Death is for the Living

By J C Steel

By day, Cristina Batista is a deck girl on a Caribbean charter yacht, with all the sun, smiles, and steel drum music that entails. By night, she and her crew hunt the monsters that prey in the dark: the powerful vampire clans of the New World.

Unfortunately Cristina's past is hunting her in turn - and it's catching up. Without her partner, sometime pirate, sometime lordling, and ex-vampire, Jean Vignaud, Cristina wouldn't simply be dead. She'd be something she fears far more.

Cristina and Jean are experienced, motivated, and resourceful. One faction wants them despite it. The other wants them because of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J C Steel
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999504601

Book preview

Prologue

Everything was dark , but this time, she was sure she was awake. There was a damp breeze on her cheek, and a soft surface under her. By contrast, her body was burning. The air smelled of earth and rot and wet leaves, and it was silent except for her own raucous breathing.

She lay there until she began to wonder if it wasn’t another hallucination, and then flinched as a voice broke the silence a little way away.

And she was the only one, you sure of that? It was a woman’s voice, with an Islands accent, slow and unhurried; not one she had heard before.

There was a pause, one that reeked of reluctance, and a male voice replied. Alone and unbound, and several kilometres from Bruzón’s stronghold. I thought she must be a fledgling, but... his voice trailed off, a faint French accent evocative enough that she could almost feel the shrug.

Not yet, the woman’s voice agreed, and her tone was darker, grimmer. You think she has the strength for this fight, or we just saving trouble for later?

I think she will stop fighting when she is dead, this one, the man’s voice said. There was rock-solid certainty under his tone, such utter surety that she wished, briefly, that she were that sure. Absent memories, vision shut down, and fever tearing through her, fighting seemed about as impossible as levering her eyelids open.

Her throat was bone-dry, and she longed for liquid even through her throat and neck felt as though they had been savaged. She couldn’t remember why that might be.

She was suddenly aware that there was a presence beside her, blocking the flow of air. A hand clamped onto her shoulder. It triggered a flash of rage and thirst combined, and it was enough to let her move, to flinch away, swing her arm. She had almost bitten him, and couldn’t remember why that would be a bad idea.

He was long gone by the time her retaliation completely failed to connect, the cooling breeze again moving over her face. It made the thirst worse.

Through the pounding in her ears she heard his voice: "Tu vois. She fought; she did not bite."

There was a rustle of cloth. Indeed I see. Make sure it her struggle you see and not your own. If she survives she may not thank you for it.

There was a longer pause, as her heartbeat slowed and the lancing pains from the movement quieted with it, and she wondered absently why he didn’t just walk out. His desire to do so was almost as thick in the room as the smell of the jungle.

Then let her choose, he said at last. "She has earnt that much, at least, non?"

Chapter 1

At night, it was all too easy for the hunters to become the hunted.

Cristina Batista, her feet slipping in the sand, hauled the dinghy down to the water in a near-silent, scraping rush. With even the mosquitoes whining around her seeming inordinately loud, it sounded more like an avalanche.

Something fingered her leg, and she jumped violently, cursing under her breath as she recognised the touch of bottom-growing weed. The night had begun to wear at her nerves several hours ago, but the scent of the sea was a welcome change, clearing the stench of expensive perfumes, fear, and blood from her nostrils.

Another figure, heavily burdened and struggling with it, broke free of the shadows of the trees, dressed much as she was in black trousers and a long-sleeved, off-black shirt. Cristina judged her partner’s balance and leant on the gunwale, steadying the boat against the sudden weight of the limp body he decanted into it.

Seawards, the horizon was defined by the line where the blazing stars ended, and the bay’s headlands bulked dark against the sky. Unlike the luxury motor yacht moored to the dock on the far side of the bay, a towering white slab in the night, the eighty-five-foot schooner she was looking for was invisible, carefully anchored to take advantage of the darkness.

Her partner straightened from the side of the dinghy, still gasping for breath. Let’s get out of here. The murmur of his voice barely carried over the soft sounds of sand and sea as the dinghy floated free of the beach.

Cristina slotted the oars into place and headed just inland of the tip of the northern headland, rowing as quietly as rowlocks and wooden oars permitted. With the breeze audible in the trees fringing the beach and the repetitive, arrhythmic swishing of the wavelets on the sand, it was unlikely that the faint noise of her oars would attract attention, even from the inhumanly sensitive ears that could be on their trail. It was why they used oars, not outboards, on these trips.

Her feet bumped against the man her partner had been carrying, and she jerked away, her heart knocking against her ribs. He was sprawled in the bottom of the boat in the kind of boneless collapse that only the dead and the truly unconscious achieved, but the rational knowledge that he was unconscious and bound was very little reassurance for her imagination.

Is he still out?

Sean leant forwards, a pencil beam playing over knots in the darkness. The boat swayed a little under her with his movement, and she compensated automatically. The glow rested momentarily on the bound vampire’s face, and for an instant, present and the past collided, stopping her breath. Harsh shadows along lips and bones drew similarities where there surely were none, summoning memories from their pit.

Looks like it. Sean paused, oblivious to her reaction, and squinted at the view over her shoulder. Don’t worry, he has my—nearly—undivided attention. Her partner’s habitual American drawl sounded a slightly strained. Remind me just one more time: why did we rescue him?

Every stroke of the oars taking them further from the dangerous shore, Cristina managed to laugh. It sounded a little forced, even to her ears. Because you and I both wanted to know why vampires would kill another vampire.

She craned her neck to check her heading, still unable to decipher the shape of the big yacht that she knew was there from the looming shape of the headland.

"Joder, could they have anchored a little further out?" she muttered. It was tempting to rush, to lean into the oars and go hell-bent for the yacht, but at each oar-stroke, greenish runes of phosphorescence swirled into life in the water. More speed meant more disturbance, and anyone looking for them from the shore would be able to read their trail like text.

She hoped, craning the other way in a vain effort to check their heading, that apart from the faint glow fading astern, they were now as lost in darkness to any watcher on the shore as the schooner was to her. Ahead of them, as if in response to her thought, a tiny light flashed suddenly, just a little off their intended course. She saw Sean’s head snap up, the lines of his shoulders suddenly loosening, and added a little more muscle to her pull.

If Francis had posted a watch, the other team was already back. Of the crew, the only one likely to be able to pick out a small dinghy on the water at night was Jean, her previous partner. Some of the tension eased out of her system with the realisation that he was back and safe, leaving her abruptly aware of just how tired she was. She hoped, wearily, that the others had found some actual information on the topic someone had thought it worth sending them on a night run to try and obtain. She and Sean certainly hadn’t turned up anything worth the risk they’d taken. Going into the middle of a vampire stronghold after dark rarely resulted in stories that ended well. Elegies for dead heroes, more often.

How far away?

About three hundred yards, Sean said, and then amended it. Closer now, of course.

Try and let me know before we gouge the paint, she said. She hadn’t intended it to sound quite that sarcastic. Being objectively certain that they were secure wasn’t doing much for her, the knowledge that she was sharing a very small dinghy with a very live vampire leaving her nerves on edge. It took an effort of will to keep her oar-strokes steady, easing them out towards safety, with the loom of the headland growing progressively larger and the dinghy shrinking in comparison with the expanse of black water surrounding them.

A few minutes later, a low sound of something hitting a deck carried to them, and she heard Sean’s sigh of relief. She took one more look, craning over her shoulder, and adjusted her course to pass within metres of the yacht’s stern, close enough to hear the muted voices in the cockpit.

The others got back before us, Sean commented, and she followed his gaze to the unmistakeable shape of the inflatable, upside-down on the wheelhouse. There were times when training an apprentice hunter made her realise just how much shared background she had taken for granted working with Jean. Sean’s habit of stating the obvious underscored it.

Great. Cristina came alongside the boarding ladder, sending a shower of salty droplets over both of them as the oars came inboard. Sorry.

Cris—Sean? Easily distinguishable, it was Mary’s Scots-accented voice above them.

Yeah. Cristina, hanging on to the bottom of the ladder, looked up, all the remaining adrenalin of the hunt draining away to leave her so tired that standing up suddenly felt like more of an effort than she was capable of. Salt lay slick under her fingers, and she forced herself back to full awareness. Their night wasn’t close to over.

Be quick, Francis wants to leave as soon as possible. Any luck? Mary sounded distracted.

Sort of. Sean’s coming up—he’ll explain. It was a dirty move, but she abruptly had no more energy to answer questions or give logical explanations, her head full of shadows and sand and the smell of blood.

Sean scrambled forward even as she spoke, rocking the dinghy wildly, and positioned himself by the ladder, hooking one arm through the vampire’s bound arms. Trying to pull himself one-handed up a metre and a half of ladder with the vampire’s deadweight half-across his back was the kind of stunt that should end in both of them going swimming. She considered saying so, and then realised that short of rigging a halyard, there was no better way to get the vampire aboard.

Try and support his weight as far as you can, Sean directed, as he took the first step onto the rungs. He grunted as more of their captive’s weight cleared the dinghy. Cristina did her best. The body was heavy, dead weight, and bound with the same hairy, coarse rope that they had found him tied with. She thought it might be hemp. He was extraordinarily heavy. She heaved with all her strength, and felt the weight suddenly change momentum as Sean half-decanted him onto the side deck. The dinghy rocked sharply, shipping water that washed across her feet.

What the hell! Mary’s voice exclaimed from above.

We’ve brought home a visitor, Mom, she heard Sean reply flippantly.

Cristina handed herself aft along the railing into the darkness under the stern to secure the dinghy in the davits, abandoning Sean to deal with the splurge of low voices. The fact that it bought her a few minutes before she had to deal with the reactions to their find was, right then, just an added bonus.

Shortly afterwards, having got the dinghy into place more or less by touch, Cristina swung up the stern into the middle of a raging argument, and paused by the mainmast, watching the trio grouped in the deep cockpit.

It’s a vampire! Ian’s voice, emotion thickening his voice to the point of making his accent almost unintelligible, was at least quiet. Ian was the newest addition to their team, from one of the areas in the middle of the USA that Sean called the ‘fly-over’ states, and his temperament was dry tinder even for a hunter. He was also currently partnerless, his last one having left abruptly less than two weeks ago.

Cristina spared a moment to be wryly grateful that, already saddled with Sean, she was unlikely to be given the responsibility for keeping Ian alive, and paused a beat to see how the scene played out. There was a thud as Ian kicked the unconscious vampire in the ribs, hard enough to roll the limp figure onto his side. You’ve rescued a fucking vampire!

Enough was enough. She abandoned her observation point with regret. Leave it, idiot. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sean disappear down the main hatch, and tossed a half-hearted curse after him under her breath. Unless you want to do their work for them?

Even in the dark, she could tell that the crew’s other American was glaring at her. What the hell do you mean, ‘their work’, you stupid bitch? I’ve seen what these creatures can do—you have no idea of the danger you’ve put us in!

Tiredness and tension slid sideways in a sheet of red, the clinging shadows of the cockpit fading away between them as dangerous relaxation brushed all the other considerations aside. She drifted towards him, watching the slow-motion rise and fall of his breathing and the throbbing of the blood in his throat, her hands rising.

Someone else stepped out in front of her, blocking her abruptly enough to jolt her back to reality. Cristina inhaled sharply, clenching suddenly sweaty hands. She didn’t know what had left Ian so damaged, but her own past had just nearly made the question obsolete. It was the first time she’d come that close to losing control in months.

Where’s Francis?Mary asked with a distinct snap, her body still firmly between Cristina and Ian.

Here. A new figure dropped aft into the cockpit, low-voiced and nearly invisible in the night. Where’s Sean?

In the head. From the lookout’s position on the shoreward deck, Jean Vignaud’s voice barely carried the distance. Unlike Mary, he hadn’t moved to intercept her. Given Jean, he probably wouldn’t have moved if she had torn Ian apart and thrown the pieces overboard. To say that Jean wasn’t a people person was an understatement, and Ian wasn’t among the very few he bothered to make an effort for.

Francis didn’t look around. Okay. Is he tied up? Gagged? What with?

Hemp, I think, Cristina said. The same ropes that he was tied to the tree with. Her voice sounded a lot steadier than she felt.

Francis’s wide silhouette dropped to the deck beside the captive, making a fast check of the ropes. As things stood, the only option other than take the vampire along was to tip him overboard. The fact that Francis had posted Jean as lookout towards the shore indicated the risk they took, delaying. Vampires might not employ the newest security technology, but vampire hearing and night vision made up for it when it came to detecting intrusions on their perimeters, and it had been over ninety minutes since Artemis had glided into the bay.

After a moment, he stood, the movement abrupt. I’ll hear your story, Cristina, but not now. Go and start getting the anchor up. Mary, you and Ian; main and jib. Jean, search him. He moved forwards to the hatch and peered down. Kim, what’s our heading out of the bay?

Try north-north-east. Kim’s voice sounded distracted, and Francis leant in further.

Any coffee going?

Kim Marruci’s muted voice sounded exasperated. Coffee or navigation? Either that, or move the chart table into the galley.

It was the last thing Cristina heard as she headed for the bows. Starlight was enough, with her eyes fully adapted to the dark, to keep her from breaking her neck on the multiple obstructions on the deck. With bloodlust banished back to the locker it belonged in, it was no longer bright enough to see the striations on the wooden decking.

Unfortunately, there was nothing she or anyone else could do that would more than muffle the sound of an anchor chain being hauled aboard by a mechanical winch. The last boat she had worked from had used rope for this kind of trip, but there were things you could do with a thirty-five foot fibreglass sloop that worked less well with an eighty-five foot wooden schooner. The chain tightened as the rising sails behind her started to fill, and then the bows began to turn as the anchor finally pulled free of the floor of the bay.

By the time she made it aft, a shielded torch in the bottom of the deep cockpit showed her Jean’s intent face, searching through the items he’d taken from their prisoner. By comparison with the bows, it felt indecently bright, and she restrained a nervous urge to glance towards the shore.

Anything?

The Frenchman sat back on his heels with a sigh and met her eyes. Some money. A wallet, but the only other things in there are a couple of credit cards and an American driving licence, all in the name of Carlos de Vallejo. A care-of address, almost certainly a fake... Jean ran the light over the driver’s licence, and for a moment, irony coloured his tone. Date of birth. Organ donor. He glanced up, the disregarded torch in his hand casting black shadows into the hollows of brow and cheeks. Why would they leave these on him? It makes escape so much easier when someone leaves you your money and ID.

Maybe they were a little too sure he was going to be dead and beyond using them. Where is the address? Francis, looming at the wheel, sounded calm. It took a lot to shake that calm; Cristina could remember it happening maybe twice since she’d been working with him. Given what they did, it said a lot about the big man’s self-control.

New York, Jean said, his tone laced with disgust. They could spend months verifying it.

There was a creak as the main boom swung ponderously overhead, and Sean swore quietly somewhere aft. The breeze was an intermittent, tentative thing, and they gathered speed almost imperceptibly.

Francis had turned to look at Cristina, the faint light of Jean’s torch enough to show her the outlines of his features, and she raised her chin. Bringing the vampire back had been a stupidly risky gamble, but the rumour that had sent them all the way out Exuma Island hadn’t brought them any better leads.

All right, Francis said at last. Let’s hear the story.

You’re not suggesting that we actually keep it alive, are you? Ian’s voice said acidly from forwards. It was a trap, and they fell for it.

Shut up and do your job, Francis told him, an uncharacteristic sharpness in his tone. Cristina or Sean, start talking.

There was a moment’s silence, in which it became increasingly clear that Sean wasn’t going to stick his neck out.

Well, I guess we were pretty stupid. Cristina paused, more than half-expecting Ian to interrupt. When he didn’t, she tried to keep the report to the point. Explaining the gut-deep instinct that something was off to someone else, long after the event, was difficult. They had him tied to a tree, and we thought he might be human. So we went in.

You took a big risk. Francis’s voice was flat. You know as well as I do how much advantage vampires have in the dark.

"Claro que sí," she said sharply. The fact that she could clearly see Jean’s dark head turning towards her, across the cockpit, underscored that point. Of the team, she, Jean, and Sean all bore lasting, physical changes from vampire encounters. What Ian’s damage was, she had no idea, but he’d driven away at least one partner since she’d known him, and distrust could kill very easily in this job.

She would rather have had Jean with her ashore. Sean was only a little more than half a year from a long recovery, barely six months a hunter. She and Jean had worked solo for over two years before joining the Artemis team, and their survival made them an anomaly in a profession where larger groups lived longer. She realised that her silence had gone on a little too long, and forced her thoughts into line.

As I said, we thought that the poor bastard was human. So we went in and got him loose, and just around the time we realised that we’d cocked up, as the English say, we heard a charming pair discussing what they were going to do with his sun-charred ashes come next sunset. After that, we got interested. She gave them all an insolent shrug, well aware that most of the group was safely night-blind. It didn’t risk prejudicing Francis’s decision.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Francis sighed. Take him below and lock him up until we’re clear. God knows we didn’t get any better leads.

Chapter 2

The black loom of the sails plunged across the skies, wiping out constellations. The wood against her shoulders had warmed, and the familiar, easy motion of Artemis under sail was soothing, almost hypnotic. It seemed like an interminable time of the same breeze, the same rolling motion, and the same stars before anyone broke the silence.

The captive moaned, and Sean reacted instantly. Francis!

Cristina, huddled in the far corner of the cockpit, checked her watch. Despite the timelessness of a yacht at sea, it was only a quarter to three. It had felt like much longer.

Keep that torch out of my eyes! Francis warned, as Sean pulled out his pocket torch. As the pencil thin beam illuminated his face, the prisoner moaned again, and his eyes opened. Sean gave him a few seconds.

I’m holding a stake, he said, and you’re tied up. If you manage to escape, you’re on board a yacht in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, you’re not ashes, he ended pleasantly.

But that can be altered? The vampire spoke quietly, an accent to his English that was indefinably more American than European. Am I allowed to straighten my legs?

Slowly, Francis said warningly, and all three of them heard the slight rustle as the prisoner shifted. A scattering of spray burst over them, and silence reigned for a few seconds. Francis broke it, his voice casual.

You claim to be called Carlos de Vallejo. Travelling under a Spanish name, you might be expected to speak Spanish.

"Pero naturalmente, muy estimado señor," the captive replied immediately, and the soft, lisping sibilants, so distinctive in this part of the world, sounded in every word.

European Spanish, Cristina said flatly. Fluent, but the New York address, if it even exists, is probably an empty condo. She heard the prisoner shift slightly in what might have been surprise, and stop abruptly as Sean reacted.

New to Exuma Island? her partner asked, on the heels of that movement. Or would we find a long-term visa in Mr. de Vallejo’s passport?

There was a brief silence, and then the vampire spoke again, restlessly. Trying to ascertain my travel plans seems a very roundabout method of addressing the issue of why I was tied out for the dawn.

But for small talk, Cristina said, not making much effort to disguise the malevolence in her tone, what fun can be had from spinning it out. Very well: why were you tied out for the sun...since I and my partner carried you out of there?

His head turned slightly to look at her, and for second Sean’s hand beam illuminated his eyes, hazel and faintly opaque; a predator’s. Even though he was bound and guarded, she felt the slight, instinctive chill.

But I don’t know the real reason, he answered, his tone resigned. The reason made public was that I was supposed to be in league, if not in love, with a human vampire hunter.

Sean expressed the unspoken disbelief of the group. Only one? he drawled.

Had the vampire been free, he might have shrugged. I was possibly as surprised to hear it as you are.

So have you a less surprising theory for us? Cristina asked. "Or do I and my partner have to assume we wasted a great deal of