Flesh, Fangs, and Magic

The Vivienne Vance Confessions

By Ancient Scribe

Chapter 2

The crisp, heavy stack of hundred-dollar bills Eleanor had slapped onto the corner of my desk before she vanished wasn't the only proof I hadn't hallucinated the entire thing. The money was real, the ache in my chest from her cheap shots about the anniversary was real, and the ruined, torn blouse currently sitting in my trash can was definitely real.

I pocketed the retainer, grabbed my silver skull-topped sword cane, and locked up Vance Investigations.

Stepping out of the building's awning, the Detroit deluge hit me like falling hail. The rain was cold, heavy, and unforgiving, turning the street into a blur of black asphalt and smeared neon reflection. For anyone else in the Motor City, this was the cue to pull out their car keys, crank the heat, and drive.

Not me. See, I don't drive. I hate everything about it: the trapped feeling of being behind the wheel, the mechanical arrogance of the damn things, the way humans think a roaring engine makes them masters of the world. It has nothing to do what happened five years ago, either. I'd hated cars long before that.

But in a city built entirely on the back of the assemmbly line, being a detective who doesn't drive is practically a cardinal sin. It's even cost me a job a time or two. Despite all that, I just can't bring myself to drive any of the damned things.

Luckily, I had an employee for that.

I walked the half block down the rain slicked sidewalk to the brick apartment building where my office rent was supposedly overdue. I didn't bother checking the time; it was well past one in the morning, but when you're a pariah witch tracking a stolen human thrall for a high-society vampire, standard business hours don't necessarily apply. Besides, I knew my employee wouldn't mind.

Frankly, I could probably slap him in the face and spit on his shoes and he wouldn't mind.

I bypassed the main entrance and marched down the alley to the side door of the landlord's apartment, using the heavy silver skull of my cane to hammer a loud, rhythmic sound against the wood. Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Just a sec!"

I sighed, shivering from the cold. By now I was so thoroughly drenched there was no point in it but I got as close to the door as possible so its overhang could keep at least some of the rain off of my head. Thankfully I only had to wait a couple of minutes. I heard a muffled crash from inside, someone tripping over something, and then the lock clicked.

The door swung open to reveal Allan. He was twenty years old, completely disheveled, and blinking sleepily through a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses that were sitting crooked on his nose. His wild, unkempt brown hair was sticking out in three different directions, and he was wearing a faded, oversized tee shirt featuring a smiley face logo of an underground Seattle band called Nirvana. A flannel shirt was tied sloppily around his waist, and his jeans were torn at the knees. Semi-cool, semi-geek, and aside from whenever I took him out, a total introvert through and through.

When he saw me standing there in the driving rain, wrapped in my dark trench coat with a fresh red blouse now buttoned up to my throat, the sleep vanished from his eyes. His jaw slackened slightly, and I could practically hear his heartbeat skipping a beat.

Allan had been hopelessly, desperately in love with me for as long as I'd been renting space from his old man. But the kid was was eight years younger than me and barely a man. I swing both ways but not that low. Besides my tastes run to a bit more of the... dangerous type. There was nothing dangerous about sweet Allan.

"V-Vivienne?" he stammered, frantically adjusting his glasses. "Is everything okay? Is the building on fire?"

"Worse," I said, offering him a sharp, business only smile. "We have a case. Grab your keys, Allan. We're going to Indian Village."

"Right now?" He blinked, then caught himself, trying to inject some tough-guy gravel into his voice. "I mean, yeah. Absolutely. Let me grab my boots."

Ten minutes later, we were hunkered down inside his hand-me-down Ford Crown Victoria. The car was an absolute boxy beater, a rusted-out tank that smelled perpetually of stale McDonald's french fries, damp upholstery, and the heavy, sweet scent of his cheap drugstore cologne. The heater kicked on with a pathetic, wheezing groan, blowing lukewarm air into the cramped cabin as the windshield wipers slapped violently against the glass.

I sank into the passenger seat, leaning my cane between my knees. In the tight, enclosed space of the sedan, the air grew thick and heavy. I didn't cast a spell, but my senses are always raw, always close to the surface. As the car idled, I breathed it in, and my magic brushed against Allan's aura.

It was damn near intoxicating. Unlike the freezing, predatory, dead seduction Eleanor had just used to pin me to my desk, Allan's energy was like a blazing furnace. It was a chotic, beautiful mess of raw human life, all thick with late-night exhaustion, a sudden spike of terrifying adrenaline, and a massive, thumping undercurrent of pure, unadulterated lust for me. The rawness, the inexperience of a 20 year old with all the passions of a grown man felt like a rush of dopamine hitting my brain. It was all so warm, vibrant, and so intensely alive it made the skin on my arms tingle. It was the perfect antidote to the vampire's chill, and for a second, I just sat there, letting his silent, worshipful adoration wash over me, warming me against the cold, wet rain drying on my body.

And for a second, just a second, I wondered what would happen if I leaned over and planted a kiss on those pouty lips of his.

Not that I would ever do that. Instead I whispered a couple of what I like to call, keywords: small incantations that, along with some deft movements of my fingers, conjured up a magical spell. Nothing fancy about this one though: just one to help me dry quickerly than I otherwise would have.

Allan cleared his throat, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, desperately trying to look like a hardened investigator instead of a lovesick teenager, trying to show his 20 years more than his immaturity. "So, uh, what's the job, Boss?" he said as he pulled the Vic onto a lightly trafficked Michigan Avenue.

Boss. I liked the sound of that, mostly because I hadn't paid him his assistant wages in three weeks. Also? I like being in charge. Giving orders is my thing, not so much taking them.

There are exceptions to that little rule, of course. But for the most part I consider myself an Alpha female. The pack bitch. The one who rides on top.

But again... there are exceptions. Just not this night.

"High-profile kidnapping," I said, pulling a clove cigarette from my pack and sparking it with a Bic lighter. I cracked the passenger window an inch, letting the rain hiss but not so much get inside. "A wealthy eccentric down in Indian Village had her personal assistant snatched right out of his bed tonight. The client wants him back, and she's paying double my usual rate. Bonus, too, if he's found unharmed."

"Wow," Allan said, gunning the Crown Vic down the flooded streets of downtown Detroit. The big V8 engine rumbled unsteadily beneath us. "That's a lot, right? Does that mean..."

"Yes, Allan, it means I'm good for your backpay," I groused, blowing a stream of sweet smoke toward the dashboard. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Also should have enough left over to pay your dad. If I'm late on rent, that is."

"You are."

"Maybe just a week or so."

"Two months, I think?"

I scowled. "Just get us there in one piece."

Because of the strict, bloody laws of the Veil, I kept him entirely in the dark about the real nature of my work. He knew I had 'special powers'. Some of that couldn't be helped. He'd seen me mix tracking potions that actually worked, and he knew I could read people's physical desires just by looking at them. But he thought I was just some eccentric, underground psychic who helped wealthy weirdos. He didn't know that the 'wealthy eccentric' we were visiting was an immortal corpse who could tear a man's throat out with her teeth. He didn't know that his precious Crown Vic was driving us straight into a supernatural crime scene.

Another good thing about Allan? He was an X-Files type of guy, that new show that was fictional but made people in my world a little uncomfortable. He liked reading the Weekly World News and playing Dungeons and Dragons with his few friends. In other words he was more willing to believe in the supernatural than most people. It didn't protect him entirely, but it allowed him to think of me as something "more" without being terrified or running to the FBI.

"Did the kidnapper leave a ransom note?" Allan asked, peering through the heavy downpour as he navigated the dark, slick curves of Jefferson Avenue. A horn blared as he cut somebody off, and I winced, gripping the side armrest.

God I hated driving. Even as a passenger.

"No," I replied, my eyes tracking the amber glow of the streetlights reflecting off the hood of the car. "But they left plenty of graffiti. Some written in blood, so I'm told."

Allan swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward me for a fraction of a second before locking back into the road. "Blood? Jesus, Vivienne. Are you sure we shouldn't call the real cops?"

"The real cops wouldn't know what to do with this one, kid," I said softly, tapping the ash off my cigarette. "Trust me. This is strictly a Vance Investigations matter."

We turned off the main drag and entered the dark, quiet streets of Indian Village. In 1992 Detroit urban decay was a fact of life, but not in this neighborhood. Here it was a wealthy historic enclave filled with sweeping, majestic mansions, towering oaks, and wrought iron security gates. But tonight, beneath the black canopy of the drizzling storm, the massive houses looked less like historic monuments and more like grand, gothic tombs.

It was no wonder that no less than three vampires had estates here.

Allan slowed the Crown Vic to a crawl, pulling up to the towering, rusted iron gates of Eleanor Laurent's sprawling estate. The headlights of the beater sliced through the darkness, illuminating the grand stone archway and the dark, looming silhouette of the mansion beyond.

The house was completely dark, save for a single, flickering amber light on the second floor. Their were no security guards at the gate. No cameras panning back and forth. The air outside the car felt heavy, vibrating with a strange, low frequency hum that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

It wasn't Eleanor's vampiric magic. Her wards were elegant, cold, and structured. This felt different. It felt wild. Primal.

"We're here," Allan whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he killed the engine. The sudden silence inside the car was deafening, save for the relentless pounding of the rain on the roof. "What's the plan, Boss?"

I opened the car door, the midnight chill rushing in to swallow Allan's warmth. I grabbed my skull-topped cane, feeling the cold silver of the handle steady my nerves.

"You stay in the car and keep the engine running" I told him, looking back over my shoulder. "If you see anything with fur, or anything that moves faster than a bullet, you hit the horn and you don't stop hitting it. Understand?"

Allan stared at me through his thick glasses, terrified. But then a slight smile came to his lips. I was joking. I had to be joking.

"Uhhh... ha ha... sure? I mean... got it, Boss. Be careful."

I stepped out into the pouring rain, slamming the heavy door of the Crown Vic behind me. I walked up to the iron gates, my leather boots splashing through the deep puddles, ready to find out exactly what kind of ancient, bloody mess Eleanor had dragged me into.

End of Chapter 2