The Depraved Covenant

By Robert C Gemmell

Detective Hank Tavares and his brother, an out-of-work journalist, Scott, have found themselves hunting a brutal serial killer that may have a connection to a group of Halloween reject roleplaying vampire wannabes and possibly also a cult of predators that have existed for Millennia. With the help of the genius Dr. Elanor Laterbauch, the Tavares Brothers seek to put an end to the most terrifying Serial Killer in North Carolina history and try to uncover the potentially biblical secrets behind the killer’s demonic motivations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Mar 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956788679

Robert C Gemmell

Robert Gemmell is a lifelong fan of stories and a lifetime's worth of influences that bring laughter, scares, and dare he say, even wisdom? Born in Jamestown Rohde Island and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, he's a born Yankee with a dash of southern charm that loves to bring readers addictive fiction.

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The Depraved Covenant

by

Robert C. Gemmell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Robert C. Gemmell 2022

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781956788662

eBook ISBN: 9781956788679

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, March 21, 2022

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Karen Fuller

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

Prologue

What’s my name? Samantha asked as she pulled off her Metallica T-shirt and got out of her cut-off short shorts down to just her white cotton panties.

You’re a servant of the Dark One, the woman said, smiling. He will be pleased with you. You’ll have your name in the next life when you return as a glorious creature of the night. The woman tilted Samantha’s chin up and gave her a deep kiss. What you do here will show your true commitment. The woman licked her lips.

Samantha slipped into her fine white sundress and looked with lust to the woman. Fuck Christ, Samantha said, running her hands down her body to straighten the dress. What about him? she asked, turning to the nervous and pacing man at the bottom of the stairs.

Don’t worry about him, the woman said, leaning into her to whisper in her ear. He’s just a tool and a useful one. She pulled out a knife and took a slow, sensual step into the kitchen, handing the knife to the man. You know the words, right? she asked.

Of course, my mistress, the man said as he took the blade from her. He turned his hand up and brought the knife to it, slicing his palm open and wincing at the pain. He was still mortal, still had the concerns of pain that being a mortal brought him. But with the reward he would soon be given, a little pain was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

The woman went back to Samantha. Oh, my child of the night, what you do here will give you a great reward. We have to tell the humans, and you’re a vessel for our message, she said, caressing her face.

Hail the Dark One, Samantha said to the first person who had given her a home since her lame, born again Christian parents kicked her out.

Samantha modeled the white dress for her elders as the man painted the message on the house’s wall. I love the dress. Mortals see white as purity. I love the chance to corrupt that image—no one is pure in this world, she said.

That’s correct. The woman went to her purse and took her tools out, a hammer and two steel stakes. She rested her tools on a table by the wall then went back to her purse for the syringe.

I’m giving you a great honor, I hope you know, the woman said as she brought the needle to her own arm and extracted some of her blood. She brought the syringe to a wine glass and injected it into the glass, ready to be imbibed.

The sacrament. Am I worthy? Samantha asked, sliding down the stairs with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Not yet, the woman said. To experience pleasure, you must give the Covenant pain.

I’m ready, whatever you ask of me, mistress, Samantha said, smiling with all the joy a sycophant would have with one who could show them true power and glory.

The woman came to her, took her hand, and gently led her to the wall of the foyer. She put her hand up, stretching it out. Stay there, she said as she took her tools, a hammer and a stake. Be strong, she said as she put the stake to her hand. Be strong for the Dark One. Remember that this is for his glory.

Samantha nodded. I’m ready, she said, closing her eyes getting ready. Make me beautiful.

The woman bashed the stake, stapling Samantha’s hand to the wall. She screamed, as was to be expected. The woman rushed to muffle her screams. You’re becoming beautiful, beautiful for the Dark One, she said as Samantha bit her lip, trying to fight off the pain as the woman set up the other stake, extending Samantha’s other arm. She was breathing hard, fighting her pain—this was for the glory of the Dark One. The only force in this life that had ever shown her true acceptance.

The woman staked her other hand to the wall and the pain shot through Samantha. In a way, it was a rush, almost orgasmic. He will rend this world, she said through gritted teeth.

Yes, he will, the woman said as she raised the wine glass to Samantha’s mouth. She opened her lips, ready to take the sacrament. The woman poured it into her mouth and then tossed the wine glass aside. Are you ready?

Yes, my mistress. I am ready to show his glory, Samantha said.

The woman opened her mouth, bared her fangs, ran her hands up Samantha’s white dress, and leaned in towards her neck, biting her flesh, puncturing her jugular as she began to feed, holding her helpless prey against the wall as she drained her blood.

Chapter 1

Hank Tavares was cruising down 485 on his way back to the station after his lunch at the Famous 21 drive-in. They were famous for their burgers, and since Hank usually got his burgers plain with cheese, he could vouch to the quality of their beef patties better than anyone.

His radio came on. Regina from dispatch was sending out a call. We got a 187 in Myers Park, 233 Juniper Avenue, officer on scene is requesting assistance.

Myers Park, Kramer’s beat, Hank thought as he took his mic and responded, This is Tavares, getting off 485 now, will be in the area shortly, he said, jumping over a lane and onto the exit to head towards one of Charlotte’s nicer neighborhoods.

Hank Tavares was not a rookie anymore, but not quite a vet either. He was a detective, promoted fast, having been on the force for going on his fourth year now. He set his GPS to the scene and hit the siren on his unmarked pre-owned BMW to give him the privilege of weaving and passing traffic on the way to his next job.

On his way, he set his radio to channel 13, the under-used frequency he shared with Kramer for both private matters and just bullshitting with each other during slow times. Kramer? You there?

That’s a 10-4, T. They’re sending you? Good for me, he said. Kramer and Hank were partners in their early days, and though detectives now, they were still the first men either of them would want on their side when the shit went down.

I’m en route. What’s it look like, partner? he asked.

What’s it look like? Kramer laughed. Completely fucked is what it looks like. Buckle up and get ready for a smoke because this is rough. Hope you’re drinking tonight.

Was thinking of a whiskey before bed, Hank said.

You’re going to want to up that to about four, minimum if you plan on sleeping tonight, Kramer said as Hank pulled into Myers Park, passing streets of McMansions and not so modest ranches. We got nothing so far. I called this in. The CSI nerds say the scene is a few days old.

Goddamn, what’s it look like? Hank asked.

Can’t really paint an accurate picture with words. You’re going to have to see this for yourself, Kramer said. Besides, I was raised Baptist, don’t feel comfortable talking about this shit casually.

Hank got to 233 Juniper and pulled up next to Kramer’s Impala. Well, we chose this job for an exciting career, Hank said to himself before getting out and waving to Kramer on the front porch enjoying a cigarette.

More than a couple of New Year’s Eves ago, Hank and Kramer agreed to quit smoking. However, they usually broke that pact when they came across something truly fucked up.

Oh, this is cigarette bad? Hank asked. Goddamn. Hank shook his head as he made his way to the porch.

Don’t worry, I got one for you after you go in there. You’re going to need it, Kramer said. I hope you had a light lunch, he added as Hank made his way under the yellow police tape blocking the door.

Hank made his way inside, moving through the foyer and into the living room. Kramer wasn’t kidding, this was pretty grim.

At the back of the living room, against the wall, was the victim, female, between twenty-two and twenty-six years old, dressed in a white sundress stained with blood, her hands fastened into the wall with steel stakes driven through her wrists, mimicking the wounds of Christ. Blood was dripping from her mouth and rolling down her chin. She appeared to have a pair of puncture wounds on the left side of her neck, also leaking dried blood down to her shoulder. Hank got closer, the stench of death already in his nose as he looked at the body. He looked the wall over, and written in red, most likely more blood, was an upside-down pentagram, with two sentences written on the eggshell white wall on either side of the symbol.

THE BLASPHEMER IS REBORN on the left.

THE DARK ONE RETURNS on the right.

The alleged killer had handwritten them in some sick display of finger painting. Hank took a step back and took the complete scene into view. Kramer came up behind him and patted his shoulder. Told you T, totally fucked, he said, shaking his head.

Do we have a positive ID on the victim yet? Hank asked, trying to keep himself in work mode.

Found some clothes in one bedroom—cut-off jeans, a Metallica T-shirt. It looks like she changed into the dress. No signs in any room of any struggle. One could say it looks like she was a willing participant in this fucking modern art nightmare, Kramer said, We found her license, but it’s a dud—address is a woman’s shelter in Tennessee, Kramer sighed. No reports of her moving here. It’s like she drove all the way to NC just to get killed.

What part of what happened to her actually killed her? Hank asked.

We got to let your Bloody Valentine look at this before we can figure anything out. My guess is two nails in the neck, he said. Why the fuck would they do it twice? One could do the job just fine if they wanted her to suffer at least, and it looks like they wanted her to suffer. And what’s more fucked up is that she seems to have been a willing participant, Kramer said.

You think Dr. Laterbach can figure this out? Hank asked.

You’re the one who makes any excuse he can to visit her in the basement—you tell me, Kramer said.

She’s very competent. If there’s anyone who can get some reason out of this, it’s her, Hank said, defending his office crush.

I’ve seen that girl just over the moon giving us a blood splatter analysis on some MS-13 fuck someone painted their wall with. I wouldn’t think anything could phase her, but this—I think this could finally break that odd little girl, Kramer said.

Who reported this? Hank asked.

It was the neighbor. Saw some people leaving the house while he was having a cigarette one night, called it in. The owners have already fucked off to Austin, house has been on the market for six months. They’ve been renting it out as an Air BnB to squeeze some revenue out of it, Kramer said.

So, someone had the key? Hank asked.

Already looking into that. We put in with a judge to get a warrant for the renter, but I don’t think this is something we can wrap up in a week. This is probably going to be a long one, and since we were the first two officers on the scene, this is on our table, Kramer said. Don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some long nights and black coffee—and maybe a couple more cigarettes. That sound good to you, partner? Kramer asked.

Now that you mention it, I think I’ll take you up on that. You said you got one for me, right? Hank asked as he turned to exit the house, letting more of the CSI techs get the room they needed to get the information they would need to give the detectives the most information they could.

Outside, Kramer pounded out two more Camels and handed one to Hank. You remember at the academy? Kramer said. Sargeant Sloan. Remember when he told us that in every cop’s career, there’s going to be that one case, that one fucking case that tests you, beats the shit out of you, makes you question why the fuck you even got in this line of work? Kramer said, lighting up.

Hank took the lighter from Kramer and lit his own. I remember that. It was after we had to run laps for an hour because he caught you cheating off me on our inadmissible evidence test, he said.

I think we just found ours, Kramer said, looking back into the house.

Pretty fucked, no doubt about that. Eleanor can find something. You can’t be crazy enough to do a crime this heinous and be smart enough not to leave a clue, Hank said. We’ll find him. Looks like we’re going to have to do our jobs.

Chapter 2

It was just past seven. The spring sunset gave that famous red glow across the Charlotte skyline. Though it was one of the smaller metropolises in this great country, the skyline had its beauty. The Duke Power building was adding its own glow to match the sunset’s light.

Hank was coming down North Davidson, removing his siren so as not to worry any college kids enjoying their nights and relieve them of that ever-present worry they may blow over a .08. He wasn’t a beat cop anymore—that siren was for real crimes, like murder, or if a .08 escalated to a .16 and someone was about to take out a few pedestrians.

At the far end were the West Loft apartments, home sweet home. Hank took his parking spot next to his guest spot, currently occupied by the vehicle belonging to someone who was a bit more than a guest—his brother Scott’s 2007 Chevy Cavalier, gold with paint chipping off the roof. Hank took a deep breath as he pulled out his emergency pack of cigarettes from his glove compartment. If not for his generosity, Scott would probably have to sleep in the back seat of that thing, all belongings he had stuffed in the passenger seat.

Hank cracked his window and lit one of his Camels. Mom wouldn’t be mad he was still smoking. She would just be disappointed. Maybe she would understand. When Dad had a bit too much to drink, or when he was talking about war stories with his friends, he would light one up occasionally, much to their mother’s chagrin. If, God forbid, Mom knew what Hank had seen today, maybe she would be more understanding of his need to indulge in the scientifically proven relaxant effects of nicotine on such an occasion. Besides, why not enjoy tobacco? This was North Carolina, the tobacco capital of the world.

Mom always warned Dad and her boys about lung cancer. Dad thought it was kind of funny that it was stomach cancer that did him in. He always told his wife that, of all the things that had tried to kill him in his life, it wouldn’t be the cigarettes that did it. After his diagnosis, he enjoyed a smoke a bit more often. Terminal anyway, he always said, why not enjoy the time you got left?

Hank’s lungs be damned today. He had just seen some horrendous shit. He didn’t smoke every day. If Mom was looking down on him as often as he assumed, maybe she could take a bit of solace in that.

He took his last drag and tossed his butt before taking a deep breath and getting out of his car, making his way up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. On some days, days like this, days when he needed to collect himself, he eschewed the elevator for the long, contemplative climb up the stairs, just to give him a few more moments to think about what his job had gotten him into this time.

Hank had seen some terrible scenes in his day. One that came to mind was the double murder suicide of some Bank of America executive in an east side apartment who came home to a wife in bed with her personal trainer. That was ugly—not as ugly as this, but there was blood everywhere. He took out his wife and her lover while they were in the throes of passion and then painted the fucking walls by turning the gun on himself and splattering his brains over quite an expensive painting purchased at one of Charlotte’s summer arts festivals.

The biggest difference was that the blood on those walls came courtesy of the exec’s shotgun and in a random pattern, not a carefully painted message over a pentagram waiting for someone to read it.

As Hank came down the hallway to his apartment, he was ready for sleep, and he would need it. Tomorrow the station was going to be a madhouse. The press had probably gotten leaks about just how bad the scene was. Thankfully Scott was no longer part of that industry—one silver lining to his brother losing his job—and brass was going to be ramming them to find the son of a bitch that did this. Hopefully, with what CSI collected, they could find something to point them in the right direction. Hank had high hopes for CSI. Eleanor, or as he should call her, Dr. Laterbauch, could find something, no doubt. The girl came off like some kind of genius, and it was more than agreed that she was the best in the department. If anyone could figure out what was going on, it would be Eleanor.

Hank opened his door to find Scott laying on the couch, PlayStation controller in his hands, wasting away a few more evening hours on some game called Skyrim. Scott hit pause and looked up. Hank, he said, getting up, a look of a brother’s concern on his face. I just saw the news. I heard that something fucked up happened. Do you know anything about it? Were you there? he asked.

Hank took a deep breath. Yeah, I was there. And yeah, it was fucked up. I don’t really want to talk about it tonight, Hank said, going directly to the whiskey, then the glass cabinet. I’m going to be talking about it all day tomorrow. He opened the freezer and took two ice cubes, and poured more than a few fingers into his glass.

I know you don’t enjoy bringing work home with you. Don’t worry about it, Scott said, flopping back onto the couch.

Appreciated, Hank said as he put his drink on the coffee table and went to his room to change out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable. He hung his belt and gun where it had usually been finding its place, on the nightstand, on his mother’s twelve-inch-tall wooden crucifix. Though the Tavares brothers were raised Baptist, their mother always respected the Catholic crucifix in their home. The one with the savior, Jesus Christ himself, hanging there in all his pain and suffering for the salvation of humanity.

Hank stepped out, grabbed his drink, and took a sip. As his father had taught him to be, Hank was usually tight with money, but good whiskey was one luxury he let himself enjoy. And what with having a roommate now, he felt he deserved a luxury here and there.

So, speaking of work. Hank held his glass up and flopped on the couch next to Scott. How’s the job search going?

"Well, as you know, since the Sentinel folding, I’ve found myself out of work for about three months now. And again, thank you for the graciousness of your couch," Scott said.

The Sentinel was the third biggest paper in Charlotte. It had enough readers to keep the doors open for fifty years. Unfortunately, in their pesky crusade for truth and justice, they had rubbed more than a few advertisers the wrong way and just couldn’t keep up the revenue necessary to bring the city of Charlotte, and a commendable amount of burrows outside the city—Concord, Harrisburg, Mint Hill, and the like—the proper story on what was going on in the crossroads of their state’s economy and commerce. Scott had a good job with them, worked two years out of school for them, and could afford a nice little studio in Mint Hill. It was a bit of a commute to the office, but he could live his passion, investigating corruption and pissing off all the wrong people. With the Sentinel folded and his lease up after two months of riding his credit cards, Scott found himself in dire straits that led him to coming hat in hand to Hank for a place to stay. The old family house was already gone to pay off the second mortgage, leaving the Tavares brothers with some knickknacks, memories, and a storage garage of their parents’ belongings that Hank was still footing the bill for.

Scott was in rough times, out of work and nowhere to go. He was family, and if there was one thing the Tavares couple had told their children, it was that you take care of family. Hank didn’t mind it, not that much. Dirty dishes and some laundry on the floor aside, it was nice getting some more quality time with his little brother.

I actually have an interview tomorrow. Wouldn’t tell you unless I got it. Didn’t want to get too excited about it, frankly, because it’s not something to get excited about, Scott said.

Tell me you’re not flipping burgers. Nothing wrong with that, but that’s not enough to get you off my couch, Hank said. Besides, what would Dad say, paying that shit load he paid for journalism school? Hank took another drink.

"My interview is actually with The Beacon," Scott said.

"The Beacon. I remember they offered you a job when you got back from school. You said you would rather be on the street than write for The Beacon. Of course, you said that after they took a pass on you, Hank said. ‘Bought-off corporate rag,’ I think was the term you used for them."

"They are a bought-off corporate rag, but they’re hiring, and The Observer won’t even look at me after you know what went down between me and the governor last year, Scott said. So I’ve found myself at an impasse in my career, that impasse being I could have a career, or I could not have a career."

"You think The Beacon is going to let you pick that story back up? How close were you to actually finding something?" Hank asked.

I wasn’t close to finding something. I had something, Scott said. "It was going to be