Free Vampyres of Hollywood by Adrienne & Scott Barbeau

I’ve witnessed,” I said. “I’ve survived wars, famines, plagues, and persecutions. Even the Crusades—all sixteen of them. All death does is make me angry.”
    “So it has to be a warning.”
    “Oh, of that I am sure.”
    “But what does it mean?” Maral asked, as we turned into the studio.
    “It means that there’s a Vampyre Hunter in Hollywood,” I said grimly, “and he’s just made his first mistake.”
    We made the rest of the drive in silence until we got to the gate and Officer Gant waved us through. God damn it, you’d think with a murder on the lot, he’d learn his lesson and stop the car.
    “What mistake?” Maral asked finally.
    “I’m not the only vampyre in Hollywood, you know that, but I was the first to come here and that makes it my domain. I am the Chatelaine. A few others came after me, and went into the business. Charlie and Rudolph, of course, and Douglas and Mary and the outrageous and dangerous Theda Bara. We created very few kin. We were careful, very careful. Except for Theda. She nearly brought us down, taking chances like making A Fool There Was. She played herself, a vampyre, for God’s sake. She delighted in the image and the notoriety. We were forced to destroy her entire clan one bloody night in 1919. She hated California anyway, so she was more than happy when we suggested she retire. By then I’d introduced her to one of mine, silent film director Charles Brabin, and they married and moved to New York. But the others still have kin in and around the city. What’s interesting is that this killer has targeted only my Creations.”
    “And now your employee.”
    There was fear in her voice. I laid my hand on Maral’s pale flesh and allowed a little of my energy to flow through my hand, bringing my fingers to glowing light. She moaned as the white energy coursed through her body. “I will allow no one and nothing to harm you,” I said formally. “You may not be of my blood, but you are my family, and therefore under my protection.”
    As I got out of the car, I silently vowed to do a better job than I had with Tommy, Mai, and Jason.
     
     
    I disliked the cop on sight.
    A ninety-dollar haircut and designer jeans. Cocky and overconfident. He probably drove a Hummer to make up for the size of his cock. And I’ll bet he watched reruns of Miami Vice . A Don Johnson wannabe.
    He was standing outside the effects hut, making notes in a small spiral notebook, while white-suited CSIs moved in and out around him. Through the door I could see the flashes of a camera as someone recorded the close-up details of Eva’s butchery.
    Even from outside the hut I could smell the meat and blood of her, and it was taking an enormous effort to keep my fangs in place. I didn’t need to see her; I needed to get away. I saw the cop look up, hazel eyes widen as he recognized me just as I turned my back to leave.
    I heard his footsteps behind me as I strode toward the set of Hallowed Night . I was going to have to shut the set down; I couldn’t ask Eva’s crew to keep working without some downtime, and I didn’t even know if they could handle the rest of the film without her to run things. I’d have to meet with them immediately.
    “Miss…Ma’am…Miss Moore.”
    “Yes, Officer.” I struggled to keep my voice neutral.
    “Detective Peter King, ma’am, BHPD.”
    He didn’t offer his hand but I put mine out anyway, and after he’d surreptitiously wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers he reached for it. I try to avoid physical contact with strangers whenever possible because I don’t need to be bombarded with unwanted impressions, but this time I welcomed them. I wanted to know how to handle him. They were a jumble of visual and physical sensations…
    …curiosity…anxiety…a poster from one of my films…the merest hint of awe…a filthy man in a preacher’s collar…anger and disgust…Eva’s body crucified against the wall…a Jaguar XKE.
    Well, no Hummer, at least.
    “Are