After the Bite (An Argeneau Novel)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  About the Author

  By Lynsay Sands

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  “Anything to report?”

  Valerian glanced around with surprise at that question, and stared blankly at the man peering in at him through the open driver’s side window of the SUV he’d just put into park. Garrett Mortimer, the head of the North American Enforcers and his boss, raised his eyebrows in question.

  Giving his head a shake, Valerian didn’t respond at once, but instead turned to share a “WTF?” glance with his partner, Tybo. He then shut off the engine, hit the button on the rearview mirror to close the garage door behind them, and then both men unsnapped their seat belts and started to get out.

  “Nice to see you too, Mortimer,” Valerian finally said as he closed the driver’s door of the SUV. “Slow night, I take it?”

  “That or his wife, Sam, is pissed at him and he came out here to avoid her,” Tybo put in as he walked around the vehicle to join them.

  “Sam and I are fine,” Mortimer assured them with irritation. “She’s actually at Jo’s right now, helping with some surprise they’re preparing for Alex and Cale’s anniversary.”

  “So, you just came out here to greet us because you were bored?” Valerian suggested with amusement.

  Mortimer grimaced but didn’t deny the claim. Instead, he said, “Lucian’s coming around this evening and he’ll want an update on any goings-on in the area. So . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “Anything to report?”

  “Nothing,” Valerian assured him, heading toward the door between the garage and the rest of the building. The structure was quite large, holding the huge multicar garage, an office, prison cells, and an area where the security dogs were housed. But the office—and the refrigerator there—was where Valerian was eager to get to. “It was quiet as death out there. Again.”

  “Good, good. Quiet is good,” Mortimer muttered as he and Tybo followed him into the office.

  “Hmm. It’s been quiet since Dr. D. went after Thorne and Stephanie down in farm country four months ago,” Valerian pointed out, walking straight to the refrigerator to retrieve a couple of bags of blood. He tossed one to Tybo, another to Mortimer, and then grabbed a third and popped it onto his fangs as they slid down from his upper jaw.

  Valerian almost sighed as the blood was drawn up into his body and his tension began to ease. It had been a long shift and he’d needed this. He, like the other two men now also feeding, was what most mortals would call a vampire. But they preferred the term immortal. Unlike vampires, they weren’t dead or soulless, and didn’t run around preying on their mortal neighbors and friends. Well, not anymore anyway . . . usually. There were members of their population who did, but they were considered rogue, and were hunted and brought in for judgment by rogue hunters, or Enforcers, like himself and Tybo, who were basically vampire cops.

  “It’s too quiet,” Mortimer growled irritably as he tossed his now empty bag in the garbage, and when Valerian turned raised eyebrows his way, the man explained, “It feels like the quiet before the storm.” Grimacing, he added, “I’m not looking forward to the storm.”

  Valerian considered that as he tossed his own empty bag in the garbage and then asked, “Is there anything in particular you’re worried about?”

  “Summer is over. Fall is short and soon winter will be here,” Mortimer pointed out, his gaze dropping to the file in his hand.

  Valerian hadn’t noticed what he was carrying, but now glanced at the file with curiosity and read “Angel-Maker” on the tab. He felt his body tense. “You think the Angel-Maker will start up again once winter is on us.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Mortimer responded as if it had been. “Yes. I think the bastard will continue his games until we catch him. He won’t stop on his own.”

  “The Angel-Maker?” Tybo glanced between them with curiosity as he tossed his own empty bag in the garbage.

  “That’s what the newspaper named the rogue who was killing prostitutes last winter,” Mortimer explained, setting the file on the desk and opening it to fan out the photos inside.

  There were six pictures in all, each of a different female victim. They crossed a wide range when it came to looks. One was a small, thin blonde, another a chunky brunette, another a tall, voluptuous redhead, and so on. The Angel-Maker apparently didn’t have a type. The only thing that connected the murders was that the women were prostitutes, all left completely bloodless, and found lying on the snowy ground, naked, flat on their backs with their hands clasped to their chests and the outline of wings impressed into the snow around them. From what they could tell, the killer made a snow angel and then posed the dead women in the impression in the snow.

  Valerian supposed that was why the newspapers in Toronto were calling him the Angel-Maker. Although the long, rambling letters he’d sent to a reporter at one of the newspapers had probably encouraged it too. In them, the killer had gone on about turning whores into angels to save their souls. Like he was doing the women some kind of favor by killing them, he thought with disgust.

  Sighing, Valerian let his gaze sweep over the pictures of the victims one more time.

  “I didn’t know the newspapers had a name for him,” Tybo commented, his gaze still fixed on the photos. “When I left to visit my family last winter, you said you were going to send someone to wipe the memories of those deaths from both the police and reporters in the know.”

  “I did. Eshe and Mirabeau went to take care of that,” Mortimer told him. “But the reporter had already come up with the Angel-Maker moniker and the article had gone to print before they got to her. There was no sense erasing memories then. Though they did haze the memories a bit with the police and reporters so they wouldn’t pursue it further and search for the killer. We don’t need mortals stomping around getting in our way,” he told them grimly. Closing the file, he added, “Not that it mattered in the end. The Angel-Maker hasn’t killed since the last snowfall we had. That was just before you got back in April, Tybo. It’s the end of September now, so there’s been no new murders in nearly six months. At least, not that we know of,” he added with a frown.

  “You think he moved somewhere else?” Tybo asked. “Somewhere farther north, maybe? Where there might be snow for him to play with?”

  “No,” Valerian answered. “Mortimer has had me checking that once a month starting back in April when you were still on vacation. There have been no reports of similar deaths anywhere in the world.” He paused briefly and then mentioned his own concern on the matter. “Although he could still be killing women and keeping them in a freezer or something until the snow returns and he can pose them the way he likes.”

  When Mortimer glanced at him sharply at that comment, Valerian shrugged and pointed out, “Serial killers don’t usually just stop killing. They pretty much have to be caught to be stopped.”

  “Yeah.” Mortimer peered down at the closed file unhappily. “Maybe we should look into whether any prostitutes have gone missing since the last victi
m.”

  “He could have changed his modus operandi for the summer,” Tybo suggested. “Killing them, but not doing the whole wings-in-the-snow thing.” He frowned slightly, and then added, “Or do serial killers not change their MOs?”

  Valerian shrugged. “I’m no expert on the matter, but I did read an article once that said serial killers were both amoral and opportunistic. They may prefer brunettes, but if a blonde stumbles into their path and is an easy target . . .” He shrugged. “Good enough.”

  “So, they might change other things too if circumstances call for it,” Tybo said thoughtfully.

  “They might,” Valerian allowed. “But there have been no other murders in North America where the victims were fully drained of blood since the last prostitute was found.”

  “What about accidents, or deaths thought to be accidents where the victims lost a lot of blood?” Tybo suggested. “He could still be killing, just not taking credit for it because he can’t do his snow angel thing.”

  Valerian didn’t respond, but his mouth was turned down at the corners as he considered the suggestion.

  “What are you thinking?” Tybo asked when Valerian remained silent.

  “I’m thinking that while he can’t make snow angels without snow, he could have made chalk drawings of wings on pavement, or spray-painted wings on grass, or something like that,” he pointed out. Valerian then shook his head. “But there’s been nothing like that either.”

  “No, but he could also have done something less likely to be noticed, like leaving little angel necklaces or earrings or bracelets on them, or even placing little angel statues somewhere near the bodies,” Tybo pointed out. “Investigators might not recognize the significance of them. Especially if Eshe and Mirabeau made the memories of the Angel-Maker’s previous victims hazy in the minds of the police and reporters.”

  Cursing, Mortimer gestured for them to follow as he turned to lead the way out of the office.

  “We’re going to have to look into that,” their boss said as they started across the yard toward the Enforcer house. “I thought serial killers stuck to a certain pattern and didn’t deviate, so I assumed spring had put a temporary halt on his activities and we’d just have to pick up his trail again in the winter if he returned. It never occurred to me that he could just be following a different path now. I’m going to have someone look into the police files for any deaths since April where there was a lot of blood lost, and have them check to see if there’s a mention of any kind of angel anything at the scene: necklace, statue, etc.” Heaving out a sigh, he growled, “Lucian will be super pissed if the bastard’s been killing all summer and we just haven’t been taking notice.”

  Valerian cast the man a sympathetic glance. While officially Mortimer was the head of the North American Enforcers, he answered to Lucian Argeneau, who was head of the North American Immortal Council and made all their laws. Lucian was a hard-ass. Which was why Valerian hesitated before saying, “The Angel-Maker sent letters to a reporter for the last couple of snow angel killings. Have you had anyone check to see if there have been any more of those?”

  “The reporter who got those letters accepted a job in the States. I guess the Angel-Maker story garnered some attention and got her the new position. The Angel-Maker would have to write to someone else. I have a person situated in the office keeping their ears open, but there’s been nothing so far.”

  “Are they just keeping their ears open or reading minds too?” Valerian asked with concern, and pointed out, “Whoever gets the letters next might keep it to themselves until they release their own story. They wouldn’t want another reporter jumping on it and stealing their story if it might get them an offer from a bigger paper in the States too.”

  Valerian could actually hear Mortimer’s teeth grind together at the suggestion. His voice was resigned when he said, “I’ll have my hunter read everyone to be sure that isn’t happening.”

  “I could—”

  “Your shift is done,” Mortimer interrupted before Valerian could finish the offer to look into it for him. “In fact, your week is done. It’s the weekend, Valerian. Go home and enjoy that new farmhouse of yours.”

  “He enjoys his farmhouse every day,” Tybo announced with amusement. “He still has his apartment in the city, but pretty much lives in the country full-time now.”

  They’d reached the back door of the Enforcer house. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, Mortimer turned back with surprise. “That’s a hell of a commute, Valerian. The drive from your house to Toronto is three and a half or four hours one way depending on traffic. And your shifts are usually a good ten hours long. When the hell do you sleep?”

  “I don’t drive back and forth,” Valerian assured him.

  “He helicopters in,” Tybo said with a grin. “He has his own helicopter and put in a helipad in his backyard at the farm. He flies out from there and lands on the roof of his apartment building in the city and then drives here.”

  “Your apartment building has a helipad?” Mortimer asked with amazement.

  “It has two helipads,” Valerian told him, and explained, “It’s Harper’s building. He put them in when he had the building erected. He lets me use one.”

  Mortimer stared at him blankly for a minute and then gave his head a shake and asked, “Why don’t you just land on the airfield here?”

  “I didn’t want to interfere with flights landing or leaving,” Valerian explained.

  Mortimer opened the door with a laugh and led them into the house. “We aren’t an airport with flights constantly coming and going, Valerian. You’re more than welcome to park your helicopter here during your shifts. It would save you a good half hour each way from the apartment building every day.”

  “Thank you,” Valerian said solemnly.

  Mortimer nodded as they approached his office. “So, I’ll let the boys know to expect your helicopter on Sunday night.”

  “Okay,” Valerian said.

  Mortimer stopped outside his office door, and was about to speak, but paused when the sound of a ringing phone drifted out to them. After glancing inside he grimaced and said, “I need to take that. It’s Lucian.”

  Tybo gave a disbelieving laugh. “You have a special ringtone for Lucian?”

  “No. I have caller ID on the landline and it pops up on my TV screen any time there’s a call,” Mortimer explained.

  When the man then headed into his office, Valerian stepped up to the door to peer inside with curiosity, aware that Tybo was on his heels. They both eyed the television screen on the wall. There was no sound, but the television was on the news streaming channel, and a box opened across the bottom of the screen showing Lucian Argeneau’s name and number as the phone rang again.

  “That’s nifty,” Tybo murmured beside him.

  “Close the door for me, will you?” Mortimer asked as he walked around his desk.

  “Do you want us to wait in case he needs something done?” Valerian asked.

  “No. Your shift is over. You two go on. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too,” Valerian said, backing out of the doorway as Tybo began to pull the door closed.

  “So,” Tybo said as they headed back down the hall. “Any plans for the weekend? No, wait, let me guess,” he added before Valerian could respond. “Golfing.”

  “You got it,” Valerian said with a smile. He’d finished the last of the mild renos to his new house last weekend. All he intended to do this weekend was golf and chill. He wasn’t going to even think about work or the serial killer called the Angel-Maker for the next forty-eight hours.

  One

  “The kitchen’s done, boss. So unless you need my help with something else, I’m headed out.”

  Natalie glanced up from the architectural drawings spread out on the table in front of her and scowled at the pretty strawberry blonde weaving her way through the half dozen other tables in the golf club’s large lower dining room to reach her. “Jeez, Jan. I hate it when you call me b
oss.”

  “I know,” Jan said. A mischievous grin pulling at her lips, she added, “That’s why I do it.”

  The words startled a laugh out of Natalie and she shook her head at the woman who was both her assistant chef and friend.

  “So . . . ?” Jan stopped at the corner table where Natalie had set up and raised her eyebrows. “Is there anything you need help with before I go?”

  “No. I’m good,” Natalie assured her, and didn’t miss the relief in her friend’s face at her answer. She wasn’t surprised. It was Friday night, after all, and she knew Jan and her husband, Rick, had a date night planned. A 10 p.m. showing at one of the movie theaters in the city and a late dinner were apparently on the agenda.

  “Are you going to close up now?” Jan asked, her gaze sliding over the drawings Natalie had been making changes to.

  “Soon,” Natalie assured her as she began to roll up the large sheets of paper. “Just waiting for Mr. MacKenzie to finish his round before Tim and I mow.”

  “The mysterious Mr. MacKenzie,” Jan said, waggling her eyebrows.

  “Mysterious?” Natalie asked with amusement.

  “He books and pays for his eighteen holes online, and never steps foot in the club. None of us have even seen the man except from a distance.”

  “Roy sees him,” Natalie corrected her. “He gives him the keys to his golf cart when he shows up.”

  “Yeah. Roy.” She wrinkled her nose. “But the old coot won’t tell us anything about the guy. What he looks like. If he’s nice or not. Nothing. You should really let me swap jobs with Roy one of these nights so I can give Mr. MacKenzie the keys. Then I could give you the scoop.”

  “Roy in the kitchen?” Natalie asked with horror. “No. Never gonna happen.”

  Jan gave a fake scowl that quickly gave way to a grin. “That would be pretty bad.”

  Natalie didn’t bother to comment, her mind was taken up with imagining that scenario. Roy was old, ornery, and not someone she’d want holding a cleaver in the pressure cooker that was the kitchen at busy hour.

  “It’s a shame, though,” Jan said now. “I’m really curious about our Mr. MacKenzie. I mean, what kind of man picks a sunset tee time?”