Young Writers Society

Chapter Eleven

A Phantom Killer

All Cass could do was grimace. After pulling the body out of the walk-in refrigerator, she felt lucky that she didn’t vomit. She knew all too well what happened to vampires when they died—becoming shriveled-up mummified corpses that resembled how they would have looked if they had been dead for as long as they had been vampires—but that did not make it any less a gruesome sight. This one whom she recognized as a woman named Frankie who she was more or less friendly with looked like she had been not only staked, but desecrated and mutilated even after she became a shriveled up mummy.

“Bigots,” Mar muttered disgustedly. “They can’t even allow me to have quiet Sunday dinner with my daughter.”

“Mar, how do you know that this was the work of a bigot? It could have been the work of a hunt—”

“Pamela, I am over nine times your age and I have seen the works of both bigots and hunters to distinguish a difference. A hunter’s goal is simply rid the world of the supernatural and oftentimes they only go for individuals that have a record of unprovoked violence. A bigot’s goal is to rid the world of all things supernatural and they have a tendency to show very clear signs of sadistic pleasure in whatever remains of their victims. I’ve lost a couple of friends to such monsters so I am aware of how extreme they can get.”

Cass gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. She knew one of those “friends” was actually his wife whom she only had the chance to know for a mere three years.

“Well, is there some sort of signature that you can identify?” asked Pamela. “Signature” was the common term for determining a certain style in how a person killed a supernatural and usually no two killings were exactly alike.

Rather than touching the body, Mar reached his hand out and with a deep exhale, the body rose from the ground and sat suspended in midair as if encased in an invisible box. He inspected the body expertly as if he really were a coroner. After a while a frown spread across his face which worried Cass.

“What is it, Mar?” she asked. “Are you not able to determine a signature?”

“No, my dear, I can see a signature,” he reassured. “However this is one I do not recognize.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and held it for a moment.

“Are you picking up some sort of scent?” asked Pamela. By having a scent, Mar would be able to, hopefully, having some sort of lead on a killer.

She also was giving Cass a reason to suppress pity. Most likely because she knew Mar was coming to her restaurant, Pamela was dressed like what someone might find in an issue of Sports Illustrated with a cream-colored blouse unbuttoned far enough to reveal the entirety of her lush cleavage and was tied off just above her bellybutton as well as a jean miniskirt that barely covered her butt. On top of all that, her blonde-brown hair—which she normally had in a meticulously French braid down the side of her shoulder—was loose and hung in a curtain down the side of her face and neck.

All in all she was a woman on the hunt and sometimes Cass found herself having to remember not to remind Pamela that her efforts to ensnare a man like Marcellus were futile. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with some of the other handsome men who came to her establishment? Why did a man who obviously—albeit politely—did not return her affection? 

Cass would never know; she was not a woman with many romantic relationships to boast about. She had the jagged scars on her face to thank for that.  Although sometimes she did feel that Mar was long overdue in terms of finding another woman to settle down with.

“I wish I had greater news,” replied Mar as he lowered his hand, letting the body fall gently to the ground.

“Are you saying you can’t pick up a scent?” asked Cass.

“It’s not that, darling; I’m picking up several scents.”

Cass cocked her head. “Several?”

“Whoever performed this monstrosity was well aware of a vampire’s—well at least someone who has vampire in their blood—strong sense of smell and their ability to distinguish scents with everyone they meet.” Mar rubbed his temples as he sat down on top of a counter. “My best guess is that this person—if you can call it that—went through great lengths to hide their scent and I am smelling human, vampire, werewolf, even faerie.”

“Perhaps you could look into the ancestry of everyone in this town,” suggested Pamela.  "The name Van Helsing might pop up somewhere."

“Easier said than done; a town might have a record of residents over the course of its establishment, but that doesn’t mean that it will give you a list of pedigree charts.” Mar closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

While he did that, Cass took the opportunity to perform her own examination of the body. Kneeling down beside it, there wasn’t much to see that Mar had already seen.

What kind of bigot could have done this? she asked herself. She had killed her fair share of vampires and the like, but it was never for sport; only when they crossed a line. That line was what Mar called “a fine line between a necessary killing and a pleasure killing”. Recent activity was scarcely full of flat-out killings. The last vampire that Cass ever killed was out of an act of kindness, if she could call it that. The poor thing was suffering from a condition that sent him on a killing spree that he could not control even though he wanted to stop. In the time that followed, Mar concluded that he was not in control of what he was doing, that somehow someone else was controlling him like a puppet, going after specific people that no vampire—not even the most bloodthirsty—would go after.

Cass saw a shimmer on the corpse’s torso that that broke her out of her reverie. Grabbing a pair of latex gloves, she inspected what it was. Not having a pair of tweezers, she placed her hand over the place where she saw the shimmer—which, to her disgust, was where the corpse’s breasts used to be, and inhaled slowly. Like a vacuum, the object shot up and she closed her hand around it.

She held it up to her eyes and glanced at it thoughtfully. It was obviously a small diamond not unlike what was on some of her own jewelry, so why did it strike her as odd. Then it hit her.

“Mar?” she asked.

“What is it, my dear?” he replied nonchalantly, coming out of his moment of silence.

“Did you by any chance happen to see this little diamond wedged into the body?” asked Cass, holding up so that he could get a better look at it.

“I did,” a touch of suspicion entering his voice.

“What’s strange about it—besides the fact that it was in her skin?”

Mar frowned as he thought. “I’m sorry, Cass, I'm not following.”

Cass rolled her eyes. “I may not have been close to Frankie but I knew one thing about her: she never wore jewelry.”

“So?” asked Pamela, her arms folded as she leaned against the wall. “What does that have to with anything?”

Cass shot her a look.  "Think about it Pam, why would a girl who never wears jewelry suddenly have a diamond wedged in her skin?"

Pam bit her tongue as she thought about it.  "My immediate answer would be that she'd found herself a man, but I would have known about it.  Maybe her killer was wearing jewelry at the time.  May I see the diamond?"

"What good is that going to do?" asked Cass, not impolitely.

Pam raised her eyebrows.  "Out of everyone in this room, I probably have the best knowledge when it comes to the world of jewelry, no offense, Mar."

"None taken," he replied.

Cass handed the small diamond to Pam as she put on a pair of latex gloves.  She took it tenderly and held it up to the light.  

"This is not a diamond that you would find at any jewelry store."  Pam seemed almost mesmerized by the object.  "A lot of women would kill for this kind of jewelry."

"So do you have a brand name in mind?"

"This looks like the kind of crystal--considering its size looks like something you would find in a watch.  Audemars Piguet or Rolex to be specific.  Don't you have a Audemars Piguet, Mar?"

"Yes, but it the crystal is scratch resistant sapphire." Mar's eyes lit up a little.  "On the the positive note, it tremendously narrows down the list of potential suspects."

"We don't have to find a Van Helsing; we just have to find out the people who have purchased either one of those brand names," Cass pointed out.

Mar gave her that look of pride that she knew all too well—bright, tight-lipped smile and eyes lit up with fatherly joy. He stood up and walked over to Cass. She looked up into his bright green eyes, not saying a word.

“I am over three hundred years older than you and yet you manage outsmart me in some areas, such as observation skills,” he said. Despite the situation, he kissed her forehead, but not before Cass saw Pamela’s eyes briefly light up with jealous fury. She could not decide if it was more from a desire to anger that bartender or a desire to just be affectionate towards her caregiver, but she trapped Mar in a firm hug before he had a chance to back away from kissing her forehead. He chuckled and returned the hug.

“You know, what you could just learn how to be a real detective and narrow down the people you know who wear such exquisite jewelry.”

Cass broke away from Mar, fury building up within her. She never liked how Pamela would treat her with hostility whenever Mare came. One would think that with Mar present she would treat Cass with respect and hostility when he was not, but somehow the contrary couldn’t be any clearer. “Who said anything about this person being a friend?”

Pamela gave her a cold stare and Cass returned the look with equal venom. Before their exchange could go any further, a loud bang sounded, making them both jump. Mar had banged his walking stick against the ground; Cass knew better not to reason with him when he banged his walking stick…and when he had his fangs out.

“Ladies, let us try not to stir up conflict over something that we are all trying to figure out!” he snapped, his voice at the edge of its tolerance. “It could be someone we know; it could be someone we very well don’t know. But when we stand here acting like a bunch of immature children trying push each other’s buttons, we are not solving the issue any more than the U.N. is on the verge of eradicating terrorism!”

Pamela looked like she had just been slapped in the face; Cass was staring down at her feet remorsefully.

“Pamela, would you be so kind as to give my daughter and I some privacy?” asked Mar.

Even looking down, Cass could tell that Pam was reluctant to leave the presence of her crush. After she left, letting the door to the kitchen, Mar walked up to her.

“Why are you pouting?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you pouting about the fact that I just raised my voice?”

“No,” she replied meekly. “You always told me to control my temper, but—”

“But what?” asked Mar, unconcerned. “Pamela was out of line enough to even provoke my anger; you have nothing to be sorry about, do you?”

Cass gazed into his green eyes she shared, if not genetically. “No, I believe I don’t.”

Mar smiled as his fangs retracted, returning his teeth to normal. “Good, because I’d hate to have to ground you for being unnecessarily pouty, Cassandra.”

She gasped in mock-fright. “No, we wouldn’t want that. Besides,” she grabbed his collar and pulled him down so that she could whisper in his ear, “I can never take you seriously when you have that lisp that your fangs give you.” She released him and he regarded her quizzically.

“At least someone notices that lisp.” They cracked up.

“How could someone not tell when a vampire—or at least someone who is part vampire—hasn’t been using his fangs regularly for the past fifty years?”

Mar sighed morosely. “Dear God, how did I raise this child to have such lighthearted humor when I am as likely to cause a bore as politics are to cause a delightful sitcom?”

“I don’t know, Marcellus, but you do a great job of putting a smile on my face.” It was true. Somehow, even she was in the most melancholy of moods, he managed to get her to crack even the ghost of a smile.

“Aw, thank you,” Mar planted a warm kiss on her forehead.

“May we get out of this refrigerator, now?” Cass’s teeth were on the verge of chattering.

“Of course,” he opened walked over and opened the door for her.

“What’re we going to do about the body?” inquired Cass.

“Do I need to remind you the Code?”

Cass stayed silent. The Code of the Supernaturals of America. Nobody called it the CSA, for confusion with the “Confederate States of America.” As Supernaturals did not have the same rights as humans—officially, as their existence little more than a whisper—when a death occurred it was “your property, your mess.” Even being as charitable as to lend a hand to the property owner would be cause notify a local Supernatural King or Queen, which was usually a vampire as they were the most inclined to desire a place in royalty. Mar was a maverick, but he was smarter than to get himself mixed up in something that would have enormous repercussions.

As they were leaving, Pamela tried to call after them.

“Hey, aren’t you guys going to stay for dinner?” she sounded desperate. Probably more desperate to get her hands inside Mar’s pants than anything else, Cass thought.

“Very sorry, Pamela but we already had dinner,” he replied, ever the gentleman. “Besides, you know as well as I that I don’t like to eat out on Sundays.”

Sundays he was very strict about celebrating the Sabbath. He was deeply religious and the closest he could come to worshipping was family time and praying. Cass never understood why he never allowed to go to church. He could enter a church and holy objects did him no harm—even if he was a full vampire—but he just was not welcome. Welcome or unwelcome, he did get along with the local Mormon bishop whom they had dinner with a couple of times.

“But I could—”, before Pamela could finish her thought, they were already out the door.

Instead of letting Mar open the door for her, Cass let herself into his Aston Martin. Once they were on the road, she let her thoughts spill.

“So how are we going to snuff out this Van Helsing--who doesn’t even bare the name—when all we have for a ‘lead’ is diamond that is smaller than a pea?”

“It is big enough for me to pick up a scent,” replied Mar. “However, like I said before, it wasn’t distinguishable.”

“And it’s putting you on edge.”

“Yes it is.”

“And it’s evening.”

“Yes.”

“Which means that you are borderline tired.”

“Three for three.”

“So you need put on some popcorn and put in a Pixar film, or something that is lighthearted and likely to put a smile on your face.”

“You know me better than anyone, Cassandra.”

“I’ve only known you for twelve years, Marcellus; you’ve lived through three whole centuries.”

“It doesn’t have to take that long in order to get to know someone.”

“Or to fall in love for that matter.”

Mar stayed silent. Cass felt like kicking herself, bringing up a touchy subject that would provoke painful memories. She felt the loss when Tara died, but she couldn’t fathom the impact it had on him. Tara was the first woman he truly fell in love with and then she was taken from him. All Cass wanted was for him to realize that there was another woman out there for him.

Why does life have to be such a challenge? she wondered.