mere idea should have been absurd. But as a detective,
John
could put the clues together and, regardless of how crazy he thought it sounded, the end result always came up "vampire."

He'd considered approaching Winslow with his theories, but he hesitated. Even if the killers were actual vampires—and who would believe that?—the nature of the killings had lately undergone a subtle change.

Over the past couple of months, the victim demographics had changed. Instead of average citizens, the latest victims had been known criminals; scum of the earth who had, through power, money or the negligence of the legal system, managed to escape justice. In a bizarre sense, The
Exsanguinators
—or vampires, if that's what they were—had been performing a community service.
John
wasn't sure he wanted that to end.

Getting out of the car,
John
started walking. The park loomed like a graveyard, silent and eerie. The shadows of trees obstructed his view, but he continued forward, pulling his coat tighter to keep out the stiff January breeze and wondering if his purpose tonight would still make sense in the morning.