Royal Blood: Templar Series, Book 5 Page 6

  I couldn’t help it. Once more I did my ritual, taking his head in my hands and staring deeply into his eyes. Still no sign of Raven. I’d give anything for her to take up residence in one of the figurines on my shelf, to haunt my dreams with her sass, to stare back at me from Fulk’s eyes. Anything.

  But she wasn’t there, and I’d grown to love Fulk for Fulk. I might have gone into the shelter wanting a cat, but I was glad I’d walked out with both animals. They made my house a home.

  Fulk followed me upstairs as I went to change out of my coffee-shop clothing. Once I was in my yoga pants and t-shirt, I headed into the bathroom to unwrap the scarf from around my neck and check the scar.

  The scar. I ran my fingers over it, thinking of what Janice had said about the animal attacks. That was what I’d told my coworkers at the coffee shop—that a dog had attacked me. Somehow they believed it, horrified that a dog had mauled my neck and amazed that I’d somehow survived it.

  Kyra had stitched up my wound after the second attack. Dario had sent the vampires’ physician over to do a salve-and-bandage routine. Wolfram had even shown up the next day with an IV bag and some weird herbal concoction. I had no idea how he’d found out about my run-in with Simon but whatever was in that IV, or whatever was in that tea, had cut the physical effects of the vampire venom right off. I swear it was like venom Narcan. And just like Narcan, negating the physical effects of the drug didn’t do anything for my remembrance of what it felt like when it hit my veins.

  But my neck… Kyra had said the scar would fade. It had healed nicely, but I still looked like a dog had tried to bite my throat out.

  I not only gave that excuse at the coffee shop but to my gaming friends as well. Zac knew. He’d been there. And ever since that night, things had been rather strained between us. Which was awkward given that we were king and queen of a reenactment group that I still got confused with an animal charity, and that I played in his Wednesday night Anderon game.

  Rubbing some of the salve Kyra had given me onto the healing scar, I threw the little pot into a bag with my toiletries. I was going to spend the holiday at my family home. None of them would bat an eye at the gnaw mark on my neck, not with all the scars that Templar Knights tended to have decorating their bodies, but I still wanted it to heal as best as it could. The questions, the eyes of strangers that drifted to the scar all were a constant reminder of something I was trying very hard to put behind me, even if I could never forget.

  Fulk was my shadow as I headed downstairs, only abandoning me once I’d poured food in his bowl—after filling Gaia’s first, of course. Then I went into my living room, picked up my sword, and began to practice.

  There was no sense in leaving for Middleburg until later this evening when the traffic may have thinned out a bit. I figured I might as well get in my fitness routine before throwing a few clothes in a bag and heading out.

  Normally I tried to squeeze in some daily study on the magical texts Raven had given me, as well as familiarizing myself with my magical space downstairs by using it to create little charms. If I’d ever wanted to open a charm and hex shop, I had plenty of inventory. And where most of the magical groups I’d encountered would turn up their noses at such basic stuff, I didn’t. Yeah, it was impressive as all shit to summon a demon and return it back to hell, but a spelled butter knife had saved my life once. I wasn’t going to discount how useful a variety of ready-made spelled items could be.

  I’d only swung my sword a few times when I heard a knock at the door. Dario? No, it was still daylight out. And as I put my sword aside and jogged for the door, I realized I wasn’t sensing the staticky feel of vampire. It wasn’t Dario.

  I opened to door to find Detective Justin Tremelay on my doorstep, his unmarked car parked right behind mine at the curb.

  “An in person visit?” I grimaced. “So I take it this wasn’t just an anemic junkie after all?”

  “Can’t a guy pay a social call? Maybe I wanted to drop by after work for a beer or something.” He came in, patting Fulk on the head. Yes, the dog ate that fast. It was a wonder he hadn’t choked to death on his food by now.

  “If that’s the case I hope you brought the beer,” I joked. In spite of the increased hours at work, I was still skirting the poverty line. Beers were a luxury reserved for payday. And sometimes not even payday.

  “Coffee then?”

  I eyed him and went into the kitchen to put on a pot, more worried by the minute. Yes, Tremelay and I were sort-of friends as well as sort-of professional liaisons, but I got the feeling this request for beverages meant we were about to have a serious discussion about something unpleasant. And it worried me that this “unpleasant” was going to be about the vampires I was trying very hard to see the good in.

  Pilgrims on the Path. That’s what I kept reminding myself.

  Gaia finished her dinner in her typical dainty fashion while the coffee brewed. Tremelay stayed out in my main room, yanking photos from a folder and spreading them across my table while Fulk looked on.

  Ugh. I wish I had beer. I wish I had something stronger than beer.

  “I just got this case,” Tremelay called out to me. “So when I got your message, I pulled a few files and found something.”

  Yep. I wasn’t going to like this at all. Pulling two mugs out of the cabinets, I added the requisite amount of milk and sugar, and carried them both into my living room. Gaia followed, took one look at Tremelay, then stuck her nose in the air and went upstairs. The cat was very particular about who she associated with. She was an absolute lovebug with me, especially late in the evenings when I was sprawled across the couch watching TV. She adored Dario, Brandi, Zac, and all my gaming friends. For some reason she was cool around Tremelay, though. Maybe she sensed he was more of a dog person?

  “That’s a lot of pictures. Was it a slow day in homicide, detective?” I asked him.

  “It’s never a slow day in homicide in Baltimore,” he drawled. “But I know better than to sit on something that grabs your attention, Ainsworth. And as you know, I don’t really sleep.”

  Or fold his clean clothes. Or iron them. Or make sure his socks matched in the morning when he put them on.

  “So whatcha got here?” I handed him one of the mugs.

  “Dead people,” he replied.

  I could clearly see that from the photos spread out on my coffee table. Three dead people to be exact.

  My heart sank.

  “Your reporter friend was correct. We’ve had a rash of what we’re calling animal attacks. Perring Parkway, Cedmont, and Belvedere.”

  I thought for a second. “Northeast?”

  He nodded. “We’re not ruling out some whacked-out dog-fighting gang, but knowing what I know I think you should make your boyfriend aware that he’s got a problem in the northeast part of the city.”

  “Judging from what he told me last night he’s already on it, but I’ll let him know the specifics just in case.”

  Tremelay pointed to the photos. “I didn’t have time to do a complete search, but I wanted you to take a look at these.”

  I eyed the pictures, not sure what exactly I was looking for. “You think that these all have to do with the man I tripped over on South Fulton?”

  “I’m not sure.” He nudged a picture toward me. “These are the potential vampire-bite deaths that I think your friend Janice was talking about. Cause of death was listed as cardiac arrest due to overdose and their cases are considered closed, but I wanted you to see them—again, just in case.”

  “Only three overdose victims? What, in the last day?”

  “Week,” Tremelay replied.

  Baltimore was a big city, and there was definitely a drug problem here. I’d assumed there would be a few more than three overdose deaths in a week.

  The detective scooted one of the pictures over. “Oh, trust me there are more than three, but I focused on people who had been found in the streets—people who seemed to be homeless. If I counted the rich kids we’ve found
overdosed in the cars, or the people in their homes, or the ones the cops got to a little too late to Narcan, then there’d be more. Plus I had limited time to look things up, because if you hadn’t realized it, there’s a major holiday tomorrow and nobody besides patrol and those on hot cases will be working. I figured it was prudent to start with these few, then expand the search if there seems to be a pattern, or if you think we’ve got a vampire problem—well, more of a problem than usual, that is.”

  I took a deep breath and sat down with my coffee, looking closer at the photos. I didn’t recognize any of them.

  “So, what else can you tell me about these three?” I asked Tremelay.

  “They were found in Upton, Druid Hill, and Franklin Square, so a relatively close geographic area in the middle of the city. They had heroin in their systems, which was the main cause of cardiac arrest and death. All had severe anemia, and track marks on their inner arms. All were homeless individuals.”

  “Did the anemia play a part in their deaths? How severe was the anemia?” I knew that a good number of the regular blood donors on the Balaj’s payroll were active drug users, enjoying not just the high from the vampire venom, but the cash they received for their “donation”. If one of Dario’s family had imbibed no more than their usual pint, and the donor had died later from an overdose, then I was hardly going to hold the vampires responsible.

  “Several factors could have contributed to the deaths, but the main cause of the cardiac arrest was attributed to drug overdose. All three had signs of long-term drug usage according to the report. The anemia was significant, but as usually the case with indigent overdose victims, the M.E. didn’t do extensive testing beyond the cause of death. Nothing stood out as an obvious cause of the anemia, and since it wasn’t ruled a homicide, there was no need for a ton of other, frankly costly, lab work.”

  “But these three weren’t drained of blood’?”

  “Nope, although the report notes that with that level of anemia, the M.E. would have expected to see some sort of underlying disease like cancer, or sickle cell disease, or an autoimmune disorder. Not to sound callous or anything, but beyond the typical tox screen and routine organ inspection on autopsy, the M.E.’s office doesn’t normally do a deep dive into what subtle diseases a homeless junkie found dead on the streets may or may not have, especially when there’s no sign of foul play.”

  As sad as these deaths were, I was relieved that this wouldn’t be something I needed to address with Dario.

  “Now, the guy you stumbled upon yesterday is a bit different,” Tremelay added. “I’m still not saying it’s vampires or werewolves or the monster-under-the-bed, but there’s a couple of weird things that have me scratching my head.”

  I motioned for him to go on and he pulled another photo out of the folder—a photo of the man I’d found on South Fulton.

  “As the reporter told you, the prelim is potential overdose but unlike the other three, this guy didn’t appear to have any prior drug use history or the usual street drugs in his system, although that’s going to be hard to test for since this guy is way beyond anemic. He basically doesn’t have any blood. The M.E. said they managed to pull some from his organs and send out some tissue samples, but that it’s the weirdest thing he’s ever seen. The man basically bled out, and there’s no obvious reason why that would happen.”

  I caught my breath, knowing a non-obvious reason for that to happen. “But why call the death an overdose in the prelim? Why not say the guy died of blood loss?”

  “Because blood loss isn’t a cause of death. Gunshot or knife wound resulting in fatal blood loss, yes. Mysterious blood loss, no. The only marks on the guy were the track marks on his arm, and some bruises here and there. Nothing to have caused the blood loss. I think the M.E. is hoping the tox screen comes back and he can rule it a heroin overdose and not have to deal with the why and how of the missing blood.”

  “But he didn’t show any signs of habitual drug use,” I argued. “How likely would it be for a new user to overdose?”

  Tremelay shot me a grim smile. “More likely than you think. New users don’t always know the dosage their bodies can handle, and they’re not good at figuring out what dealers have more potent stuff and which ones have the weak stuff. Plus there’s a ton of drugs laced with all sorts of crap that can kill someone with one shot. Fentanyl is a real problem in street drugs as well. Could be this guy was moving from prescription drugs to IV, and got really unlucky his first time.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the blood loss,” I muttered. This could be bad. This could be really bad. Either Dario had a rogue smack in the middle of his city, or a member of his family drained this man. If the other three deaths were somehow related… I could imagine someone feeding a little bit too heavily with three homeless donors, then taking it waaaay too far with the fourth. Was the situation with the rogues far more serious than Dario had shared, or was someone in his family taking advantage of the change in leadership?

  Before I went and pointed fingers, I needed to dismiss other possible suspects. Vampires weren’t the only beings that drank human blood. And there certainly was a possibility that some horrible virus or disease slowly emptied a person of their blood supply—a disease the homeless were more susceptible to than others.

  I pointed to the photo in Tremelay’s hand, the one of the man I’d found. “Any closeup photos of the track marks?”

  “They’ll be in the M.E.’s final report, so not yet. The notes I got said inner arms.”

  Fang marks, or needle marks? I wouldn’t know until I saw them—heck, I might not even know then. But I certainly couldn’t confront Dario until I saw those marks and at least had a reasonable suspicion that they were caused by a vampire. The guy had enough on his plate without me having him chase down what could be a non-existent killer.

  Tremelay took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve got this case, but right now it’s more about identifying the man and trying to locate his next of kin. Any actual investigation is on the back burner until we know if it’s an overdose, some weird natural causes thing, or a murder.”

  I nodded, knowing that suspicious deaths fell into a gray area. Sadly, Baltimore homicide was so darned busy that they prioritized and devoted manpower to the cases that were clear homicides while these others had to wait.

  “So there were track marks on the inner arm of the other three? That’s kinda the normal place for drug users to inject isn’t it?”

  Tremelay nodded. “As well as other areas. Inner arm is pretty common, but some users shoot up in areas that aren’t so readily visible. People hiding their addiction from family, or a job, might use toes or upper leg so the track marks wouldn’t be openly visible.”

  “Toe means taking your shoes and socks off,” I mused. “Thigh means taking your pants off. Are there really that many guys willing to shoot up with their pants around their ankles? Don’t users pass out or something? How many times do you get a call where someone is passed out with his pants down?”

  Tremelay chuckled. “Ainsworth, sometimes you’re really naïve. It’s cute. Really. Pants down, means someone is probably shooting up with a girlfriend or boyfriend. If things go wrong, that girlfriend or boyfriend usually puts the guy’s pants back on before calling 911. They also hide all the drugs and try to sober up before calling 911 as well, which is why sometimes we get there too late to help.”

  I scooped up the photos. “Can I keep these? And can you let me know when you get any more info on this guy from yesterday morning?”

  “Help yourself. They’re all copies.” He stood and turned to leave. “You working Black Friday? I can swing by, or if not we can meet for lunch. I’ll buy.”

  “My shift is six to noon and I’ve got a couple of afternoon appointments.” Which sucked because lunch on Tremelay’s dime wasn’t something I wanted to turn down.

  “You out of town for the holidays?” Tremelay asked as I walked him to the door. “You’re welcome to join Kyra and me. Nothing fancy, b
ut I can manage to roast a turkey and Kyra makes a darned good sweet potato casserole.”

  “I’m heading to Middleburg in a few hours where I plan to eat like a complete pig all day then drive back Thanksgiving night with a trunk full of leftovers. Maybe we can do something Saturday morning?”

  “As long as I’m not slammed at the station.” He stood in the open door and looked out across the street to a boarded up row house. “Of course, we’re always slammed. I’ll call you Friday afternoon and let you know how my weekend looks.”

  “Cool. Oh, wait!” I stopped him as he started down my porch steps. “I wanted to ask if a woman called you this morning about a missing person report. Her brother. Her name is Liz Dimond, and her brother is Rick Dimond. I gave her your number in case he didn’t show up at the hotel.”

  Tremelay thought for a second then shook his head. “No. She might have filed it with someone else though.”

  “I gave her your number, so I’m sure she would have called you.” I felt the tension drain out of me in relief. That was one thing I guess I didn’t need to worry about. “He ditched her last night for a hook up. Dario and I drove her home, and she was worried because it was out of character for her brother. I guess he finally staggered in, though.”

  The detective chuckled. “Hung over and exhausted, no doubt. Hope he wrapped it or he’ll end up at his doctor’s office in a few weeks getting antibiotics.”

  I winced at the implication and waved Tremelay off as he trotted down the remaining stairs and into his car. Then I turned back to eye the photos on my coffee table. Picking them up, I stuck them in my backpack and glanced at the time. I really needed to get going because it would probably take me four hours to get home on the day before a major holiday.

  While I was at my parents’ house, I planned to do more than eat turkey and pumpkin pie. Dad was a Templar Librarian and had some of the most rare and detailed books on the supernatural right in his own personal library. These deaths might be natural causes, or they might be vampires, but if they were something else, then my father and his books were the best chance I had of figuring out the “who” in this potential whodunit.