Mark of the Harbinger (Book 1)

15 - A Park and a Deadman

With a cry, I landed on my backside, then slid on the damp rocks covered in loose silt. The drop wasn't far, only seven feet or so, but my leg caught in the bushes and twisted my body partway down. I fell hip first into the creek bottom, grimacing when pain shot through my bones and freezing grime soaked into my pants.

There was a foot or so of water winding through the gully's base. Bits of trash and car debris were buried in the sand, sticking out from the dirt like ancient artifacts unveiled by an excavation. The water had a slick, iridescent sheen from the overpass's oily runoff, and the smell was atrocious, a mix between sodden garbage and rotten flesh. Gagging, I sat up and looked around, swallowing the rapid flutter of my heartbeat as my hands sunk through the mud.

No one else was there—but someone had grabbed me. I knew someone had.

I'd released my phone when I'd fallen, but it hadn't dropped into the water with me. I thanked whatever cosmic force had granted that small mercy when I spotted the phone on a higher rock, the screen still showing my contact list. My glasses had remained on my face, but the left lens was scuffed and hard to see through. 

I reached for my cell, ignoring the throbbing bruise forming on my hip, and froze when the light coming off the phone illuminated a shifting mass rising in the overpass' shadow. 

It was a person, that much I knew—but something about him or her was...off. Their movements were stilted, uncoordinated. The sound of their breathing was wet and labored, each exhalation accompanied by an acute whistle. Their face came into view and I shuddered with horror.

Their skin was pallid and marbled with ropey black veins at the temples. His eyes—for it was a guy—were milky. I could see fangs in his mouth, though the slashed open maw on his throat was enough to let me know he was a vampire. The fanged bastards could survive a hell of a lot of punishment.

More alarming than the dribbling injury was the fact that I knew this vampire. I'd seen him just once, briefly, but I remembered the plain outfit and his curly brown hair. He'd grabbed my arm in Fiume di Sangue on Emial's behest, saying he was supposed to take me home. I'd flicked his nametag when I'd told the guy off. 

"Dominick," I breathed when the name occurred to me. His gaze—lolling and unfocused—snapped to my face. He wailed.

"Help-p-p," he pleaded, lips stuttering as if stiff. "P-p-please—!"

"Okay!" I told him, holding out a hand to stop the begging as I edged nearer to my phone. "Okay, I'm going to get you some help...."

The wounded vampire fell as his fingers fumbled at the wound in his throat, sending a wave of stagnant water over my knees. I flinched as I scrabbled to reach the phone and stumbled on a hidden rock.

Dominick was sobbing, each blubbering gasp like something out of a nightmare as they came issuing from the tear in his neck. My hands were shaking as I dialed Aurel's contact info and held the phone to my ear. I could have called Sibbie or 911, but I knew protocols were enforced when the department had to deal with a live, injured vampire. It would take them too long.

The line rang once, twice, a third time—then cut to voicemail mid-ring. Outraged, I hung up and dialed again, but Havik immediately ignored the call. I held the dirty phone up, squinting past the scuff on my glasses to read the screen. A new message from Havik fluttered through the notification bar, reading "Not now." 

Not now? Not now?! The nerve! 

Furious, I called the next best contact I had. In my phone, it was saved under the DNA category—which stood for "do not answer." Never wanting to be caught unawares by a vampire like Havik or Emial or any of the other fanged creatures in Roccia Nera, I had the numbers for a few of the larger vamp establishments programmed into my phone. Among them was The Gilded Glass.