The Undead Detective Bites Read online

  THE UNDEAD DETECTIVE BITES

  BOOK 1

  JENNIFER HILT

  MR. ROCHESTER PRESS

  Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Hilt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Vampires don’t dream. I can plot, plan and devise with the best of them. But I can’t dream because I don’t sleep. During the day, I’m not “resting my eyes.” I’m dead to the world in every sense of the word.

  To dream is to hope. And to hope I’d need a soul. At least that’s what I’ve discovered in my two centuries of being a vampire. There are few things eternity can’t buy and hope is what I most miss from life before The Bite.

  There I was in the UCLA Medical Center amphitheater, surrounded by my forensic pathology colleagues, slicing into the human corpse’s brain on the amphitheater table. Several rows back in the observing physician pack, a visiting human pathologist from Turkey craned his neck to catch a glimpse of my procedure. Even from here, he reeked of garlic. It isn’t true that this herb repelled vampires universally, though God knew I hated the smell enough so it had that effect on me. From Dr. Turkey’s disdainful sniffing, he was either annoyed by my stature as an internationally renowned vampire pathologist in the medical community when to him, I looked no older than a medical student… or he too was gagging on the garlic.

  Humans were deceived by my slight form, dark eyes and hair even though it’d been close to two hundred years since I’d been a vampire. My death at eighteen back then was the rule rather than the exception. But what happened to me after my death was the interesting part. Of course, my skin was pale—two centuries without sun is a long time to be vitamin D deficient.

  The surgical lights blazed overhead. I loved them; they were hot like a spotlight. Not everyone in the operating room felt this way. For humans this made the room uncomfortably warm. They were prone to overheating during long autopsies, so air conditioning was pumped into the operating room. For us vamps, the heat increased our functionality. Not unlike a lizard warming up on a sun-drenched rock. The difference being that we vampires combusted in sunlight.

  The tangy smell of fresh blood made my nose twitch under my mask. Rich red oxygenated blood covered my extra-small surgical gloves. I could hear the elevated heart rate of the medical student behind me. The graduate fellow across the table swallowed for the third time.

  The human physicians in this room had no idea how much effort it took to not rip into the patient on the table before us. That was just part of the challenge, though. Being a vampire and a physician required the highest level of self-control. It was a badge of honor to combine both. And considering our potentially endless lifespans, it was a boon to the medical community.

  Deep in my scrub pants pocket, my phone vibrated. Irritation surged through me, and my grip on the scalpel slid a fraction of an inch. I doubted anyone noticed—or if they did, they assumed the adjustment was planned.

  I ignored the twitchy phone. It was muffled deep in my pocket, but I knew every paranormal in the operating room heard it with their enhanced hearing.

  The caller persisted.

  Someone’s head was going to be separated from his shoulders. It was my emergency phone, only to be used in actual emergencies. Experience had taught me that most such requests were the result of someone else’s shitty planning.

  “Dr. Sardino, will you please silence that?” I asked.

  Even though he was a senior surgeon, Sardino was all claws on the best of days. I was never clear why the demon had chosen neurosurgery, given his dexterity challenges. At least he couldn’t harm my phone and the guy on the table was already dead.

  I felt the edge of Sardino’s claws in my scrubs pocket. With one steak-knife-sized talon, he punched a button that shut down the phone entirely before he returned it to my pants.

  My calm returned. I disliked interruptions, which was why I preferred the controlled surgical setting. Carefully, I continued slicing into the brain before me. A sticky, shiny, electric blue goo covered its left hemisphere. The street drug was pronounced ‘glitter’ but spelled ‘Glytr’ thanks to a generation that seems personally offended by vowels. Glytr gave humans short-term enhanced physical strength. But at the cost of a corroded brain creating irreversible damage and death. This was my sixth autopsy in as many nights.

  I was aware the staff around me was craning their necks to get a closer look. It was tricky work, cutting out small parts of the diseased brain to study under the microscope. We didn’t understand how precisely this drug worked. Today’s demonstration was to discourage heavy-handed procedures in the sampling techniques. “Remember, nothing about this should resemble carving a pumpkin.” I sliced a sheer sample of cerebrum, passing it to the resident in training eager to begin processing.

  The silence in the amphitheater only heightened the drama. Everything was either crisp white like the linens or shiny stainless steel. The floor was made of an enormously expensive linoleum blend that was germ resistant and yet relatively comfortable for the long hours humans stood at these tables. I appreciated the flooring as well, though it was my cushy clogs that really made my night. Everyone talks about all the advances in the last few centuries but trust me, women’s footwear is particularly underappreciated.

  “Dr. Silverthorne.” Lydia, the head nurse appeared at my side. I could tell it was her by her limp. She’d served in the armed forces and suffered a land-mine accident. This went a long way in explaining why she organized the pathology room crowd with military precision. Even the chief of the department didn’t cross her. “You have an urgent phone call,” she continued. “May I assist you with the earpiece?”

  My toes clenched in my clogs. I wanted to throw my scalpel across the room for the interruption. This was unprofessional to say the least and would probably kill some unlucky medical student. Instead, I uncurled my toes one by one.

  So much for not answering my emergency phone.

  I was not interested in anything other than the patient’s brains all over my gloves. Still, this better be important to disturb me.

  After I regained a sense of control I said, “Everyone, if you will excuse me for a moment while I take this call. In the meantime, you will now observe me cutting into the dura mater.”

  “Silverthorne here.” I continued slicing during the slight delay of the earpiece installation. Lydia remained next to me holding the phone. She was a human, but she always smelled of antiseptic. Usually humans have some overriding odor like sweat, perfume, or—heaven forbid—garlic. Not Lydia. Now she carefully draped the earphone cord over my shoulder, away from my sterile surgical field. I loved Lydia.

  “Sorry to bother you, but we’ve had an urgent request.” A young male’s breathy voice came on the line.

  A fleeting image flashed before me, a puppy racing toward
me ears flying and carrying one of my favorite leather boots with heels well chewed. Ben. He keeps my daylight life running when I’m in the crypt. I feed from him when necessary. He’s kind of like a live-in personal assistant whose blood I drink. I think of him as my consort, but he prefers personal assistant with benefits.

  Humans are always so curious about our arrangement—sex being the primary object of interest, so let’s get this out of the way. We’d been together eight years and, yes, slept together in the beginning. It’s hard to say who was happier when Ben decided he preferred male lovers. I’d been in my current state for two hundred years, and sex with humans was not memorable given how prone to tears they are.

  Back to Ben. In his background was a noise I couldn’t quite identify, but there was something vaguely familiar about it.

  Like every other person in Los Angeles, Ben was an unemployed actor. Most likely he’d just returned from an audition for some hospital drama, hence his excitement.

  If this was about Mr. Figgle’s run-in with another groomer . . .

  I’d have been tempted to severely discipline Ben, but he loved being the submissive to my dom. Frankly, I was bored with that. If you think it can’t be very hard to find an excellent consort in Los Angeles, then I’m jealous of your ignorance. And Ben, despite his many flaws, was that.

  Plus, he was calling on the emergency—or as he called it the bat phone.

  “There is no other kind of request,” I reminded him. “I’m surprised you even bothered. You already know the answer.”

  “It’s from your Maker.”

  A flush of heat boiled in my veins. If I was able to see red, I would do that too.

  Especially if it’s from my Maker.

  Someone in the operating room winced. Humans didn’t like to be reminded we were vampires. They liked to just pretend we loved working the night shift.

  I wasn’t fond of my maker Elsbeth Vandergraff. My decision to become a physician caused an estrangement which only thawed with my rising reputation. I only heard from her when she wanted something. It’s not that I have to do what she says but since some part of her blood still courses through me, it’s like fighting with an undertow. I want to obey her even though I spend a good amount of time fighting that feeling around her.

  “What does she want?”

  “She wants you to go to Nevada,” Ben said.

  Especially not Nevada.

  “Forget it.”

  I was never, ever going back to Nevada. Elsbeth knew that. A huff of laughter escaped me. Why even bother asking?

  I never left Los Angeles. My work was my life and all that was here. I was not some Vampires Without Borders knockoff who went charging off on errands. Especially not to Nevada. God, most of that state was major Hicksville. There was nothing quaint about outdoor plumbing. I’d lived through the nineteenth century the first time; I had no desire to repeat that much contact with rocks or snakes.

  Nevada’s only claim to fame was being the portal to the Underworld, or as humans call it, Las Vegas. Another excellent place to avoid, in my opinion, but humans were drawn to it like vamps loved virgins. Depending on your viewpoint, the beauty of Vegas was paranormals coexisted alongside humans largely undetected. Sure, the casino operators knew and employed various safeguards to keep the body count to a minimum. Money meant power and no one in Vegas, human or paranormal, had enough of either.

  No matter their background, Vegas visitors came looking for a thrill. Whether it was beating a demon at a craps table, ogling the four-breasted trolls in burlesque or learning their lucky numbers from a fortune teller, Vegas had the biggest concentration of paranormals but despite that was surprisingly civilized.

  Sure, mostly everyone stole from someone else to a degree—that was expected. But there was one individual who never got shorted. Hades. If you were stupid enough to steal from her then spending eternity with her Hellhound nipping at your genitals wasn’t a surprise.

  Then it clicked. I remembered where I’d heard that snippet of sound in the background of Ben’s call. Hellhounds.

  “You’ve been watching Sherlock again, haven’t you?” Ben was partial to the Hound of Baskervilles episode. I continued cutting and removing brains into the basin on the tray next to me. More eager pathologists swooped in and ran the samples off to their waiting microscopes.

  Ben was under the impression that he was Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes. In truth, he was much more of a Mrs. Hudson. Still, I restrained myself from making the observation—no need to provide more fodder for my colleagues.

  “It’s about Glytr.” Ben didn’t reply to my query. Instead he rustled papers on his end, purely for effect. He was never without some kind of electronic screen. He was probably flipping through Variety, searching for his next audition.

  “Ah, here it is.” Ben rustled more paper. “Elsbeth said Glytr is in Nowhere, Nevada.” I could hear Ben’s smile. “That last part is not a joke. I checked. There is such a place. It’s a paranormal only community, mainly shifters. I cross-referenced your old case notes, but nothing came up. She wants you to investigate. So have you been there before?”

  My hands stopped moving over the amygdala. Ironic really since that’s the part of the brain that controls the “fight or flight” response for humans. I was not human anymore but I felt like I was stuck in quicksand. It was a no win situation.

  I closed my eyes briefly.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I’d been to Nowhere all right. And it had been a complete disaster.

  I swore to myself and the Vampire Review Board that I’d never step foot in Nowhere again. It was the only way to avoid getting staked ten years ago after I’d made an agonizingly stupid choice.

  My thoughts flew in a million directions. Glytr in a paranormal community could destroy it. I wanted to run out of the exam room and just keep going.

  I concentrated on the brain slicing in front of me, hoping this request would just fade away like a bad dream. Where was poor cellular signal when you wanted a dropped call?

  “Dr. Silverthorne, permission to speak freely?” Ben asked when I’d failed to respond.

  “Since when do you need permission?” I murmured.

  Ben ignored my comment. “If Glytr is a new drug in a paranormal-only community, this would be an excellent opportunity for you.”

  My PA might be human, but he knew me well. Tenure in my medical department loomed on my academic horizon. Vampire physicians had the most stringent tenure requirements of any physicians given our indefinite working life. Getting a job that you can’t get fired from wasn’t an easy proposition even for a vampire.

  No doubt about it though, being the first investigator in an epidemic was more than a career booster. The polio vaccine and the discovery of antibiotics were just a few of the past contributions vampires made to medicine. It was the kind of thing that could secure tenure and win a nomination for the Vobel prize, the vampire version of the Nobel.

  It was a huge risk with a potentially staggering reward. I’d made a vow as a physician to help those in need. I’d mainly concentrated on humans in my career as of late because let’s face it, they need all the help they can get.

  Maybe Elsbeth was wrong and Glytr wasn’t anywhere near Nowhere. I hoped for the community’s sake it was a mistake. Glytr was this generation’s synthetic opioid addiction. The drug Fentanyl destroyed human communities in New Hampshire and West Virginia. Glytr was looking to follow that path now that it had rooted itself in LA.

  An uncomfortable prickling crept up my spine. How did Elsbeth come by her knowledge about Glytr? She was not a fan of science.

  There was only one way to find out what was going on in Nowhere. I had to take a look. “I’ll be by to pick up my bag within the hour. Be ready.” I inclined my head slightly toward the nurse, who whisked the earpiece away. “Thank you, Lydia.”

  “What about—” Ben’s voice faded away.

  “Crighton, you need to take over.” I stepped back, allowing anoth
er senior surgeon to take my place. The surgical team reformed, filling my vacated space.

  To steady myself, I inhaled. I loved the smell of the operating room, its too-bright lighting and artificially controlled atmosphere. It was pared down to what was needed for the work. It may be messy in the sense of blood and brains, but it was tidy. I valued that. That I was going to have to leave even for a short time pained me.

  Lydia was still holding the phone, but she’d long since dispatched Ben. “Dr. Silverthorne, is everything all right?” she asked. Her brows furrowed over her mask and behind her face shield.

  I nodded briskly. It took some effort to shake myself from the daze that had settled over me.

  “I’ll need coverage for the next week.” My mind ticked through my schedule. This drug was spreading through humans like a wildfire. I couldn’t imagine the impact it could have on paranormals. Because this was the first I’d heard of the drug in that community, it was really important I got in there to assess what the hell was going on.

  If some local witch doctor got there first and started playing CSI, any chance of uncorrupted data would be gone. The more information we had about the damage it caused, the greater the medical community’s chances of raising alarms about it with the general population.

  The nurse’s eyebrows rose. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  NOWHERE, Nevada isn’t hard to find if you’re a paranormal. It’s north of the Humboldt River in the north-eastern part of Nevada. This desolate area was a hermit’s paradise, nothing for miles but scrub brush, rabbits and craggy mountains casting dark shadows. Once in a while humans visit in the daytime. The smart ones leave before dark, and the stupid ones don’t last long. For the most part, it’s like a zoo without cages.

  Paranormals have to live somewhere, and throwing their lot in with other nonhumans is, for many of them, making the best of a bad situation. It’s a rugged, harsh land and the opposite of LA.