The Devil's Angel (Devil Series Book 2) (3 page)

She called after him, “Don’t be a stranger!”

He raised his hand goodbye without turning back around.

Inside his hotel room on the top floor, he dropped the envelope on a small dining table. He liked his penthouse suite. The walls were a dark olive color with black wainscoting. A black leather recliner sat in front of a huge flat screen television hanging on the wall, and beneath it was a long bookcase that held his favorite books. The penthouse had two bedrooms, but he rarely used them.

After showering quickly and changing into jeans and a t-shirt, he went into the dining room and tore the top off of the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper with a single address on it. He would visit it later.

Lucien grabbed a black beanie off the counter and pulled it down over his head before leaving again. In the parking garage beneath the hotel, he unlocked the car door to his 98’ military issued Hummer. It still had canvas seats, and the inside was stripped of all personal comforts. The only change he’d made to it was to tint the windows. It was his favorite vehicle.

He turned the key in the ignition and pressed on the gas. A short time later, he parked near the coffee shop where he had a clear view of the Deific across the street.

It was three o’clock p.m. The inside of the car was hot from the beating sun, but it didn’t faze him. Over time, he’d trained himself to block out all outside stimuli. He could hold completely still for hours if needed.

Some time later, Eve left the Deific. The man who’d opened the door for her that morning walked with her. They moved side by side but did not hold hands. They looked like nothing more than coworkers, but Lucien couldn’t help but notice how the man’s eyes lingered on Eve. She, however, failed to notice.

The two crossed the street to the coffee shop and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, they reappeared and continued down the sidewalk toward him speaking about someone named Michael who lived in New York. Lucien also learned by listening in on their casual conversation that the man walking with Eve was named Charlie.

As they passed by Lucien’s car, Charlie stopped suddenly and gripped Eve’s hand. She stopped and looked at him questioningly. Then, as if nothing had startled him, Charlie continued walking, taking Eve with him.

Lucien started the car and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t like the way the man had stopped as if he’d sensed something.

What I am doing?

His phone rang. He answered on the first ring. “What do you know?”

“Not a whole lot,” Scott’s voice said. “The Deific is registered with the state as an accounting agency. They also have offices in Los Angeles, Austin, and New York. They are also in Japan, Paris, London, Ireland—”

“Ireland?” Lucien asked.

“Yes, all over.”

“Is that normal for an accounting agency?”

“Not any that I know of, but that’s not the strange part. I couldn’t find the name of the person who started Deific.”

“Isn’t it registered somewhere?”

“Yes, but by another corporation called McCullin Industries based out of London. I called my contacts there and they said McCullin Industries started in 1845 or at least, that’s when they officially registered. And back then it wasn’t required to list the owner.”

“Do you know what type of business the corporation is?”

“Unavailable.”

“What about Eve Andrews?”

“Even more strange. The address you gave me of her home was purchased by a woman with that name. She has a social security number and a passport, but no credit history except for the house. I couldn’t find any school records, employment history. It’s as if she was born a year ago.”

“Has she always been in Seattle?”

“She only just came here a month or so ago. Before that she was living in New York City in the same building as their Deific office.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s it. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“Thanks for trying.”

Lucien hung up the phone and continued to drive through Seattle toward White Center, knowing he would eventually end up at the address written on the sheet of paper. Twenty years ago, White Center had been a hot bed of drugs and crime, but after enough time and a community who finally decided to fight back, the neighborhood once again became a fairly nice place to live. Part of White Center still had its problems, but overall, the large urban area thrived.

As Lucien drove down Roxbury Street, he thought about the Deific and the possibility of it being a legitimate accounting firm. There was no way an accounting firm would have the type of security he saw earlier today. Living for over three hundred years had taught Lucien many things, one of which was, if something didn’t make sense, there was a problem. He didn’t try to justify the possibility of an accounting firm having security guards and offices all over the world. It would be a waste of time. It was humans that did this. They were always trying to justify someone’s strange behavior because the truth was too hard to believe.

Somehow Lucien needed to find a way in, maybe from the roof. He decided to go there as soon as he completed this job. It wasn’t the best employment, but he’d volunteered. The work was often dangerous and illegal, but most importantly, it satisfied several of his needs. And for a vampire, that was number one.

Lucien located the address. He slowly drove past a small, bright green house that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. One of the home’s glass windows was broken and the other two were covered in tin foil. Crowded in the driveway were three cars—one of them was a suped-up mustang, but the other two were old Buicks.

After a few blocks, Lucien parked in front of a large playground. It was the only place his Hummer would be safe as parks were patrolled by cops more frequently than any other area.

On foot, he made his way back to a bus stop that had a view of the rundown house. He was grateful for dark clouds that had rolled in within the last hour. It made waiting for nightfall more comfortable.

Just a few more hours.

During this time, Lucien watched several cars stop at the tiny house, all at different times from each other. People of different colors and ages disappeared behind the front door only to reappear minutes later after getting what they came for. Even without smelling the strong chemical odor, Lucien had no doubts this was a meth house. Once again, John—the Chief of Police—was right.

Lucien had met John through Scott. Scott and John had become friends over twenty-five years ago, because they shared a common goal and their jobs forced them to work together. John would catch the bad guys and Scott was the prosecuting attorney who put them behind bars. As they got older, and witnessed the court system fail time and time again, their frustration led them to alternative means.

Scott had introduced Lucien to John about ten years ago. Lucien liked him immediately. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. He had buzzed blond hair making him look more like a drill sergeant than a Chief of Police. John was well known for being actively involved in every case rather than simply barking orders from behind a desk.

When Lucien had first met him, John’s grip had been firm and he’d looked at Lucien directly in the eye, unafraid of Lucien’s intense gaze that could often detect the slightest deceit. But John was exactly who he said he was with nothing to hide. Other than John and Scott, Lucien had not allowed any humans to know his secret. And even contact with those two was kept to a minimum.

After that meeting with Scott and John ten years ago, Lucien’s life had changed dramatically. John would catch the criminals and Scott would try to prosecute them, but if that failed, Lucien received an address. They trusted him to become the judge, jury, and executioner in one fell swoop. The arrangement worked out well for everyone.

Lucien only received an address once or twice a month, and they only led to repeat offenders whose rap sheet included the worst kind of crimes. This was the only time he allowed himself to feed. Before their arrangement, Lucien remained holed up in his room, only coming out when his hunger proved too great. Sometimes, he’d feed on animals, but that was like eating dirt and barely gave him enough strength to walk. As for blood bags, he could only order or steal so many before people started asking questions.

It was midnight. A cold breeze pushed its way through the street, and with it came the smell of rain. A sharp pain stabbed at Lucien’s gut. It had been almost two weeks since he’d fed last, but he didn’t mind. The pain helped him remember who and what he was: a monster.

As an old truck pulled out of the driveway, Lucien stood up and faced the little green house across the street. It was time. Finally Lucien could feed.

Lucien didn’t bother knocking. He announced his arrival by kicking down the door, splintering it into several pieces. A sawed-off shotgun was immediately shoved in his face by a skinny, long-haired man with scabs on his arms. Lucien grabbed the gun and smashed it against the man’s face, breaking his nose. The man screamed and covered his nose, but blood still sprayed from between his fingers. Lucien shoved him aside.

Inside the small living room, one woman was pressed into the corner screaming while another lay sprawled on a couch. She looked at Lucien with casual indifference, her pupils the size of the smoking light bulb lying on the floor next to her.

“Get out now if you want to live,” he said.

The screaming woman scrambled for the door, taking Broken Nose with her. The other girl with chin-length brown hair and eyes that looked more yellow than green smiled at him and closed her eyelids. Lucien didn’t try to wake her from her stupor. Instead, he let her enjoy the escape she had chosen from life. It would become her coffin.

Lucien ducked behind a corner when two pairs of feet pounded on the stairs leading up from the basement. Two men appeared, both holding handguns. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He stepped in front of them at the opposite end of the hallway, his hands balled tight and fangs extended. The men opened fire at the same time Lucien rushed them. Metal bullets tore into his body, some going right through him, but they did nothing to slow him down. The men backed up, their eyes widening as they continued to fire their weapons.

Lucien grinned wildly and attacked them through a spray of bullets. It was a simple dance for him, one he had perfected throughout the years. He dove in grabbed each of them by the arm, spun around until the guns were forced from their grip, then back around until they were each pressed against the wall, Lucien’s tight grip around their throats.

“You have one chance to live,” he said. “Leave now or die.”

The man-boys glanced at each other. Lucien released them from his grip and waited for their answer. At the same time, both men scrambled for the door, pushing and shoving just to get away. Lucien was glad they’d chosen wisely. He took no pleasure in killing, but he wasn’t a saint, either.

Lucien closed his eyes and concentrated on the other sounds in the home. A faint shuffling, as if someone was searching through articles of clothing, whispered through the house. There was one more human hiding. Lucien crept down the narrow hallway. A lone light flickered above, and the house smelled of stale beer and burnt chemicals.

A bedroom door on his right was closed. Just as he was about to kick it down, the door swung open, surprising him. A heavyset man with a tattoo of an eagle on his left arm fired an AK47 directly into his chest. Lucien crashed into the wall behind him, temporarily stunned. He slumped to the ground, pretending to be dead.

The fat man chuckled and stepped in front of Lucien. He bent down and, inches from Lucien’s face, spat, “Come to take my money? You dirty, piece of sh—”

Lucien’s eyes snapped open, and he snatched the man’s meaty neck and jerked him forward, his fangs easily slicing through the man’s thick skin. Lucien held him tight while he sucked in the human’s warm blood, which in turn heated his own cold blood in a matter of seconds. It was like stepping into a hot bath, and Lucien couldn’t help but moan in pleasure. But it wouldn’t last.

The large man’s body jerked and twisted in Lucien’s tight grip, clinging stubbornly to life. The initial pleasure turned to misery, and Lucien almost let go. He hated the taste of the last drop of life that man treasured most. Other vampires joked that it tasted like a maraschino cherry, but Lucien found the taste bitter and foul.

Lucien tossed the dead man to his side and leaned toward his knees, his stomach tightening into knots. He inhaled several sips of air until he knew he couldn’t take any more time. Police would be arriving soon.

He forced himself up, despite still feeling nauseous, and moved through the house, gathering any flammable objects he could find: cleaners, hairspray, paint thinner. He then crushed all of the containers and sprayed the liquids everywhere, including on the stacks of hundred dollar bills he’d found in the fat man’s bedroom.

Downstairs was a fully functioning meth lab. He didn’t spray anything down there—it would ignite on its own.

Lucien walked out the back door and lit a match. The orange flame dropped to the ground, and then licked at the trail of chemicals until it had entirely engulfed the run-down house. He stayed for a few minutes, the heat warming his face, but when sirens wailed in the distance, he stealthily maneuvered his way through the many backyards to his car at the park. Just as several cops raced by, their lights spinning and sirens blaring, Lucien jumped into his Hummer.

Surprisingly, Lucien’s thoughts didn’t linger on the man he’d just killed. Instead, he was thinking of breaking into the Deific, and that made him think of Eve. And before he realized it, he found himself driving in the direction of her house. There was something calming about her presence, and right now that was exactly what he needed.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped over a small bike to climb the oak tree across from Eve’s house. He made it to the tallest limb possible before he finally looked over. The sight was enough to stop his heart from beating, if it actually beat.