Lover Enshrined

“Well… hell, if that’s where you want to go, okay.”

The two of them dematerialized to the side yard of the Tudor. The shutters were up for the night, and in a blink they were standing inside the sitting room.

The smell was so bad, John felt like someone had taken steel wool to the inside of his nose and used the shit like a Q-tip… all the way to his frontal lobe.

Covering his mouth and nose, he coughed.

“Fuck,” Qhuinn said, doing the same.

The two of them looked down. There was blood all over the carpet and the sofa, the stains brown from having dried.

They followed the streaks out into the foyer.

“Oh, Jesus…”

John lifted his head. Through the lovely archway of the dining room was a scene right out of a Rob Zombie movie. The bodies of Lash’s mother and father, seated in what were no doubt their regular chairs, were facing a beautifully set table. Their pallor was that of sidewalk pavement, a pale matte gray, and their fine clothes were like the rugs, streaked in brown.

There were flies.

“Man, those lessers are sick, for real.”

John swallowed down the bile in his throat and walked over.

“Shit, do you really need a close-up there, buddy?”

Peering into the room, John forced himself to ignore the horror and note the details. The platter that the roasted chicken was on had blood marks on the edges.

The killer had put it on the table. After he’d arranged the bodies, most likely.

Let’s go up to Lash’s room.

Walking upstairs was totally freaky, because they were alone in the house-but not really. Somehow, the dead downstairs filled the air with something close to sound. Certainly the smell followed John and Qhuinn up the stairwell.

“His crib’s on the third floor,” Qhuinn said when they got to the second-floor landing.

They walked into Lash’s bedroom, and it was such a non-event compared to the shock of the living room. Bed. Desk. Stereo. Computer. TV.

Bureau.

John went over and saw the drawer with the bloody prints. These were too smudged to tell whether or not a swirl pattern had been left. He picked up a random shirt and used it to open the thing, because that was what they did on the TV shows. Inside, more bloody marks, too smudged to read.

His heart stopped beating and he bent down closer. There was one print that was especially clear, on the corner of a Jacob amp; Co. watch box.

He whistled to bring Qhuinn’s head around. Do lessers leave fingerprints?

“If they come into contact with something, sure.”

I mean, do they leave prints, prints. Not just blanks, but, like, stuff with lines.

“Yeah, they do.” Qhuinn came over. “What are you looking at?”

John pointed to the box. On the corner was a perfect reproduction of a thumb… that had no discernible ridges. Like a vampire’s would.

You don’t suppose-

“No. No way. They’ve never turned a vampire.”

John took out his phone and snapped a picture. Then, on second thought, he took the box itself and put it inside his jacket.

“We done?” Qhuinn asked. “Make my night and say yes.”

I just… John hesitated. I need a little longer up here.

“Okay, but I’m going to go through those second-floor bedrooms, then. I can’t… I can’t be in here like this.”

John nodded as Qhuinn left, and felt bad. Jesus, maybe it had been cruel even to ask the guy to come here.

Yeah… because this was fucked-up. Standing around all this shit of Lash’s, it was like he was still alive.

Across town, behind the wheel of the Focus, Lash was not a happy camper. The car was a piece of shit, for real. Even though they were in residential traffic, the beater still had no pickup. For chrissakes, it was zero to thirty in three days.

“We need to upgrade.”

In the passenger seat, Mr. D was checking his gun, his slim fingers flying over the weapon. “Yeah… um, ’bout that.”

“What.”

“I think we gonna need to wait ’til the money comes in from the looting.”

“What the fuck?”

“I gots me the bank statements, you know, from the last Fore-lesser? That Mr. X? They was in his cabin. And there’s not a ton in there.”

“Define ‘not a ton.’ ”

“Well, it’s all gone, basically. I don’t know where and I don’t know who. But there’s about five thousand left.”

“Five? Are you fucking kidding me?” Lash let the car decelerate. Which was like taking a vegetable off life support.

Out of money? What the hell? He was like the Prince of Darkness or some shit. And his army’s net worth was five grand?

Sure, he had his dead family’s money, but as much as that was, he couldn’t wage an entire war with it.

“Man, fuck this… and I’m going back to my old house. I’m not driving this tin-can piss box anymore.” Yeah, he was so over the whole mommy/daddy thing all of a sudden. He needed a new car ASAP, and there was a spank Mercedes parked in that Tudor’s garage. He was going to get in the damn thing and drive it around, and he wasn’t going to feel guilty.

Fuck the whole vampire thing.

As he hung a rightie and shot over toward his neighborhood, though, he started to feel sick to his stomach. Except he wasn’t going inside the house, so he wouldn’t have to see the bodies, assuming they were still where he’d left them-

Shit, he was going to have to go in for the keys.

Whatever. He needed to grow the fuck up.

Ten minutes later, Lash pulled up by the garages in back and got out of the car. “Take this to the farmhouse. I’ll meet you there.”

“You sure I shouldn’t wait?”

Lash frowned and looked down at his hand. The ring the Omega had given him the night before was warming up on his finger and starting to glow.

“Looks like your sire done wants ya,” Mr. D said, getting out of the passenger seat.

“Yeah.” Shit. “How does this work?”

“You need somewheres private. You gets quiet and he will come to you or take you to him.”

Lash looked up at the Tudor and figured that it would do. “I’ll see you at the farmhouse. And then I want you to take me to that cabin where all the records are.”

“Yes, suh.” Mr. D touched the brim of his cowboy hat and slid behind the wheel.

As the Focus wheezed its way back down the drive, Lash went inside through the kitchen. The house smelled really bad, the fruity-nauseating stench of death and decay nearly a solid, it was so strong.

He had done this, he thought. He was responsible for what was stinking up the fine house.

He took out his phone to call Mr. D back, but then hesitated, focusing on his ring. The gold was burning to such a degree, he was surprised it didn’t take his finger off.

His sire. His sire.