Dark Jewel, A Riki Storm Vampire Mystery

By Sharon Kilzer

Vampires are stalking the club scene in Berkeley, California, when the jewel in Riki Storm's antique necklace draws her into a life-and-death battle along the alleys and and beneath the streets of the city. Before long, Riki finds herself wielding an enormous sword and a mean flamethrower, fighting to prevent the next vampire resurgence. Hip, thrilling, fast-paced, romantic, and funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Kilzer
• Release date: Sep 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465866875

Sharon Kilzer

Sharon Kilzer grew up in Berkeley, California, and has since committed herself to life as a gypsy. She has lived in England and the Pacific Northwest. She currently lives in New Zealand, where she has family who sometimes admit they know her. In addition to being a writer, Sharon is an artist. She is planning to develop her next Riki Storm book as a graphic novel.

Book preview

Dark Jewel

A Riki Storm Vampire Mystery

by

Sharon Kilzer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Sharon Kilzer on Smashwords

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Dark Jewel

A Riki Storm Vampire Mystery

Copyright 2011 by Sharon Kilzer

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Table Of Contents

Chapter 1 - Explosions, Mysteries, and Gum

Chapter 2 - Fire at the Beauty School

Chapter 3 - Coffee Mayhem

Chapter 4 - Vampire Scouting

Chapter 5 - Bloodless Bodies and Ordinary Life

Chapter 6 - If It’s Not Blood, What Is It?

Chapter 7 - A Clue and a Headache

Chapter 8 - Mashed Potatoes, Gum, and Clues

Chapter 9 - Never Go In Alone

Chapter 10 - House Guests

Chapter 11 - The Necklace

Chapter 12 - Friends and Explosions

Chapter 13 - A Raccoon Coat, a Dead Cell Phone, and a Machete

Chapter 14 - Blue Jesus

Chapter 15 - The Not-Dead Body in the Basement

Chapter 16 - Nice Pots

Chapter 17 - Bodies in the Tunnel

Chapter 18 - Swords and Friends

Chapter 19 - Vampire in the House

Chapter 20 - Beneath Berkeley

Chapter 21 - Vampire Attack

Chapter 22 - A Personal Sword

Chapter 23 - About The Author

Chapter 1: Explosions, Mysteries, and Gum

(return to Table of Contents)

I was still new at my latest job, and things were not going well, either in general terms or specific.  Generally speaking, I was supposed to keep people from dying, not find them after they were dead.  In terms of specific issues with my job performance and satisfaction, I kept finding dead bodies very, very late at night.  On Saturday night in particular, we were talking 3:00 a.m. Which, while a lovely time of night, and an important element on every clock, is just plain late, even for a confirmed night owl like me.

My last complaint was probably completely beside the point, but I added it in anyway. I was in a basement, by myself, with a pile of dead bodies.  I was totally creeped out.

I just hate it when that happens.

I pulled my cell phone out of my bra, flipped it open, and speed dialed Jet New comb, my new best friend.

Riki? he asked.

Crap, I replied.  I figured something more mundane would just be wasted.  You call people at 3:00 a.m., they probably don’t care if you say hello real nice, ask ‘em how they’re doing.  They’re asleep, you just woke ‘em up.  If you’re Jet, you know I’m about to start talking about dead bodies.  How he is would be completely beside the point.

Alive or dead? Jet asked, also cutting to the chase.

Dead, I said, sounding as irritated as I felt.  A great big pile of dead people, no blood anywhere, just dead people.

The dead people have little holes in their necks? Jet asked.

Yes.  Holes, I said.  "Like vampires killed them.

Crap, Jet echoed my earlier sentiment.

My point exactly, I replied.

Where? Jet asked.  Bad Boy?

Yep, I confirmed.  We’d discussed it earlier.  He had the location.

On my way. He clicked off.

Groovy, I said, talking to myself, and folded my phone back into my bra.

Which left me, all by myself, with a bunch of dead people, hanging out in the basement beneath Bad Boy, a temporary club in a warehouse in the crappy part of Berkeley.  The basement had a dirt floor, it was dark, and smelled strongly of mold.  Not anyone’s definition of a fun place to hang out.  How had anyone managed to lure all those people down here?

It took 20 minutes for Jet to show up with Munson and Matthews.  Jet referred to them as his crew.  Whatever that meant.  Mostly, they seemed to be on call to help Jet deal with dead bodies.

I was standing at the top of the basement stairs, watching the rain bead up on the oil-slicked alley pavement.  I recognized the dark panel van sliding smoothly up beside the building,  and nodded as Jet climbed out, Munson and Matthews following.  All three nodded at me without speaking.

Nobody else? Jet asked me, by way of greeting.  Ignoring me altogether, Munson and Matthews moved out in opposite directions, checking the outside of the building.

Just me. I looked Jet over.  He looked like he always did, day, night, in the presence of living people or dead ones.  Dark hair standing up at angles to his head, dark eyes, pale skin.  Nice strong nose, medium-full lips.  Shockingly white teeth.  Jeans, black t-shirt, black jean jacket, sturdy black boots.  If I ever got around to teasing him, I’d comment on the multi-purpose functionality of his usual attire.  Like I was ever going to get around to teasing a guy I mostly talked to in the presence of piles of dead bodies.

And the dead people? Jet asked.

Yeah, okay, they’re here, too, I said.  Munson and Matthews were back.  They made eye contact with Jet, and we all moved through the back door and down the stairs into the basement.

As sick as it was, I was starting to get used to the way things went once we all got to a site.  Munson, Matthews, and Jet spread out.  They looked at and photographed each dead body, but didn’t touch them, except to check for a pulse, then take the ones that were face down and roll them onto their backs.  It was like a well-choreographed modern dance number, with no sound.  Touch the pulse-points, gently roll the bodies over, take a photo.  Move on to the next body.  In four and a half minutes, they were done.  I just stood back and watched.

Right then, Jet said, taking one last look around the room while the other two men spun slowly in circles, taking flash photos of the floors, walls, and ceiling.  Done? he asked, as the other two stopped moving and folded their cameras into their jackets.  Two nods in response.

We moved back up the stairs, almost at a run.  Me first, then Jet, then Matthews, then Munson.

At the top of the stairs, we all stood just outside the door, inhaling and exhaling.

Did you drive? Jet asked.

Sun dropped me.

Let’s go, then. He nodded at the van.  I nodded by way of reply.  You spend enough time with people who just grunt and nod, you give up on speech yourself.  Jet got in the driver’s seat, Matthews rode shotgun, Munson and I piled into the back.  Jet turned the key in the ignition and we rolled out of the alley.  At the street, he stopped and looked in the rearview mirror.  I turned around in my seat to survey the warehouse, myself.  Six hours earlier, I’d been talking to my friend Sun about how to do my hair so I could go dancing, do a little light investigating.  I didn’t think the people I found at the club would all be dead before I got there.

With a Whump! and a giant flash of flame that filled my vision, the warehouse exploded.

Damn! Jet said, turning around in his seat to watch as flaming chunks of warehouse flew up into the air, then began to settle back down.  Small chunks of dirt bounced off the roof of the van.

Some of that stuff’s on fire, Munson observed calmly, nodding at the burning debris settling around the van.

Yeah, okay. Jet said.  He put the van back into gear and rolled forward, driving carefully around a couple of fiery piles that had made it all the way into the street.

Anybody have gum? I asked as the van picked up speed and moved rapidly out of the neighborhood.  Without speaking, Jet handed a pack of Orbit Wintermint over his shoulder.  Thanks. I  pulled a piece out of the pack, unwrapped it, and popped it in my mouth.

That make you feel better? Matthews asked from the front seat.  He was a little white guy, with light blue eyes, sparse blonde hair, pockmarks, skinny lips. Jet told me once that Matthews could kill people with his bare hands, and sometimes I thought I could see it in his eyes.  Otherwise, he wasn’t much to look at it.

Only kind of, I mumbled around the gum.

Here, give some here, Munson said from beside me on the bench seat.  He was enormous, tall and wide, with dark mocha skin, a shaved bald head, big brown eyes, big nose, big lips.  He didn’t have to be mean for you to know he could kill you.  Mostly he was pretty nice

Umph. I handed over the pack.

Any port in a storm, Jet said, reaching his hand back over his shoulder.  Munson handed the pack up, and Jet shoved some gum in his mouth.

I hate it when things blow up, I grumbled, blowing a bubble.

Me, too, Jet said.

Yeah, me, too, Munson echoed.

Freaks, Matthews said, looking pointedly out the window as the van shot through the abandoned warehouse district, jinking first east, uphill, then south toward Emeryville.

I guessed Jet was taking me home first, moving across town without hitting any major arteries.  I was right.  I live in a big old Victorian on the South side of town, halfway between the downtown and Ashby BART stations.  The neighborhood is ethnically mixed, busy, too close to downtown for comfort.  It was mine.

Want us to check your house? Jet asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror as I unbuckled my seat belt.  Nobody else was wearing one.

I’m good, I said, climbing over Munson to the door.

We’ll talk, Jet said.

Okay.

Munson nodded, Matthews ignored me.  Jet just watched me slide the van door open, get out on the pavement, and slide the door closed.  The van stayed at the curb while I got out my keys, and went into my house.  Then the van pulled quietly away.

My house was fine.  Quiet, dark, smelling faintly of the tea tree oil I use to keep fleas in check in summer.  I stumbled upstairs, took a shower, and fell into bed, where I proceeded to not sleep until the sun came up.  Finding dead bodies had that effect on me. Once or twice I thought about calling someone who cared, but in the end, I decided it wasn’t worth waking anyone up.  Jet already knew about the dead bodies.  My girlfriends didn’t know about my recent relationship with dead people, and would be completely freaked out if I clued them in.  Uther, my sometime-boyfriend, was traveling with his band, and was so ambivalent about my dead body-related activities that I couldn’t see waking him up.  He’d just rant and rave, we’d fight, and then I’d still be alone in my bed, in the dark, trying not to think about what all those people looked like.  Lying there, being dead.

***

When the phone rang at 6:00 a.m., I was already dressed in my gym clothes, getting ready to leave.  I had two cats I’d inherited from a long-gone roommate.  Their names were Folgers and Fred.  They were almost-identical orange brothers, and they mostly ignored me, as long as I kept their food and water bowls full and didn’t freak out too much when they brought mice up on the front porch to play.  The cats looked up when the phone rang, then pointedly returned to washing themselves.

Yes? I said, not feeling polite.  A couple of breaths, then a disconnect.  Great, I grumbled, rooting around on the counter for my keys.

First vampires, now stalkers, I concluded.  The cats didn’t look at me, just kept on washing.

I locked up the house, tucked the key into the pot behind the car-sized hydrangea bush next to the front porch, and ran to the gym.

***

By 8:30 I was back at home, showered, and fully dressed.  Jeans, pale pink t-shirt, black leather jacket and boots.  Dark mascara, dark lipstick.  That was it.  I have waist-length black hair, big brown eyes with a noticeable slant, and eyebrows that aspire to Groucho Marx status, but which are currently waxed into a very nice 50’s arch.  There’s no point in more makeup, it just makes me look like I’m in drag.  As it is, I like to think people notice my high cheekbones, unusual eyes, and full lips.  In a perfect world, they think I’m exotic.  In a less than perfect world, that whole drag thing keeps coming up.

The cats were still ignoring me, there were no messages on the machine, and I was starving.  I went out back, fired up my Ducati, helmeted up, popped the bike into gear, and rode over to my friend Angel’s coffee shop.

It was a fabulous Bay Area morning.  Brisk, sunny, just a hint of sea breeze.  Never mind that the streets were clogged with psychotic homicidal maniacs who were half an hour late for work, and who thought motorcycles didn’t count as actual vehicles.  I focused on enjoying the ride.  Seven minutes and three near-death experiences later, I pulled into the parking lot behind the café.  There’s a nice shady spot beneath an old tree that’s too small for cars, so I always have somewhere to park.

After I got my helmet off, I turned around, and realized something wasn’t right.  Angel’s dumpster had taken on behemoth proportions, with sticks and other odd junk being used to prop up the lid on the back side of the dumpster.  It looked like the dumpster had turned into a house that just happened to have room for garbage on the front side.  I heard scuffling sounds, mixed with muffled swearing, coming from the back, and decided I’d better check it out.

When I got around to the back side of the dumpster, I saw there was a layer of camo netting draped over the walls of the dumpster house.  Inside the netting, I could see two figures shuffling, fighting, and swearing in muffled tones.  Both people were gripping the edges of what looked like a stack of  pizza boxes.  The stack of boxes were being pulled back and forth, as if they were a prize.

I’m gonna kill you! the small one shouted, and started slapping at the side of the larger one’s head.

I’m the Avenging Angel! the larger figure shouted, striking back.

Crap! I took a flying leap, dead into the center of the fray.  I couldn’t see who was winning, exactly, but I was sure it would be bad for business if people died out back of the coffee shop.

I landed on the smaller figure, which sent us both toppling sideways into the larger figure.  We all three went down in a swearing, bitch-slapping heap.

Take that, dammit! the smaller figure said, slapping me repeatedly on the side of the head.  It took me a minute, because my head hurt from all the slapping, but I thought it was maybe Angel’s voice.

Ow! I shrieked, slapping out indiscriminately, with my eyes screwed shut.

Dammit! the larger figure said.  It sounded a little like Harvey, the homeless guy who sometimes hung out in the neighborhood.  I couldn’t tell though, because my eyes were closed.  Someone slapped my head, again.

Ow! I said again, keeping my eyes closed and slapping all around my head.  Someone sat on my midsection.  I tried to kick out, and someone else sat on my legs.

Stop it, Riki! Angel grabbed at my hands.  I was completely immobilized, but I definitely recognized Angel’s voice.

Angel? I opened my eyes.  Angel was sitting on my midriff, clutching my wrists.  Harvey was sitting on my legs, using his hands to clutch several pizza boxes.

Riki? Harvey asked.

Yes! Angel and I answered, simultaneously.

What are you doing here? Harvey asked me.

What am I doing here? I struggled to sit up.  It was hopeless.

Yeah, Angel said.

Trying to keep you two from killing each other? I suggested.

Let that one go, Angel said, standing up and dusting her hands together.  I took in a big breath.  It was easier, when nobody was sitting on me.

It’s a foregone conclusion, Harvey agreed mournfully, standing up, too.  It was a slower, more complicated process for him.  He had to use the side of the dumpster for leverage. His knees bothered him, especially in winter.  Once upright, he made a large show of dusting off his pants legs.

What’s going on back here? I rolled to my knees and found myself perched on a pile of flattened pizza boxes.

This idiot thinks he can set up Homeless Central in my back parking lot, Angel said, glaring at Harvey and sniffing loudly.  Ain’t gonna happen.

See how she is? Harvey moved slowly to pick up scattered pizza boxes, adding them to the stack he was already holding.

There’s no room, Angel said firmly.  The city comes around here, they’ll have us both out.  You won’t have no Homeless Hilton, you won’t have no place to sleep, and you most definitely won’t have no free breakfast every day.  She glared at Harvey with her best scary face.  It scared me, and I wasn’t trying to live behind Angel’s dumpster.

Yeah, okay, Harvey grumbled.

You take this mess down before lunchtime, or I’ll call the city myself.  Angel was still glaring.

Yeah, okay, Harvey grumbled again, shuffling away toward the back of his structure, pizza boxes in hand.

Wow. I stood up and dusted at my knees.  What’d I just get in the  middle of?

Something not your business, Angel said firmly, picking up the rest of the pile of pizza boxes.  She walked around to the front of the dumpster and threw them in.

As usual, I said glumly, following her out into the daylight.  There were pizza stains all over my shirt and jacket, and clumps of dried-up pizza crust flapping around at the ends of my hair.  I flapped my arms around wildly, trying to dislodge some of the extra bits of crust.

What happened to you, anyway? Angel came to a full stop and looked at me, hard.

Nothing. I checked my clothes for anything else that could be dislodged.

You sleep? Angel asked, her eyebrows coming together in concern.

No. I moved away, toward the back door.

That’s it, Angel said, following me.  You don’t sleep, you look like a cranky man in drag.

Thanks. I walked into the shop.  Angel was medium height, Latina, curly brown hair, big brown eyes, big red lips, big generous curves.  You know that Lyle Lovett song was written for her.  Nobody ever thought she was a man in drag. She didn’t even have any pizza crusts in her hair.

Just telling it like it is, sister. She stepped around behind the counter and washed her hands.  Amparo, get this woman a big, big coffee, Angel said, picking up the pastry tongs and nodding at the case.  Amparo gave me one look and started making me a latte.  Didn’t even smile.  Amparo was small, Philippina, perennially tidy.  She spent Tuesdays and Thursdays working for Angel, making coffee.  The other days, she herded small children at a preschool.  Her tolerance for idiocy was notoriously low.  Half the time, she liked me.  The other half, she pretended I didn’t exist.

What you having? Angel asked.  She waved the tongs over the pastries, and firmly ignored Amparo ignoring me.

Zucchini bread, I said, after a moment’s reflection.  And some kindness from my friends.

Get over that. Angel handed me bread, then coffee.  Friends are supposed to tell you the truth.

Yeah, thanks, I mumbled, picking off a corner of  bread.  At least you can cook, or I wouldn’t be your friend.

That and I pay you, Angel said.  Can you open for me tomorrow?

Yeah. I moved away from the counter as one of Angel’s regular customers stepped up.  He mumbled something, and Angel started singing.  She has this whole coffee song thing she made up, and she’s into it.  Whenever someone orders the daily special, Angel bursts into song.  I waved at her while she was still singing and slid out the back door.

The problem with riding a motorcycle for transportation is there’s just no safe way to slurp coffee and eat zucchini bread while getting to your next appointment.  I parked my butt in the grass next to the bike and had breakfast, watching Harvey as he moved around his dumpster structure, slowly peeling off one piece of it at a time, then pitching the bits into the bin in front.  He’d made significant progress toward deconstruction during the few minutes it took me to slurp down the coffee and inhale the bread.

With very little left to watch for entertainment, and my breakfast thoroughly ingested, I figured I might as well go check in at my real job.

Depending on how you count these things, I’m up to either three or four jobs.  For the most part, I make a really bad living on the fringes of the East Bay art and club scene. I’m theoretically a painter, although I don’t get much time for my own painting.  Instead, I pick up some work teaching other people, of all ages, genders, and talent levels, how to paint.  That’s job number one.

I’m also a writer.  I write articles about art openings, club openings, good and bad musicians.  Thanks mostly to the good intentions of a high school friend named Sun, the weird garbage I write is published on a fairly regular basis by a local chain of artsy newspapers.  The bulk of their revenue comes from gross and/or tacky personal ads explicitly describing sexual acts, and nobody cares about the editorial content.  Except me, and sometimes, Sun.  That’s job number two

Job number three is completely accidental.  I work for Angel when she’s busy running around with her latest boyfriend (or boyfriends, plural).  Cash is always good, and she feeds me, free.

The fourth job would be my new employment, working for Jet, trying to find out who – or what – was killing young people and leaving their dead bodies in illegal clubs, devoid of all blood and/or other bodily fluids, with what appeared to be vampire-type bite marks in their n ecks.  I’d only been doing this job for about three weeks, and so far I’d had no success whatsoever.  The odds were very good that I would be fired, sometime soon.

Which was all the more reason to act like the newspaper gig was my real job.  It was my first line of defense against starvation.

I threw my garbage into the dumpster, waved at Harvey, got on the bike, and headed over to see Sun.

***

When I got to the Extravagance! office, Sun was multi-tasking.  He was simultaneously checking his bright pink bouffant hairdo in the large gilt mirror behind his desk, and screaming at someone on the other end of the phone

No, I won’t! he insisted.  The person on the other end screamed back.  I knew, because I could hear it.

Your mama! Sun concluded, and slammed the phone onto the cradle.

Dude, I said, looking at the phone.  It appeared to be in one piece.

He just don’t like me because of my hair, Sun scowled.

Excellent color today, I commented.

You like it? Sun asked, looking back toward the mirror.  He plucked a pick from amid a pile of papers and gently teased out the top of his bouffant.

Very fun. I settled on top of a pile of papers on the nearest desk.  Very Tammy Faye.  The papers beneath my butt settled slightly.  The office was a constant avalanche.  The best strategy was to pretend you were blind, while balancing very carefully.

What happened to you? Sun asked, turning back and peering at me with concern.

Nothing, I grumbled, hopping back off the desk.  You have to leap up just right, or the ensuing paper slide will engulf you.

You look like a cranky man in drag, Sun said, coming around his desk so he could get right in my face.  Plus you got some weird crusty stuff in your hair.

Stop it, I grouched, slapping at the hand he was using to prod at my cheek.  I’m just tired.

Girlfriend, you need to get your beauty rest. Sun backed off with both hands raised.  Because this is not your look.

Thank you. I kept my tone firm.  Now, do you have anything else for me? I asked, plopping a manila folder onto his desk.

Can you come back tomorrow? Sun picked up the folder.

Yeah, but only if you don’t give me a hard time, I growled

You’ll have slept by then, Sun said, flipping through my latest articles.  Ooh, this looks good.  He pulled out the piece I’d written on Vampire Fashion.  Goth was suddenly looking very big.  The article didn’t mention my recent discovery of a trend for bloodless dead bodies left behind in illegal clubs.  I’d been worried no one would believe me.

Whatever, I said.  I gotta go.

Can you give Riv a ride? Sun asked, settling into his desk chair without looking up.  He was apparently riveted by my article.  Always a good sign.

Yeah.  She in back?

Yeah.  Needs to go to the beauty school, Sun waved.

Me, too, I said.  See you later, Pinkness.

See you, Drag Goddess, Sun said, smiling a little without looking up.

***

Hey! Riv smiled at me from her perch on a stool by the back door.  She was a reformed smoker, who liked to hang out in the kinds of places you usually found the smokers.