The Dealing Trilogy, Book 1.
by Jude Mason
Genre: Vampires,contemporary,m/f, series
Spider-like, Sabrina crouched at the corner of the rooftop. She tightened her grip on the rough edge and leaned out, peering down at the scene on the street below. The rain, which had been a light drizzle, suddenly turned into a deluge. Her long dark hair whipped around her head, each snake-like tendril slapped her face with stinging force and wrapped tenaciously around her neck as if it planned to strangle her if given half a chance. The slinky black body stocking she had on did nothing to keep her warm, but warmth wasn't a thing she concerned herself with. Even her boots weren't necessary. She simply loved the smell of leather and the way the heels click-clacked on pavement.
Gruff male voices filtered up to her, drawing her attention downward into the street, but she couldn't make out their words. Three men stood in a rough triangle peering down at the crumpled body of a fourth lying on the wet tarmac—but that wasn't important either. Sabrina's attention was fixed on one of the live ones, one of the three standing. He was more important, and much more interesting than any corpse.
He was tall, dark and incredibly handsome—definitely her type—and he'd been the first cop present shortly after each of her last four kills. He didn't feel like the others, and he wasn't looking at the bullet-riddled body as much as examining the wounds on the victim's neck.
Suddenly, tall, dark and handsome squatted beside the corpse and turned the head from side to side, as if he could figure it all out by understanding those wounds. Sabrina's apprehension grew. It had been a very long time since anyone had really believed in her kind, but not long enough as far as she was concerned.
A gust of wind brought a few words of the conversation up to her, "…see what the body can tell us."
"Another freakish murder," the fat police detective standing across from her eye candy huffed and drew on his foul smelling cigar. "Nothing taken, still got money in his wallet, rings on his fingers. And did you get a look at that watch? It's gotta be worth a year's pay. And that suit—"
"Never mind," interrupted tall and good-looking. "Just get forensics out here." He straightened up and scowled. He pulled the latex gloves off and crammed them into the pocket of his oversized coat. Hunching his shoulders against the bitterly cold wind and rain, he stomped his feet, as if to get the circulation going. "I know what they're going to find, I just wish I could figure out what the hell was killing these guys off."
"Don't get your shorts in a twist," said the young beat cop who'd initially found the body. "You do know who this is, right?"
"Yeah, don't be an asshole, kid. We all know who this is," the fat detective grumbled. He flicked his cigar into the darkness and continued, "Big John Weir, procurer of young talent for the biggest prostitution ring in the lower east side and enforcer when he can get the work. And, what I'll never understand, he's never done time. He'll be missed, but not by the girls getting off the bus from Nowhere, Kansas."
The rest of the conversation was lost to Sabrina as the wail of a siren grew louder. More cops, or an ambulance to pick up the dead. She wasn't interested in hanging around to find out which. She turned and climbed nimbly up to the peak of the roof, then rose to her feet and after a long lingering look at tall and gorgeous, leaped into the night sky.
The change happened instantly, her body twisted, condensed and with a single gut-wrenching, bone-jarring shock of agony, she took on the shape of the large nocturnal bat she'd become so used to, and spread her wings. The hunt had been good, but the night was coming to its inevitable close. She sought her den.