The Vampire Files, Volume Three Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A CHILL IN THE BLOOD

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  THE DARK SLEEP

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Praise for P. N. Elrod’s The Vampire Files

  “Masterful . . . Elrod crafts an irresistible tale of gangsters, girls, double crosses, and old sins, told with the tantalizing bite of vampire fangs.”

  —Caitlin Kittredge, author of Bone Gods

  “A refreshingly different vampire novel.”

  —Lori Handeland, author of Moon Cursed

  “You won’t want to miss this series.”

  —Cemetery Dance

  “Interesting twists, good period detail, fine characterization, and snappy dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I love getting into bed with Jack Fleming. Vampires, Chicago, jazz, and mystery—nobody does it better than P. N. Elrod.”

  —Lilith Saintcrow, author of the Dante Valentine series

  “Elrod’s got it down. A blend of the hard-boiled detective novel and the vampire tale . . . good-natured fun.”

  —Locus

  “This long-running series just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Filled with snappy action and sharp dialogue.”

  —Booklist

  “A good mystery wrapped in a fantastic premise.”

  —Chronicle

  Ace Titles by P. N. Elrod

  The Vampire Files

  BLOODLIST

  LIFEBLOOD

  BLOODCIRCLE

  ART IN THE BLOOD

  FIRE IN THE BLOOD

  BLOOD ON THE WATER

  A CHILL IN THE BLOOD

  THE DARK SLEEP

  LADY CRYMSYN

  COLD STREETS

  SONG IN THE DARK

  DARK ROAD RISING

  THE VAMPIRE FILES: VOLUME ONE

  THE VAMPIRE FILES: VOLUME TWO

  THE VAMPIRE FILES: VOLUME THREE

  RED DEATH

  DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

  DEATH MASQUE

  DANCE OF DEATH

  Ace Anthologies Edited by P. N. Elrod

  DRACULA IN LONDON

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by P. N. Elrod.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace trade paperback edition / March 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Elrod, P. N. (Patricia Nead).

  The vampire files volume three / P.N. Elrod.—Ace trade paperback omnibus ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47891-2

  1. Fleming, Jack (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 3. Vampires—Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories, American. 5. Fantasy fiction, American. 6. Occult fiction, American. 7. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3555.L68V364 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2010048299

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  A CHILL IN THE BLOOD

  For my friends, with much gratitude, and

  for my fur angels, Big Jake and the

  Mighty Mite

  1

  Chicago, February 1937

  TIRED to the bone, I slumped in the front seat of Shoe Coldfield’s big Nash, wedged between him and my partner, Charles Escott. The car’s heater was going full blast, but I still shivered like a malaria victim. I’d never been this cold before in my whole life, but that’s what happens when you take a dive off a boat into Lake Michigan in early February.

  Coldfield, a large, grim-looking black man in his middle thirties, glared down at me with a combination of relief and exasperation, then shifted the glare in Escott’s direction. “Charles, he’s half-dead. I’m taking him to a hospital.”

  Escott bent forward so his pale, sharp-featured face was more or less in my field of view. The effort made him grunt. One of his eyes had a bad shiner, the other was swollen shut, and he held his left arm protectively close to his lean frame. He’d been through the wars tonight himself, I dimly recalled. “My dear fellow,” he said, addressing Coldfield, not me, “that really wouldn’t be a good idea for any of us, and you’re well aware of it.”

  In response, Coldfield snarled a ripe curse as he hauled at the steering wheel. He made a smart U-turn along the beach road and got us pointed back toward Chicago.

  “Jack’s a little shell-shocked, but he only needs a warm place to thaw out and rest.” Escott went on, peering at my no-doubt-glazed eyes.

  “No shit. Then what? We wait for pneumonia to set in?”

  I got annoyed at their talking over me. “’M a’right,” I managed to puff out through chattering teeth. Bad idea. It made me cough. Escott thoughtfully shoved a handkerchief in my face before I dribbled more lake water onto the overcoat he’d loaned me.

  “Like hell you are,” said Coldfield. He glared briefly at me again, like all this was my fault—and he was right—then focused on the road and the rearview mirror. I was glad I was low enough in the seat so he wouldn’t notice anything odd about the reflection.

  “Anyone following?” asked Escott.

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. No hospitals, Shoe, as a favor to all of us. We must as
sume that Kyler’s gang or Miss Paco could have informants anywhere in the city and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, well, they won’t have any in my neck of the woods. I’m bringing in Doc Clarson to look at you both.”

  “I can manage without.”

  “Oh sure, I’ve seen how well you’ve managed with those busted ribs.”

  “They’re only just cracked a little.”

  “Charles . . . ” Rising impatience in Coldfield’s tone. Couldn’t blame him.

  But Escott’s attention was centered on me. “Jack? Are you up to seeing Dr. Clarson?”

  I shook my head. A doctor meant an examination, which meant that the first time he tried to take my pulse he’d find out I was a bit more than just half-dead. In fact, I’m Undead, which was why I’d had such a tough time with the free-flowing water of the lake. Right now I didn’t want to bother dealing with anything beyond getting out of my freezing wet clothes and maybe crawling into a nice hot oven for a few hours.

  “What are you asking him for?” Coldfield demanded.

  “I thought I’d give him a choice in the matter.”

  “Huh. Shape he’s in he couldn’t think straight if you gave him a ruler. Same for you.”

  “I’m also trying to keep the number of people involved in this mess to a minimum.”

  “Clarson’s family, he won’t talk.”

  “I know, but I’d rather not put him to any unnecessary risk.”

  “It’s in my territory, I’ll be the judge of what’s a risk for my people.”

  “But—”

  “Charles, just shut the hell up and let me drive.”

  Escott subsided. As far as I could tell through my fog of nausea and disorientation, he seemed perfectly unoffended by Coldfield’s manner. They were old friends from back in the twenties when they’d both been actors in some touring company in Canada. A decade and then some goes by and now Escott’s calling himself a private agent—I suppose it’s got more class than “keyhole peeper”—and Coldfield’s heading one of the larger criminal gangs in Chicago’s Bronze Belt. How they ended up in two such opposite fields and remained friends I was still trying to figure out.

  Coldfield drove fast and the car got pretty warm—for them. I was only just starting to feel a little less like an iceberg, but my bouts of shivering gradually shortened, and the teeth-chattering business finally ceased. I could still taste the sour metallic flavor of the lake in the back of my throat, but that would go away if I could make a quick visit to the Stockyards to feed before dawn. Not much chance of doing that with Shoe Coldfield along; he didn’t know about me being a vampire.

  I’m not like what you saw a few years back in the Lugosi movie. There’re some similarities between me and old Count Dracula, but I don’t turn into animals or quake at crosses or silver bullets, flop in a coffin or stuff like that. I do drink blood to keep body and soul together—still have one of those as far as I know—and it’s usually animal blood, but that little detail can still hit people the wrong way. Because of it I hadn’t made up my mind whether to let Coldfield in on the news yet.

  Escott knew all about it, of course, and could more easily break it to his friend, but once told me it was really my decision and my job. It would save a lot of trouble right now, but dammit, I was just too tired to open that can of worms tonight. You can’t just tell people that you’re a vampire and have them accept it, you have to prove it to them and then give out the whole history of how you got to be that way. In my case, I fell in love with a beautiful, but unusual woman, and we exchanged blood. Last summer I was killed by a mobster, but much to his surprise I didn’t stay dead. How I got back at him for my murder is another story.

  Half an hour or more passed with no one saying a thing. I liked their silent company. It was nice, so very, very nice, to be with people who didn’t want to kill me. That and the warm air helped me relax until I was as near as I could get to dozing. I don’t sleep, not like I used to when I still breathed regularly; at night I’m always solidly awake for the duration. When dawn comes, I’m so close to being dead it ain’t even remotely funny. I’ve no control over it, and lately it’s been damned inconvenient, if not downright dangerous. I miss a lot.

  I opened my eyes when the car came to a halt, but it was only for a street signal. Coldfield was in the thick of the city now and began driving sedately, easing into the start and stop of the wee hours’ traffic signals with care. Maybe he didn’t want to jar us more than necessary, but you could also figure that he didn’t want to attract cops. Too many of them were still on the take despite attempts to clean things up since the feds whisked Capone away on that tax rap, and as Escott said, people like Miss Angela Paco could have eyes and ears anywhere in the town. It was because of her I ended up in the lake tonight, another casualty in her gang war.

  “Where we going?” I asked, blinking against a barrage of neon from an all night drugstore’s sign.

  Coldfield seemed surprised I’d spoken. “Someplace safe and warm.”

  “’M all for it. Where’s Isham?” He was one of Coldfield’s men and had been with them earlier. He’d tried his best to pull me to safety when all hell broke loose at Angela’s place earlier this evening.

  Escott—bad ribs, shiner, and all—had been her unwilling guest, and I’d snuck into her house to try getting him away, but we tripped a burglar alarm on the way out. Her thugs started shooting at us; Isham started shooting at them, and there was a lot of yelling and noise as Coldfield tore across the grounds in his armored Nash trying to get to us. Isham and Escott managed to reach the car, and I’d almost gotten aboard, but little Angela started throwing hand grenades, which screwed everything up. They’d quite sensibly hightailed it out of there with me weakly waving them on. Coldfield’s Nash was tough, but not that tough.

  “I told him to get scarce after Charles made his call to arrange to get you back from Angela Paco,” said Coldfield.

  “She was going to do a double-cross. Try to kill him.”

  “I’d figured that much by now. You wanta tell us what happened?”

  I shrugged, staring straight ahead at the dashboard. “Tried to walk home from a boat ride. It didn’t work so good.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Would you care to expand a bit on the subject?” Escott asked. “We rather lost track of you when Miss Paco lobbed that last grenade.”

  And what a sight she had been with her throwing the thing as far as her tiny form could manage, then running flat out in the other direction to hit the dirt a half second before the whole night went up. She’d been laughing the whole time.

  “Yeah, Fleming,” said Coldfield. “We wanted to come back for you. Sorry.”

  “I’m not. None of you needed to be there. Angela’s her father’s daughter and then some when it comes to being crazy.”

  “So what happened? How’d you get away?”

  It would be much easier if I could give him the truth of it, of how I’d nearly checked out four times over this night. First by getting shot up by a wiseguy named Chaven, which weakened me; I can survive bullets, but can’t tolerate blood loss too damn well. Then later, while trying to get away from Angela Paco, I caught a load of grenade shrapnel. The stuff had gone right through me, of course, but it hurt like blazes and weakened me more. The third time, while I was locked up and alone, one of Angela’s mugs came to work off a grudge by trying to beat my brains out. I was only just able to stop him, and in the aftermath, I’d fed from him to stay alive. It saved me, until the morphine in his blood kicked in and laid me out flat. That’s when Angela, figuring me to be dead, decided to drop my body into Lake Michigan. The only reason I was moving at all was that with my condition I’m a lot tougher than I used to be—though at the moment I was feeling pretty damned fragile.

  A real hell night for yours truly, Jack Fleming, and there was still more of it left.

  “Kyler had Frank Paco prisoner,” I said, trying to sort what to say and what to leave out. “Was going to use him
to get full control of the old Paco gang away from Angela. When Kyler pegged out, that lieutenant of his, Chaven, cozied up with her to get her to trade me for her father.” And one other hostage, a walking adding machine named Opal who knew how to work the gang’s books.

  “The hell you say. Why did Chaven want you?”

  “He needed a patsy to blame for Kyler’s death. Probably pretty embarrassed, what with aiming at me and getting his boss instead when I ducked too fast. After he gave back Paco, he hauled me, Kyler’s body, and what was left of a guy called Vic who was playing both sides, aboard the Elvira and was going to dump us all in the lake for fish food. I waited until I had a chance, then jumped Chaven. He’s dead now. Charles, it was with your gun.”

  Escott offered me a thin, glacial smile, his face alight for a second. “I’m delighted to hear it was put to such good use, though there might be trouble should the police trace it to me. I suppose I’d best report the gun has been stolen.”

  “They won’t trace anything even if they do find the body. The bullet went right through him.”

  “How fortunate.”

  He might not have thought so had he been the one pulling the trigger.

  “What’s become of it? My Webley?”

  “Still aboard the yacht, I think.”

  He merely nodded. “Who knows, perhaps I can recover it some day.”

  Escott’s got a dark streak in him and it’s icy like the lake. Once in a while I run into it. The encounters don’t always leave me in a cheerful mood, and I was feeling rotten enough already.

  “Are you really all right?” he asked, looking at me as closely as his good eye allowed.