Touched: Book 1, The Hunter Legacy

A storm approached.

Not the characteristic tempestuous weather but a malicious squall fueled by the blackest evil. I trust my instincts, which were raw with anticipation.

Sleep, for someone like me, is random. When I managed an hour, or two, images of a walking catastrophe intruded and ended it. The vision revolved around a thin individual with an emaciated face and translucent skin. His hair is silvery-white and scraggly. The man's eyes are dark rubies that glimmer like hot, fiery coals. Among his own, this one is an oddity.

Anger exuded around him like a thick armor.

This creature, in the dream, had staked a claim within the boundaries of my domain -- I know it as sure as I am thinking these thoughts. If he has come to hurt those I protect, this abomination of my kinship was in for a rude wakening.

The lifeblood around him felt like malevolence personified, he is treacherous … a formidable nuisance. A strength whose depravity I have never encountered before.

Vampyres are protective, territorial. I am the vilest. So if he has come to start trouble I will be the one administering payback.

CHAPTER ONE

My never-ending dream usually started like this . . .

His skin had the feel of electricity surging across its surface, a motion likened to scattering ants. He clawed at his malnourished flesh as if attempting to shed his body cover as well as dig holes in tattered, second-hand clothes. He often hid in places submersed in black shadows. And when vacating the safety of the room, the gangly man destroyed whatever was in his path. Whispered voices could be heard behind closed doors when he passed by. Locks engaged periodically … the click drew his attention and enraged him more.

Outside the structure, he slammed the door in his wake. The cool comfort of the night did nothing to soothe his bitter nature yet he allowed silence to rule. Detecting what he perceived as relieved sighs from those concealed in the building, his lips downturned.

One individual thought: Perhaps something in the night will devour him.

Did they not know he heard their thoughts?

The pale, gnomish man trembled with bridled rage. Turning, he yelled at the top of his voice, Rot in hell, all of you!

The dream settled yet his bitter presence continued to smother me.

History, this vile creature reflects, has repeated itself -- once revered for bestowing immortality's kiss, his converts now plot to overthrow him. Insurrections bored him. And traitors, well they deserved no mercy.

Come …

The man turned, stared at the nights gloom. His head throbbed, pain brutal enough to drop him to his knees. He then struck himself about the temple in the hope it would offer relief.

It did not.

Who was he? He wondered. Julius. Yes, that was his name …

Come ... the voice beckoned.

Lips drawn tight in a sneer, he crouched, prepared to fight.

"J…uliu…sss." The voice surrounded him as if carried by a robust burst of air.

Show yourself! Julius screamed at the night.

Hearing nothing, he stumbled across the uneven surface, heading toward a mountain range not far away. It took a while before he managed to locate what he sought -- a crevice that led into the foothills. The passage was narrow but he maneuvered though it with ease. The sound of gravel crunching beneath his worn-out shoes was the only sound around him.

The path emptied into a large cave illuminated by dull hue of light where there should be none. Something indistinct vacillated in a dark space – a willowy shape that emerged from within the faint afterglow, shrouded by a cloak and the hood pulled close and exposed a brown, knotty chin. At last, it greeted, we finally meet.

"Who, what are you?" Julius demanded, tone a low taut growl.

One who walked long before the Nazarene was born, It answered, voice a gravel nasal tone. Something underneath the cloak behind it twitched. I am Thad…de…ussss.

Julius sneered. Why did you summon me?

The being snorted, I … felt your need for retribution and consider you perfect for my needs.

Through slitted eyes, Julius observed the shape of Thaddeus with a skeptic's scorn.

You, he spat, are the First!

The hood bobbed.

Favored by the Dark One, Thaddeus said, paused, and then continued, voice a deep rumble. You, however, were sired ….

Sacrificed! Julius hissed bitterly.

A sound resonated from inside shroud of the hood resembling an unforgiving laugh, Forgive the shortsightedness, young one. It stepped closer, Now tell me -- will you assist with my cause?

Which is what, exactly?

I seek a contemporary, an ancient like myself.

Julius stared at Thaddeus with accusatory eyes. I'm no lapdog.

True but you are consumed with rage against a society whose ancestors betrayed you. Help me with my problem and I will give you what you seek and more, much more.

The pale one quieted, his rage now a low, rolling boil.

Why don't you find whatever it is yourself?

My nemesis's individual's strength and wantonness are lethal. In combat, I would not be victorious.

Julius silenced as if considering the proposal.

Who do you pursue? Give me a name.

His birthright would be of no use. The hood aimed directly at Julius, then toward the crevice. The one I fear … his voice faded. After a moment, Thaddeus issued a finalizing word, watches.

Julius spun about, prepared for a confrontation. No one stood behind him. Looking to Thaddeus for an explanation, he, instead, discovered the cloaked creature had launched himself like a missile straight at . .

CHAPTER TWO

… My eyes bolted open.

Crouched on the bed, I found night's gloom embracing me. Familiarity flashed. This was my place, my bedroom. And it was in shambles.

The bed covers were shredded, bits and pieces of material scattered about. The mattress leaned off the box spring, slashed deep enough to reveal the memory foam that protruded through the gouges. Window curtains lay on the carpet in a pile, wooden rods snapped in two. The full moon's light filtered in, accentuated the holes dotting the walls where my fists thrust through the drywall. The bathroom door dangled crookedly, held in place by a bent top hinge.

Another fight/flight experience … the fourth in recent weeks.

The albino vampyre nightmares began about a year ago. Initially, they were sporadic. Now rest periods were open invitations for pale boy, and whatever the other thing was, to intrude on my reveries.

I am circling the insanity drain.

The black tile on the digital clock flipped to reveal white inlays. It was 4:30 a.m. I retired half an hour ago, exhausted. Now I am awake and pissed!

Slipping into silk pajama bottoms, I tripped on the cuff and nearly ripped the door off the doorframe. Cursing, I headed downstairs. Stopped at the hall closet near the bottom of the staircase, I grabbed a dark brown album and walked to the sunken living room across the hall.

It is time to stagger down memory lane, torture an already distressed mind.

The scrapbook contained reminders of life, why I view it as a mockery of time. In this book lies the truth, souvenirs of my wretched past life existence. The things inside keep memories as fresh as if they happened yesterday when, in actuality, occurred lifetimes ago.

Things that led to … her.

Enough! I yelled, tossing the book on the carpet.

Adelina's loss remained like knives slicing away my heart, which would never be complete again. My resentment with human society, respect lost centuries ago, welled in my throat, and burned.

I am vampyre. I have lived longer than most. And, by choice, a loner. I had only recently begun to understand why prolonging existence should not be. After a few centuries, it takes a toll on you. All that drives me now is hatred and protecting my kind from mortals. Even though I have sworn an oath to do this, I hold no love for my fellow undead.

The conceptual war waging inside me day after day often made my head hurt.

Seeking solace, I headed for the roof. Seated on the hard, cold Spanish tiles, I observed my domain seated atop a hill. It is isolated, a place where a miscreant like myself deserved to be.

In the distance, the city lights illuminated homes of a culture I turned my back on centuries ago. I cursed them, as I did every time I sat here drowning in a vat of pity.

Loneliness is a bitch. And heartbreak, it was worse.

* * *

By seven o'clock, I had showered and dressed in a black, tailor-made suit. It made me feel as if I had a funeral to attend.

My own.

Grabbing the suit jacket by the collar off the bed, I headed downstairs. It was time to brighten my mood, make believe I am … normal. From the closet, I yanked a leather shoulder harness off a hook behind the door. Strapping it on, I holstered my Glock special before shrugging on the jacket while walking into the living room. Peeking at the phone, the red LCD flashed one hundred sixteen messages awaited response. The land line phone rang. Clicking on after the fourth loop, the answering machine picked up. Now there were one hundred seventeen unanswered messages.

Glaring at my cell phone, I called Leon, my financial liaison. By the time I reached the garage through the door connecting it to the main structure, he answered my call.

"Leon … Preston … yes again … get workers here today, I growled. This is why I pay you big bucks … don't fucking lecture me! Just do it!" I snapped, gripping the phone tight enough to crush it like an aluminum can.

Great -- now I needed to put 'get a replacement cell phone' on my to do list.

Behind the wheel of a just off the lot, silver Mercedes SLR McLaren, I adjusted the rearview mirror while revving the engine. The garage door cranked up like a snail creeping over sandpaper.

Boring.

Tires screeching like banshees as the roadster bolted backwards out of the garage with little space between the car's roof and the sliding door, I performed a 180 without deceleration. Speeding down a driveway toward the Spanish styled wrought iron gateway to the property, the gap parted almost six feet by the time the car shot through without scratching the paint job.

My blackened disposition began to mellow out. The power of a fine tuned car served me like a seasoned whore. Both were pushed beyond limits and when worn out replaced without a second thought.

No exception.

CHAPTER THREE

Valley North Homicide Division. Given my idiosyncrasies one would not think of me as a lead detective. My week, each day no less than seven and a half hours, was noteworthy; two shootings, an abandoned car with a ripe corpse stuffed in the trunk, two domestic violence cases resulting in the demise of a spouse, and a death the coroner, after autopsy, might not label suicide as initially suggested. Job stress worked one's nerves until the last half hour of a shift. That was when the squad engaged in childish pranks in an attempt to unwind before heading home. Me, I opted to remain at my desk and look busy in the hope they would leave me alone. Dreaming, on my part.

Preston! A voice bellowed. I looked up. A wadded ball of paper smacked my forehead. A hearty laugh ensued, Two points!

Mortals. They are childish.

The intruder happened to be Robert 'Bobby' Hamilton, a friend although I used the term lightly. His family adopted me, metaphorically. And one weekend a month I participated in pointless outings with him, his wife Jan, and their children, Lisa and James. Bobby's kids were cute. And his marriage to Jan, rock solid -- a stark reminder that relationships do not all have apocalyptic endings like the ones that crashed and burned with me.

Smoothing out the page, I stared at names, numbers, and dollar signs followed by question marks. I shot Bobby a what look.

Super Bowl pool. He flashed a perfect, shiny white toothed smile, You in?

I picked a team, wrote down my wager, balled, and sent the paper back. It sailed over his head, bounced off the wall, and landed inches away from his desk. My failure incited laughter interspersed with snorts from those witnessing my perceived ineptness.

Visions of each of my co-workers wearing bull's eye embossed t-shirts and me with a cross-bow and arrows danced through my thought. I nearly smiled.

Man you got two right arms to go with those two left feet!

That sparked another round of chuckles.

Women adore me, I said, disinterested in Bobbie's words.

That's because you have an accent and date women with low I.Q.'s, he chortled. I mean look at you, you're … pasty. What you need to do is spend time at a tanning salon and lop off that hippie ponytail. Women are not into that look anymore. Maybe after you get a decent haircut, the chances of finding a woman with half a clue might improve.

Instead of tossing a crude witticism back at him, I pretended to write on a form in the hope of avoiding further conversation.

Again, wishful thinking.

Would I lie? he asked.

Do I care?

What's your point? I asked without glancing up. As his butt propped on the edge of my desk, I continued writing for appearance sake. The forms were high in demand but short in supply. Waste one and you had to scrounge for another. If someone gave you a form, you were obligated to do him, or her, a favor. I was at that point.

Women, Bobby's brows wiggled, prefer chocolate over plain any time.

I stared, okay grimaced.

You, a melodic voice came from behind us. Together, we looked at Sheila Addison. As our division captain, the squad referred to her as Iron Maiden. Addison is one of three females holding the rank of captain.

Standing in the doorway of her office, she clutched a stack of small, dark blue folders. Looking from me to Bobby, her expression said the two of you, my office. Now. Her athletic body slipped back into the room encased in glass detectives dubbed the Fish Tank.

Walking in a step ahead of Bobby, we both watched her sit behind a huge, mahogany desk.

Close the door. Addison settled into a high back chair and glared, for a moment, at the mountain of folders piled up in her inbox. Sit, gentlemen.

I sat in a chair by the door, leaving Bobby the seat in front of her desk.

What's up captain? The butt-kisser asked. Bobby hated suspense.

A corner of the captain's pouty, pink lips upturned. Petite and muscled, Addison could drop kick a perp twice her size and not pop a sweat. She was attractive, but not my type. Her short, platinum blonde wiry hairstyle suggested a stylist had been high on crack when cutting her hair and Addison had no idea how to whip it into a presentable style.

Division's requested I assign the Valley Circle murders to you two. I guess you impressed the hell out of them solving last year's Valencia homicides. Now they expect rabbits out those asses again with respect to this case. She tossed the file she had been holding on the desk, shoved it toward Bobby. He left it where the thing came to rest. That's all the information we have so far. Most is the profiler's guesswork. The box next to Preston contains copies of reports and the physical evidence collected by CSI.

What's special about these murders? Bobby asked as if he had read my mind.

For starters, Addison began, whoever executed the victims also decapitated them.

How do you know that?

According to measurements taken, the coroner claims three inches of flesh, from both, is missing.

"Someone took their necks?" Bobby inquired.

Addison's blue eyes locked on him with acuity fine-tuned from years of detective work as she nodded.

Do we have any leads? Witnesses? He asked next. My attention remained on the file sitting on her desk.

"One -- a male transient. According to uniforms, they found him sitting at the curb rocking back and forth muttering George. The sergeant on site asked a rookie to keep tabs on the guy but, it seems, the patrolman looked away for a second which was enough time for the witness to rabbit. Her eyes darkened a shade. A seasoned officer claimed he took photos of this guy with a dumb-dumb camera. When he had the film processed, everything except the eyewitness was there. She scratched an arm. You need to find this person, see if he can give you a description of the person, or persons who killed the victims. People, I want whoever did this found before the story leaks to the media. The last thing division wants is mass hysteria over wackos dismembering law abiding citizens."

We're on it. Bobby chimed.

I'll see both of you here noon tomorrow for a strategy meeting. She folded her arms. Make me smile guys.

Grabbing the file off her desk, I left before Bobby could ask me to grab the evidence box. As payback, he deposited it on my desk.

Neck snatchers, he muttered. What next? Crotch arsonists?

This, I tossed the folder on the top box, "is your fault."

Bobby's expression turned acerbic.

From that bent look I'm guessing you're still ticked about the recognition we received for solving the gang murders last year.

"Recognition, no, reputation, yes."

How long are you going to whine, pretty boy?

Narrowing my eyes, I looked from the boxes to Bobby. His expression seemed to plead with me, urge me to take the evidence home so he would not have to.

No.

Oh, come on. You're better at this than I am. He tapped my shoulder with a fist.

What's wrong? I changed the subject. Jan said 'no' last night?

Jan never says 'no' to me. He primped. Bobby then placed a hand on the top box and said, So you'll take this and prep it for tomorrow's strategy meeting, right?

Dream away.

He took that to mean yes. After glancing at his watch, Bobby grabbed his jacket.

Lisa's recital is tonight, otherwise . . .

Save the excuses, they're moth eaten.

Seriously. He slipped on the jacket, If I leave now, I'll make curtain call. Otherwise, Jan will crack my ass with a whip. He grinned. Those things hurt in a tingly sort of way. I ignored him, thoughts deep into the coroner's report. Did you hear me?

Mentally, I kicked Bobby out the door. That was when he slugged my arm again -- harder. He happened to be the one person in existence allowed to do that without losing life or limb. File snatched from my grasp, Bobby bolted for the elevator. Seconds before the dark brown doors closed, I squeezed through the opening with the storage box.

My friend made no effort to assist me.

We ignored each other, watched the numbers above the door descend.

FYI, I broke the silence. There's not much chocolate in that glass of yours.

He choked back a laugh.

Born the second son in a family of dark complected African Americans, Bobby looked as if his parents were Caucasian. His father often joked about it, teased Bobby's mother by stating she had slept with the mail carrier. Bobby's mom, who impressed me as practical, responded with time would put color in their son.

Twenty-eight years later, his parents were still waiting.

CHAPTER FOUR

Budapest, 1094 . . .

The overhanging bell tingled when the door opened to admit a stunningly beautiful woman and a short, stocky sour-faced male. The woman's hypnotic, dark violet eyes settled on a young man seated behind a cherry wood desk across the room. Lips curled at the edges, she focused on his baby fine features, finding them soft and delicate, even artistic.

He intrigued her.

Rising, his six foot five height raised a brow. Her eyes kissed his silky, raven black hair, which had a gentle wave and hung below his shoulders. When he greeted the new comers, his eyes remained fixed on the female's face. She estimated his age to be six and twenty. And when he spoke, the rich deepness pleased the ear. She also adored the way his accent graced certain syllables, the way each pronunciation sent waves of sexual heat coursing through her. The clerk also had an air of self-assurance, a refreshing breath of honesty after the idiots she and her companion had encountered during recent travels.

The two required passage to Vienna. The youth explained export ships rarely, if ever, accommodated passengers. She offered a small bag of gold coins, enticement for his making an exception. He winked and returned the coin purse, offered to book her and friend passage free of charge.

As he jotted pertinent information in a company ledger, the youth stole private glances at the woman. He watched her sign the book . . . Adelina, no last name. He questioned her about it, wondered if it had been an oversight. She never acknowledged him.

Before leaving, Adelina asked for his name.

Blushing, the besotted man answered Preston, Preston Michael Ciora.

* * *

Present time, one day later . . .

Seated in the passenger side of Bobby's custom black Denali, I felt jaded. Scrutinizing pedestrians through dark sunglasses, I watched a woman, wearing a thick dark green sweater coat, strut toward a bank. I pled with Bobby to pull over and let me frisk her. He muttered something about no probable cause, fondling, and lawsuit based on unprofessional conduct.

He also kept driving.

Staring out the window, again, I propped an elbow on the door sill, index finger at a temple and thumb resting on my lip. This had to be the worst part of existence in mortal society . . . behaving like one.

How, I mumbled, was the recital?

One could hear his fatherly pride when Bobby answered, Lisa rocked. She played the part of a fairy princess and I caught it all with my digital camera.

Why, I feigned interest, wasn't I invited?

You, he answered, had evidence to prep.

One hour. I watched his brows arch in an oh really expression.

Well, damn. If that is true then I apologize. I mean my kids think of you as their uncle -- hell you hang with us more than my own brother.

I spotted a female jogger with a nice ass and sent a shrilled whistle of appreciation her way.

Stop that! Bobby frowned. Man, don't you get tired of chasing skirt? He rolled his eyes when I gave him a sly grin. Head shaking he said, Tell me about the case evidence.

No witness, no case.

The captain won't be happy to hear that. He sighed, paused, and then asked, So what'd you do after you finished reading the evidence file?

I sacked five women. It would have been six but I decided it was not worth the effort. That got me an incredulous glare -- the lowered brow and mouth quirked at the edge.

Excuse me? He applied the brakes as we approached a red light, his eyes on me. Man you lead a charmed life or exist in a fantasy bubble full of bullshit meters.

You asked.

Tell me to mind my own business if I ask again. He grabbed a folder off the dash and handed it to me. We got positives on the Valley Circle victims. The dark haired male was Albert Sims. He worked as a law clerk in Century City. I scanned the pages in the file. His next of kin arrives later today from Phoenix. The other victim was Harry Nyberg. He worked at Washburn's Books as a cashier. No next of kin has been located yet.

Why were they at Valley Circle?

A wedding reception, Bobby glanced at me, as a couple.

They were . . .? I stared at him over the rim of my shades.

Yep.

Could this be a crime of passion?

Doubt it. I don't think homosexuals mutilate their own for shits and giggles.

Tossing the file on the seat between us, I took note of where we were. According to Bobby, we would be interviewing residents near the crime scene. Judging from the location, he had taken us in the opposite direction.

Where are we going? I asked seconds before a female bicyclist ahead of us attracted my attention. Leaning out the window, I shouted nice view.

Would you…! He shot me a soured expression and then jerked a thumb at the back seat. Janette forgot her purse. I'm taking it to her. Bobby looked ahead. Hey, you got plans for tomorrow evening?

Sunglasses lowered, I gave my partner a look that could decimate an ice cube in a nanosecond.

Why? The word rumbled out of my mouth.

Jan and I have reservations at the Cheesecake Factory. I thought you might want to hang with us.

My slouched posture let him know I was not buying it.

What's this one's name?

As expected, he deflected the question.

Are you suggesting I'm setting you up on a blind date?

I blinked, lazily. Months ago Bobby practiced Matchmaker 101. Set up with the sister of a friend of a friend named Bethany, or Beverly, the date lasted six minutes. Bethany, or Beverly, had a body for sin but that was all. Her face resembled a charm bracelet. There was a circlet through her lower lip, a bobble pierced the woman's tongue, and there was a gold dumbbell through the corner of her left eyebrow. Her ears had six loops, starting small at the top and grew progressively larger. Bethany, or Beverly, chained smoked, had a laugh reminiscent of honking geese, and incessantly chomped on pink bubble gum. Occasionally, she would blow a bubble and pop it between her teeth. In the nine centuries I have lived, she was the only female I had no desire to even touch.

Well?

Jan. He admitted, It's her idea.

Silence filled the SUV. I then deadpanned, "Who does this one resemble? Predator? Freddie Kruger? Or is she the updated version of The Thing?"

He gave me a disapproving look.

This one's attractive.

You said that about the gum chewer.

Yeah, well that was Jan's fault. She gave me the 4-1-1 on her.

Uh-huh. I muttered.

Arriving at the hospital, he drove to the parking lot and grabbed a ticket from the gate machine.

Ever date a sister? Bobby asked while driving into the lot after the black and white gate arm swung up.

You mean African American? I clarified. Bobby rolled his eyes with dramatic flair. The answer's yes, I struck a thoughtful pose. I remember craving soul food afterward.

Seriously?

You like soul food, right?

You, his tone flat-lined, even know what soul food is?

You always answer a question with a question? A look of mayhem settled over his face. How black is she?

Actually her mom's German and her dad's a mix of black and German. He parked on the second level close to the elevator.

Which means?

Oh, I get it. You're a closet bigot.

What I meant is how ethnic is she? Studies suggest African Americans -- the women in particular – are diverse and categorized by area, education, and family. Example, if she is a New Yorker, I require earplugs and translator. If native to New Orleans, I request hoodoo charms and a translator. If native Californian with a 'hood' address, I'd like a Kevlar vest and a body guard -- fuck the translator, which I would if she fit my standards.

Bobby stared at me. Do you realize that's the most you've said to me in the entire time we've been partners? His brow furrowed. And as far as standards, you don't have any.

I shrugged nonchalantly. Is the article correct?

I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. Bobby got out of the vehicle. You should stop reading articles in magazines wrapped in brown paper.

One more question, I maintained a straight face. Should I bring watermelon?

Bobby's expression scrunched before a hearty laugh rushed from his throat.

Yeah, fool, bring a watermelon. I'm in the mood to watch Jan plant your dumb ass six feet under. He opened the back door, grabbed Jan's purse and asked, Are you coming in?

No.

Okay, but you know how I embellish when talking to Jan. Hell, after this conversation I might even lie my ass off.

In less than three steps, I caught up with my partner.

CHAPTER FIVE

The hospital reeked of disinfectant and bleach. Inside the elevator, thankfully, the stench was negligible. As the cab journeyed up, I ogled the women near me. Two females wore yellow student uniforms and discussed, between them, what to do before lunch break. The one closest to me was too short for my taste but her friend got a lingering gaze. Wedged in a corner across from me was a statuesque woman wearing a dark blue dress and white lab coat, a blue stethoscope sticking out of the pocket. My gaze lingered on her legs before lifting to read the name tag over her left breast, R. Iverson, Internal Medicine. Our eyes met. Shades lowered, I winked. Color flooded