When Vamps Bite: A Mayhem of Magic World Story (Bedlam in Bethlehem Book 1) Read online

  When Vamps Bite

  Bedlam in Bethlehem Book One

  Nicole Zoltack

  Copyright 2017 by Nicole Zoltack

  Cover Artist: AM Creations

  ISBN-13: 978-1547297399

  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

  To those who live in Bethlehem. This one’s for you.

  Contents

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  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Other Books By Nicole Zoltack

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

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  Chapter 1

  I trek through the cemetery as the stars, my only companions, twinkle. Glowing eerily, the gravestones look like stubby fingers poking out of the mud. The bitterly cold wind howls around me like a banshee mourning her loss. I shove my hands deeper into my coat pockets. Winter will be here soon. It’s a week past Halloween.

  No other soul is around, but I prefer that. Far to the right, near the back, by a sole evergreen tree are the two tombstones I seek.

  Here lie Jeremy and Rachel Tempest.

  Normally, I kneel down, but the mud already cakes my boots, so I remain upright, hands touching the ice-cold stone.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t come here sooner. Everything’s been crazy since… well, forever. My birthday was nice. Twenty-seven now. Not married yet. Not even close. Sorry, Mom. I know Dad’s happy about that, aren’t you? You always said, ‘Clarissa, you’re not allowed to date until you’re thirty.’ Coming up already. Geez.”

  My throat tightens, and my vision blurs. Refusing to cry, I blink away sudden hot tears. They wouldn’t like that. Mom laughed more than anyone else in the world, and Dad was the king of corny jokes. “Dad” jokes were his specialty. Just thinking about them brings back all of the sorrow and guilt I’ve felt since they passed away.

  “Had to work on my birthday. I know. I know. You think I work too hard. Maybe I do, but Halloween is getting to be even worse than Mischief Night. One teenage punk tried to swipe kids’ bags filled with candy. Travis, my partner, nabbed him, but the real challenge came in when someone attempted to rob a clothing store. Brooks’ Brothers. I just don’t understand. If you can’t afford designer clothes, buy knock-offs. Go to a thrift shop. Don’t steal. Oh, yeah, I was the one to get the goon. I spied him as I was patrolling around. He was driving five under the speed limit, looking all around, kinda acting like a tourist. Something just seemed off. I knew something was up, so I followed him. He lapped the block five times before he parked. I called in just to give a heads-up and waited, watching. He broke in, and I cuffed him. He didn’t put up a fight. You would’ve been proud of me.”

  More blurred vision. My stomach twists, and I swallow past a lump of sadness. Okay. Time to change the subject.

  “I…” My mind draws a blank. I just can’t think of a joke, not even a stupid, corny one.

  To break the tension, I glance around. Clouds have rolled in, blotting out some of the stars. A sinister feel empowers the air, and I shiver. An owl hoots, and it’s silly, but I’m grateful for the company.

  “I can’t believe it’s been nine years already. Nine years. Damn David Jameson to Hell. Sorry, not sorry, Mom. I know you hate when I talk like that, but even you can’t forgive the man who murdered you both.”

  Shit. I don’t mean to rehash all of this, but it’s nine years to the day. Jameson gunned them down a week after I turned eighteen. All over a stupid purse.

  It took the police two years to track him down and collect enough evidence to land him in jail. The rotting piece of filth still lives. He’s on death row, but Pennsylvania is one of the least active states to carry out the ultimate penalty. Ironic, considering we have one of the highest if not the ultimate population of death row inmates.

  It’s because of their murders that I became a cop. My mom never believed in guns. She had always been about self-defense and karate. Had a black belt herself and made me practice, too. Yeah, I’m a black belt, just like her. But when you’re facing a gun and are walking home from a party a little inebriated, it spells disaster.

  Even if they had a gun on them, it’s possible they still would’ve ended up dead. Then again, maybe the sight of it would’ve been enough to scare off Jameson.

  We’ll never know.

  I’m off duty tonight, but my hand goes to my side to feel for my piece. I always have one on me. I feel naked without it. I can defend myself both with and without a gun. While I drink despite what happened to my parents, I never have enough to impair me or slow my reflexes. Basically, I never have more than two.

  A few of the others on the force are all planning on going out to the bar tonight, and I’ll swing by. I’d assumed I’d go to bed after my visit here, but I’m more depressed than I expected.

  “Dad, you’ll be happy to know that the Eagles are actually doing well this year. Kinda. Not really, but we have the quarterback of the future at least. Wentz is gonna be the man. We need a better o-line to protect him and weapons for him to utilize. We’re maybe a year or two away from being major contenders.”

  Football. Dad and I bleed green. Mom used to just roll her eyes.

  They adopted me when I was a baby. They never hid the fact that I was adopted, and maybe that’s why I never felt the need to seek out my birth parents and why I still don’t.

  The owl hoots again.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I still go to Leading Edge twice a week.” We used to take karate classes there together. “I know you always wanted me to be more of a dress and pearls kind of girl. I did buy a dress for a coworker’s wedding in two weeks, so there’s that. It’s black, though. Is that okay for a late fall wedding? I hope so. I went to your store to get it. White House Black Market. It was on sale. The sales associate was a little overbearing, wanting me to get heels and jewelry and a shrug. I did get a belt with a bow in the middle. It’s kinda cute. And earrings and a matching necklace. They’re a deep purple, the necklace with all kinds of beading and coiled strands. You would’ve liked it, I’m sure. That’s why I got it. But no to the shrug and no to the heels. Kitten heels are the most I can handle. How anyone can wear five-inch heels I’ll never understa
nd.”

  Mom was short, maybe five feet one or two. I’m five-seven. Dad had been just shy of six feet. Mom never wore flats, so she walked around near my height most of the time.

  “I… I hope you two are together. You guys would’ve been married for thirty-five years this Christmas. That’s insane. I haven’t had a relationship last longer than six months. I know. I know. You’re still pining for grandbabies, Mom. One day I’ll stop by here and tell you I’m pregnant. Don’t turn over! I’ll be married first. Promise.”

  I swear it gets harder every year, not easier.

  “Remember Samantha, my best friend? She’s getting pretty serious with her guy. I told you about Ryan, right? I think he’s a little boring, honestly, but she’s happy, and that’s what matters. He doesn’t talk to me any. It’s awkward. A businessman. Computers, I think. I’m not even sure. Okay, yeah, Dad, you’re right. Maybe I should listen to him more, and then he’ll talk to me more. I do ask him how work goes, Mom, but he never says more than fine.”

  The wind is picking up, biting, ripping through my long, Peabody coat. Mom used to buy me a pair of gloves every Christmas, but I don’t have any matching pairs. Some kind of glove-eating goon lives in my house. Sock-eating goon and Tupperware-lid-eating goon are my other nemeses. The three of them are probably triplets, the infuriating bastards.

  My fingers are like icicles. I cup my hands and blow into them.

  The rustling of crinkled leaves has me glancing around, my right hand automatically sliding to my waist toward my gun. The cemetery is unnaturally still. The owl is no longer here, the quiet deafening.

  After tapping their graves, I shift around the nearby tree, using it as cover.

  A flash of blurred darkness whizzes by, too fast to be clearly visible. What in the world is that?

  My grief pushed aside, for now, I crouch down, slipping over to hide behind one of the taller gravestones. The clouds have yet to move away, but my eyes have long since adjusted to the lack of starlight. Doesn’t matter. I can’t make out the object.

  Make that a figure. It’s a person. It has to be. It’s too large to be anything else, and it’s upright, so it’s not an animal.

  Whoever it is, he or she is not bothering to come out into the open. My goon radar is going off.

  My gun’s in my hand. Yes, I’m off duty, but a cop is never completely off duty.

  “Who is there?” I call out in a soft but forceful voice. My words echo slightly, adding to the eeriness of the night. I’m not frightened, not yet.

  The person stills, shadows draping him. I assume it’s a he. He’s tall and muscular, built like an ox. He must be wearing all black because I can hardly see him.

  “Come into the light,” I coax, lowering my gun but not putting it away. “Please.”

  The man ignores me, but then something crazy happens.

  The man just disappears. He’s gone. He’s there one second. I blink, and he’s nowhere to be seen.

  Confused, skeptical, now a little scared after all, I dart forward a few paces and twist around, gun raised. Refusing to have the drop put on me, I try to see all around me, for where he could’ve hidden.

  But he’s nowhere. He really has disappeared.

  A knot forms in my stomach. Now uneasy, I put my gun away. My eyes sting, and I blink several times. Maybe it’s just my unshed tears making me see things that aren’t really there.

  Depressed, I go back to the stones, kiss my parents’ names, and leave the cemetery behind. Unfortunately, that sense of unease lingers all the way back to the bar.

  Chapter 2

  P.J. Whelihan’s is hopping with hardly an empty table in the dining area. I join the crew at the back corner of the bar, my gun and flashlight concealed within my coat. Travis Hoffman, my partner, is snuggled close to his girl, Ali Burke, at the far end of the bar. Thankfully, Marlon Price has an empty seat beside him. If there’s one guy I wouldn’t mind seeing if I could date for seven months or even longer, it’s Marlon. His hair is slicked back, one single lock curled on his forehead. While his biceps war with his dimples for his most appealing feature, the biceps win hands down. I’d love nothing more than to feel those bulging muscular arms wrap around me.

  Unfortunately, Mercedes Adams sits on his other side.

  She’s a cop, a decent one, or would be if she didn’t spend all of her time flirting with everyone. I can’t stand her. Of course, she’s dressed to the nines tonight in a skimpy, sleek red little number. Her short sleeves hardly cover her shoulders. She’d have to be arrested if the neckline was any lower. Namely, she’s a sneeze away from a wardrobe malfunction.

  And me? I’m wearing my best jeans, ones that make me have an ass, and a black turtleneck. Man, I look like a grandmother compared to her.

  But I don’t turn back around. I’m made of sterner stuff. Yeah, we’re both vying for Marlon’s affection, but I’m not gonna be scared away.

  Besides, I’m still a little freaked by what I might’ve seen. People can’t just disappear. If someone had been there, there must be a rational explanation for his leaving too fast for me to see.

  All four of us, Travis, Marlon, Mercedes, and I, are detectives on the vice/intelligence unit for the Bethlehem Police Department.

  I march over to Marlon and plop myself down beside him. “What are you drinking?”

  He turns and gives me a slow smile, his dimple making a slight appearance. “Clarissa. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

  I lean forward and smirk at Mercedes, who rolls her eyes. “I’m showing.”

  Gah. I’m twenty-seven, and I still can’t flirt.

  He pushes his glass toward me. “Whiskey. Can you handle it?”

  “I can handle anything.” I take a sip. Yeah, I can handle it, but that doesn’t mean I like it. I’m more of a rum and coke kind of girl.

  Mercedes, on the other hand, is all about the girly drinks with the silly-looking umbrellas. She’s almost downed a fishbowl of a drink. She’s giggling and flailing her body this way and that, “accidentally” closer toward Marlon.

  I hate her.

  Refusing to feel inferior to her, I order my rum and coke and some wings. Yeah, it’s late, and it’ll probably go straight to my thighs, but I need some comfort food.

  Mercedes, of course, crinkles her nose with disapproval. “Wings are so messy.”

  “Are you offering your sleeve as a napkin?” I ask, unable to avoid her being provoked.

  Marlon backs up slightly, hands raised, actually giving me space to be able to use her sleeve. “Just make sure you don’t get any on me.”

  Mercedes slaps him, her hand lingering on his arm. “Won’t you save me from the grease?” She bats her eyes.

  Oh, brother. She’s just awful.

  “Maybe you should eat a little more,” I suggest.

  Her face pales. “Why? I’m not too thin, am I?” She looks down at her ample cleavage and then smirks at me.

  “Fake,” I mutter.

  “Lard ass,” she mouths as Marlon leans forward to order another drink from the harassed bartender. The bar’s jam-packed, and the guy has been moving non-stop since before I got here.

  “How you got through training I don’t know.” I flip my hair over my shoulder.

  “Just because I don’t lift weights doesn’t mean I can’t take you out,” she hisses.

  Is that a threat? I so can’t take her seriously.

  “You can’t risk exercising because your sandbags will give you black eyes,” I counter.

  “I’d rather have fake boobs than be flat.”

  I scowl. “I’m not—”

  “What are you two talking about?” Marlon asks.

  “If you prefer pufferfish to sharks,” I deadpan.

  “Pufferfish to sharks?”

  “You know,” I continue, fighting back a grin and ignoring the strangled gasps emitting from a clearly put-out and beside herself Mercedes, “a pufferfish that is full of hot air and might look all cute and innoce
nt until the shit hits the fan and then it’s all puff up and run away time—”

  “I—” Mercedes gets out, all indignant, but I’m on a roll and talk right over her.

  “Or a shark that is lean and mean and muscular and ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey.” I lean over and point to a fry.

  He slaps my hand away. “I prefer hammerheads.”

  It’s such a perfect response that Mercedes and I both burst out laughing. It doesn’t stop her from shooting daggers at me. When my wings are finally served, she’s back to making cutting remarks.

  “Sure hope you know how to get grease out of jeans.”

  I ignore her. I’m almost happy, almost but not quite. I can’t say I’ve been happy in a long while. Most days, I just put on a face. I’m all about my work. The only time I feel validation is when I nab a goon and slap handcuffs on him. It almost feels weird to be eating out, laughing and drinking. Right now, as pathetic as it sounds, my life is my work.

  “Did you hear about the guy I pulled over a few nights ago?” Marlon asks.

  “No.” How she adds such breathlessness, wonder, and seduction to a single syllable I’ll never be able to replicate.

  I just shake my head.

  “So I’m driving on 378, and this guy blows past me. There weren’t any calls, so I was just killing time. He had to have been going seventy, eighty easily.”