Vampire Uprising (2 page)

The man who’d been impaled in the window straightened up as best he could and raised the stake over his head. All of the figures around him retreated, allowing the woman to dash over to him and use the wooden sword to chop off his arm and kick him into the crowd lurking within the nearby shadows. Meeting Kilmer’s clouded eyes as the amputated limb hit the floor, she asked, “Is this one a cop?”

Larsen told her he was.

“Bring that one with us so we can keep an eye on him,” she said while nodding toward the sword’s former owner. “We’re almost done here.”

Kilmer had never thought he’d consider begging for his life until he felt the points of both the sword and the stake against his midsection. By the time the woman pushed the weapons into his stomach, it was too late to do anything at all.

Ours is not a world of subtlety.

The wounds given to him by the man who called himself Jonah Lancroft were still wreaking havoc throughout Cole’s body as the same man’s words echoed through his brain. All the reporters, headlines, and websites lamenting the damage caused by the Mud Flu weren’t nearly as interested in its cure. In the weeks following the epidemic, the number of cases had dwindled. Hospitals shifted their focus to more common tragedies and the story was eventually dropped.

Cole scooped some dirt from the pile beside him and tossed it into the hole he’d helped dig. He and Paige had been two of many who spent the last several weeks sifting through the remains of what was left behind. Whether Lancroft was truly as old as he’d claimed was no longer an issue. The man knew his stuff. He’d been a Skinner through and through, which meant he had taken meticulous notes about everything he’d ever done.

Cole felt guilty for keeping all those scribbled pages to himself so he could be the first to read them. But with the last panicky echoes of Mud Flu fervor sulking in the lower portions of news websites, and werewolf photos still coming out of Kansas City, it was Lancroft’s thoughts on dealing with public scrutiny that remained at the front of his mind
like the chorus of a bad song that had snuck in through a set of unwary ears and refused to leave.

Lancroft had written:

According to the journal, those words had been written in 1851. Cole didn’t know whether he should be amazed or disappointed with how well that sentiment held up.

“Not a world of subtlety, huh?” he grumbled as he scooped the last of the dirt onto the pile and slapped the ground with the blade of his shovel.

“What was that?”

He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts and his shoveling that he had all but forgotten he wasn’t alone. “Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking about something I read.”

Walter Nash pressed one of his steel-toed boots down onto the pile of freshly turned earth and stuck his own shovel’s blade into it. “You talking about Lancroft’s journals?”

Furrowing his brow, Cole looked at the other man carefully. Although Walter’s wide face was friendly enough, Cole wasn’t quick to return his smile. “What makes you think that, Prophet? Another dream?”

While there was definitely an edge to Cole’s voice, the reference made perfect sense when directed at a man who frequently saw the future in his sleep. At least, that was his claim. In the time that Cole had been among the Skinners’ ranks, Prophet’s occasional warnings were hit and miss, and
his lottery picks hadn’t panned out well enough for early retirement. For anyone who hadn’t gotten used to chasing down shapeshifters or holding conversations with nymphs, that might have been impressive. In the mind of a Skinner, there was always room for improvement.

“Don’t need dreams to figure that out,” Prophet said. It was a cool night, but the sweat he’d worked up while digging and subsequently filling the hole added a sheen to his coffee-colored skin. Wiping away some of the perspiration trickling into his eye, he explained, “The only thing any of you Skinners have been talking about since you put the old man out of business is those journals.” He picked up his shovel to smooth over some of the rougher spots on the dirt pile and nodded solemnly. “Too late to deny it now.”

Cole sighed. Even though Paige wasn’t with him, he half expected to feel the swat of her hand against the back of his head. He hadn’t forgotten the other man was a professional bounty hunter, but he did allow Prophet’s more unusual talent to overshadow ones that had been honed through years of tracking people down the old-fashioned way.

They stood in a field ten miles south of Salem, New Jersey, and about an hour’s drive from Philadelphia. It was a calm stretch of flat land that was close enough to the Delaware River for them to catch a whiff of briny mist if the wind blew just right. Cole had picked the spot after riding in the passenger seat of a pickup truck that bottomed out with every bump it hit along County Highway 624. Since they’d stopped digging, the only sounds were the two men’s voices, the rustle of wind against tall grass, and the occasional rumble of engines from the highway. Despite their relative solitude, Cole lowered his voice when he said, “The journals are supposed to be a secret.”

“Then why mention them?” Prophet asked in a matching whisper. Straightening up, he motioned toward the pile of dirt under his boots and asked, “Why mention any of this to me? I’m not even a Skinner!”

“That’s why.”

Prophet’s dark brown eyes narrowed intently as he said,
“Just because I help you guys every now and then doesn’t mean I come when I’m called.”

“You got here pretty quickly when I called.”

“Because you said it was important. I believe the exact words were ‘really, really’ important. You call burying some dead animal important?”

“You know Henry was more than just some animal.”

“Sure, I was there when he tore apart that little town in Wisconsin. You told me what he did since then. Hell, I think some of that Mind Singer garbage may have interfered with my dreams. They’ve been coming a lot easier since you two finally put Henry down for good. That doesn’t explain why you need my help burying him.”

“Fine,” Cole said. “What’s the standard Helping Me Move fee? Pizza and beer? I’ll buy.”

“Jesus. I wish I was taping this conversation. That way I’d have something to give to anyone who wonders why I refuse to join up with you guys. Hope you brought that useless touch-screen phone of yours because you’ll need it to call yourself a cab.”

Before Prophet could take more than a few steps away from the earthen mound, Cole said, “I made a promise to Henry that I would give him a proper burial. I couldn’t drag him out of that basement on my own and you’re the only one I trusted to help me.”

“And that’s because I’m not a Skinner?”

“Yeah. Another Skinner wouldn’t let that body out of their sight. They also wouldn’t have helped me distract all the out-of-towners who’ve come along to grab what they could after Paige, Rico, Daniels, and I did the hard work.”

Prophet couldn’t take his eyes away from the patch of overturned soil. “What the hell would they want that mess for? It’s damn near stripped of parts as is. We had to carry it out in pieces.” Just thinking about it caused something to rise at the back of his throat, but he pushed it back down again with a few well-timed swallows.

“Henry’s still a Full Blood,” Cole said. “There’s more that can be done to him. Trust me.”

“What about Paige? Can’t you trust her with a job like this?”

Cole knew that he and Paige had pulled each other through too much hell for him to say the first words that flew through his mind. Instead, he opted for others that were just as true. “She’s got her own problems right now.”

“And the vultures that have been coming and going through that basement?” Prophet asked. “What about them?”

“They’re Skinners too, but I’ve never met them and I doubt they’d be willing to part with the mother lode of all dead werewolves. I promised Henry a burial. That’s what I’m giving him. I can’t afford to lose what little sleep I get by being haunted by him.”

Prophet let out a wary sigh. “From what I heard of the Mind Singer’s voice, I don’t blame you one bit for not wanting any more of that shit. So that covers this job. What about the journals?”

“I didn’t distract you enough to forget about them, huh?”

“Nope. I also didn’t forget how you said they were supposed to be a secret. If Paige is your partner, maybe you should tell her.”

“I did. She’s the one who wanted me to read through them before anyone else. I’ve already transferred as many of his computer files as I could to my laptop. Took the whole hard drive.”

“And?”

“And,” Cole grumbled, “for a man who’s supposed to be old school in every sense of the phrase, Lancroft knew a whole lot about encrypting files. The journals were the first things I found, but there were other things too. Formulas for chemical compounds, techniques behind rune writing that verge on black magic—”

“Oooh,” Prophet hissed. “Don’t use the M word around Paige.”

Cole smiled as he shifted his eyes toward the general direction of Philadelphia. “She still insists those runes are a set of ‘complex rituals that tap into natural energies,’” he said while using the appropriately placed finger quotes. “Not magic in the slightest.”

“Guess I see what she’s saying there. When someone calls me a fortune-teller, I damn near wanna rip their head off.

Cheapens the craft, you know?”

“Call it whatever you want, there’s some scary stuff in that computer, and there’s got to be more I haven’t found yet.”

“Not to mention whatever’s squirreled away in that house,” Prophet said.

“Exactly. Ever since we put the word out that Lancroft was killed, the other Skinners have been coming out of the woodwork to loot that place.”

“Why’d you mention anything about it if you’re so worried about them?”

When Cole removed the shovel from where it had been stuck, he started walking toward a ridge that overlooked a stretch of peaceful terrain to the south. “Between the nymphs and all the folks who were infected by that flu, there’s too many out there who already knew something was going on. Someone would have done some digging and found out about the house in Philly eventually. As long as there’s an Internet, there’ll always be someone out there using it to dig stuff up that shouldn’t be found.”

“Kind of like those specs for
Hammer Strike
2?”

Hearing someone from his new life make a reference back to his old one was jarring. It took a moment for it to sink in, and when it did, Cole still had to wonder if he’d heard the other man correctly.

Obviously enjoying the jolt he’d given Cole, Prophet laughed and swung his shovel over his shoulder. “I heard about it on a forum. Ever since you claimed to leave Digital Dreamers, I been keeping an eye on what comes out of there.”

“I didn’t just claim to leave. I was fired.”

“I saw your name attached to some smaller projects that are supposed to be in the works. Or was that more Internet bullshit?”

“Damn, you really have done your research.”

“Part of my day job is knowing what phone calls to make and which names to run searches on.”

Since the alternative was to try to deceive a man who was not only experienced at dealing with liars, but legitimately psychic to boot, Cole said, “It’s not bullshit. I’ve been knocked down to a minor consultant. Every now and then
Jason will farm out some work to me. Jason’s my boss.”

“I figured.”

“Compared to what I used to do over there, I might as well be fired from Digital Dreamers.
Hammer Strike
and some of my other stuff is still doing well enough to earn royalties, so that sends a check my way every now and then.”

“What’s with that wistful tone in your voice? Don’t tell me you seriously wanna go back to designing video games!”

“And give up the glamorous life of a monster hunter?” Cole said while holding up a dirty shovel and gazing out at a deserted portion of the New Jersey landscape. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

“You ask me, the work’s been doing you some good. You’re in better shape than you were in Wisconsin.”

Patting a stomach that had been somewhere between “a little soft” and “very soft” his entire life, Cole was happy to find a more solid surface beneath his black T-shirt. The belt on his faded jeans was new, as was the noticeably slimmer waistline encircled by it. Inevitably, his hand drifted up to a jaw covered by coarse stubble that was still too scattered to form a real beard. Scars from recent fights made it even tougher to grow decent facial hair, and even though his lineage blessed him with an unwavering hairline, he didn’t have time to do much grooming. Whenever it was thick enough to be visibly flattened by a pillow, his hair was buzzed off using a set of cheap shears. At the moment, he found it to be more mossy than bristly. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “No gym membership would have whipped my sorry ass into this kind of shape. There’d be fewer things trying to tear my head off, though.”

“I don’t know about that. I had one personal trainer who threatened to break my fingers if I touched another plate of goulash. That bitch was scary.”

Cole had to take another look at the man in front of him. As always, Prophet was about an inch taller than him, had a good amount of muscle under his tattered sweatshirt, and a beard that seemed tailor-made to hide a scowl. Hearing someone like that admit to fearing a gym employee was just plain wrong. “I appreciate the help with this, Walter. And I’d
appreciate it even more if you kept it between us.”

“I know a few of the Skinners on this side of the country, but not a lot. They all seem to think they know every damn thing.”