The Scene: Dylan Hart, #1

the others from R.M. Gilmore

Dylan Hart

The Scene

Endless Night

Sacrifice

Forsaken

Bound

White Walls

Prudence Penderhaus

17 Marigold Lane

19 Marigold Lane

21 Marigold Lane

And the Creek Don’t Rise

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

For my drunken friends who dared me to write a vampire story better than twilight.

How’d I do?

There is a house. One enters it blind and comes out seeing.What is it?

-Ancient Sumer, oldest known riddle

One

My body hit the ground with a thud that echoed through my second-floor apartment. I didn’t open my eyes as my fingers scrambled to find the edge of my phone on the nightstand. With expert precision, I swiped my thumb across the screen.

Hello? I said, foggy and not quite awake. The familiar caller mumbled quickly on the other end of the line, leaving little time to respond between sentences. Where? I grumbled, still mostly asleep. Shit. I huffed when he finished. Thanks. When did you— The line went dead.

Tired and cranky from the early morning call, I lay on the floor beside my bed, questioning my career choice and the path it’d led me down. Though it’d cost me both precious sleep and the even more elusive money, getting the jump on news like that was worth it.

A garbage man had stumbled upon the naked corpse of a young female in an alley near Bonita Terrace this morning. Word was she had marks on her body matching those of the Vampire victims. This made her the seventh and latest victim of the so-called Vampire Massacres.

According to the flapping jaws, the latest dead girl was a stripper gainfully employed at a seedy little joint in the badlands of West Hollywood called Le Pussy Cat. If putting the Le in the title was supposed to make it classy, it wasn’t working.

While my coffee brewed in the kitchen, I flipped through the local channels, surfing for a glimpse of the recent crime scene. After a thorough check of the morning news, I was certain this tidbit of information hadn’t made its way to the masses just yet.

In hopes that my favorite homicide detective would be there just dying to let me know all the dirty little details, I was hauling my chunky ass to that crime scene and pronto.

Admittedly, dying may have been an overstatement. These days I had to beg, steal, and borrow to get anything out of him, but in the long run, it was usually a win-win.

I gulped down my coffee, black and too hot for the average human. Wiggling into a pair of jeans and worn-in Converse, I whipped my dark, wild hair up into a ponytail and called it a day. There really wasn’t much more to me than that.

If in the event my detective wasn’t investigating that particular crime scene, I should probably not look like part of the swarming vultures waiting with pens and microphones in hand. I’d discovered, during my four years as a mostly professional journalist, only witless, toothless, I-didn't-really-see-nothin'-but-I-wanna-be-famous, yokels actually talked to the media. On the other hand, people loved to talk to each other. People were big on bragging. Trust me, it was damn near pointless to interrupt the hard working police from their standing-around-doing-nothing duty to ask a few questions.

I grabbed my purse, which was really just a big pocket for my money, keys, and phone. As I did, I caught a glimpse of the scattered mail on the table by my front door. On the very top was my most delinquent bill, open and screaming at me to pay it. College wasn’t cheap and now, three years after graduation, I was faced with the repayment of over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of student loans. I groaned at the thought of extreme debt and shoved the damn thing in my purse. At that, I threw my shades on and I was out the door.

My piece-of-shit door had been busted since the day I moved in so it took me a while to get it locked up. I had to pull on the knob while I turned the deadbolt over, and jiggle it sometimes. Other times it took a sweet caress to coerce it open. The damn thing had been on my shit list from day one.

I cussed the deadbolt a few times before it finally clicked over. I gave a fist pump of victory. Then, down a flight of treacherous stairs, past one barking dog, and under a very low tree branch just over the last step—which I had complained about twelve times now to no avail—I finally emerged onto the city street.

Sun, you can go right ahead and go fuck yourself. Vampires in Sunny California? My ass.

It being May, the weather wasn’t quite sweltering, but the seats in my Geo Metro were close to scalding. Living in a tiny quad-plex, above a garage no less, provided very little parking, so nine times out of ten, I had to park on the street. Which, in turn, provided no shade. I turned the key and the engine fired right up. Trusty old piece of crap, I could give it that much. The A/C, on the other hand, not so much. I cranked the dial over to blasting and waited while the air flowing from the vents slowly progressed from broiling, to tepid, to bearable. Five minutes later, I was finally pulling away from the curb near my apartment on my way to see a man about a dead girl.

The air in my car had just cooled my skin as I found an empty spot of curb on Hillcrest Avenue to lean my two door hatchback against. I was about a block down from all the action, but I could clearly see the crowd. I got out of the car and let my soft soled shoes meander across the cracked pavement towards the horde of people corralled on the civilian side of the yellow tape.

When I finally got close enough to see the real action, I was thwarted by a gaggle of insanely tall people. Although, being only five-foot-four, most people were taller than me. I wriggled my way between concerned neighbors and your usual gawkers, close to the police line, and scanned the scene for my friend on the force. To be honest, a more accurate statement would be just friends. At least, that was what we’d been shooting for. All right, that’s what I’d been shooting for.

As per usual, there were a handful of newbie officers guarding the perimeter attempting to look official. Behind them, a couple of people peered behind a blue dumpster covered in graffiti and dried sludge. Each wore surgical gloves, and black shirts with forensics printed in reflective yellow on the back; no badges, just laminates. There was not a naked dead girl to be seen. I assumed they’d already hauled her away to the medical examiner.

A surprisingly overweight officer, standing slightly to my left, finally moved revealing a police cruiser about forty feet away. Two men wearing shirts and ties were talking and smiling. Homicide detectives. The only people I’d ever seen who were able to smile at a place like that. One of the men, short and round, reminded me of Santa. His hair cut so short against his head, the red of a sunburn on his scalp peeked through white-blond hair. His nonexistent chin disappeared into a high white collar. Not my guy. The largely built brunette chatting with Santa was the guy I’d come to see. I watched him talk and smile. I liked his smile. It made the corners of his beautiful aquamarine eyes crinkle up just a little. Detective Michael Petersen, my only trustworthy and usually generous inside-man—who also just so happened to have seen me naked on more than one occasion. It was a thing.

In my head, I imagined waving my hands around idiotically, yelling Mike at the top of my lungs. I nodded at my excellent plan but told myself otherwise. Don’t be an asshole, Dylan. I called myself by name when I talked in my own head. I also gave excellent advice. Usually.

I stood there for a moment, purposely looking confused and scared. It didn't take long before I had an officer hovering over me. The damsel in distress act worked every time.

Is there something the matter, Miss? Flapped the overweight officer who’d been blocking my view only moments ago.

"Um… yes. It's just that… I saw that woman last night. I'm not sure what kind of information I can provide, but do you think I should speak to a detective?" I gave him my best doe-eyed look.

Wait right here for just a sec, all right? He looked panicked, not sure who to go to about that.

Lucked out with a newbie. Score.

I nodded once before he spun around on his heel and headed off toward my detective. I watched as he explained what he had just heard. I watched as both detectives looked over and around the large uniform to find me. Then I watched as Mike, Detective Petersen, realized who I was, rolled his eyes, and gave the I'll handle this nod to the others standing around him. Briskly walking my way, he gave me the stink eye.

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

What? he asked abruptly, trying to intimidate me with his six-foot-four bulky build.

Such hostility, Mike. Did we not get our Wheaties this morning?

Cut the bitch act, Dylan. I’m in no mood to banter with you today. He was serious.

Cut the shit or lose out, idiot.

You know why I'm here. What can you give me? I looked at him as sincerely as I possibly could for a second, then finished it up with a crooked smile.

"I dunno… what can you give me?" He smiled too, adding a dirty little wink at the end. It drove me nuts when he acted as though I might actually sleep with him after everything, but desperate is as desperate does.

Nothing, right now. It's hot and your friends are watching, I said, nodding toward our own personal audience. He glanced behind him to see the other detective and the uniform staring at us from their spot at the cruiser. I just want to know if she’s girl number seven… can you tell me that? He paused and stared, the muscles in his jaw moved letting me know he really wasn’t in the mood for me and my shit. Look, off the record. I’m not even working on a story. Just getting my facts together. Swear. Sort of.

Conceding, he finally sighed and let it spill. A body turned up behind that dumpster early this morning. We are almost certain she lived in these apartments. There was a small cut on her neck and inner thigh. Apparently, her clothing was only partially removed. This was shocking, not only because of her career choice, but because she was the only one left that way.

Is she ‘The Count’s’ latest victim? I asked with a light chuckle.

You really have no heart do you? I opened my mouth to rebut, but he continued before I could answer. We can't be sure until we get the M.E.’s report back. We didn't find any obvious traces of blood in the area, but we need to know if she has any left or not to be sure.

You think maybe they were interrupted? That would explain why she still had some clothes on. Although, I’d always assumed the clothes were removed ante mortem. I felt smart throwing in a phrase I’d held on to from my criminology class in college. Which ironically enough was where I’d met Mike. It’d make sense that the clothes need to be taken off in order to…perform… the blood draining, I said indifferently.

We'll know more once all of the evidence is processed. As of right now, we can’t officially say that this girl was the seventh victim. But, Dylan, off the record, watch your neck. There are vampires roaming the streets of Los Angeles. He flashed a halfhearted smirk, turned, and walked away.

I stood for a minute more watching the police do their work, listening to the murmuring speculation of the crowd behind me. Sweat began to drip down the backs of my legs. Standing in the California sun played hell on the thighs. Chub rub is real.

Fuck jeans.

I’d gotten what I’d come for. It was hot, and all those people were making me nervous. I turned slowly, trying not to slam into the nosy person standing directly behind me. I pushed my way back out of the herd of people pressed in around me. After a few elbows and snide remarks, I was out of the thick of it and headed back to the sanctuary of my car. I opened the door and waited for a second to let the hot air trapped inside waft out. Plopping down into the seat, I instantly regretted it as the heat soaked through my jeans and burned my skin. Cranking the engine, I waited for the A/C to kick in. Once the air was cool enough, I shut my door and headed back home.

On the way home I processed the events that had transpired. I thought of the blue dumpster, the alley it was parked in, and what Mike had said about the girl being partially dressed.

What a jackass. Oh, watch your neck there're vampires in L.A.

Whatever. There’s no such thing as vampires.

Two

I made the climb up the stairs to my apartment. Skillfully dodging the tree limb. The sun had moved across the sky and hid behind the trees. I yelled at my door for sticking and shoved it open. I’d accidently left the air conditioning on all day and it was wonderfully cold in my apartment. Flopping down onto the couch—the only new thing I owned—I closed my eyes. I was sticky and smelly and had a meeting in three hours.

At the insistence of my best friend and tabloid extraordinaire, I was to meet with a vampire by the name of Philippe. I'd wondered if he came up with that name all by himself or if he had help from his vampy buds. Not surprisingly, when he answered the ad I’d placed on Craigslist asking for anyone who could shed some light on local vampire activity, he was adamant about meeting after dark. Hence the late night rendezvous.

Digging through my closet, I came to the realization that I thoroughly sucked. At only twenty-five, I spent 90 percent of my time dressing like a professional. The Mayor was not likely to give an exclusive to a twenty-something in a slutty little number with three-inch heels. Or maybe he would, I didn’t know. The other 10 percent was spent in jeans and band tees. Needless to say, I was out of my element.

Finally settling on jeans and a black top with buttons up the center, I stood in the mirror for a few minutes dissecting the outfit I’d forced together. I released a frustrated sigh and unbuttoned a few top buttons to let the girls free. I was chunky all over but accentuating the twins tended to help distract people from my gigantic ass. Sensible shoes and too much eyeliner pulled me out of my minivan and into my twenties.

That’ll do, pig. I gave myself one last look in the mirror.

It was already a quarter to eight, and I still had to find the club where I was to meet Philippe.

I just love saying that name. Philippe.

Grabbing my purse, I didn’t second guess myself when I shoved my .38 inside. The J-frame was smaller than my Beretta so it fit in my purse. I’d never heard of the club, but I knew the area, so I figured better to be safe than sorry.

Mike, Detective Petersen, coerced me into getting my concealed permit last year when I was attacked and nearly raped while trying to take pictures of an old crime scene in Valencia. Then he forbade me from hitting up shitty parts of town alone. Well, he tried.

I repeated the same mundane ritual as I did every time I needed to leave the house. Fucked-up door, stupid dog, tree branch of death, not quite so hot car. I had about thirty-five minutes to make the drive from my place in the Yucca Corridor to the secret meeting spot in Mission Junction.

Who in their right mind would put a night club there? I fucking hate Mission Junction.

I turned the key and my piece of shit fired right up as usual. I sat for a minute letting the car warm up. I was actually preparing myself for the idiocy I was certain I would encounter. Letting the engine prepare itself couldn't hurt either. I finally pulled away from the curb and headed off toward the freeway.

It was only a quarter to nine when I pulled up in front of the decrepit brick building on Baker Street. I was glad I’d brought the gun. The windows on the nearby store fronts were boarded up. Graffiti adorned the huge steel front door. Above it, Midnight’s Dream flashed across a small, red neon sign.

Oh, that's original.

I broke a sweat using all of my girly strength to slide open the industrial-sized steel door. My annoyance was riding high, and my bitch meter was beginning to slide toward overload. A stiff drink was calling my name.

Once inside, I walked directly to the ramshackle bar and ordered a whiskey and Coke. The place was actually kind of packed for being such a dive. A hideout for all the rejects, I figured. It just looked like a bar to me. No fancy vampire décor, only vampire patrons. It even had the pool table and beer signs to prove it.

Dark, dank, and full of losers. Yup, just a bar.

I found an empty table and plopped down on a nondescript wooden stool. I had just begun scanning the crowd when I saw a particularly tall and comically pale, man—boy—whatever he was, walking toward me. I scoffed to myself at his appearance. He blended nicely with the other vlad-clad winners crowded in the tiny, stinky, room.

Am I supposed to take this guy seriously? He’s serving a purpose. He’s serving a purpose, just deal with it.

Black liner circled each eye, a stark contrast to the pasty white Halloween makeup caked on his face. He attempted to stalk toward me. I held in the laughter. When he got close enough, I saw he was wearing contacts. Yellow. I had half assumed they'd be something a little more original. Cat eyes maybe or black outs. The boy in make-up stopped in front of the table where I’d chosen to post.

Could it be? Is it he? Ding! Ding! Winner, winner type-O dinner!

He walked, well it was more of a sashay, around the table to get right in my face. Leaning in, he whispered beer-breath in my ear. I am Philippe. It hurt to keep the hilarity from showing on my face.

Hi. Dylan Hart, I said as I stuck my hand out to shake. Instead, I received a kiss on my knuckles.

Are you fucking kidding me?

As though he’d just emerged from a B-movie, his blouse—tucked neatly into a pair of pleather pants—hung in loose waves over his long, thin hands. A scarlet cummerbund topped off the ensemble and nearly sent my head into overdrive.

I motioned for him to take the seat adjacent to mine. A cape I hadn’t noticed unexpectedly swooped over my head and swirled around Philippe. His idiotic dance nearly spilled my drink. I contemplated pulling my gun.

My mouth sat agape, eyebrows raised slightly in his direction as he posed on the top of the stool. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and did my best not to laugh. More alcohol would become a thing of necessity before too long.

"So, Philippe, I said in a fancy-guy voice, do you have a last name?" I asked the boy in make-up.

You better cut the attitude down a notch before this little vampire boy up and leaves you with nothing but the memory of his idiocy.

My name is simply Philippe. Need not more, he said with flourish.

Oh. My. God.

"I see. And exactly how old are you?" I asked, just for shits and giggles. The question honestly had nothing to do with my actual investigation, but judging by his appearance, he wasn’t going to give me anything more than entertainment. He squirmed for a second; searching for an answer, I was sure.

Two-hundred and thirty, he sputtered finally. I had an incredible urge to do the bullshit cough.

So you were born in what? I calculated quickly. 1765?

Yes, of course. He puffed his chest out at that, thinking he’d been victorious, winning me over with his hunk of bullshit. That would have actually made him two-hundred and forty-two, but who was counting?

Mm-hmm, well, then. And how old were you when you were, what do they call it? Sired? I tried to be serious, holding on to that last straw that maybe he might have something useful while I asked all my Joss Whedon inspired questions. It was doubtful.

Seventeen, he said quickly, making me fairly certain that was closer to his true age. Or he just really liked Edward Cullen.

"Do you have, you know, fangs?" I couldn't help myself.

Yes. Do you see? He flashed me a plastic smile.

"Ah-huh. Okay. Can you tell me a bit more regarding 'vampire'… culture?" Yes. I used finger quotes.

Oh, of course. Anything for a beautiful lady. He made an attempt at sexy and missed by a mile. He began his lesson starting with, As far back as I can remember…

Oddly enough, I had the Oscar Mayer bologna song stuck in my head.

Two hours, four very strong drinks, and one stupid kid later, I had jack.

Killed with a stake through the heart, sunlight bad, coffin good, and blood is an excellent source of protein. So the freak had seen a Dracula movie or two. I was thinking more than two.

Can you give me any insight into the recent vampire related incidents? I asked after his painfully long story of his all too familiar vampire life. If he had included any more vampy clichés, I would have punched him in the throat.

Yes, I believe this town is experiencing the wrath of a century’s old, enraged vampire. He is on a rampage, seeking blood, and possibly vengeance. There is nothing the police or anyone else can do until he is eradicated. His face was motionless and mysterious.

What horseshit. And who would be capable of killing an enraged vampire? I asked without smiling once. Bully for me.

Only a slayer has the strength to defeat an elder as this one likely is.

Seriously?

Thank you for your assistance, Mr.… Philippe.

He bowed and held his cape out to his side. At that, I stood, shook his hand and hauled ass out of that ludicrous bar. I’d had about as much bullshit as one little reporter could handle.

Well, that was a bust.

I honestly hadn’t counted on getting the rejects of the Losers Club. I needed to go about it a different way. I needed to hunt them out. Find the best of the Losers Club and drill them for information.

Where does one find pale-posers, consuming mass amounts of fake blood, and listening to annoying music? But could still give me a clue as to who might be killing these girls and why?

I needed a reference point. I needed a place to make connections and branch out. I needed a real club, not some underground, macabre boys and girls club. I needed someone with an in. I needed a foot in the door.

I need to call Tatum.

Three

Tatum Price and I had been inseparable for nearly twenty-one years and counting. I knew her number by heart, but I didn't have to dial it. It had been the last number dialed on my cell. I hit the little green button and waited.

Wow, and I thought you'd be out all night. Date didn't go so well? Her sultry voice vibrated on the other end of the line.

Fuck, dude, I told you fifty fucking times it was not a date! I was obviously irritated, but not at her. She was just an easy target.

Shit, sorry. How’d it go? Her tone was more serious, but I knew she was silently smirking.

Shitty. What are you doing right now? Want to go out? I asked, changing the subject.

She was quiet for a long minute. "I don't know. I don’t have anything to wear" She laughed at her own joke. Tatum Price was a true clothes hound. Her wardrobe made mine look like the Salvation Army.

Shut-up and get dressed. I'll be there in twenty.

Okay, okay. Where are we going? she asked.

Does it matter? I answered blankly.

She sighed, Not usually.

Get ready, slut. I'm on my way.

Okay. Be safe.

Always, I mumbled as I hung up.

Pulling my car away from the curb, I raced down Baker Street. I was irritated and tired. Two things you don't want me to be. Only second to hungry and scared. I drove like a bat out of hell down the 110, passing slow motorists and leaving them in my dust. I weaved in and out of traffic, burning rubber and flipping the bird to anyone who dared look my way.

In reality, I drove the usual five over, passed one really slow guy, and flipped off some stupid bitch in a beamer. Feeling slightly better after unleashing just the tiniest bit of rage, I hopped on the 10 and headed straight to Culver City and my refuge.

Why can't that bitch live right off the freeway?

Hello, where’s your cool house in the ‘burbs?

Shut up inner Dylan you’re out of your element.

I pulled up in front of the little pale pink house and killed the engine. Tatum had a cute place, as far as crappy little houses in L.A. go. A tabloid journalist, paparazzi if you will, she made the big bucks. They paid a lot for celebrity dirt. Way more than a lowly old spinster freelance journalist turned true crime writer made. Her parents died when we were in high school, so she got a large sum of money when she turned eighteen. That was how she bought the house. Even crappy little houses were expensive in L.A.

My dad was killed when I was six. I didn’t get shit. Except maybe his snide sense of humor and tendency to have a crunchy shell over a gooey center.

I sauntered up her small steps to the even smaller porch and didn’t bother knocking. I walked right in and called for Tatum.

Marco! I yelled from the entryway.

Polo! Tatum cried from the bedroom.

As I walked through the small yet utterly adorable living room, my shoes made annoying clacks against the newly refinished hardwood floor. I made the right turn to walk down the hall, and into her mid-sized bedroom. Immediately, I flopped down on the mammoth king-size bed, covered in enough pillows to fill a Motel 6.

I could see Tatum's silhouette in the tiny, one and a quarter