Half Past Hell

Other books by Jaye Roycraft

Dance With Me, My Lovely

Rain Series

Rainscape

Crimson Rain

Image Series

Double Image

Afterimage

Shadow Image

Immortal Image

Hell Series

Half Past Hell

Hell’s Warrior

Half Past Hell

Hell Series

Book 1

by

Jaye Roycraft

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-91-2

Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-31-8

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2007 by Jeanette Roycraft writing as Jaye Roycraft

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

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#10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Cover design: Patricia Lazarus

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Milwaukee skyline © nguyenphoto | canstockphoto.com

Vamp © curaphotography | canstockphoto.com

Cop © Jimmy Thomas | romancenovelcovers.com

:Aphh:01:

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the real men and women of the Milwaukee Police Department.

May the end of their shift see them safely home each night.

One

Chi-No, Wisconsin

Tomorrow

KILPATRICK HAD BEEN to hundreds of crime scenes before, but this one was different. Word of the incident had spread over the low band channels faster than gossip. So many patrol officers were sliding by in their squads to gawk at the victim that the incident commander had posted a cop at the front door with strict instructions not to let anyone inside unless they had specifically been dispatched to the assignment.

Kilpatrick was lucky in one respect. As one of the detectives assigned to the case, he was privy to a sight few mortals outside the veterans of Midnight Storm ever got to see—a corpse that wasn’t human. Once the initial fascination and satisfaction that there was one less monster walking the earth wore off, though, Kil cursed his luck. He hated these kinds of cases. They were a waste of his time and the city’s money. It wasn’t so much that twelve years as a cop had jaded him, although he supposed that was true, or that he no longer cared about justice. He simply believed that the only good vampire was a dead one—correction—a real and truly dead one.

This one was as dead as they came. It had been a male, with the long hair favored by his kind. Beyond that, it was difficult to tell much about the victim’s original appearance. His pale skin had taken on a sickly gray cast, reminding Kil of the skin on a piece of rotten fruit. The body was stretched out crosswise on a bare mattress in a small bedroom and was naked from both the waist up and down. A pair of jeans was pulled halfway up its legs, making Kil glad the body was face down. Based on how disgusting the rest of the body looked, he had no desire to look at a dead vampire’s privates.

It was a typical squid rooming house, one of many in the inner city. Black sheets were nailed over the inside of windows that were boarded over on the outside. Furniture was old and mismatched. The kitchen and dining rooms, no longer needed for their original functions, were made over into extra bedrooms. As a day shift detective, it was the kind of house Kil had been lucky enough to avoid in recent years. Ever since Chicago’s poorer neighborhoods had been destroyed during Midnight Storm, thousands of homeless survivors, mostly vampires, had traveled north to resettle across the state line. The vampire war, cleverly named by some media genius, had been nearly twenty years ago, but it seemed like yesterday to Kil that the vampires had come to Milwaukee to displace the blacks and Asians in the old duplexes on the near north side. So many had flocked from Chicago that Milwaukee had been renamed Chicago North, but Chi-No was what everyone except the map-makers now called the city.

He cursed to himself again. His luck seemed to be running out. With the recent spate of vampire deaths, it was a scene Kil was sure he would be subjected to all too often in the near future. He took one last look at the corpse before he stepped out of the room to make way for the medical examiner.

At least his luck was better than that of the squid who had the unfortunate distinction of dying in a flophouse with his pants down.

TWO HOURS LATER Kil was downtown. It had been a long day, but in sitting down to fill out his overtime card, he felt none of the exhaustion. Four hours at time and a half had a way of lessening the pain of the worst assignments, even interviewing squids.

John, in my office.

Kilpatrick looked up to see Lt. Attridge standing a few feet away.

I’m getting ready to punch out.

I know. In my office.

Kil followed his boss into the small office and wondered what it was this time. Maybe the lieutenant wanted a lengthier report. Hell, maybe one of the squids had complained he had looked at him cross-eyed.

Close the door.

Those words were a bad sign. It wasn’t the reports, then. Most likely a citizen complaint. Well, it wouldn’t be the first, and it wouldn’t be the last. He shut the door, sat down, and picked up the papers the lieutenant shoved across the desk at him.

It was no citizen complaint, but a five-page personnel transfer, and Kil’s name was on it. He was transferred from day shift to late power shift, effective immediately.

Son of a bitch! The whispered expletive was softer than his feelings, but was still loud enough to be heard by the lieutenant. Just five years ago such profanity in front of a commanding officer would have earned him a good ass-chewing. But five years ago was before affirmative action legislation, spearheaded by the peacemakers on both sides, had mandated that vampires be allowed into responsible job positions.

Lt. Attridge sat quietly, resignation covering his face like a mask he was too weary to remove.

Son of a fucking bitch, Kil repeated, almost as if he challenged his boss to respond. Kil wanted a reprimand. Hell, he would have welcomed a tongue-lashing. He wanted things to be like they had been. Like they should be. But the world would never be the same.

Still, Kil wanted a reason—some piece of logic that would right the upside-down. Why, Lieut? I deserve that much.

The lieutenant ran his hand down his face. It won’t make you feel better.

Tell me anyway.

Attridge sighed and leaned all the way back in his chair, as if wanting to distance himself from Kil’s response. It’s these vampire deaths. Three of them tonight alone. Six total in the last week. We’re getting pressure for action.

Jesus, Lieut...

I know what you’re going to say, so don’t say it. They’re citizens, and you’re a cop.

Kil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Don’t give me that crap, Lieut. You sound like the goddamned mayor.

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, a sure sign that his patience was growing just as thin. And I don’t want to hear any of your shit. I’m under orders, too. All of us are doing things we don’t want to do.

It didn’t make Kil feel any better. Citizens, my ass, he mumbled. Besides, there’s no evidence of foul play.

Vampires don’t just up and die, John, you know that. We treat them as suspicious deaths until we know otherwise.

But why me? Kil knew he was pushing it, but he didn’t care.

They need experienced officers on the late shifts.

More propaganda. Kil hoped to hell he never became a supervisor. He’d never be able to spoon-feed such pabulum to a fellow officer. You mean they need humans. None of those squids on late shift have more than five years on the job.

The lieutenant’s pale blue eyes lost a few degrees. Don’t call ‘em squids. Or leeches, or maggots. I can guarantee the late shift commander won’t put up with that. They want balance and diversity on the shift.

Diversity, my ass. You mean they want people to keep the squids in line if things get ugly with this vampire investigation.

Go get your new partner.

Now? I just worked a twelve hour shift.

I don’t care. You’re working a double shift. There’s a briefing at 2200 hours. Duvall has a habit of not answering his radio, but Dispatch has him doing a tavern check at Leon’s. On the way back, call your wife and get something to eat. Now get out of my office before I write you up for insubordination.

Transferred to the graveyard shift had taken on a whole new meaning.

Two

Fort William Henry

August 8, 1757

PRIVATE BEOWULF Duvall watched the sun sink over the lines of the enemy, and he thought it was the ugliest sunset he’d ever seen. The sky was raw with gashes of crimson that slashed across the blue like open wounds, and even in the fading of the color there was no promise of respite. There’d be no rest again this night, and no relief from the summer heat that hung inside the walls of the fort like stagnant water and magnified every other misery.

He leaned his head against the pine log parapet and closed his eyes. He tried to take a deep breath, but the oppressive air, thick with sweat and fear and cannon smoke, threatened to choke him, and the gnats and mosquitoes that arrived with the dusk hovered like the enemy, waiting to strike.

Do you think we can hold another day?

Wulf forced his eyes open and took in what was left of this day. All he could see was the garden to the west and Lake George to the north. The garden was a ruin, trampled by careless boots and hooves, and the water was as ugly as the sunset, dark and mottled, but the sight of his mate Elijah Quinberry cheered him. Even so, his tired mind could respond to Quin’s words only with a pitiful laugh. Do I dare say no? You saw the orders Monro published only yesterday. Any man proved cowardly or advising to give up the fort will be immediately hanged over the fort’s walls.

Cannon and mortar fire boomed, and Quin waited for a moment of silence to answer. Cowardly? Even Monro has to know how bloody hopeless it is. What the hell are we doing here anyway?

Wulf didn’t know anymore. He stared at the lake. The gray surface glinted like molten lead. Damned if I know. Some Royal fart decided that the pond there should be named George instead of Saint Sac-re-mon, or whatever the Frenchies used to call it. But he didn’t care who controlled the waterways. Every bone ached with fatigue, and he didn’t have the energy to even swat at the mosquitoes. The Frenchies could have the lake, the swamp, and the whole bloody New York wilderness.

I hear we’ve only five guns left. A fort like this one is only as good as its guns.

Five days of siege. Five nights without sleep. And only five cannon still operable, while French cannon and mortars and howitzers seemed to fire endlessly without bursting from the heat of overuse. Aye. I heard the same. I’m no coward, Quin, but I can’t see us lasting another day.

Quin shook his head. Nor can I. I’m so bloody knackered my mind is playing tricks on me. What’ll you think will happen to us?

Wulf shifted his body and peered out the embrasure at the French lines just beyond the garden plots. In the dying light he couldn’t see the enemy, but he knew they were there. They were so near he could smell their sweat as easily as he could his own. Hell, the French sappers had dug a trench so close to the western curtain of the fort that he could almost spit down at them. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather die fighting than languish in some stinkin’ Frenchie prison.

Oh, aye. Quin snorted. But there’re worse things, you know. I hear the red men can smell fresh human flesh from five hundred leagues away. I hear they teach their children how to cut up a person for the pot and that they use blood for broth. I’d rather starve in prison than fill some savage’s belly.

Wulf laughed, but more howitzer shells screamed overhead and drowned out the sound of his own voice in his ears. An exploding shell hit the top floor of the barracks just behind them, and he ducked his head from the flying shards of wood. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils, and his mouth filled with the taste of powder and blood from a self-inflicted bite. He wondered what was worse, the odor of the artillery barrage, or the normal everyday stench of the necessary houses, kitchens, and graves. At least the cattle were gone. The Frenchies had driven them off five days ago. No more stink of slaughtered cattle. He coughed and spewed out the blood before answering. No, Quin. I hear they only like to eat pallid, plump officers. You and I won’t ever have to worry. We’re too scrawny and sunburnt to be appetizing.

Quin clapped him on the back. Aye, Wulfie. Nuthin’ at all to worry about, then.

Wulf gave Quin as much of a smile as his sore mouth would allow. Nuthin. But the knot in his gut told him it was a lie.

Three

ANOTHER TAVERN.

Duvall stepped into the unlit foyer, half-shrugged out of his trench coat, and flapped the wet leather, not caring how much rainwater splattered onto the walls and floor. Vamps are dying again, and here I am checking a bar for blood-whores in Piggsville.

He swore at the hapless walls and added a silent vow. Patience... your night will come. It was the mortals’ brief moment to shine, but it wouldn’t last. Someday...

After a moment he sighed, raked his tangled hair away from his face, and entered Leon’s inner sanctum. Someday would have to wait. He had a job to do, and as trivial as it was, it had to be done.

He was detailed to the tavern car tonight, as he often was, and his job was to bar hop—not to indulge himself, of course, but to make sure no whores were using the bars in his area to drum up business. Blood for money had opened up whole new career paths for those in the oldest of professions. Oh, but his job was more than that. It was also to make sure that any vamps on the premises were hunched over the bar, obediently putting the bite on the neck of a bottle of synthetic blood instead of draped over the shoulder of some unsuspecting female. As if any self-respecting vampire would be caught dead in a place like this. It wasn’t the vamps who were a problem anyway—it was the human wannabes and posers.

Leon’s was the one and only tavern in the tiny, secluded neighborhood on Chi-No’s west side affectionately known as Piggsville, for being situated next to a pig farm once upon a time. That had been over one hundred years ago. The pigs were long gone, but the name had stuck. Wedged between the expressway on the south and the brewery on the north, the neighborhood seemed to exist in a time warp, secluded not only from the rest of the city, but from the havoc of time as well. That meant no vampires, real or otherwise.

The real vampires, those who could claim a lifespan of centuries, if not eternal life, preferred underground havens for their social gatherings, the same as in the old days. They were unadvertised, in unmarked locations, and humans weren’t allowed in. It was the one small part of the vampire community that the human establishment hadn’t exposed, outlawed, or destroyed.

But he’d checked Leon’s several times in the past few weeks, as he had all the licensed establishments in his territory, and this one was cleaner than most. It wasn’t known as a wannabe bar, unlike the Cape or the Crow Bar, both of which were located halfway between downtown and the university—just a hop and a skip for the young East Side liberals and the jaded downtown crowd looking to inject some extra juice into their night out.

Vall drew in a long breath. Working the East Side would have at least netted him some action if not some good arrests, but there wasn’t a vamp stirring tonight on the conservative west side, not even a wannabe. True, there was the usual flock of noisy young females present, all preening like so many birds—chirpy, colorful, and with brains to match—but none were hookers. He leaned against the bar and swept his gaze along the line of mortals bellied up to the gleaming length of wood like animals at a feeding trough. At the far end, the voices of three men rose in raucous laughter above the steady drone, signaling that their happy state was rapidly nearing intoxication.

He curved one side of his mouth down in disgust and ran his gaze over each of the other tavern patrons. All mortals. Leon’s was stacking up to be a waste of time. As expected, no vamps. No wannabes, either. The wannabes usually limited their getup to makeup and fashion. The more serious happily bore the expense of permanently sharpened eyeteeth or custom-made fangs, and all seemed to indulge in body piercings and tattoos. This crowd was just as pierced and tattooed as the wannabes, but their black motorcycle jackets advertised devotion to a different hobby.

His gaze fell again on the three losers at the end of the bar. They screamed humanity with the countless bits of metal embedded in their skin, reminding Vall of so many Voodoo dolls stuck with pins. Another hex, another pin. I wish. But it was his people who were cursed, not the mortals.

He straightened to leave when a movement beyond the bar caught his attention. A young woman alone at a table tucked her hair behind her ears as she turned to look at the men at the bar. Her unsmiling look mirrored his feelings. The woman was quite beautiful, with long dark hair, but even more appealing was her face, touched by sadness rather than makeup and glitter.

Maybe this tavern check wouldn’t be a waste of time after all. Plenty of mortal females were fascinated by vampires, but most from Middle America preferred to pursue their fantasy liaisons through ads or the Internet. Only whores and wannabes hung out in the bars to try to pick up a fang-sporting boyfriend. This woman was clearly neither. And there was something vaguely familiar about her, as if he’d seen her in a magazine or on TV. What the hell. There was a good chance she’d blow him off, but he’d never been shy around women. He turned the volume all the way down on the handie talkie at his belt and walked to her table.

May I join you?

Her gaze shifted from the bar and lifted to the sound of his voice, and her mouth parted for several seconds before she spoke. Her pupils were huge in the dim light, and he couldn’t quite fathom the color of her eyes.

I’m not sure I’d be good company... but sure.

He liked her hesitancy. A veteran bar-hopper would have had a ready reply to his request—either a come-on or a get lost. I’m willing to take the risk.

She stared at him without answering, her eyes widening just slightly, and he quickly realized she knew him for what he was, or at least suspected. The look of recognition in a mortal’s eyes was something he’d been forced to get used to, but he didn’t enjoy it. It made him feel naked and far too vulnerable.

She finally spoke. You’re a night person.

He took off his coat, dropped it over the back of the chair opposite hers, and sat down. You needn’t bother with the politically correct term. A vampire, yes. The word doesn’t offend me. To the media, the politicians, and those on their best behavior, he was a night person. To the vast majority of mortals who didn’t bother to hide their hate, he was a squid or a maggot. In truth, he hated being called a night person even more than he hated the derogatory names. It had been bad enough that he’d been forced to assimilate into human society and abide by human law, but being referred to by a name as bland as night person made him truly feel like a eunuch.

I haven’t known many vampires, she said, and he wondered if she was apologizing for her forthright statement. In any case, it didn’t feel like a lie, which made her observation all the more remarkable.

Yet you recognized me for what I am. It makes one wonder how we were able to walk among you undetected for so many millennia. My name’s Duvall.

She raised her eyebrows. Just Duvall? You don’t have a first name?

It amused him that his name caused her more astonishment than what he was. Well, he did have a given name, but he didn’t care to divulge it. It was one small piece of his identity that made him feel good to keep a mystery. Just Duvall. Vall, if you like.

Her gaze was bold now, steady and challenging, and he felt his blood respond, as in the old days.

I’m Veronica.

Just Veronica? No last name?

She smiled, the first smile he’d seen on her face, and it was like a full moon rising, bright and full of light. Just Veronica.

He curved his mouth in response, as thankful for her old-fashioned name as for her cheer. She looked in her early twenties, a safe bet she’d been born before the war. Young girls nowadays had odious names like Dawn or Sunshine, their parents making none-too-subtle political statements through their children, passing on a legacy of hatred to a new generation.

Her smile faded just a little. It was not unexpected. Even in this day and age, a vampire’s smile was a suspect thing.

So what made you single me out? There’re a lot of beautiful women in here, and I can guarantee they’re all in a more fun-loving mood than I am.

He glanced toward the bar. The drunks were off their stools and weaving their way toward the back entrance. Vapid, giggling females hold no charms for me. He didn’t bother to add that blood with a high alcohol content didn’t suit his palette. What did it matter anyway? The taking of human blood without consent was forbidden now. But when he looked back at her, the question was still lodged in her eyes.

You look sad tonight. It’s a feeling I can relate to. It wasn’t exactly the truth. He hadn’t found a mortal problem yet he gave a damn about, but it was a lie small enough to sound convincing.

She stared at him for a moment, and he could feel her eyes gauging the sincerity of his words. It’s a feeling you can relate to, or it’s a feeling you can exploit?

He’d thought this girl might be different, but he’d been wrong. He’d heard the anti-vamp tripe more times than he could count. He didn’t care to hear it again. He pushed his chair back. Sweetheart, if I wanted to exploit you, it wouldn’t be like this. Have a good night.

No, wait, she said, before he could stand. I’m sorry. My upbringing, if you know what I mean.

He did. She was born before the war, but raised in the postwar atmosphere of fear and loathing. Music filled the air, replacing the sounds of conversation. It was a rock ballad, slow and dreamy, and suddenly Duvall was glad he wasn’t in one of the East Side bars after all. A ballad suited his mood tonight much better than the Goth noise that the posers preferred. Dance with me, then.

Her eyes looked down. No, thanks.

Her heart was racing. He could hear it and feel it in the vibrations in the air. You don’t want to talk, and you don’t want to dance. He dropped his voice. What do you want to do?

She raised her gaze, and he admired that. She was afraid of him, but she didn’t let it show in her eyes. I would like to talk.

He laughed softly and held out his hand. A dance first. Come. There are those who would have you believe we’re cold and clammy creatures, but we’re not. Here, take my hand.

She stared at him through long lashes, and he waited with the patience he bore every night. This was a small game of seduction and innocent enough—all he was allowed nowadays—and a quick surge of anger tore through him. In the Old Days, B. H., Before Hell...

No, I mustn’t think those thoughts. He shut his mind down and simply waited. Waiting, in and of itself, was easy enough if he could keep the bitterness from quickening his blood.

She didn’t take his hand, but prodded his palm with her fingertips, as if she were poking an unmoving animal to see if it was dead or alive. He wrapped his worn patience even tighter around his mind and waited, reminding himself that it wasn’t hatred but only the ignorant teachings of yesterday that guided her actions. Well, he’d teach her something new.

When she slipped her hand into his at last, he knew the wait had been worth it. The heat of her touch radiated up his arm and warmed him—almost, but not quite—like the intoxicating elixir of life. Not the imitation crap, but the real thing.

The appeal of her blood and the anger over the bottled alternative gave him a hard-on. See? Our touch is nothing to fear. The words slipped out somewhere between sappy sarcasm and dry cynicism, but she only looked at him, saying nothing.

He held on to her hand as he stood, lifting her to her feet as well. She would not have a chance to refuse him again. He guided her through the maze of