The Undead Kama Sutra (3 page)

I
spent the next two
nights in Fort Myers, in a proper hotel more upscale than the Sarasota pit where Odin had died. I didn’t feel like sharing a place with bedbugs or hookers.

Trouble waited for me, so I needed to regroup and refresh. As a vampire, I could only last so long on a human daylight schedule before turning into a cranky and dull-minded insomniac. I had to stay sharp. The best way was a long nap in a coffin but I didn’t bring one. Too bad I couldn’t try a routine of poses from The Undead Kama Sutra to help realign my chakras.

I went online and checked the classifieds at HollowFang. com, the Internet newsletter for vampire aficionados. A funeral home in Orlando made deliveries, code for temporary sleep accommodations to traveling vampires. I requested a
Majestic Imperial casket with the Sedona leather lining and hammered brass fittings. I
was
on vacation. Why not splurge? Besides, I got a “family” discount.

The delivery crew brought the casket up to my room, explaining to the hotel staff that it was a magic prop. I hoped to chat with the crew and touch base with the local
nidus.
But both humans seemed clueless about the true nature of their employer.

I pushed the bed aside and had the crew lay the casket in the middle of the floor. The casket was a vintage model, complete with a foldout crystal ashtray. Fortunately, instead of old stogies, the leather lining smelled of Vancouver Island sinsemilla. I dozed off dreaming of fanging topless Canadian women in dreadlocks. The
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on the room door kept the maid away and I slept—forgive me—like the dead for the next thirty-seven hours.

I started the first day awake with a mug of organic, fair-trade Bolivian coffee, a raspberry scone, and a 450-milliliter bag of whole human blood that I’d brought along in a cooler. Arterial type A-negative—the good stuff.

Since I had no idea where to start looking for this Goodman character, I continued on my original reason for coming to Florida, to find Carmen and quiz her about
The Undead Kama Sutra.
I drove south, as if the Florida peninsula was a drainpipe leading me to Key West.

Early evening, after the sun had set, I was on U.S. 1, midway between Islamorada and Duck Key. The fragrant sea air rolled in through my cracked window during the long
drive across the intercoastal bridge connecting the Keys. The bridge was a ribbon of concrete that hopscotched from the Florida peninsula across a chain of islands that stretched into the turquoise sea. That the bridge continued to exist at all was a testament to Nature’s forbearance rather than man’s ingenuity. The ruins of the old bridge lay in pieces between the islands, where a hurricane had torn the structure apart. Small key deer picked at grass around the remaining abutments.

Traffic stopped suddenly as if the road ahead was paved with glue. In a rush of noise, a couple of women on custom choppers thundered past on my left as they white-lined between the lanes. One a brunette, the other a redhead. Tiny bikini tops barely covered their muscular, tanned torsos. Braids swirled behind their heads. Wraparound sunglasses shielded their eyes. Lean shanks of leg showed between the hems of their denim shorts and the tops of their cowboy boots, which were propped on the highway bars alongside the engines. Light flashed off the bangles on their wrists and the chrome of their bikes.

I dropped my sunglasses to peek over the lenses at these high-octane mamas.

Orange auras.

Vampires.

I immediately recognized one aura. Carmen. She wasn’t kidding about working on her tan. She sported the best makeup job I’d ever seen on the undead.

I’d’ve followed Carmen and her redheaded friend. But I was stuck behind a Dodge Caravan with a litter of snotty kids wiping their boogers on the rear window.

Carmen rode a green bike with a flame paint job. She cocked her thumb at me and shouted something to her fellow biker on a blue metal-flake chopper. They exchanged nods and sped away.

I knew Carmen had seen me. Why didn’t she stop? I texted her:

WHAT GIVES
?
ON THE WAY FELIXG

It was late evening when I finally rolled into Key West. No reply from Carmen. Along Truman Avenue, I searched the rows of motorcycles parked in front of the strip joints and dives. I found the two choppers outside a tavern called Murphy’s Scupper.

Inside, Murphy’s was a zoo of sunburned bodies and laughing drunks. I bought a beer, tucked myself into a corner, and scoped the auras by taking furtive glances over the tops of my sunglasses. Where had Carmen and her friend gone?

Two tables away, a huge, bearded gorilla of a human saw me looking at him, his buddy, and their two drunken female companions, both of whom looked like they’d used volleyballs as breast implants.

He scowled and shoved his beer into the hands of the blonde next to him. His ball cap read:
WOMEN NEED ME. FISH FEAR ME.

What class. Now I knew what attracted his mate.

He stood, pushed his way through the crowd, and came straight at me. His hairy face screwed into a snarl. Beefy, tattooed arms stretched the sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt, which was tight around his beer gut. Hammer toes clutched at flip-flops.

He pointed a fat index finger at me. “You. Yeah, you, faggot. Whatta you looking at?”

People parted around him and hushed. Dozens of eyes turned from him to me.

If it were just us two in an alley, I’d zap him with hypnosis and that would be the end of my trouble. I couldn’t risk that in a crowd. We were going to tangle mano a mano. I hoped for his sake that he’s had plenty of sex with balloon-breasts over there, because I was about to end his vacation with a vampire-swift kick to the nuts. Say good-bye to your jewels.

He grabbed a chair and threw it aside, to intimidate me, like the ape that he was.

The redheaded vampire biker chick suddenly darted from the crowd and stood before me. She dropped her top and shimmied her shoulders. The crowd whooped and banged the tables.

Mr. Fish Fear Me stopped and his eyebrows knitted in confusion. He grinned. “Outta my way little girl. I’ll get back to you after tending to business. Me and my buddy could do with a new threesome.”

The redheaded vampire grasped his arm and held him in place. “Stay with me lover boy.”

His blond companion charged forward, shouting, “Don’t mess with my man, you smelly-ass whore.” She grabbed the redhead by the hair and started kicking.

The crowd chanted, “Fight. Fight.”

Redhead looped her free arm around blondie’s neck and put her in a headlock. Fish Fear Me tried to shake loose but
the redhead kept him from moving. His grin turned back to a scowl, then to worry, as he couldn’t wrench himself from her hand.

Carmen pushed through the crowd to my right. She took my arm in hers and led me along the wall to the side door.

“This way, Felix. Welcome to Key West.”

C
armen pulled me into
the alley. A vampire scent trailed her, an aroma of damp moss and dried roses.

She stopped and faced me. Triangles of a neon-green bikini top barely covered her breasts. Gold-and-coral earrings dangled alongside her neck. She raised her sunglasses and revealed the reflective red disks of her
tapetum lucidum
. Her lips parted and showed the tips of her fangs. “Felix, it’s a good thing we came to your rescue.”

Like I needed rescuing from that fatso inside. I smiled back. “What are you doing here?”

She spread her arms. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I took in all that taut, sienna-colored skin. Her tan looked perfect, too perfect even for an expert undead application of makeup. I sniffed and detected no trace of cosmetics. This tan was real? Impossible.

“I give. What’s your secret?”

Carmen poked me in the stomach. “Geez, Felix, aren’t you first going to ask me how I’ve been? Whadda ya think?” She put an arm out for me to inspect.

I dragged my finger across her wrist, still amazed at how authentic her tan looked. “This can’t be real.”

“As real as these.” Carmen shimmied and her breasts wobbled.

Anyone else, and I would’ve been all over them. But Carmen’s sexual manner was as subtle as a bear trap and she had the reputation of wringing even male vampires dry.

But a vampire with a tan? Pigs flying. Cats doing geometry. Dogs playing poker. All those would’ve amazed me less. “And you’re not even wearing sunblock?”

“Nothing between me and the sun but this beautiful bronzed skin,” Carmen said. “And what brings you to Key West?”

“I heard you’re working on
The Undead Kama Sutra.
”

The ends of her smile pointed to the dimples in her cheeks. “You naughty boy.”

A bar stool crashed through the window of the saloon and landed on the street.

My hands curled into claws and my talons grew. “We better go inside and help your friend.”

Carmen laughed. “Jolie can handle a battalion of marines. Public brawling is her hobby.”

Shouts and the smashing of wooden furniture boomed out the broken window.

“Sounds like Jolie’s having lots of fun.” I started for the
door, hoping that she’d left some of Mr. Fish Fear Me for me to thump around the floor.

Carmen grasped my wrist and led me out of the alley toward the two choppers. “Don’t spoil it for her.”

The thin, almost-nothing strap of Carmen’s bikini top bisected a sleek, muscular back. Her braid pointed to a trim waist. Denim shorts rode low on her hips. Her toned legs glistened like copper in the electric light of the saloon marquee.

Carmen looked over her shoulder. “You checkin’ me out?”

Maybe I should risk getting wrung dry. I put on my best smirk.

She winked. “Thanks. Otherwise there’s no point in dressing like this.”

“Where we headed?”

Carmen unclipped the keys hooked to a belt loop on her shorts. “You asked about
The Undead Kama Sutra
and how I got my tan. It’s time to show you.” She grasped the handlebars of the green chopper, arced her leg over the frame, and settled onto the seat.

I asked, “Did you get my messages?”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you reply?”

Carmen inserted the ignition key. “You asked what gives? I wanted you to come and find out. Show me how bad you want to know.” She cocked her thumb to the pinion seat of the motorcycle. “Climb on. We’re going to the dock.”

“I can drive. You ride on the back.”

Carmen shook her head. “Like hell. It’s my bike. You can either walk or ride bitch.”

“I’ll follow in my car.”

Carmen started the engine. She shouted above the roar from the exhaust pipes. “Quit being such a macho
caga palo.
Take the stick out of your ass. Forget your goddamn car. It’s not going anywhere. Just get on.”

You couldn’t argue with Carmen. I swung a leg over the rear seat. Carmen reached with her left hand and groped for my arm. She pulled it across her waist. My right arm reached around so that I clasped both arms against her very trim and firm middle. For a vampire, she was surprisingly warm, or was that my imagination?

I had barely planted my feet on the rear pegs when the chopper jumped from the curb. The front wheel tucked to the left; Carmen barely straightened it before we flipped to the side. We swerved past a yellow Porsche Carrera, missing the rear fender by millimeters.

We skimmed close to a row of parked cars. I had to jerk my shoulders aside to avoid getting slapped by the mirrors.

“There’s no rule that says you can’t drive down the middle of the road,” I shouted.

“You want to obey the rules,” she shouted back, “then stay away from me. Shut up and enjoy the scenery.”

Carmen took Duval Street and merged into traffic. We approached the harbor and parked alongside a steel-pipe barricade.

I got off the bike first, thankful that we’d made it with
out being flung against the asphalt. Carmen took a tightly wrapped paper bag out of one of the leather panniers. The quart-sized bag bore a crude inked stamp:
YERBAS DE BOTÁNICA OSHÚN. MIAMI, FLORIDA.

Herbs of Oshún Apothecary. My mother and aunts used to shop in Mexican
botánicas
for folk remedies, some of which worked and others were merely superstitions—and a waste of money. “Does what’s in that bag have anything to do with your tan?” Maybe some of the superstitious recipes did work.

Carmen squeezed the bag and crinkled the paper wrapping. “I didn’t buy this to make bread.”

Typical Carmen answer. “Who’s Oshún?”

“She’s an orisha, a Santeria goddess.”

“Santeria? So this is about voodoo? You’re going to stick pins in a doll of me?”

“I don’t need pins or Santeria. I can kick your ass on my own.”

I stepped out of her reach, just in case she wanted to prove something. “How did you get involved with Santeria?”

“I’m Cuban.” Carmen crouched to fit a lock on her front brake disk. “It’s part of my heritage. The African slaves brought their beliefs to the Caribbean. You don’t know much about Santeria, do you?”

“I know some. There’s that song
Babalu,
by Ricky Ricardo. That’s about Santeria, right?”

“He was Desi Arnaz when he recorded it,” Carmen said. “And yes, the song is about Santeria.”

“So who is Oshún?”

“The goddess of beauty and sensuality. We call upon her magic.”

“For what?”

“To make us better lovers, of course.”

“How come Desi Arnaz didn’t write a song about her?”

“I don’t know, Felix. If Desi was alive you could ask him.”

Dozens of sailboats and yachts were moored to the pier and their lights twinkled festively over the water. Carmen walked down the ramp to a thirty-foot Bayliner cruiser and hailed someone on board.

I removed my sunglasses.

A man appeared from the cabin. A red aura surrounded him. Human.

Carmen stepped off the dock and into the cockpit of the boat. She and the man clasped hands, and he kissed her on the cheek. Her orange aura glistened with affection. Vampires only show that kind of attraction to “chalices,” humans who willingly offer themselves and their blood to their vampire masters.

Carmen waved me aboard and I joined her in the cockpit. She introduced me to Thorne, a ropy-muscled man in his mid-twenties. The word “strapping” came to mind; someone who could satisfy her sexual appetite. Was he her research partner for
The Undead Kama Sutra
? A bandanna covered his neck, advertising his status as a chalice to those in the undead family. He didn’t say much and smiled politely.

Carmen carried the
botánica
bag and stooped to enter the boat’s cabin. She came out empty-handed and ordered that we shove off.

Moving athletically on his sturdy, hairy legs, Thorne cast loose from the moorings. Her hungry gaze followed him.

Thorne took the helm. He flipped switches across the instrument panel. The navigation lights flicked on. The engine coughed to life. Above the cabin, the radar antenna on the mast began to spin. He adjusted the volume of the radio so the squawks of harbor traffic faded into the background. The Bayliner cruised slowly away from the dock.

A woman’s shriek—a cross between a drunken sorority girl and a hyena on fire—echoed from the pier. An orange glow streaked toward us. Jolie.

She bounded from the edge of the pier. Our boat was a good hundred feet away. Jolie sailed through the air and pumped her arms to keep the momentum. She used vampire levitation to land softly beside Carmen and me.

Jolie raised both her arms in a triumphant salute. “Ta-da.”

“Yeah, great,” Carmen chided. “Where’s your motorcycle?”

Jolie’s aura dimmed. “Shit. I knew I forgot something.”

I introduced myself, then asked, “How was the fight?”

“Totally awesome. One of those assholes got the drop on me and nailed me good.” She pointed to the shiner on her right eye. “I’ll bet it’s a beaut.”

“Looks…wonderful,” I said. “Hurt?”

“Stupid question.” Jolie touched the swollen tissue around
her eye. “’Course it hurts. Too bad it’ll heal by the time we get home.”

“Which is where?” I turned to Carmen.

She loosened her braid. She closed her eyes in a blissful trance as she raked her fingers to untangle the tresses. Leaning against the railing of the gunwale, Carmen silhouetted herself against the lights of Key West. Her hair shimmered like a lacy halo. “Houghton Island. It’s in the Snipe Keys northeast of here.”

Once in open water, Thorne opened the throttle and the Bayliner rocked on its wake. Jolie yanked off her boots and socks and scrambled barefoot to the prow, where she sat on the foredeck and sang—more or less—tunes from the eighties. Thorne played with the GPS on the instrument panel and adjusted our course. In the far darkness, red, green, and white lights marked the other boats floating by.

I took a seat on the fantail. “Aren’t the Snipe Keys government islands?” I asked.

Carmen’s aura sparkled with assurance. “That’s what makes our resort so exclusive.”

“A resort? How did you manage that?”

Carmen gave a dimpled smile. “We have chalices in high places.”

“We?”

“There’s a bunch of investors, a few select vampires and chalices. It was my idea…and Antoine’s. You’ll meet him.”

“A few select vampires and chalices? High rollers, I’ll bet. Fun and games on a private island. Must be paradise.”

Carmen’s aura prickled with worry. “It was. That’s why I’m glad you came here.”

“Sounds like someone’s found a turd floating in the punch bowl, and I’m supposed to fish it out.” Trouble followed me everywhere.

“Lovely visual, Felix. Yeah, I could use your help.”

“Doesn’t sound like research for
The Undead Kama Sutra.
”

“It’s not.” Carmen paused for a beat and then explained in a monotone: “A chalice has been missing for two days.”

A missing chalice? I already had plenty to keep me busy, thanks to Gilbert Odin and the Araneum. But Carmen, as an experienced vampire, wouldn’t have asked for help unless she needed it.

“You got a name?”

“Marissa Albert. She arrived at the Key West airport and disappeared. Too bad you didn’t have a chance to meet her, you might have had a lot in common.”

“How so?”

“She’s a private investigator.”

“Was Marissa here on a case?”

Carmen looked flustered. “She didn’t mention it. She called last week and asked for a reservation to the resort. It was kinda sudden, but not too unusual.”

“And you know her from where?”

“We met when I was traveling through Minneapolis.” Carmen smiled at the memory. “She’s a wonderful chalice. It’ll be a shame if anything happened to her.”

“Why would you suspect that? Maybe she ran into a friend and changed plans.”

Carmen lost the smile. “She wasn’t the type to not let me know. I wouldn’t describe Marissa as flighty.”

A missing chalice and an alien threat? Was there a connection? I wanted to share what the Araneum had offered but they had ordered that I keep the information secret.

A series of black humps appeared on the horizon. Thorne pointed the Bayliner toward the largest one.

“Houghton Island,” he said.

As we approached, the island and its crown of trees looked like spiked teeth jutting from the water. The word “paradise” hardly came to mind—it looked like my ass was about to get bitten.