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  FEAR THE LIGHT

  WILLIAM MASSA

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  Copyright © 2014 William Massa

  Critical Mass Publishing

  All character appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Also by William Massa

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  CHAPTER ONE

  DRACULA AWOKE TO a world of agony.

  Pain shot through his fingers, traveled up his arms and exploded in his brain. Through a haze of misery, he absorbed the details of his surroundings. He found himself in a clearing surrounded by trees, far away from the daytime safety of the estate. His spread-eagled limbs were stretched to the breaking point, his upright body suspended above the forest floor and restrained in some terrible manner.

  Dracula twisted his head and spotted a metal spike protruding from his wrist. The nail had been driven through his flesh and into a wooden beam. The same held true for his other wrist and both his feet. The reality of his situation snapped into terrifying focus.

  He had been crucified.

  With growing desperation, he strained against the nails but they wouldn’t budge — his body remained pinned to the wooden beams. There was only one explanation. The nails must have been cast from pure silver, the only metal that could restrain his kind. Making matters worse, first light slashed across the horizon and shafted through the surrounding canopy of trees. Morning was approaching fast.

  Dracula wondered how he had ended up like this. He searched his fragmented memories and remembered hunting a terrified tourist who had gotten lost among the sprawling vineyards on his estate. He had fed on her blood, witnessed her eyes glazing over. Everything after that was... Darkness. Someone must’ve poisoned the woman’s blood. And that meant it was an elaborate set-up. The prey was the bait and the hunter was the one being hunted. The cross added a touch of the perverse. Someone was clearly mocking the legends that had sprung up around his kind.

  These insights brought more questions. Who could be behind this? His enemy list was long, but who would dare go up against him? The answer came a second later, when a vague silhouette coalesced from the shadows of the forest.

  He wasn’t alone any longer.

  The new arrival grew more distinct with each successive step. Dracula knew there would be no escape. No last-minute pardon. He had been tried, judged and found guilty. Swift punishment was about to be meted out. After so many years, death was upon him.

  Across the horizon, vibrant light shimmered and seemed to expand as the fiery orb of the sun revealed itself in all its fearful glory. To Dracula, it was like staring into the wrathful gaze of God. A instant later, his body burst into flames…

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS GOING to be another stunning sunset in Venice Beach, California. Streaks of red dappled the cobalt sky and both tourists and locals had paused to take notice. Smog might have been the bane of a city known for its nightmarish traffic, but it sure made for some gorgeous Instagrams.

  As the ocean swallowed the sun, the activity began to shift from the beach to the wide variety of restaurants and bars that made Venice Beach such a hotspot. These establishments ranged from trendy hipster enclaves to “We only accept cash” beach dives. Among the latter group, NuiPia, translated from Tahitian as Big Beer, was the oldest, the sleaziest and the most revered. The place had history and street cred. In a town that could often be fake and plastic, NuiPia felt authentic.

  AC/DC drifted from the watering hole’s jukebox and garish neon Miller and Bud Light signs glittered next to muted high-definition TVs recapping the evening’s sports highlights. The man who commanded the bar, swapping dollar bills for frosted pitchers with speed and precision, blended in perfectly with the grungy establishment. Shoulder-length hair framed his intense features - people always mistook him for a musician even though he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. He appeared to be in his early thirties but his timeless eyes seemed much older. Vincent (or Vince, as regulars called him) didn’t sport tattoos or piercings, as did several of the other bartenders. The only individual touches to his appearance were a gold locket worn around his neck and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that accentuated his athletic frame. He didn’t care particularly about the band, but he knew many of the paying customers he served did, and he did care about blending in. Like most natural predators he had mastered the art of camouflage. Why dwell among the shadows when one could disappear in plain sight?

  Vincent topped off a pitcher of Sierra Nevada while keeping his eyes on the sizzling hamburger grill. He noticed an Adidas-clad meathead impatiently waiting for someone to fill his order. Pedro, the second bartender/assistant manager, a middle-aged Guatemalan who looked like a pirate, was busy flirting with a sun-kissed beauty. The young girl had long ceased to be flattered by the older man’s attention and was growing uncomfortable. Vincent decided to launch a rescue attempt. He tapped Pedro on the shoulder and pointed out the disgruntled gym rat in the far corner. “Let the lady enjoy her drink. We got mouths to feed.”

  Pedro snapped to attention, the young woman’s spell broken. Vincent smiled. Just another day in the trenches. It was the middle of August, at the height of the tourist season when every day felt like a weekend and every weekend felt like a shitstorm. Vincent didn’t mind the crowds. In fact, he welcomed the action. He didn’t need to work for money, but he had signed up for this gig because it kept his mind focused on the present instead of dwelling on the past.

  Vincent was about to hand two Korean girls a giant frosted pitcher of beer when the sound of glass breaking caught his attention. Great! What now? He whirled and his eyes found the source of the commotion. A college kid was being pinned against the jukebox by some drunk asshole. His attacker seemed right out of a casting call for some Z-grade biker picture.

  Vincent responded without hesitation. He didn’t care who started it - the instigator could be identified later, the trigger probably a dispute over who got to pick the next song – all he knew was that no one got away with physical violence on his watch. Vincent jumped over the bar in one smooth motion. Within seconds he was upon the biker but the guy’s reflexes were quicker than expected. Moving with surprising agility for a man of his bulk and level of inebriation, he sidestepped Vincent’s grip and fired off a left hook. The punch missed but the man’s fingers brushed against Vincent’s neck and succeeded in tearing off his locket. The jewelry flew across the bar.

  Vincent could feel the anger building inside of him. He was pissed now.

  The drunk tried to use his beer bottle as a weapon but Vincent dodged the fumbling attack. His steel fingers closed around the man’s wrist and started squeezing. The biker let out a sharp gasp, part expletive, part scream, and dropped the bottle. It rolled across the sawdust-covered floor, adding its swishing contents to all the other spilled drinks of the night. All part of NuiPia’s charm.

  Vinc
ent snatched the troublemakers’s collar in a tight grip and dragged him toward the exit. There were grins, gasps and shouts of applause. The douchebag had clearly made some lifelong friends this evening. Vincent tossed the man onto the sidewalk and fixed him with a sharp glare that silenced any thoughts of retribution. As the biker stumbled away, Vincent stepped back into the bar. His attention shifted toward the College kid who nodded at him gratefully. “That was, rad, man. Thanks.” Some folks were still watching the exchange, but most had already moved on.

  Vincent canvassed the floor, looking for his locket but it had disappeared. A edge of concern invaded his thoughts. The locket was an object of sentimental value that couldn’t be measured in money alone. It was his most prized possession.

  As Vincent frantically continued his search, he felt eyes on him. He looked up and noticed shadowy movement behind a nearby window. Had the biker returned? With quick strides, Vincent approached the window in question and peered outside. The sidewalk was deserted. Whoever had been watching him was long gone.

  Glancing down the street, a feeling of unease gripped him. Losing his locket suddenly seemed like a portent of darker things to come.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS A little after three a.m. when Vincent closed up shop and started down the Venice bike path. He lived nearby and was looking forward to the walk home. The beach was deserted and silent, except for the steady, hypnotic crashing of the waves or the occasional muted foghorn. A thick mist was rolling in, casting its phantom tendrils across the strand and shrouding the fat oceanfront properties.

  After about fifteen minutes, Vincent reached his apartment, a modern two-story loft. It was all corrugated steel with tiny, blackened slits for windows that kept both the sunlight and prying onlookers at bay.

  He unlocked the door and was about to enter when a banging sound gave him pause.

  There was no mistake. The noise originated from inside his place.

  Vincent stopped in his tracks, body coiled, senses alert, and waited for the sound to repeat itself. He didn’t have to wait for long. There was a crash of someone knocking over furniture. He hesitated for a final second before he thrust the door open. A yawning darkness awaited. Now defined by a renewed silence. Someone was in his apartment. The question was who? And more importantly, why?

  Vincent immediately ruled out the possibility of a break-in. Burglaries were on the rise despite the patrolling police helicopters that scoured the skies most nights but he sensed this was different. He was picking up a thrumming heartbeat, a muffled bump…bump. Instead of rising in tempo, it seemed to be fading. There was also something in the air. Something all too familiar. A scent so tantalizing that Vincent couldn’t help but throw all caution to the wind. He made his way down a winding hallway and emerged in a spacious living room. The room was bathed in darkness but to Vincent’s senses, it seemed fully lit up. And wherever he looked there was… Blood. Pooling across the hardwood floor, spilling over the couch and coffee table, precious pints going to waste.

  Vincent tore himself away from the sight of the crimson liquid and located the hapless donor. It was none other than the charming troublemaker from the bar. Small world.

  The biker was slumped in a chair, his shirt drenched in blood, throat slashed from ear to ear, sheeting red. Vincent remained riveted. He had not consumed a drop of human blood in nearly twenty years but the sight before him was almost too alluring to resist. His breathing accelerated as the man’s fading heartbeat became deafening. Demanding Vincent's attention. The blood tempting him with its thick, rich texture and coppery smell. And for one split second, Vincent caught himself reaching out for the dying figure. He knew the man had lost too much blood already and was beyond all help. There was no harm in leaning over and…

  NO!

  Twenty years ago, he made a promise. A promise he intended to keep. He might be a vampire but as long as he walked this Earth, he wouldn’t feed on humans.

  The biker let out his last rattling breath, and a sultry, almost mocking, female voice piped up from the far corner of the room. “Up for a nightcap?”

  He should’ve known…

  The speaker remained hidden, cloaked by the wall that separated the living room from the adjoining kitchen. But Vincent didn’t need to see a face; the voice told him who was lurking within the shadows.

  “Angelique, you always did like to play games.”

  “And you liked to play them with me.”

  Angelique peeled from the darkness. Sandy brown hair perfectly framed her strong yet sensual features. There was a smoldering, dangerous intelligence in her eyes. This woman was in a league of her own. And she knew it.

  She was decked out in stylish punk-rock/Suicide Girl attire. A fitted leather jacket accentuated her narrow waist and her tiny blue miniskirt did little to cover the perfectly shaped, milky thighs that tapered into a pair of badass leather boots. “What happened, darling? Why did you decide to grow up and become so boring?”

  There was a history here, a story that Vincent had tried to forget. You couldn’t outrun the past because when you lived forever, the past had a nasty way of catching up with you. Like it had right now.

  “Nice place you got yourself here,” Angelique said. She tilted her head toward the crimson spatter dripping down the walls and furniture. “I thought it could use a woman's touch.” Angelique smiled, revealing twin fangs flecked with blood.

  Vincent wasn’t amused. “You killed a man inside my house! Are you out of your mind?”

  “It's nice to see you too, Vincent. Sweet little gig you got yourself there. A lot of cute tourists passing through that joint who won't be missed.”

  “I don't feed on humans anymore.”

  “I noticed.”

  Angelique nodded at a series of cages holding gerbils. The panicked vermin were squeaking and clawing at the bars of their cages, catching a whiff of Angelique’s predatory heat and coppery perfume of blood.

  “Aren’t you worried that PETA might bang down your door one of these days?”

  “I’m more concerned about the cops.”

  Angelique extricated an item from her pocket. It shimmered in the moonlight.

  VINCENT'S LOCKET.

  Angelique threw it at him and he caught the pendant in mid-air. Vincent opened the locket and inspected the faded picture of a beautiful blonde woman. The picture was what mattered here, not the jewelry.

  “Thought you might like it back,” Angelique said. “I know how sentimental you can be.”

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  “Vincent, I didn't pay you a visit for old time's sake. I'm afraid I have some bad news. Two days ago, the master was murdered at his chateau in France.”

  Vincent's voice filled with shocked disbelief. “Dracula is dead?”

  The question earned him a solemn nod from Angelique. Her voice was tight and hard as she continued.

  “Rafael has called for a meeting of the clan. Whoever is responsible is going to pay dearly for their crime.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Sorry, but count me out. This isn't my world anymore.”

  “That's where you're wrong,” Angelique said. “You may choose to live by your own rules, Vincent, but you're still a vampire, and you're still part of the clan, like it or not.”

  “Are we done here?”

  A thin smile twisted Angelique's lips. She knew Vincent would come around. “See you in three days, darling.”

  As Angelique vanished from view, Vincent's dismayed gaze shifted toward the dead man bleeding all over his living room.

  This was going to be a long night.

  ***

  The blinds were drawn, lights dimmed. Muted daytime traffic sounds drifted in from outside. Vincent was wide awake and staring at the ceiling, his mind tormented by warring impulses. He couldn’t sleep, fearing the nightmares waiting to descend on him as soon as he closed his eyes. Those dreams would be colored by memories he had struggled to keep at bay but would now return with the
vengeance and intensity of a jilted lover. No matter what Vincent did today, he wouldn’t find any peace.

  A decision had to be made. Before Vincent even realized it, he was making his way toward his small desk. He took a seat and fired up his laptop. There was one last moment of hesitation.

  Fuck it.

  Vincent logged onto Priceline and booked a red eye to Paris.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  VINCENT DROVE HIS Mercedes Bentz rental car down a two-lane country road that carved its way through endless rolling hills. Towering trees and vast vineyards stood silhouetted in the milky moonlight. There was an air of remoteness and isolation about the place even though the nearest town was only half an hour away. This was Bordeaux wine country, where monks had first embraced viticulture during the reign of Charlemagne.

  Vincent eased his foot off the gas as the road began to turn. The flight had been uneventful and for the most part painless. He left Los Angeles around two in the morning and arrived in Paris after 8 o’clock in the evening, a nine-hour time difference allowing him to avoid daylight all together. He traveled first class and made sure to book a whole row. He opted for the aisle seat and kept a safe distance from his window, the shade drawn of course. Most of the legends surrounding his kind were Hollywood bullshit. Vampires couldn’t turn into bats, wolves or mist and they were immune to crosses but sunlight could destroy them. A different vampire might’ve decided to sit out the flight in the cargo hold, secure inside a steel sarcophagus with two human servants along for the ride to assure that the coffin arrived at the right address, the promise of immortality assuring their loyal assistance. But that was way too dramatic for Vincent and not his style.

  That was Dracula’s style.

  The bucolic forest landscape continued to unfold before Vincent. Strange to think that Dracula had chosen this area as his home for the better half of the last century. Then again, Vincent never did understand how Dracula’s mind worked. He was a legend and an enigma. Vincent wondered often what had driven the Count to choose a Texas Ranger to be one of his children of the night.