A Murder Of Vampires

A MURDER

OF VAMPIRES

An Imperial Vampires Novel

Catherine Winters

1st Edition published digitally August 2016 and in Trade Paperback July 2016 by Catherine Winters, United States, writingwinters.com

Cover Design by Colin Christie

A MURDER OF VAMPIRES

Copyright 2016, Catherine Winters

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. If you don’t know what that means, look it up.

Table of Contents

Other Imperial Vampire Novels

-Note-

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

-12-

-13-

-14-

-15-

-16-

-17-

-18-

-19-

-20-

-Epilogue-

Dear Reader

About Catherine Winters

BLACK: Chapter 1 Preview

Other Imperial Vampire Novels

Black (Josephine Series Book 1)

Red (Josephine Series Book 2)

Gold (Josephine Series Book 3)

-Note-

Vampires love big government. Get any two of them together and they’ll create a set of rules; corral any ten of them in one room and it will become a charter. Considering that there are several million vampires walking the planet at any given moment, it should be unsurprising that there are almost as many vampire governments.

Many are limited to one bloodline, or perhaps two close ones. Only two organizations claim open membership: The Sovereign Empire of the Immortal, and the Council of the Undead. The Council is the older society, and the one whose branches spread the farthest. It is particularly popular with Americans, and has remained almost entirely populated by its founding Line, the Line of Judas. The Empire boasts the most famous vampires, however, and has used the fame of its members as a recruiting tactic.

Despite what one hears (should one be involved in the types of conversations which would make one privy to such information), Vlad Dracula is not the Empire’s Emperor. Mircalla Karnstein has long and ably run it in his name. Why she insists on keeping him involved has been debated strenuously throughout the years, to absolutely no conclusion, let alone confirmation. She is the first and last authority on her Empire, and while she delegates well, she is never able to say she has no knowledge of any part of it.

The Council, on the other hand, is just as it says: it is run by a twenty-five member council, and local jurisdiction is given to the heads of Council Houses, which provide shelter for small covens of vampires who pool resources in order to live more easily. Unlike her sister in government, Geneviève Lacroix easily handed over the running of the Council for several centuries, returning only when it seemed the best way to rid herself of a troubling child. She retired for good in the 1870s, citing boredom.

No one believed that, of course, but what does one say?

-1-

The couple at table twenty-seven were not unusual for a Thursday dinner service. He was more handsome than most, and she more annoyed, but their clothes were expensively made and perfectly tailored, their shoes shiny and fashionable. She was perhaps too short for him; they looked a bit mismatched, but then, the gentleman was so tall that it was probably unavoidable. She was beautiful, though cold, refusing to smile even as her companion tried to charm everyone in reach. If they noticed the shaky hands and determined lack of eye contact from their waitress, they hadn’t mentioned it; if they’d noticed the series of wait staff who had subsequently tended to them, they likewise had refrained from commenting. They were, in truth, the perfect table: neither of them ate, but both drank, and were pleasant and uncomplaining. The gentleman paid the tab, and tipped extravagantly — enough so that the shaky waitress didn’t mind sharing, and even grudgingly admitted that perhaps she’d been wrong in her original estimation of his character (Creepy.).

The couple left the restaurant, not touching each other, not even looking at each other. They were a mismatched set indeed: he was more than a foot taller than she. He towered over her, loomed, used all his great bulk to intimidate, but she would have none of that. She opened her own doors, assuming he was following, got behind the wheel of an obscenely expensive sedan, and pulled into traffic without looking.

Is the car bugged? He wished not to be overheard. As did she, when it came to that — the restaurant had been merely a convenient rendezvous, not a place for conversation.

Of course not, it’s mine.

You’ll forgive me if I don’t have the greatest confidence in your — What is he, anyway? Is he even there anymore?

Not so often as to care what I do with my personal time. They spoke English with similar accents: softened consonants, narrow vowels, a superficially British sound with something more exotic underneath. It was the language they had in common, and the one in which they did the most business. You didn’t drag me to Budapest to discuss Vlad.

True enough. I need your help.

She laughed. It wasn’t enough that I rolled back the stone from your tomb?

You did that for yourself.

Did I? I can’t remember what you’ve done for me since.

I’ve been a convenient villain, haven’t I? A tale told to fledglings so they fall in line.

You could have been that lying in the sarcophagus.

Yes, yes. I’m a terrible burden on your conscience. One has to wonder why you bothered to free me if it was going to plunge you into this ridiculous guilt.

One does. I do. Daily.

But I’ve stayed out of your way, out of Europe, like I promised, haven’t I?

I fear that’s going to come to an end.

I deserve vengeance.

She bit her lower lip, worrying it with her teeth, drawing a tiny bead of blood that filled the car with a sweet-rotten scent, like berries gone slightly bad. A human wouldn’t have noticed, but his nostrils flared and he turned to stare at her.

I don’t know those laws, she said, and he could hear every ounce of relief.

It’s not the law that gives me the right to kill them.

Then you don’t have that right.

They locked me in a box for a century and a half.

Didn’t you deserve it?

You thought I didn’t.

She shook her head, taking a sharp right turn off the main road. They’d left the city completely behind, and he thought he knew where they might end up, but allowed her to determine their course. I…don’t know if that’s true.

Then I am the villain to all of us, is that it? I’m the bogeyman, the big bad vampire?

We all have our roles to play, she whispered, without looking at him.

So glib. I suppose when your role is Empress of Everything, that’s the least of your luxuries.

She snorted. You know it all, don’t you, Grant? She pulled the car over, stopping perpendicular to the rutted track, and shut off the engine. She left the lights on, shining into a field bordered on the west side by the road, on the east by a river, on the north and south by forest. She leaned over the steering wheel, staring out into the night.

Grant studied her in the dash lights. She looked so young when he couldn’t see her eyes, so innocent and fragile. He knew that was part of her decision to stay on with the Empire, to cloister herself with those who knew better than to trust her appearance. Most of the older female vampires had that problem: they’d been adults when they were made, two or four or five hundred years ago, but society had moved the age of majority so far ahead of them in the intervening years that the freedom they’d won with their fangs was all but erased by their youth. The fledgling women were all in their twenties and thirties now, some even older, and he wondered idly if they’d come to a point where they, too, would cease to be taken seriously.

He’d never experienced the problem, not even before he died. Being six-foot-five had its advantages, after all; being six-five, forty-three, male, and wealthy ensured he never had to face anyone failing, even briefly, to take him seriously.

He unfolded himself from the car, catching the scent of the deer along the tree line, the rustle of smaller animals in the underbrush. He hated the country.

It wasn’t always so rustic, she said, and he made the effort to shield his thoughts from her. She came around the hood and stood just in front of him, looking out at the field.

Let me guess.

I wish you wouldn’t.

It used to be a house.

She picked out random stones from the brush, imagining where in the walls they would have fit, imagining her girlhood. A mansion. A castle. A fortress against everything but this.

Mircalla —

No, I know, I’m being maudlin. She leaned against the car, looked up at him with chocolate-brown eyes, eyes that looked, even to a passer-by, too old and wise for that teenager’s face. She laughed a little. You’re the only one I don’t have to lead.

I’m going ahead with my plans, with or without your protection.

I can’t guarantee anything but non-interference.

I expected as much.

And that is dependent upon your keeping the Empire out of this.

They won’t, you know that.

They don’t have secrets with me.

It’s always been yours to keep.

She narrowed her eyes at him, raised a brow. Has it been? It’s worth a fair bit of mileage. Mircalla Karnstein, Empress of the Sovereign Empire of the Immortal, let you out of prison. By mistake, no less — by dint of curiosity, and nothing more. I’m surprised you haven’t used it.

On whom, for what? Geneviève Lacroix? I’ll have her Council and her head, and I won’t need to name drop to do it.

She stared at him for a moment, then shoved off the hood and slid back behind the wheel. We’re done here, yes?

He folded himself back into the passenger seat. Yes. If I have your word.

As much as I can give it. She started the car. And what assurances have I?

My ambition has nothing to do with you, Mircalla. You can keep your guilt to yourself.

Well, then. We’re agreed.

She pushed the sedan to its limits, inspiring even Grant Black to an unusual anxiety as she screeched into the city, dropping him at the first convenient place for her.

****

Few things are as indispensable to a vampire as a talented, discreet lawyer. Grant Black’s affairs had long ago been entrusted to one of those firms that could — and did, when it served them — claim it had done business with the Tudors. They were quick, calm, and quiet; they never asked questions. They’d hired his bankers and his brokers, his document forgers and housekeepers. For centuries, his business had been handed down from lawyer to lawyer, his interests protected through wars, coups, elections, buyouts — and for the last 150 years, all without him. There had been whispered rumors that the Blacks would never return for their money, that the family had died out, that an enterprising young criminal could embezzle with impunity. But the trusts and estates and numbered accounts paid out their salaries, and the firm hired no criminals. The Black interests had remained untouched, waiting for this rainy early evening, this lovely London office, this pretty woman in a smart black suit, blushing as he smiled at her over her desk.

Would you like me to arrange a meeting with the other professionals in your employ? Her voice was cool and competent, but she was deliciously terrified. Grant heard her frantic heartbeat and made a note to reward her for such professionalism.

That won’t be necessary. He slid a typed list across the desk. "I will need everything on this list, but most especially the documents, and some ready cash. I authorize you to do whatever you must to provide me these items.

I trust the apartment is ready?

She nodded. Both of them: the one here in London, and the one in New York. We weren’t sure where you’d prefer. Your pantries are stocked, and your housekeepers merely need a phone call to shop for you.

He wondered how her hair would feel against his fingers. It was dark, and very glossy, but pulled away from her face into a severe and rather unflattering twist. He wondered if women still let men unpin their hair for them. Wonderful. Cars?

She pulled two key rings from her desk drawer. ‘Expensive, but not too conspicuous’ was your request. You have a Mercedes-Benz sedan on either side of the Atlantic. She placed the keys in front of him. Is there anything else I can do for you?

Join me for dinner.

The color drained from her face, and her heart sped even further for a moment, but her expression never changed. Thank you, but I make it a point never to dine with clients.

That’s a shame.

You have my card? He nodded. Please call anytime if you need something. I’ve been assigned as your personal liaison in the office; I am at your command.

He raised a brow at that, but held his tongue. She snapped shut her portfolio and stood, offering a slender, long-fingered hand over the desk. He took it, pleased by her firm grip and decisive shake.

She waved him ahead of her out of the office, locking doors and shutting off lights as she went.

No one works late?

After four, we work on demand. Usually outside of the office.

I’ll remember to meet you elsewhere next time.

Wherever you’d prefer, she said, and pressed the elevator button. She barely reached his shoulder. The part in her hair was the same light cocoa color as her skin, and he was struck again by how things had changed. A mixed-race woman lawyer was the public front the firm had chosen to show him. She’d rebuffed his social advances without a second thought — certainly without thinking it might damage the business relationship. She was frightened of him, intimidated by his size, but assumed it was her own nerves making her skittish. Surely so distinguished a client wouldn’t harm her — not in the office, not just after business hours. And if he did try anything, there was Mace in her purse.

Grant frowned at that thought: did she carry such a weapon in that neat little leather portfolio? Surely not. This must be something new, some modern convenience. Obviously, the world had not civilized itself so much that men were above hurting women for sport. This saddened him: after over a year of eager and enthusiastic female company, this lawyer was the first woman to be frightened, and to remind him that time passes, but basic natures do not.

They parted at the door of the big, sleek office building, after he’d hailed her a cab and slipped the driver what he hoped was a sufficiently large bill. He hailed his own cab to his new flat — he wanted his own car, his closetful of newly-made suits, and the addresses of all the Council Houses in Britain.

****

Mircalla Karnstein sat in one of the armchairs before the hearth in her office. A wineglass dangled from her fingers, mostly empty; a bottle on the coffee table was also mostly empty. She seemed to have forgotten both of them, so focused on her own thoughts that when the door opened after a short knock, she didn’t even look up.

Fire, said the man, almost from the hallway. In Little Isle.

She lifted her head at this, staring at him. Is it ours?

The Council’s.

Her mouth twisted, and she turned back to her own, less dangerous, hearth. Let it burn.

Contessa?

You heard me. She met his eyes, eyes she’d known and trusted for most of the last three centuries. She hadn’t told him about this, though; she wouldn’t.

He returned her look with a question, but said only, Yes, Contessa. He bowed, slightly, and left her, shutting the door. She heard his footsteps recede, pause, recede again.

She poured another glass from the bottle, the liquid sluggish and cold. She raised the glass high. A toast to you, Grant. She drained the glass, then threw it, smashing it against the hearthstones. You and all my regrets.

-2-

Ivan Feodorovich, once of Siberia, lately of New York, slung the steamer trunk into the service elevator and called down the hall to his companion. Is that the last of them?

She nodded and hurried to ride up with him. Thank you. The door slid closed; they leaned against the back wall and watched the floor icons light up one by one. It’s bad enough to be moving in after dark, but a tiny thing like me carrying her own trunks? She laughed. Even when I use a dolly, men insist on taking over. And how do you warn them that they’ll hurt themselves?

Why couldn’t the movers take those?

They’re private. Council records, mostly.

Stay put this time, will you? I hate helping you move so often.

Ivan, I haven’t moved in twenty years. My last set of neighbors had to be told I’d died, and that I was my own daughter.

Has it been that long?

She nodded. I’d taken up with that punk? And he wanted me to move in with him, so I dropped him and moved somewhere more upwardly-mobile.

Coventry, the yuppie. He shook his head, smiling. You and your inappropriate lovers.

"And who’s appropriate?"

He grinned. I am, of course.

But you know I need to have someone for dinner.

They laughed together as the elevator stopped. She popped her head out, saw no one, and nodded to him. They each picked up two trunks, then hurried down the hall to her door, hoping to have the whole enterprise done without being seen. Owning the building helped, but Coventry didn’t want to play that card with the super or the neighbors. She knew from experience that they wouldn’t believe her to start with; once they were convinced, they’d resent her. It didn’t make for the inconspicuous arrangement she preferred, and would, eventually, necessitate another move.

She locked the door behind them and directed him to the study with his two trunks. She headed back toward the bedroom, thinking that he’d been right, as usual. For an apparently twenty-three-year-old history grad student, her choices in men were astoundingly bad. Married men, abusers, addicts, criminals — By any human standard, she was an idiot.

But of course, human standards were moot. She wanted men who didn’t ask questions; men who wanted a thrill or a stereotype or an actress. Men who never needed to know where she lived, who were satisfied when she waved away their suggestions to go to her place with Roommates. Men who never took her home to mother, and — occasionally — men who’d never be missed.

As a vampire, she was savvy and safe, and Ivan knew it. He’d chosen her Council House because of it, because of her discretion and circumspection. Others who’d courted his fortune and his famous former name had sworn he’d wither, stifled by her coldness, her rules. Quite to the contrary, he’d found he enjoyed the fact that she never once asked him who he used to be, or tried to trade on his fame for her, or the Council’s, gain. His secrets remained his, as long as hers remained hers.

He’d wondered more than was healthy what secrets she had, exactly. He’d