At least, I hoped it was armed.
I cautiously stepped through the second doorway, a doorway which was devoid of an actual door, and into what I assumed was a second storeroom. I reached around the corner and flipped on another switch. More books, more broken equipment. Shelving everywhere. And something in the far corner.
Another door?
It was easy to miss, especially if you were a cop hurrying through here and wrongly assuming no one was inside. The difference being that I knew someone was hiding somewhere inside this storeroom.
The door appeared to be blocked by some boxes. But that could have only been an optical illusion. Indeed, the closer I got, the more clearly I saw a narrow path that led through the boxes and to this back door.
I stepped between the boxes, onto the narrow path. The door was directly in front of me. It was also partially open. From within, I heard some very strange sounds.
And if I had to guess, I would guess that someone - or something - was feasting hungrily.
I moved quickly through the narrow corridor of boxes, and as I did so, the sickening noises grew steadily louder from behind the door.
Without slowing or hesitating, I raised the crossbow, and kicked open the door.
The small room was mostly dark, but there was enough light from the single dusty bulb behind me to see inside.
And what I saw was something out of a nightmare.
James P. Storm was in there, hunched over Veronica, his face buried into her torn and bloody neck. Veronica's eyes were closed and she could have been dead.
As Storm turned reluctantly away from her neck, I shot him with the crossbow.
Had he been any further away, I'm certain I would have missed. But, in this case, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Or a vampire in a coffin.
As it was, the small arrow whipped through the air and plunged deep into his chest, exactly where I assumed its heart was.
What happened next still gives me nightmares to this day.
James P. Storm leaped back, staring down at the bolt protruding from his chest. He gripped the fletchings and pulled.
The bolt came out, along with a geyser of black blood that splattered the small room and turned immediately into steam. Indeed, the bloody hole in his chest gushed steam as well.
He stumbled backward and collapsed against some shelving, and as he hissed and steamed and bled, I ran over to Veronica and dragged her across the floor and out the door. I ripped off my jacket, wadded it up, and used it to plug the gaping wound in her neck.
With the jacket pressed firmly against her, I watched in horror and fascination as James P. Storm continued to hiss and steam. He looked at me confusedly, opened his mouth to say something, and then pitched forward onto his face.
Chapter Eleven
I was sitting in Detective Sparks office at the Central Station on Vallejo Street.
He and I had gone over and over the events at Borders Books and Music. He didn't like my answers and had only grudgingly started to wrap his mind around the fact that something very strange had indeed gone on in his city.
He rubbed his eyes and drank some more coffee and stared at me for a long minute.
"So you really think this thing was a vampire?" he asked.
"I think this thing was a monster. But call it what you want."
"A monster?" he said.
"It killed her parents and tried to kill her. It had its face buried in her neck and was drinking her blood. And when I shot it with the arrow, it turned to dust before my very eyes. What would you call that?"
"A long night of drinking."
"No one was drinking, detective."
"The Crime Lab analyzed the remains. Human DNA. They're telling me that these remains are at least a hundred and fifty years old. They're still testing them."
I said nothing. What the hell was there to say to that?
Sparks said, "And you shot him with a silver arrow?"
"Yup."
"And he just started smoking?"
"Like a chimney."
"He say anything?"
"I think he was too busy smoking and dying," I said.
We were silent some more. Veronica was in the hospital. Apparently, she was going to make it. Gladys and her husband were on their way up to be with her. At least Veronica had someone.
"So what am I supposed to do with all of this?" asked Sparks. He waved at the reports on his desk.
"You'll think of something," I said. "It's why you make the big bucks."
"They don't pay me enough for this shit."
"So am I free to go?"
He nodded wearily. "I'll be in touch, Spinoza. We know where to find you."
"Lucky me," I said.
And left.
It was late evening, and I was sleeping fitfully in my office when someone knocked on the door.
I had been dreaming of my son, of course. Once again, we were in the forest and I was holding his hand, only this time his hand wasn't charred. This time it was healthy and alive and soft and warm, and my little boy was looking at me with joy and love in his bright eyes.
This is different, I remembered thinking in my dream. Something is different.
My son nodded and swung my hand and I sensed great peace from him. He nodded again and laughed and squeezed my hand. I sensed something else. I sensed that he wanted me to move on. I had been about to ask him how when the knock came again.
My hand went automatically under my arm, gripping my pistol. I was a little jumpy these days after my run-in with the vampire.
"It's open," I said, reluctant as hell to release the image of my healthy and happy son.
Veronica opened the door and stepped inside. She was wearing tight jeans and a tank top. A far cry different than the loose-fitting boy jeans she had been wearing a week earlier at Borders. Her dark hair was still cut boyishly short and even from here I could see the red scarring around her neck. Her torn throat had needed a lot of stitches. I didn't see any stitches now. She seemed pale and sickly and not as confident as she had been in her pictures. No surprise there, since she had nearly had her throat torn out.
"Can I talk to you?" she asked.
"Sure."
She shut the door behind her, turned, and sat across from me in one of my client chairs. I released my grip on the pistol.
"I wanted to thank you for saving my life," she said. Her voice sounded stronger than she looked.
Despite myself, my old shyness returned. I forced myself to power through it.
"Well, it was drinking your blood," I said. "It was the least I could do."
"Where did you learn to shoot a crossbow like that?"
"Maybe I was Robin Hood in a past life."
She grinned, and seemed about to rub her neck, but stopped herself.