Vampire Shift (Kiera Hudson Series #1) Read online

  If only they’d taken the time to study it then they would have seen the things that I had. It wasn’t magic – the clues were there if you looked for them. I’d always been like that. My father had called it my ‘gift’ – but it wasn’t really – I just had a knack of noticing things that others seemed unable to see. I saw stuff that other people missed. But it wasn’t magic and it wasn’t a ‘gift’, I called it ‘seeing’.

  But what about Luke? What could I see about him? Nothing. He was like a blank sheet of paper. Apart from his obvious good looks and incredible smile, it was the fact that he was a mystery that I found so attractive.

  Sinking beneath the hot water, images of the Blake boy lying dead with his throat ripped out rippled across the front of my mind. There were two things that troubled me. My father had often told me that you could tell a lot from a crime scene by the pattern of blood left behind. But that was the problem – there was very little blood for such a gaping wound. The brachiocephalic artery had been ripped apart and I remembered my father telling me once how he had worked on a murder where the victim had had their throat cut. Their life blood had pumped away through the wound in that particular artery.

  How then had there been so little blood at the murder scene of the Blake boy? Where had all the blood gone? It was almost as if it had been siphoned off. And what about the lack of footprints leading to and from the scene? I didn’t buy Murphy’s theory about the ground being too dry for any prints to be left. If prints could be lifted from carpets and lino floors, they could be seen in earth – however dry. But how had the killers got to the scene? The only clue was the hole made in the trees above, where the branches had been broken and smashed. It was almost as if someone or something had entered the crime scene from above. But that would be impossible, right?

  As I tried to examine these theories inside my head, I was startled by the sound of someone outside my bedroom door. Leaping from the bath, I wrapped a towel around me and went into the bedroom. Tiptoeing to the door, I listened to the rustling sound. Screwing up my eyes, I could see a shadow fleeting back and forth in the gap beneath my door.

  Reaching out for the key that I’d left in the lock, I called out, “Who’s there?”

  There was silence.

  “What do you want?”

  Then I heard the sound of footsteps rushing away. Holding the towel tight about me, I yanked open the door and peered along the landing. And as I did, I caught the last fleeting glimpse of a shadow disappearing down the stairs. My instincts told me to run after them, to find out who it had been. But with nothing on except the bath towel, I reluctantly stepped back into my room, and as I did, I noticed a small white envelope tacked to the door.

  Removing it, I went back inside. Across the front of the envelope someone had scribbled ‘Kiera’. Sitting on my bed, I opened it and a small silver crucifix fell out into my hand. Placing it on the desk beside my bed, I went back to the envelope. Studying it, my heart skipped a beat, as I could see from looking at it, that the person I’d seen sitting in the bar with their face hidden behind the hood, was the person responsible for leaving me the crucifix.

  Chapter Four

  I woke early, just before six. I didn’t want to miss breakfast, like I’d missed dinner the night before. The owner of the Inn seemed particularly strict on the rules surrounding meal times.

  As I pulled on a sweatshirt, jogging-bottoms, and trainers, my stomach groaned. It was then I realised I hadn’t eaten anything since before leaving my home in Havensfield the day before. As I made my way down to the dining area, I switched on my mobile phone. I scrolled through my contact list, until I came across ‘Sergeant Phillips’. I pressed the call button, but all I got back was an unobtainable tone. As I reached the dining area, I noticed the signal bar on my phone was red, indicating that it was unable to find a signal.

  Putting the phone in my pocket, I was frustrated that I couldn’t get hold of Phillips. I wanted to ask if he couldn’t find me some better accommodations. The old woman that I’d spoken with the night before trundled over to my table, which had been laid with a bowl, plate, and a mug. Apart from me, the small eating area was deserted.

  “Tea or coffee?” the old woman croaked, not looking up from a small pad she held in her liver-spotted hands.

  “Good morning,” I smiled, hoping to get off on a better footing with her than I had the night before.

  “Tea or coffee?” the woman asked again, and her eyes met mine with her glazed stare.

  “Coffee, please,” I told her, trying to keep my smile.

  “Bacon and eggs?” the woman asked, the pen poised over her note pad.

  “Just toast please.” Although I was hungry, I wanted to go for a run and I didn’t want to be bloated out with a stomach full of greasy bacon and eggs.

  “Toast,” the woman said, turning away and shuffling towards the kitchen. The dining area, like the bar, was decorated with cloves of garlic, but with one difference. Along the far wall was a small coffee table which was covered with a white lace cloth. On top were an arrangement of crucifixes and small bottles of water. With a black marker pen, someone had written across each bottle the words ‘Holy Water’.

  Smiling to myself – I wasn’t superstitious at all – I got up from my seat and crossed over to the table. The crucifixes were identical to the one that had been left for me the night before. Picking up one of the tiny bottles of water, I heard the old woman speak to me as she shuffled towards my table with a plate of toast.

  “They’re for sale, if you want one.” she said, placing the plate on the table.

  Putting the little bottle of holy water back with the others, I crossed back to my table and sat down.

  “Why would I want to buy a bottle of holy water?” I asked her, and took a bite of the toast.

  “For protection,” she said, pouring a cup of coffee.

  “Protection from what?” I asked, half smiling.

  Glancing back over her shoulder as if she were scared that someone might be eavesdropping, she lent in towards me and whispered, “From the vampires,” and her breath smelt stale and warm against my face.

  Looking straight back at her, I said, “I don’t believe in vampires.”

  “That’s what the others said when I tried to warn them,” she hushed and snatched another quick look over her shoulder.

  “Who?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

  “The other ones,” she sighed, starting to sound inpatient. “The other police officers who came here before you.”

  Looking into her milky-grey eyes I asked, “Do you know what happened to them?”

  “They -” she started but was cut dead by a gruff sounding voice from the other side of the room.

  “That’s enough, mother!” the voice said, and I looked up to see a fat balding man come waddling into the dining area. He wore a red chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a white apron that was smeared with old food and drink. His cheeks were flushed red and his forehead glistened with sweat.

  “The girl has a right to know!” the old woman barked at him.

  “There’s nothing for her to know!” her son snapped back. Then crossing towards the table with the bottles of holy water and crucifixes, he added, “and how many times have I told you to get rid of all this bloody nonsense?”

  “You keep a civil tongue in your head, Roland,” the old woman hissed. “This is still my Inn – it ain’t yours yet.”

  “But you’re scaring away all the customers,” he told her, his jowls wobbling.

  “It ain’t me that’s scarring ‘em off,” she snapped at him. “It’s those things – those creatures!”

  Roland saw me staring at both of them as they argued in front of me. With a fake smile stretched across his face, and wiping his meaty hands on his apron, he came towards me and said, “I’m sorry about mother – don’t be put off by what she says.”

  Munching on the last of the toast, I smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me, I’m not
easily spooked.”

  Hearing this, the old woman hobbled towards me and leaning into my face she gasped, “You will be.”

  Taking his mother by the arm, he escorted her from the room and back into the kitchen. Within moments, he had returned and came to clear away my empty plate and mug.

  “So what is all this stuff about vampires?” I asked him.

  “Just stories,” he said, without looking at me. “Okay, the town has had more than its fair share of strange goings on – but I don’t agree with all this scaremongering. It was good for business at first. People came from all over to visit the town, believing it to be infested with vampires. We did the Inn up as you can see, and we even did a roaring trade in those little crosses and bottles of water – but it was just a laugh – you know to attract the tourists,” he told me.

  “So what went wrong?” I asked him.

  “More and more murders started to happen. People started to go missing and then there was the grave robbing,” he said, wringing his hands together.

  “Grave robbing?”

  “Yeah, but it was more than that,” he said and his voice dropped to a whisper. “The bodies of those poor murdered souls were being dug up and stolen.”

  “By whom?” I asked him.

  “Greedy freaks – that’s who,” he spat. “The whole thing just started to get out of hand. People were making a lot of money – me included – off the back of the rumours being spread about the vampires. But people got bored or scared of The Ragged Cove, and just stopped coming. The guest houses started to empty, the restaurants had no bookings, and the High Street became deserted. So the incidents just got more and more bizarre, and I reckon it was all down to some of the locals, hoping that they could entice people back by strange evil-doings and stories. Everybody likes a good scare, don’t they?”

  “I guess,” I said. “But digging up the bodies of murder victims seems a bit extreme.”

  “Not if you’ve got mouths to feed and a business to keep going,” he said. “Folk will do the strangest of things to survive.”

  “But what about these murders?” I asked him, interested to see what his view was. Like me, he hadn’t been hooked on the whole vampire thing.

  “Undoubtedly there is a murderer in our midst,” he said, and again his voice had dropped to a whisper. “But I reckon all this attention is just encouraging him – getting him all excited like.”

  I didn’t tell him about the three sets of tracks that I had found by Henry Blake’s body; I let him continue to believe that the murders were being committed by just the one killer.

  “What do you mean ‘excited’?” I asked.

  “These serial killers love all the attention they get from the media, don’t they,” he said more as a statement than a question. “Seen it on the T.V. I have. They love it when the newspapers give ‘em a name like ‘The Ripper’ or ‘The Black Panther’, makes ‘em feel all important like – when really, they’re nothing but scum,” he said.

  “So do you have any ideas?” I asked him.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “Who this serial killer might be?” I said, staring at him.

  Then looking straight back at me, Roland said, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question? After all, you’re the police officer ain’t ya?”

  Getting up from my seat, I said, “I’m working on it.”

  “You make sure you do, pretty lady, ‘cos that sergeant of yours couldn’t find his own arse with both hands and a flashlight,” he said as I reached the door.

  Looking back at him, I said, “I’m sure Sergeant Murphy is doing his best.” But in my heart, I doubted that he was.

  Chapter Five

  The morning was overcast and dreary looking, but at least the rain from the night before had stopped. I didn’t know the area at all, and I thought I would spend the morning getting to know it. My first official nightshift started at seven, and I wanted to get a feel for the place and its people before I started policing it and them. If I were going to be successful in my new post, I would have to know my patch.

  Heading back in the direction that Luke had brought me the night before, I started a slow jog. There were no pavements and I had to keep to the side of the road. In some places the undergrowth was so overgrown, I had to run further out into the road. It wasn’t as if I were putting myself in danger, as the roads seemed deserted. Not one car or person had passed me in the twenty minutes or so that it had taken me to run all the way from the Inn to the outskirts of town.

  Slowing down, I looked left then right, trying to decide on which way to go. Then looking over my shoulder in the direction that I’d come, my stomach tightened and my heart sped up as I saw the hooded figure from the previous night. He was cycling towards me, his face hidden by the same hoodie he’d worn before. Turning front again, I turned left, wondering if he would follow me. I hadn’t gone very far when I glanced back again, and to my surprise saw him turn into the narrow road that I had taken.

  I tried to tell myself that perhaps it was just coincidence that he was cycling the same stretch of road that I’d chosen to jog along. But who was I trying to kid? He was following me. After all, I knew it had been him who had left that crucifix tacked to my door. But why? Perhaps I should ask him?

  Slowing to a standstill in the middle of the road, I turned around, and with my hands on my hips, I faced the oncoming hooded cyclist. Then seeing that I had stopped running, he stopped cycling. There was a long moment that seemed to stretch out forever as I stared at him and he stared back at me from beneath his hood.

  Turning my back on him, I started to run again, this time picking up my speed. After a short time I looked back, only to find that he had started cycling again towards me. I slowed and so did he, always careful to keep a good distance between us. What did this guy want? I wondered. And why wouldn’t he show his face?

  Again I stopped running and turned to face him. As I suspected he would, the cyclist stopped, and just sat and watched me.

  “What do you want?” I called out, and my voice sounded echoey as it travelled across the empty fields on either side of the road. “How do you know my name?”

  The hooded guy said nothing, but just sat on his bike and looked at me from beneath his hood. Then without warning, I ran as fast as I could towards him. He turned his bike around in the road and peddled as fast as he could away from me.

  Knowing that I could never catch him, I slowed, doubled up gasping for breath. Once I had stopped, so did the cyclist ahead of me. Turning his bike again in the road, he sat and watched me.

  Drawing in lungfuls of oxygen, I shouted as loud as I could, “Why did you leave me that crucifix?”

  The cyclist, whoever he was, didn’t respond, he just sat motionless on his bike.

  “I know it was you!” I yelled at him. Turning, I started to run again. Okay, I thought. If he wanted to play games, I could play along. Ahead there was a bend in the road, and running as fast as I could, I raced towards it. I rounded the bend and saw that it opened out into a wide open area of wild grass and sand, which led down through the cliffs and towards the cove. Off to the right was an outcrop of rocks. Diving behind them, I lay flat against the ground. From my hiding place, I could hear the sea crashing against the shore in the distance, and the sound of seagulls as they squawked overhead.

  Peering around the rocks, I watched as the cyclist rode his bike onto the open area. He stopped, and looked from left to right, his hood never moving, not offering the smallest glimpse of who was beneath it. After a few seconds, he rode forward and headed towards the rocks. As he drew nearer, I could see that his hands were covered with gloves, and apart from the dark black hoodie, he wore blue jeans and trainers. There was a chill in the air, but I found it odd that he was so snugly wrapped up and wearing gloves. It was as if he didn’t want to show any of his skin.

  Squatting on all fours, I waited for him to draw level with the rocks. When he was almost on top of me, I sprang from my hiding
place and made a desperate grab for his handlebars. I managed to get hold of one before he twisted them away and out of reach. Holding on as best I could, the bike wobbled and the cyclist steadied himself by slamming both of his feet down into the sand.

  “Who are you?” I hollered at him, his head lowered so I couldn’t see beneath his hood. “Tell me who you are!” I demanded.

  Without so much as a murmur, he rolled the bike backwards, dragging me along with him. Losing my footing, I fell forward, letting go of the handlebar. As I went down, I caught my wrist on one of the bike pedals, tearing the skin from my wrist. Crying out in pain, I rolled into the sand and cradled my bleeding arm. Seeing that he had cast me loose, he pedalled as fast and as hard as he could away from me and down the narrow lane towards the cove.

  “Come back!” I yelled after him, but he was soon gone, disappearing amongst the rocks and cliffs. Rolling onto my back, I gripped my bleeding wrist in an attempt to stop the flow of blood. It oozed through my fingers, in red sticky rivulets and for just the briefest of moments, I felt dizzy and the world seemed to turn black.

  “Are you okay?” I heard someone say.

  Opening my eyes, I looked up to see Luke standing over me, a concerned look etched across his face. “What happened?”

  “I fell over,” I said, trying to get to my feet.

  “Come here,” Luke said, offering me his hand to help me up. It was then that he saw the blood flowing through my fingers and he almost seemed to flinch in horror.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, getting myself to my feet. Again I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed unable to take his eyes off the blood that now ran up my wrist towards my forearm and dribbled from the tips of my fingers. The colour had drained from his face and he looked suddenly unwell.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him, and he took a step backwards.