The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Chapter Three





The dull throbbing spread from the back of his head to the fore, causing Shawcross to groan.



‘Pain.’ He didn’t like it, none whatsoever: he thought rubbing the back of his head, with his right hand and, he brought it before his eyes, pleased to see little blood on his the palm.



“Just call it a perk of the job…” He muttered as he opened his eyes cautiously, afraid to see what he would see.



‘Black boots? Shiney black boots, with heel.’ Shawcross would’ve smiled, normally. But, as he continued to look up, slowly, from the bottom of the tip of the boots upward, to the top of the calf-high, he found himself looking at blue jeans. And then, he can look up no further as the ache in his head increased.



He groaned again, long and loud.



“Sleeping beauty is awake…” said the owner of the voice, in a gentle voice, that spoke with authority.



“Thank you Rachel,” said another voice, a man’s, to Timon’s right. He was not outside any longer, he realised and, the room he was in seemed small.



“You can leave us now,” the voice added.



Timon Shawcross watched the boots turn and, heard the woman speak: “Chevy stay outside the door, will you just in case we need your muscle again…”



She left the room and as she closed the door Shawcross eased himself into a crouch, turning his whole body, to stare in the direction that the man’s voice had come from.



He looked round the small office, his eyes drawn to the two people sitting behind the plain desk, devoid of clutter bar the laptop, a folder and two bottles of water.



‘They’re a mixed pair,’ he thought momentarily.



The fellow on the left was a powerfully built man in his late twenties to thirties, his shoulder-length blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail. His clothes were casual, but with a style that suggested the owner had enough money to buy them.



Yet, it was the girl to his right that puzzled Shawcross: ‘Girl?’ She was a young woman, short of stature and slight of build. And, beneath her elfin face and long neck, the bleach-blonde with a page-boy cut wore little, just an over-sized white mans shirt.



Shawcross waited to hear what was said next, his sore head a reminder of the bruiser he’d encountered, who even now waited outside the door, as Rachel had requested.



Finally the fellow behind the desk spoke, “This is a private club mister…”



“Timon Shawcross,” Timon interjected.



“This is a private club Mister Shawcross, “an we don’t take to strangers noseying around like you were…” Jared spoke slowly, his interlaced fingers forming a steeple, as he rested his elbows on the desk.



And, although the atmosphere in the room was serious, Alice wanted to smile. She wanted to smile a lot nowadays: just the idea of being a partner in Marley’s with her Master was enticing, a delight; and due cause for her to smile for a lifetime, hers and someone else’s.



She rested her right hand on Jared’s inner-thigh and, smiling toward Timon she asked curiously, “Why are you here then?”



Timon looked round the room briefly before answering, “I’m looking for a woman.”



“And you came here, to find one?” Jared asked smiling: “Not the sort of place I’d come to find a woman…”



“That’s not what I mean…” Shawcross responded.



“ So what do you mean?” Alice asked of him softly.



“I’m looking for someone underage, who…” he began to respond, then realizing how it sounded he added, “I’m a private investigator, who was hired to…”



“Do you have a photograph of her?” Jared asked; his curiosity piqued.



Timon stood, albeit he was unsteady on his feet and, took a few paces forward toward the desk. And, with his right hand palm down, fingers splayed, he supported himself, as he reached into an inside jacket pocket, to retrieve the professionally taken five by seven of Misha.



He handed the photograph to Jared, who took and looked at it, with a smile that quickly turned to loud laughter. As his laughter became more raucous he handed the photograph to Alice next to him: “Here, look at this…” he said to her.



“I’m sorry for laughing,” Jared expressed, his cheeks ruddy from his outburst, as Alice passed the photograph back which he handed the photograph back to Timon, tears in his eyes, “But…”



Jared waved a hand in the air.



“I’m Jared and, this…” he indicated the young woman to his left, “this is Alice, my slave and partner.”



Timon’s jaw would’ve normally opened wide with surprise at what he’d just heard.

It didn’t.



The way he saw it, ‘It was just an ordinary day.’

Chapter 2







I had followed Misha for two days, keeping well out of sight, before anything unusual happened.



She lived with the Contessa, in a large house behind large wrought-iron gates, at the end of a long-drive-way.



Like her sister, she was a brunette, yet wore hair shoulder length, with a fringe.

And, just like her sister, she always’ seemed to be wearing sunglasses, which I had laughingly put down to their incessant drug use.



Unlike her sister though, she down-dressed, wearing ripped light blue, figure-hugging jeans and thigh length high heel boots with everything I saw her in; and I quickly leant that she was a veritable whirlwind of energy.



My lessons into her character had begun when at eight, when I’d be parked outside the house on the main road; ready to follow her wherever she led me.



And that somewhere was nowhere particular, for a whole week just clubs and other hang-outs for the young, then on the Saturday the bright young thing led me to somewhere I’d not of expected.



Around 8:00 pm, a black corvette pulled up in front of the Contessa’s house. This was new, as all the other young men or women that had picked her up drove inexpensive cars. I jotted down the license plate and pulled in two car lengths behind them. I couldn’t make out the driver, as the windows were tinted a dark smoky black. I followed the corvette down to the main drag of town. Mostly shops and bars. The weekend traffic had already started and I tried to do my best to keep them in my sights. We drove up main street and turned on to south d street, going up the hill past stately property that was hold outs to progress. These homes were old money, gained back during the 1800’s. A few of them were mansions, with a renovated carriage houses. I didn’t get the chance often to go on this side of town. Wasn’t far from the main drag but close enough to walk to it. I watched as they pulled into a gravel parking lot and saw Misha get out of the passenger side, her companion was one I hadn’t see before. She was dressed in black leather, the same as her companion. Her outfit outlined her young figure nicely. He carried himself with purpose and casually looked around.



The building next to the parking lot was a black/gray warehouse. The sign above it said “Marley’s” in black and gold lettering with chains hanging about the sign. I stared dumbly at it for a moment. I knew this place, Not well, but I had heard rumors. I watched as they both approached the front entrance and a bald, very well muscled man spoke to them and stamped their hands. He didn’t ask for an id for her. Big trouble, im sure the owner wouldn’t be pleased that a minor had slipped in. I waited until they slipped in side and I got out of the car, careful as not to draw attention to myself. I walked around to the back of the building, bordering the building was an alley with several other buildings close by. I saw a window high up and climbed on top of a waste dumpster that had its lid shut. P I work isn’t the most cleanest job in the world. But I have stepped in worse. I climbed up and peered through the dirty window. I couldn’t make out where Misha was. The lights in the club were dim, So seeing anything clear was out the of the question. I had two choices. Either go in and try not to draw attention to myself. Or sit in the car until she came out.



If half of what I heard was true about Marley’s, no way I could “blend” in. Jumping down, I hit solid ground and what felt like a punch to the gut, threw me against the wall, with so much force that any air left in my lungs was expelled, all in a rush.



I’d closed my eyes as I slid down slowly into a kind of crouch, unaware of he trail of blood left behind me, as I’d slid downward.



Cold filled, from the inside out, as I struggled to open my eyes: I saw a woman’s black boots walking toward me, shiney black boots, with a very high heel.



And with my vision getting cloudy, my world turned black before unconsciousness took me…

The Vanilla Extraction





Chapter One





What felt like a punch to the gut, threw me against the wall, with so much force that any air left in my lungs was expelled, all in a rush.



I’d closed my eyes as I slid down slowly into a kind of crouch, unaware of he trail of blood left behind me, as I’d slid downward.



Cold filled, from the inside out, as I struggled to open my eyes: I saw a woman’s black boots walking toward me, shiney black boots, with a very high heel.



And with my vision getting cloudy, my world turned black before unconsciousness took me…



*



It had started, as many stories do, with a woman. The part-timer was gone, finishing early to pick up her little-un. I’d been sitting behind my desk, working onscreen, tidying up files, prior to giving the machine a defrag.



The Friday had brought an end to a quiet week, that ended an even quieter month; and I seem to recall the radio was playing ‘Tom Jones’ by Catatonia.



Times were hard: the economy was biting ay everyone’s wallet and hiring a P.I. wasn’t the priority for some, it might have been otherwise.



Yet, that day the door had opened: and, a brunette breezed into the office, with the manner of someone at home with themselves, no matter where they are.



Sweeping loose strands of hair from out of her eyes, she had perched her black frame, dark lens sunglasses, to the bridge of her short, straight nose.



Then, staring across the room and to my curious gaze, she’d asked me, “You are Timon Shawcross aren’t you?”



“Uh-huh, this is my office and that’s me,” I opined theatrically. It had been seven thirty in the evening; and, as far as I was concerned, I was missing out on a glass of single malt.



She had crossed the room and sat in the battered old brown leather armchair, all dead springs and comfort; then she’s crossed her legs, left leg over the right, in such a fashion I’d found myself wondering how warm the flesh was at the top of he self-support hose.



Her hair had been drawn tight to the scalp, then clamped off with a grip, so that as she moved the long tail swung, just like a horse swatting at flies.



“Are you free?” She had asked.



There was a hint of an accent to her voice: ‘Romanian perhaps?’



“Hardly,” I’d retorted, “I have an hourly rate and, charge for expenses.”



It’d been a poor joke, but it been the end of the day.



She had grinned in response; but it had been merely a movement of her lips and had appeared mirthless.



She had been wearing a little black dress, which clung well to his androgynous frame, that’s colour acted to emphasise how pale she was, ankle length black cowl boots with a heel of an inch, or so on her feet.



“American men are so flippant,” she’d opined.



“By birth I’m Canadian,” I’d informed her blithely.



She’d given a snort of derision at this, so I changed tack.



“Can you tell me why you’re here?” I asked with my notepad out, pen in hand.



“I need someone following Mister Shawcross…”



I’ve got a thing about boots; I liked the boots and, as she was speaking I stared at them, wondering idly how many pairs she had in the back of her wardrobe.



“And, your name is?” I’d asked, the pen hovering over the pad.



“I’m the Contessa di Cartinelli,” she had told me, looking at me quite intensely, in the short space between us and, there was almost a tangible air of expectation between us.



It was obvious I was supposed to be impressed, or perhaps intimidated by what she’s said. I’d felt neither.



I’d looked around the small office, then back to her, as I asked, “Any other name for me, as the Contessa di Cartinelli sounds a bit of a mouthful…”



She’d removed her glasses, swept a bang from her face again, and then crossed her legs: “You can call me Dianna.”



With vivid green eyes, Dianna had looked at me as I tried hard, not to stare, at her shapely legs.



“So Dianna, who do you want me to follow?”



“My younger sister,” she had said slowly, “she has been most evasive of late and, been staying out at all hours. And…”



“Uh huh,” I’d responded, putting my pad aside, figuring I knew where it was going, as I’d done that sort of case many, many times.

Often there’s a reason for the problem of the wayward teenager, or family member; and sometimes it’s as simple as a relationship the family can’t deal with, or that they have issues with drink, or drugs.



“So Mister Shawcross, will you take the case?” She asked flatly.



The Friday had brought an end to a quiet week, that ended an even quieter month and my bank balance was veering to near the overdraft for comfort.



Of course I’d said ‘Yes.’