The Vow

The Vow

Laura Daleo

AUTHOR LAURA DALEO

The Vow is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Laura Daleo

All rights reserved

Published in the United States by Author Laura Daleo, San Diego, California

Print ISBN: 9780997846102

ebook ISBN: 9780997846119

Cover Design: David Potter

Editor: Claudette Melanson

To Claudette and David,

many thanks for being part of this incredible journey

A vow of peace set forth this day, March 31st, 1885, joins mankind and vampire into one world, ending all bloodshed between species. The union of harmony must remain faithful for all time. Defiance of the vow by either race will render such truce null and void. If such a time should ever come,

God help us all.

CHAPTER 1

Seriously, where were my parents? I heaved a sigh of frustration as I scooped up my overnight bags for the third time and hoisted them over my shoulder. My phone calls went straight to voicemail, and my text messages remained unanswered. Even my brother, JJ, hadn’t responded. My parents were paradigms of punctuality, so overlooking their own daughter’s arrival at the airport seemed unlikely. An explanation existed, but what could it be? I took one more glance around before heading back inside the terminal and skimming over the many faces within the cell phone waiting lot. Not one of them belonged to my parents. Oh, to hell with it; I’ll take a cab, I mumbled under a strained breath, trekking through the airport doors and reclaiming my spot on the curb outside. I jetted up a hand, signaling for a cab.

With the raise of my hand, a taxi broke formation from the pack of yellow cars nearby and sped over to me, scrubbing up against the curb and idling. The driver lowered the window. Where to, Flower Child?

I glanced down at my cutoff shorts, lace crop top, and floral kimono, then stared at the middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, cocking my head. How had the cab driver known my dad’s nickname for me? Truth be told, my closet was overflowing with flowy vintage pieces embellished with lace, embroidery, or fringe, but a 60s hippy I was not. I constantly reminded my dad that the proper term for the style was Boho Chic, but in his eyes, I was his Woodstock Flower Child—the one he’d forgotten to pick up from the airport. 2863 Derrick Place, I answered, opening the back door and tossing my bags onto the seat. As I slid down against the upholstery and crossed my arms, the image of myself as a pouting child flashed inside my head, but I wasn’t about to let my parents live this one down. One guilt trip coming right up.

Twenty minutes later, the driver turned onto my parents’ street, slowing his speed. As my home came into view on the right, he glanced in the rearview mirror at me with raised brows. Here? he questioned, as if I’d given him the wrong address.

I didn’t speak, and barely managed a nod, fixated on the police cars, bright yellow crime tape, and crisp white of the van decorating the front of my parent’s house like some bizarre Halloween scene brought to life. I read the words Medical Examiner emblazoned across the van, blinked, and read them again before blankly staring into space. Was this some sick joke?

That’ll be twenty-five dollars, the cab driver rattled off, ending my paralysis.

I fumbled with my wallet, flipping it open and paying him before slowly stepping out onto the street. As I took a few steps closer toward my childhood home, a sickeningly cold feeling swept over me, causing me to drop my bags on the pavement. A swarm of neighbors hovered close by, their eyes on me, their faces painted with gloom. I shuddered at the sudden prickling along my flesh, as though hundreds of ants were scurrying up my spine. I made it up onto the sidewalk somehow.

An officer, clad in dark-blue, hurried toward me, blocking my path. That’s far enough, Miss. No one is allowed inside.

I stood my ground, not budging an inch. That’s my parents’ house. I didn’t wait for a reply, but pushed past him instead. I’m going in there.

He grabbed my arm, stopping my progress. I can’t allow that, Miss. This is an active crime scene. He released my arm. Now please, stay back.

A crime scene? I glanced at the words sprawled across the white van once more. Oh God. Mom? Dad? JJ? The chill mushroomed, slithering into my pores and gnawing at my bones. The sun’s golden rays reached down, drenching my body, but I couldn’t escape the fierce winter storm building momentum beneath my flesh. Something was horribly wrong. I looked back at him, desperation creeping up my throat. What happened?

His mouth tightened, forming a thin line. I can’t discuss that with you at this time.

Then who can?

Right now, no one.

What the hell had happened in our house? Had there been a murder? The word blinked on and off behind my eyes, like a failing neon vacancy sign. I needed to get inside, and this fool was in my way. You’re telling me there isn’t a single person who can explain to me why I can’t enter my own home?

He glanced at my bags, and then met my eyes. You live here?

I nodded my head, struggling to control the tremor in my voice. I’m home for the summer.

College?

Yes. Finals are over. I internally chastised myself. Why should he care about finals? My stomach clenched, the knot of fear tightening. I peered over his shoulder. Where’s my family? I locked eyes with him. You need to let me go in.

Evidence is being collected. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here.

Like hell I will. A flurry of questions flew from my mouth. Why is the medical examiner here? Did someone die? Who? Are my parents and my brother okay? My voice grew frantic. What happened?

He didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned toward the army of police officers scouring through trees and bushes and called out, Jenkins, find Detective Reynolds. Tell him I need him.

Their search continued, no one taking notice of his request.

A pinched expression overtook his face as he shook his head. Focusing on me, he asked in a calm manner, What’s your name?

Claire, Claire Matthews.

Wait here, Miss Matthews. He hesitated before moving away and disappearing into the mystery beyond the front door some thirty feet away.

I stood alone, facing the house jam-packed with my memories of joy, and watched the front porch become a revolving door for police officers wearing rubber gloves and blue booties over their shoes. Some carried evidence bags, a few took notes, and others gathered around the doorway exchanging dialog. A flood of tears blurred my vision. My fingers swept them away as I gathered my resolve. There was no reason to cry. Not yet. Maybe robbers broke in while no one was home and turned on each other. Maybe the neighbors heard the scuffle and called the police. My imagined theories slowed the panic racing through my veins and softened the repetitive drum of my heartbeat, yet deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling something terrible filled the space behind the front door.

The officer reappeared inside the doorway, and standing next to him was a middle-aged man dressed in a gray suit, with hair much blonder than mine. He plastered a solemn-TV-cop expression on his face—the same one actors adopted when they delivered dreadful news. He ambled down the walkway, narrowing the gap between us. My pulse flew into a wild sprint. Maybe, if I closed my eyes, tapped my heels three times and said there’s no place like home, all of this would vanish. Sadly, I already was home.

Miss Matthews, I’m Detective Reynolds, the new man said, extending his hand. His large palm swallowed mine up, the heat of his flesh warming my icy fingers. May I ask you a few questions?

Not until I’ve seen my family.

I understand this must be difficult, and the last thing you want to do is speak to a detective at this time, but information helps me do my job. His inquisitive eyes roamed over me. How old are you?

I’m twenty…but listen, why can’t you just tell me what happened? I begged more than asked.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, focusing on my bags. In college? Giving a nod toward the house, he then asked, Do you live here?

I go to school in San Francisco, I answered, my voice on edge. I’m home for summer break.

Were your parents expecting you?

What kind of question was that? Yes, of course.

When did you last speak to them?

A wild impulse to blast past him and run straight into the house seized me, but I remained perfectly still. Please, just let me go inside.

He regarded me with an air of authority. In a tone to match, he stated, Miss Matthews, in order to help your family, I need your cooperation. Please, answer my question.

He wasn’t going to give up. If I wanted to gain entrance to the house, I had to play his game of twenty questions. A couple of days ago.

How did they sound? Did you notice anything peculiar about the conversation?

Why the third degree, and what did he care about our topic of discussion? They sounded fine. I paused, staring him down. They were my parents. If they had behaved strangely, or if I thought something had been off about them, I would’ve done something—called somebody, or come home early. Again, and with emphasis, I stated, They were fine.

He rubbed his chin, as if in thought. What about background noise? Did you hear anything unusual?

Each question pinched a nerve, and I’d had enough. I’m not answering another question until I know what’s going on. I took a deep breath. Are my parents…dead?

He put his hand on my shoulder, the somber-cop face returning. I’m sorry, Miss Matthews. Yes, the man and the woman inside the house are dead.

His words came crashing down on me, threatening my strength to stand. I choked on my breath and stumbled back a step. How could I survive without my parents? I looked away from him and focused on the street. Tears spilled from my eyes, splashing against the hot asphalt and hissing out of existence. I finally managed a couple of breaths, then a couple more, before finding my voice and looking up at him. Wh-What happened?

I know this kind of news is never easy, he said, his eyes soft with compassion.

A glimmer of hope lifted the gloom. He said a man and woman. He didn’t name names. They could be anyone. Who are they? What are their names? Maybe they’re not even my parents.

He nodded, but appeared doubtful. We still have to identify the victims, and for that, I need your help.

I stiffened and rooted my feet to the ground. Please, don’t ask that of me. There must be someone else who can identify them?

Is there anyone else? What if they are your parents?

I looked away from him toward the growing horde of neighbors. The hungry scavengers crept closer and closer, eager for a juicy morsel of gossip, or perhaps a glimpse of a dead body.

Maybe they should be the ones to identify the bodies.

Miss Matthews?

I returned my eyes to the detective and bit down on my lower lip, wrestling with my response. If the man and woman inside turned out to be my parents, I should be the one to confirm their identities, yet I couldn’t bring myself to answer him.

Will you help me? he asked, his voice optimistic.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I just didn’t see how I could bring myself to fulfill his request.

He took a step toward me, bending to level his gaze on mine. I want to catch their killer, but first, I need to know who they are. I’ll be right there with you.

My hands trembled as I finally managed to speak. I don’t think you know how difficult this is…what you’re asking me to do.

He heaved a sigh. Yes, unfortunately, I do.

I glanced at the house, and then back at him. No matter how difficult, I had to know if the people inside were, in fact, my parents. I need a minute.

Take your time.

I stood motionless, letting air flow in and out of my lungs, my mind grasping at mangled pieces, trying to pull an explanation together.

But the detective didn’t let up, continuing with more questions. What about your other family members? Any grandparents, aunts, or uncles I should call?

I shook my head. It’s just me and my brother, JJ.

When was the last time you had contact with your brother?

Body heat seeped up and out of my pores, and I attempted to rub away the chill left behind. He’s only seventeen. He lives here. Are you saying he’s not here?

A benevolent look spread across his face, smoothing out the lines etched into his forehead. I’m saying, we don’t know where he is at the moment. We searched his room and his computer history. We also looked for a cell phone but didn’t find one. His wallet was lying on a dresser in his room. Any idea where he might have gone?

Every detail the detective revealed caused the nightmare to grow more horrifying. My arms fell to my sides. I shivered. Nate and Parker’s maybe, but the cell phone must be with him. That thing’s like an extra appendage to him.

Have you tried calling him?

Yes. It just goes to voicemail. I looked up and down the street as if he might suddenly materialize. Where are you? I uttered half-aloud.

We need to find him, Detective Reynolds said, a slight edge to his voice. He may have answers. Who are Nate and Parker?

I couldn’t respond. An awful feeling crushed the walls of my gut together. My parents might be dead. JJ was missing. I sank to the curb, shaking my head.

He sat next to me, not speaking for a minute or two, and then said softly, I’ve been doing this job for more years than I can count, and I’ve never been able to find the right words to provide any comfort. All I can say is that I’m sorry.

The set of wrinkles in the center of his forehead, coupled with his thick brows, reminded me of my father. A giant sob swelled to life in my throat. I forced it down and shifted to face him. How did they die?

He pursed his lips. I have to warn you, it won’t be easy to see. The victims appear exsanguinated.

What does that mean?

Drained of their blood, he explained. The bodies are somewhat mummified.

I gasped. Are you saying vampires did this?

We believe so.

Vampires? I touched the base of my throat as if warding off a bite. What about The Vow? They gave their word. They haven’t killed since.

That was a hundred plus years ago, he said with a frown. We could have a rogue vampire on our hands. One who no longer holds any respect for The Vow.

How is that possible? They have The Vampire Centers now. There’s no need to feed off humans.

I don’t disagree with you, but receiving transfusions from a Vampire Center is human intervention. A vampire who prefers the old ways could be responsible. The thrill of the hunt and all that.

Hunting? No, we coexist. They don’t kill anymore.

Well, looks like they do now.

A spark of rage flickered inside me. If my parents had lost their lives to a vampire, why? My dad owned an insurance company, and my mom was an artist. They were decent, ordinary people; nobody important or unique. Why pick them to drain and murder? The hairs rose on my arms. Could either Nate or Parker be the killer? But they were JJ’s best friends. They wouldn’t do that to him, or would they? I was grasping at straws. I turned to Detective Reynolds. My brother—

His eyes narrowed as he regarded me. Your brother what?

I didn’t want to throw them under the bus, but they were vampires, and JJ was missing. My brother’s friends, Nate and Parker, they’re vampires.

He titled his head to the side and gazed at me intently. Would either defy The Vow? Are they capable of murder?

I-I don’t know. They’re JJ’s friends, not mine.

He pushed to his feet and towered over me. Rubbing his chin, he glanced at the house, then stared back down at me. Where do they live?

As I stood, memories of the first time I’d met Nate and Parker played inside my head. It had been spring break, and my first year away at college. I’d been painfully homesick. Everyone had dashed off to Palm Springs, South Beach, or Vegas—except me. I’d run home and into vampires, Nate and Parker. They’d been with JJ, standing by the curb in front of our house.

JJ had rushed over, throwing his arms around me and squeezing hard. After releasing me, he’d said, God, I missed you. That goofy smile of his had been plastered across his face.

I missed you too, I’d told him, my focus on the vampires.

JJ had waved them over. Claire, this is Nate. He’d pointed to the taller of the two wearing a beanie, which rested slightly above his brilliant green eyes. Turning, JJ gestured to the shorter one, a boy with long, dark-brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and nearly-black eyes. And this is Parker.

Both had eyed me up and down, their mouths dropping.

Bro, your sister’s hot, Nate had said, giving me a flirty smile.

JJ had shot back a glassy stare and punched Nate’s arm. Don’t even go there. She’s off-limits to both of you.

Detective Reynolds placed his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back to the present. Miss Matthews, did you hear me? Where do they live?

In East Village, the Vampire District, I answered, their images fading from my mind.

Detective Reynolds looked over his shoulder and called out to one of the officers. Stevens!

Two police officers snapping pictures and placing yellow markers down, glanced in our direction. Detective Reynolds waved to the one with broader shoulders and a bit more belly.

He lumbered down the walkway toward us. Got something?

Maybe. Take a ride over to East Village and see if you can find… He paused and turned to me. Do you know their surnames?

I shrugged and shook my head.

He turned back to the officer, seemingly unaffected by my response. See if you can find two vampires, first names Nate and Parker, and bring them in for questioning. Take Jenkins with you.

Will do, Stevens said, jotting in a notepad before calling out to the other man. Jenkins, we’re taking a ride out to East Village.

I watched them climb into one of the cars. What if they find JJ? I should be there.

Stevens will contact me with any information they discover.

My mind raced in a different direction. I had to know what happened inside my parents’ home. What led you to believe the killer is a vampire?

I’m trying to spare you the details.

"I need the details. I pressed my fingertips against my temples. My brain is freaking out, conjuring up the unimaginable. I think it’s better if you just tell me."

In a blunt directive, he rattled off his findings. Multiple bite marks covered their bodies, and not a drop of blood was left inside them. We’ve got one smart killer. Everything was wiped clean. Not a shred of evidence left behind. He raised his palms. Without evidence to go on, I don’t know where to begin.

I stared him down. What kind of detective was he? So you’re giving up?

The corners of his mouth crawled upward, and he almost smiled. I never give up.

An unsettling thought leapt inside my head. What happened if JJ wasn’t with Nate and Parker? What if he were indeed missing, or worse? What are you doing to find my brother besides seeking out the two vampires?

We’re searching the area, questioning neighbors, and tracking down leads. Hopefully, someone has seen your brother, or another clue will provide us with some useful information. We’ll find him.

His words didn’t reassure me; they sounded more like an attempt to appease me. Months from now, I hoped I wouldn’t see JJ’s face plastered on milk cartons and bumper stickers. And if those were my parents lying dead inside their house, I needed closure—a trial and conviction. Was justice even possible? The vampires’ powers of enchantment manipulated human minds, so even if the police caught the killer, he or she could quickly eliminate themselves as a suspect by the power of suggestion. The killer may never see the inside of a jail cell. I made up my mind right there—if vampires had indeed taken the lives of my parents, I would bring my own brand of justice to rain down upon them, even if I had to hunt them down myself. A sense of resolve flooded through my body as I faced the detective again. Abandoning my bags on the street, I took a step toward the house and said, I’m ready now.

A stern look settled over his face, wiping out any traces of his previous compassion. "Remember, this is still a crime scene. You can’t touch anything."

I understand.

My neighbors’ beady eyes followed us all the way to the front door. The famous theme from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds played inside my head, growing louder and louder the farther forward we moved: risseldy, rosseldy, hey bambassity, nickety, nackety, retrical quality, willowby, wallowby, mow, mow, mow.