Blood of the City Read online

  When the tears abated, he calmed and with a sigh, fell back into the grass. He leaned against his mother’s headstone and stroked the letters of her name.

  “You loved me, didn’t you?” he asked. “Even though you left me alone here…”

  After a few silent tears, Mack started to register the birds calling around him. Quiet twittering began to be overcome with the laughter of kookaburras. Glancing at the brightening sky, he jumped up in panic. He was in the open bush, without cover. He transformed into his giant bat form and flapped his way out and over the treetops, viewing the surroundings. His old home was gone, replaced with a commercial monstrosity. He couldn’t hide there. The neighbors were likely in residence and it was too far to reach in time. The plateau above him, reaching up to a rocky peak, held some promise and as he considered it, he recalled his father’s description of his prison, a cave system unknown to most people. Peering at the horizon and the pending rays of sun, he launched himself at the rocky face, frantic to reach cover in time. He could cry when he was safe.

  Chapter Seven

  Saviors

  Grant squinted as he drove the family sedan toward the setting sun. All around, the dry landscape sighed with relief for the cooling evening. The windows were rolled down and Grant had his arm on the side of the door. A breeze ruffled the clothes and hair of his two children in the back seat. Michael, his eldest, had turned seventeen a few months back and since then had morphed into someone Grant barely recognized and rarely spoke to, thanks to Michael’s ubiquitous headphones and insistence on playing the same songs on endless loops. It gave Grant chills to wonder what his four-year-old daughter, Annabel, would be like when she hit her teenage years.

  The car rattled over gravel as they neared their destination.

  “Y’know, I used to come out here with me mates when I was about your age, Mickey.” Grant looked into the rear-vision mirror at his son, who stared back with disinterest. “Yeah, we’d drive out here to camp sometimes, before the museum got built, I mean. When it was only a local story.”

  “Great,” Michael said.

  “I remember once, Rod, Lizzie—you know, your aunt Lizzie—me and a couple of other guys came out here and bet each other we couldn’t spend a night inside.”

  Michael looked away and out the window.

  Grant took a small breath and continued. “We camped nearby and when the sun went down, we started for the house. It wasn’t that dark, thanks to the moon and stars, so we found our way pretty quick, but we weren’t a few feet from the door when we heard this scream.”

  The sun Grant was driving toward popped under the horizon, leaving them under a dark blue sky, splattered with pink and orange clouds. Grant relaxed his eyes and grinned, both at his children and at the memory of tramping through the dark bush so many years before. “Anyway, it scared the shit out of us. Sorry… Scared us a lot, so we turned tail and ran! Never went near the place again.” Grant laughed. “Funny how things change when you get older.”

  Michael turned up his music so Grant could hear it leaking out the headphones. Grant’s face fell a little, but he pushed away the hurt and kept driving. Glancing at Annabel and seeing she was still sleeping, he turned on the radio to keep himself company. He fiddled with the dial until the local radio station emerged from the white noise.

  “I thought I was going to die.” A young man’s voice crackled through the static of the reception and the old speakers.

  “Tell us how you’ve handled the ensuing controversy around your claims, Mr. Rodriguez.” His interviewer was someone famous Grant couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “Please call me Sergio.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve always told the truth about what happened to Olly and me. People said I made it up to cover up some sort of failed murder-suicide, but no one can explain how I got from Wattlebrook to Sydney in such a short time without any transport. I mean, my car’s in the museum there now, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is, Sergio. And that too has been controversial, as you’ve gained some profit from the sale of the vehicle, your story and thus, from your lover’s death. What would you say to those making these accusations of you?”

  “I’d say, what would you do in my situation? I don’t want to be reminded of it any more than you would if your partner was to die. But if someone offers me money for my story, I’m going to take it. The world needs to know about these monsters.”

  “So you’ve said. And this new crime unfolding in Kings Cross—allegedly the work of deranged serial killers—you think it’s connected?”

  Grant looked around to check on the kids. To his relief, Michael was ignoring him as much as possible and Annabel had moved but still slept.

  “I’m telling you, whatever killed those men is the same as what killed my Olly—the same thing that attacked me and left me for dead.”

  “What other evidence do you have that your tale of shape-shifting cannibals—”

  “Vampires.”

  “Cannibals or vampires… It’s still too fantastical to be believed, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say. I told you before and I’ll tell you again. Vampires killed Olly and if you check those bodies, you’ll see the same thing killed them.”

  “All right, we’ll have to stop there for now. Thank you so much for giving us some of your time today, Mr. Rodriguez. There you have it. Are these murders attributable to monsters of legend or simply monsters of men? Anyone interested in the former can check out the newly established historical museum at our own Wattlebrook farm, which has a wing dedicated to the killer who slaughtered his family and manservants there almost one hundred years ago. It has gone down in history as one of our country’s most violent crimes, and with this new footage and allegations from a potential witness, perhaps the most fascinating.

  “Stay tuned to hear from leading police psychologist, Dr. Carmen Portman, and her thoughts on the alleged supernatural nature of this crime.”

  Grant sped past a sign to turn off to the museum. It was dripping with fake blood and two enormous plaster fangs at the bottom. His jaw set against this commercialization of his childhood nightmares and the very real crimes being spoken of on the radio.

  Parking the car a fair distance from the entrance, he heaved a sigh of responsibility and looked at the dry paddock outside. “We’re here,” he said. “Mickey, get your sister out please.”

  Michael didn’t move, but his music still blasted into his brain. Grant’s forehead wrinkled with irritation, and he put his hand on the back of the passenger seat, turned around and grabbed the cord of the headphones. Michael jumped and grabbed for them back as they popped from his ears.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea?”

  “We’re here!”

  “I know. I’m not blind.”

  “So get your sister. You’re the one who wanted to come here in the first place. Remember?”

  Michael glared for a moment before nodding then unlocking his door. Grant gripped his hands on steering wheel, took a deep breath then got out of the car. He watched as Michael unclasped Annabel from her seat and pulled her out of the car so she could run around to grab Grant’s leg. Grant looked up and down the lengths of cars at the converted farmhouse in the distance. Beyond it and all around them was nothing but untended fields and copses of eucalyptus. Insects buzzed in the late afternoon sun, but the heat was vanishing as the sun’s reflections painted their dying colors on the clouds.

  “We should’ve come during the day. Wouldn’t have been so many people here,” Grant said.

  “The tour’s only at night, Dad.” Michael started for the museum.

  “Yes, I’m aware.” Grant picked up Annabel and strode after his son.

  Grant watched as a few other families and a lot of older people filed up to the building clutching tickets, eating bags of snacks and drinking
water. Sweat beaded on some faces, he guessed from visitors from the coast, unaccustomed to the heat.

  When they finally reached the steps of the museum, Grant watched from a balcony groaning with creeping white roses as the last light of the sun disappeared, and they had only stars to illuminate the way. He looked in his pocket for the tickets when he heard something in the trees by the side of the house. He stepped over creaking boards, hefted Annabel in place and looked out into the darkness. Something rustled just out of sight and just as Grant was straining to see what it was, the floodlights flicked on and illuminated the surrounds in blinding halogen.

  Blinking back sudden, temporary blindness, Grant saw two blurred figures appear before him. As they came into clarity, he took in their pale, muscular physiques. One was older, with leathered skin, stubble and hair tufting out of the top of his chambray shirt. His blue jeans were worn around the cuffs and sat on leather boots. He had an air of old-world machismo to him. His face was hidden in the shadows of a wide-brimmed hat. His companion, on the other hand, was blond and much lither. His chest still bulged through a white T-shirt and his jeans were full in all the right places but beside the rougher, older man, he was like a child. In fact, in some ways, they looked similar, as if they held some common ground.

  The two men glanced at Grant and his daughter and the younger one tipped an invisible hat to him before they continued around to stride up the stairs, past Michael, to enter the museum. Michael went to his father’s side, not noticing the strange couple as they vanished into the darkness within.

  “What’s wrong? Did you forget the tickets?” Michael said.

  Grant shook his head and clenched his jaw, “No, I didn’t. They’re right here, Michael.” He pulled them out and fanned one to his son, who snatched it away and started inside.

  Grant almost lost Michael in the dim interior and the sounds of shuffling, breathing and eating from the rest of the audience was overwhelming. He tried to check his watch, but it was too dark to see, so he gave up and sighed again.

  “What time does it start, son?”

  “Eight.”

  “Right.” Grant looked at Annabel. “You wanna stand up or you happy up here?”

  Annabel’s eyes were glazed with exhaustion. She laid her head on his shoulder and put her thumb in her mouth, shaking her head in the process.

  “Right,” said Grant again.

  They only had to wait a few more minutes before a low drumming started and a spotlight illuminated a movie screen at the front of the room. The audience shifted in place like one giant organism, moving so everyone could see past all the other heads. The drumming switched to organ music, jaunty yet horrifying with its screeching tones. The light dimmed and was replaced by a slide photograph from the turn of the century. In it, a young man stood in front of a much smaller version of the homestead, flanked by his parents. It was far less dilapidated than it had been before getting renovated. Another slide appeared of a larger house and a crew of servants materialized around the family. The son looked sullener now, something like his own, and Grant couldn’t help but smile at the evidence that even back then, teenagers were hell. Grant stared at the image as the music softened and a voice started up to drone on about the history of the property.

  One of the servants in the slide, a blond boy to the right of the family, reminded him of someone. He couldn’t quite place the face before the slide vanished and was replaced by a time-lapse montage of the house falling into disrepair. Looking at the home the way it had been as Grant had grown up, he could recall being a teenager himself and going for drives out as far as they could before the roaring sounds filled their souls with dread and they ran away like the little boys and girls they had been. Even though the museum had popped up out of nowhere, the memory of the roaring monster that had stalked the dark hills had never been explained.

  Lost in his memories, Grant was surprised when the lights glowed on and doors opened to usher them into the next part of the exhibit. He followed his son as best he could, past hundreds of photos of disemboweled animals and the occasional censored image of a dead human. He was glad his daughter had fallen asleep in his arms. In one room was a wrecked, orange rental car—the same one that the most recent victims had been driving. Before Grant could read the plaque, he realized Michael was no longer in his sights.

  Pushing through the crowd and past life-size monsters from B-grade horror movies, he came to the exit, looked outside and didn’t see his son. Fear dropping into his chest, he elbowed back through the crowd until they ebbed away to nothing back in the room with the smashed vehicle. Here, he found Michael talking to the two men he’d seen come out of the bushes before they had come inside.

  “Michael! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Michael jumped and spun around, blushing. “Nothing, Dad.”

  “Get over here right now.”

  “Why should I?”

  “You should obey your father,” the older man said with a smile.

  Michael blushed even harder then walked over to Grant.

  “Thank you.” Grant looked at the two men. “I’m sorry, but what are you still doing here? I think we’re meant to have moved on.” Grant looked at the blond man and realized where he had seen him before—in the photograph standing next to the boy of the house. In shock, he shook his head. “Can’t be.”

  The blond man smiled. “Something the matter?” His accent was clear and Australian but had a hint of something foreign to it. Grant wracked his brains trying to recall from where the servants had arrived.

  “Interesting accent. Where are you from?” Grant asked.

  “Not many people realize I have an accent. Well spotted.” The blond man came forward. “I suppose we now know where your son gets his intuition.”

  “What?”

  The blond man took another step forward. “He asked us to hold back in here, said he wanted to ask me a question. Then he accused me of being over a hundred years old and a vampire.” He laughed. “Isn’t that interesting?” His teeth were a little longer than normal.

  “That’s very rude of him. Michael, apologize to this nice man.” Grant felt hyperaware of his two children in the face of this unknown danger.

  “Why?” Michael asked. “They are. They were in those photos from the olden days.”

  “The photos?”

  “There’s no need to apologize. He was right, actually,” said the blond man. “I’m quite old. My friend here is even older. And we’re both very hungry vampires.”

  Grant bared his teeth in a replica of a smile. “That’s not very funny. What’re you doing here, Michael? Trying to embarrass me?”

  “I’m not trying to be funny,” said the blond.

  “Dad?” Michael held Grant’s hand like he was a little boy again.

  “Don’t worry, son. These men are just playing a game. You go ahead, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  “I hope we can trust you to keep this between us.” The blond man grinned. His canines were definitely too long now and hunger flashed in his eyes. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain what could happen if you don’t.”

  Grant nodded. “You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul.” He swallowed nothing and coughed. “Um, was that really you…in the slide?” Grant said, surprised he was able to speak at all.

  The blond man nodded. “We’re famous here, I suppose. We actually came here to look for someone. The person you all blame for the murders. Have you seen him?”

  Grant’s darted his gaze between the two men in panic. “M-Mack, you mean?”

  “My son,” said the older man.

  “Your son?” Grant nodded. “Right. So you’re, like, over a hundred years old.”

  “Holy shit,” Michael said. “This is so cool!”

  The older man widened his eyes and pushed up the brim of his hat. “I thought I told you to listen to your f
ather.”

  Michael jumped but didn’t run away.

  “Wait,” Grant said. “Let my kids go.”

  Jason smiled. “We’re going to let you all go.”

  Grant nodded. “Yeah, I know. Just…can you let them go now?”

  Jason shrugged and they both watched as Grant ran back to his son with tears in his eyes. He grabbed Michael’s shoulder. “Take your sister, Michael.”

  “What? I wanna stay. Are they really vampires? I don’t wanna—”

  “Michael! Take your sister and go to the car. Get in, lock the doors then wait for me. If I don’t come soon, drive straight home, okay?” Grant gave the keys to his son. “Don’t disobey me for once. And if they come for you, don’t let them in.” He leaned down and hugged his children. “I love you.”

  Michael must have seen the fear in Grant’s eyes, because he took the keys and nodded in silence. Annabel was straddled to his chest, still asleep. He didn’t move, though.

  “What’re you waiting for? Get out of here!”

  Michael nodded. “I love you too.” He didn’t look at the other men, just ran away.

  Both of the men came up and flanked Grant.

  “Here we are, alone at last.”

  Grant’s heart beat to a crazy rhythm. He gave a cartoonish gulp and waited, hands dripping with sweat and bowels desperate to evacuate. He nodded through the anxiety and waited.

  The blond one’s face went through a mixture of emotions. He seemed to go from playful danger to sorrow to some semblance of friendliness. He pulled away from the gruffer of the two and held out his hand for Grant to shake it.

  “My name is Jason. I’m sorry that I scared you, but you really have nothing to fear.”

  Grant shook his hand. “G-Grant.”

  Jason nodded back at the other man. “This is Allen.”

  Grant looked at him, and Allen gave a small nod.

  “We are out here looking for Mack. That wasn’t a lie.”

  “Are you really from this farm?”