“I’m not an officer. I’m a state trooper.” She thought of her new star. “As of today I’m also a special deputy of the U.S. Marshals Service.”
“Really? How very wonderful for you. Why, that’s the same title Jameson had.”
Caxton’s blood went cold hearing the name of the vampire. “Who is this?” she demanded, then regained control of herself. “I’m sorry. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Of course. This is Astarte Arkeley. The widow. I believe you’ve been trying to get my attention.”
Vampire Zero
Chapter 15.
“Yes! Yes, I have,” Caxton said. “Thank you so much for calling me. Can I ask who gave you my number?” It seemed like everyone had it these days—even Malvern.
“You may,” Astarte told her. “It was my son, Simon. He was quite intent on my contacting you. He seemed to think I could appeal to your mercy and convince you to stop your desperate pursuit of the vampire. I told him I would do no such thing.”
Caxton pulled over on the side of the road. This was important—she needed to focus on the call. “I’m kind of glad to hear that. I need to tell you something, Mrs. Arkeley. It’s sort of upsetting.”
“Then I’m very glad that I am sitting down. Please proceed.”
Caxton rubbed at her forehead. “Last night Jameson killed his own brother. He killed Angus. I was there.”
“How sad. I suppose the vampire attempted to kill you as well. That’s what they do, of course.”
“Actually—” Caxton stopped herself. She knew almost nothing about Astarte. She had no idea how far she could trust her. Deciding to err on the side of full disclosure, she said, “Actually he didn’t. I tried to kill him.”
“Which is what you’re supposed to do.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. I tried to kill him, but I couldn’t. He was stronger than I expected. Stronger than any vampire I’ve ever seen. He could have killed me easily, with just his bad hand, but he didn’t. He said he owed me something. You don’t have any idea what that might be, do you?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine.”
“Okay. Alright. Listen. I’d really like to come meet you. Today if possible. I’d like to sit down and ask you some questions about Jameson and the last time you saw him. Is that something we can do?”
“I think not,” Astarte told her.
“This is very important, ma’am. A man has already been killed and others are sure to follow. I wouldn’t ask, not in your time of grief, if I didn’t think it would help keep people safe.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Yet I find I don’t have any compelling interest in speaking with you further. I only called today out of a sense of courtesy.”
“Your husband is killing people,” Caxton said, trying not to shout.
“Allow me to correct you on that misapprehension. I doubt very much that you are initiated into the secret doctrine of theosophy, so I will attempt to explain what I mean. The murderous creature you are attempting to apprehend is not my husband. When he took his own life, my husband ceased to exist in this plane. His soul was lost. As a result he’s certain to regress in his path and be reincarnated as an insect or, if he is lucky, some variety of plant. It’s a shame, as I was hoping the two of us could evolve together, but that’s impossible now. His body may continue to move and to operate after a manner, but it is not Jameson, nor any part of the true being once called Jameson. Do you understand this?”
Caxton slapped the steering wheel. “No!”
“I was afraid you would not. In time perhaps you will learn to look within. Now I’m afraid I must go. As we will not be talking again, I wish to thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For making the last year of Jameson’s life more comfortable. The physical pleasure you gave him must have been some kind of solace. I’m sure you received something from your couplings as well, of course. He was an experienced and passionate lover, as I remember.”
Caxton put a hand over her mouth to stifle an abrupt laugh. “You think I was sleeping with him? Oh, come on.”
“It’s an age-?old story, Officer. When you put a man and a woman together in a perilous situation they will be drawn together, as irresistibly as magnets. There’s really no need to pretend that it was otherwise, dear. Honestly, I forgive you both. Good day.”
The phone rattled, an old-?fashioned sound as if an antique handset were being placed on its receiver.
“Magnets! Yeah, maybe, except this magnet is a fucking lesbian,” Caxton howled, as if Astarte could still hear her. She slammed the steering wheel with the palm of her hand again and then, when she was finished fuming, got the car back on the road.