Vampire Zero (Laura Caxton, #3)(29)

Keeping her weapon low but ready, she moved quickly to the nearest cop car—one of the local units. Its flashers cycled wildly on its roof and its radio crackled with occasional calls from the Bellefonte dispatcher, but the seats were all empty, front and back. She moved to the next car, the other local patrol cruiser, and heard that its engine was still running. It was as empty as the first one, but there was blood on the windshield. The inside of the windshield.

The Bellefonte cops hadn’t even had a chance to get out of their car before Jameson was on them like a cat on a flock of pigeons. She bit her lip and tried not to think about the fact that she had authorized their approach. She was directly responsible for whatever had happened to them, but she could worry about that later.

Farther up the street the three state police cars made a roadblock across the eastern end of the street. Their flashers and engines were off, but she could see right away they were empty too. She didn’t see any bodies anywhere, nor any pieces of bodies. There was some more blood on the snow that covered Astarte’s lawn, but not enough of it to account for all the cops. There had been three state troopers and four local cops on the assault—seven men and no sign of any of them. It wasn’t like a vampire to clean up his own mess. She considered the fact that some of them might still be alive. If so she had to move fast. Beckoning to Glauer with a hand signal, she rushed up the steps of Astarte’s porch and threw herself against the green clapboard wall just to the left side of the door. There was a plaque there of polished brass, showing the outline of a hand crisscrossed with curving lines. Underneath was written:

MADAME ASTARTE

READINGS AND ADVICE

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Glauer came thundering up the steps to take up position on the right side of the door. He had the shotgun cradled in his arms, his pockets stuffed full of extra shells.

“There’s probably a back door. We do this just like in Mechanicsburg, okay?” she whispered. His shotgun would be little use against Jameson, but she doubted the vampire would rush right into its firing cone either. “You take the back, and don’t let anybody out. If I give the signal you come inside fast, loaded for bear.”

“What’s the signal?” he asked.

“If I start screaming, that’s the signal,” she told him.

He nodded and ducked around the side of the porch, his boots clomping on the boards. When she couldn’t hear his footfalls anymore she kicked open the door.

It was unlocked—the state troopers had already breached it for her—and she was inside in less time than it took for her heart to beat twice.

A single lamp at the far end of the room bathed the front hall in an orange light. It dazzled her eyes for a moment and she turned away to let her pupils adjust. It was warm inside, warm enough to make her uncomfortable in her winter coat. When she could see clearly again she looked around and saw a Persian carpet on the floor and overstuffed armchairs around a round wooden table. It looked like the perfect setup for a séance. To her left a grand staircase curled up toward a second-?floor gallery. On the wall before her hung a huge tapestry, black with gold embroidery showing a snake swallowing its own tail. Inscribed in the circle the snake made were the words WE SHALL ALL RETURN. Caxton looked up the stairs. She could almost imagine Astarte making a stately entrance down the wooden steps, wearing a dowdy old dress, her hair up in a loose bun. It was how she had imagined the woman when they spoke on the phone, though honestly, she had no idea what Jameson’s widow actually looked like.

Doors led off the foyer in three directions, but they were all closed. Jameson could be hiding behind any of them, she knew. Forcing herself to breathe calmly, she tried to pay attention to the hairs on the back of her arms, to the sensitive skin behind her ears. If he was close she would feel him, feel the aura of wrongness that vampires exuded. She made herself wait for five seconds before she decided she couldn’t feel a thing.

Then she heard something and nearly jumped out of her skin. It was a very soft sound, a faint pattering, reminding her of the sound snow made when it fell. It came from the base of the stairs. Caxton moved closer, but the shadows cast by the single lamp made it impossible for her to see anything there. She reached into her pocket and took out her Mag-?Lite. Switching it on, she played its beam across the bottom three steps.

The sound came again. She twitched her light to the left and saw where it was coming from. A thin trickle of blood was dripping down the steps, dropping gently on each riser. She lifted the light higher and followed the trail of blood all the way up to the landing above.

Trying to move quietly, trying not to breathe too raggedly, she started up the stairs, keeping her feet on the woven runner that lined each step. Keeping her flashlight handy, she brought her gun up to the level of her shoulders, ready to shoot anything that popped its head over the banister. When she reached the landing she turned left, then right, covering both ends of the gallery, but nothing showed itself. The blood trail started under a doorway directly ahead of her. It gleamed in electric light that shone around the edge of the door, which stood slightly ajar. Caxton tapped the door gently with the back end of her Mag-?Lite and it swung easily back and away from her, revealing the room beyond. The light inside wasn’t much brighter than the single lamp down in the foyer. It showed her enough, though: A narrow room almost filled by a large four-?poster bed and a chest of drawers. A tall stand that looked like a perch for a parrot or some other kind of bird, currently unoccupied. Framed black-?and-?white photographs hung on the walls, but Caxton didn’t bother to examine their subjects. Lying on the bed was a woman about forty-?five years old. She was dressed smartly in a maroon mid-?length skirt and a black silk blouse. Her chin-?length hair was almost pure silver, save for a single streak of coal black that curled around her very pale cheek. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, but they didn’t see anything. The blood that pooled on the floor and ran out onto the landing came from her right arm, which hung down from the side of the bed so the curled fingers almost brushed the rug. Her wrist had been torn open right to the artery. As bad as the wound was, considering what vampiric teeth were capable of the wound looked almost gentle, as if Jameson had retained enough humanity to want to make his wife’s passing as painless as he could. Caxton checked the woman for a pulse and found none, as she had expected. He had always been thorough. There was no doubt in Caxton’s mind that this was Astarte, and that her husband had been her murderer.