Long Black Cadillac Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  More from BA Tortuga

  Readers love BA Tortuga

  About the Author

  By BA Tortuga

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  Copyright

  Long Black Cadillac

  By BA Tortuga

  When cop-turned-vampire-hunter Vance is sent to eliminate a bloodsucker from the Louisiana swamps, he figures it’s just another day at the office.

  But he has no idea what he’s getting into.

  Clay is no ordinary vampire, and the spark he lights in battle-scarred Vance is anything but average. Clay should be the enemy, but Vance is powerless to fight something that feels so right… and so damn good. In Clay’s expert hands, Vance might realize he’s misjudged vampires and that donating a little blood can be sexy as hell.

  Clay might even ride to the rescue and save his new love when Vance’s mission goes south and Vance becomes the hunted instead of the hunter. Along with his human familiar, a crazy Cajun named Remy, and the enigmatic older vampire Gryphon, Clay must get to Vance before it’s too late. Then they can find the man who betrayed Vance and take their revenge.

  But faced with lies and motives darker than they ever imagined, they’ll have to wade through blood and fight their way to a happily ever after….

  This is Julia’s fault. Totally.

  Chapter One

  JESUS FUCKING Christ, he was tired. Not sleepy. Shit. After last week’s little blowup at the Hot Rod, Vance didn’t figure to ever sleep again.

  Goddamn bloodsuckers trying to muscle in on an honest man’s territory.

  Well.

  Okay.

  Honest was a big fucking stretch, but fair was fair, and these crazy bastards came armed with teeth and that weird-assed charming thing, and they were hard as fuck to take down. Damned place was crawling with them, and they were sucking people’s blood, and that was unsanitary.

  Besides, sucking blood was something bugs did.

  Christ.

  Still, he hadn’t had to kill one before and it was creepy as all fuck, with the smell and the melty and all. Give him a nice easy drug bust any day. This cowboys-and-Indians thing was complicated enough to make his back teeth hurt and his neck itch.

  He stretched out in the booth, waiting for the pretty little gal working the bar to bring him his patty melt and Bud Light before the drunk bridal party at the table beside him made him have a psychotic break with reality.

  For chrissake, didn’t anyone drink at home anymore?

  His cell rang about ten minutes into the weirdest goddamn patty melt in fucking history. The bread was all swirly, part white bread, part… what? Pumpernickel?

  He hated Georgia.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Where are you, son?” That voice was old-school Virginia, smooth and weirdly rounded.

  Vance bit back the growl, but just barely. Good ole boys. Had to love ’em. “Fucking Georgia.”

  “I heard the beast in Greenville was less than cooperative about your request.”

  Well, no. The bloodsucking bastard had coldcocked his happy ass and proceeded to damn near drain his scarred self dry. Good thing he’d been way more ready to die earlier in his life. “Something like that, yeah.”

  “That’s a shame, son. That’ll put you on their radar.”

  Vance guzzled his beer. “Well, man, I kinda got a rep for that shit.”

  Ten years with the PD. Ten years playing Vinnie De Marco so close that it felt right hearing that name hollered out when a lover came, and someone had still made him.

  Made him and showed him things about pain he’d never forget as his reward.

  He’d been working for the Colonel for going on two years now, caging the monsters some places, encouraging ’em on their way in others. Money wasn’t bad. Colonel kept him supplied. Kept him busy. Kept him.

  “What?”

  “Pay attention, son. Louisiana. There’s a ticket in the Atlanta airport. There’s a bar about an hour south of Shreveport with a problem.”

  “Who the fuck cares about Shreveport?”

  “I do, and now? You do too. Get your skinny ass over there. Deal with it. Call me.”

  Pushy motherfucker always spouting orders like he was a real colonel and not some honorary Southern thing.

  “I’ll go tomorrow.” Vance was tired.

  “You’ll go tonight.”

  Red flashed in his head, and he snarled low, loud enough the stupid drunks across the way shut the fuck up. “Let me tell you something, you old fuck. I will go down there when I’m damned good and ready and not one fucking second earlier.”

  No more bullshit.

  Not tonight.

  “Did he bite you?”

  What the fuck sort of question was that? “No, fuckhead. He fucked my ass until I screamed, and then I stabbed him through the heart with a custom-made, cross-shaped dildo. All that after I spanked his ass with a paddle shaped like a crucifix and made him cry. I’ll be at the motherfucking airport tonight. You better get me a decent fucking car this time.”

  He clicked the phone off before the Colonel could say another word.

  Goddamn.

  Vance tossed two twenties on the table and lit a cigarette, then blew the smoke out of his nose. One of the housewife hussy brigade stood up, stared down her nose at him. “You have a filthy mouth. You should be ashamed.”

  Vance took another drag, let his eyes trail down Ms. Fat, Older-Than-Her-Friends, and Not-So-Frequently-Fucked. “Yeah? Well, your tits are sagging to your knees. You ought to be stuffed and mounted like a six-point buck.”

  He’d left LA for this?

  Lord, it was going to be a long, long night.

  Chapter Two

  THE FUCKING Gator Hole.

  Vance finished his cigarette before killing the engine of the rental car. The Colonel could pay the fucking Avis folks for cleaning. No skin off his back. He’d come by when he got into Shreveport, but it was daylight and things were dead—pun intended—so he’d gone back to the Motel 6 and sucked on the business end of a whiskey bottle until he forgot he couldn’t sleep anymore.

  The drunk didn’t fucking last long enough, though, so here he was. Looking for signs that a fuckhead, bloodsucking bastard was squatting.

  It really would be easier if the lousy bastards left neon signs. “Giant cocksucking bad guy here.” Hell, he’d settle for a nice pile of bones making an X in the dirt.

  But no. They had to make it all challenging and shit. Maybe some guys got off on the chase and shit. Him? He wanted
to do the job and get the fuck out so he could collect a paycheck. Right. Paycheck.

  Last time he checked, the motherfucking Colonel did not pay his ugly ass to sit in a Chevy and stare at toothless Cajuns and rednecks. Vance rolled out of the car and stretched, hands checking that he had his shit with him. Pistol? Yup. Can of mace? Yup. Big fucking stick in an ankle holster? Yup.

  He felt like some pussy in a bad movie.

  At least George Clooney had a kickass tattoo in the vampire flick he’d been in.

  Vance stormed through the door like he was supposed to be there, heading straight for the bar. Booze first, death and decapitation later.

  The place was the worst kind of dive: smoky and hot, sour with the smell of beer and despair. The bartender was a bored, skinny kid with a goatee and a cap that said, “Fuck y’all, I’m from Texas.”

  Fucking figured. “Gimme a beer and a Jack chaser.”

  “Gimme eight bucks.” The kid popped a wad of gum, staring at him with blank eyes.

  “Your fucking beer made of gold, kid?”

  “What? Four for the beer, four for the shot. You don’t like it, there’s a titty place down the road called the Purple Pussy.”

  He handed over a ten. “Fucking appetizing, man.”

  God, he hated these hillbilly dives. You always had to worry about pet gators in the sink when you went to piss, or a mojo bag hanging from the mirror or something.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He got a beer and a shot of Jack, though, and the glasses were clean enough. He shot the Jack before he left the main bar area, the burn easing him off enough to let him wander back into the shadows with his beer. Hunting.

  Here, kitty, kitty.

  The place was ripe for it. Girls with cotton-candy lipstick and boys that smelled like weed were fucking everywhere. All that fodder. He glared at a couple of little rednecks, staring without a word until they gave up their table.

  He didn’t have to stay long enough to make friends.

  He’d been sucking on that damned piss of a beer maybe twenty minutes when the door opened, a good-looking guy in his late twenties staggering in, almost looking drunk already, but… not. No, this guy was pale, shaky, and hollow-eyed, but not drunk. Score.

  Ah, that must be an appetizer. Sorta like chips and salsa but less spicy. Bloodsucker had decent taste, though. Vance sighed and watched the guy, the door.

  The walking hors d’oeuvre went to the bar, leaned across to talk to the bartender, and passed over a fifty. He got a bottle in a bag in return and headed back out the door.

  Bingo.

  He slammed back the beer and moved, the chaos from the bar fading away from his attention. He couldn’t give a shit about the locals. He needed to take care of business.

  The guy stepped right out into the street, where a long black Cadillac sat idling, the motor purring like a big cat.

  “Hey, honey.” Vance’s voice caught the man up, the poor little bastard stumbling on the street. “Man, you gotta watch the company you keep. Let me have that. You don’t need any more.”

  He grabbed the bottle, spun the dude back toward the bar as neatly as a ballroom dancer on TV.

  “Hey! Man, I gotta… shit!” The guy stumbled hard, all but skip-jumping over the curb and running right into the wall. The window on the Caddy shushed down, hardly making a sound, and Vance got the impression of bright hazel eyes and a black cowboy hat before the Caddy squealed off.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake—a redneck bloodsucker in a Seville with a taste for…. He looked at the bottle. Okay, the jackass had good taste in whiskey.

  Vance headed for his car, getting ready to settle in to watch. He didn’t mind a stakeout. Not at all.

  Chapter Three

  GODDAMN.

  Clay pulled the Cadillac into his custom garage and parked it, then sat with his hands on the wheel a minute. The sun wouldn’t be up for hours, but he wasn’t sure he should go back out.

  Fucking hungry. He was so fucking hungry, because the kid he’d snacked on had been no more than a… what do you call it? An amuse-bouche.

  That little sip had just made him want more. But there was someone out there. That guy who had taken away his toy. And Clay needed to regroup and figure out what he was gonna do with someone playing fucking bully in his schoolyard.

  Tapping the steering wheel, Clay cussed. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was the top of the goddamned food chain. He started up and threw the Caddy in reverse, backed out, and steered it toward town. He was hungry. So he was gonna eat.

  Clay cruised down the back roads, seeing if he could find an easy mark, maybe a drunk on the way home. Sad as hell, how no one passed out on the side of the road anymore like back in the day. No, he had to go to town. Back to the bars.

  He eased into the parking lot of the Purple Pussy, rolling his eyes. The place smelled like shit.

  Of course, the rental car at the front of the building, blond bastard staring right at him from behind the wheel, was even shittier.

  Clay stretched when he got out of the car, giving his… whatever a good look. Stalker? Hunter? Shit, he could take the man. Then he sauntered for the club door.

  He heard the car door shut, the sound loud behind him. “You got a stronger stomach than I do if you can feed in there.”

  Turning slowly, Clay surveyed the guy. Carefully. Noting everything he could, including the man’s scent. “A man’s got to eat. Who in hell are you?”

  “Name’s Vance. The Colonel sent me down to move you along.” The man sounded about as bored as could be. Didn’t jibe with the huge black circles, the weird air of aggravation, really.

  “The Colonel. Well, ain’t that something.” What the fuck? What was this Colonel, and why did anyone care? “You tell him I appreciate the offer, but I’m in the mood to stay.”

  “Look, I can kill you or not. It’s up to you, but I really need to get back to LA, so let me know now.”

  “You can kill me. Huh. Well, you can try.” Clay had damn near had it. The bloodlust was just about to hit the fill line. Maybe the guy would try to take him down and he could tear out that pretty tanned throat.

  “Sure, man. Whatever turns you on.” Fuck, the guy moved fast, pistol in one hand, long, thin stake in the other.

  Clay ducked and weaved, letting the guy go whooshing by, but really, you had to admire reflexes like that in a normal human. He had what seemed both an eternity and a split second to decide what to do next, because the guy made a move, this time to shoot him.

  The bullet took him in the shoulder—not enough to damage him, but damn, it stung like a motherfucker. Of course, the sound had the place stirring, with people running around like they’d kicked an ant pile.

  “Fuck.” That guy was so going down. But not now. Now he needed to get away, because Polly at the Pussy would call the fucking cops.

  “Not today, stud. I prefer the sweet bottom boys.”

  Well, well. Maybe he should take this one back to his lair and play with it before he ate. Clay moved, knowing he was barely more than a blur, going for disarming and maybe knocking out.

  “Fuck.” Someone spent a lot of time playing with his kind, because even though the pistol went flying, the little fuck’s head didn’t.

  Growling, Clay twisted, pushing hard, sending the guy sprawling. Then he lunged again, trying to bash that head in like a baby seal’s. One steel-toed boot crashed into his ribs, the fucker heading for the gun, which was kicked away by someone in the crowd. Damn it. He had to move, had to get out of there. There was no way he could deal with cops before sunrise. Even the cops he’d bribed would have to put on a show. Clay spared one more minute to send the guy sprawling with a boot to the ass before leaping toward the Caddy.

  “I’ll hunt you down.” The man went rolling as a couple of rednecks got some kicks in on the outsider.

  “You come on when you’re ready to be supper, honey.” See him. See him have the last word before he roared off in the Caddy. Heading home. Hungry. Again.

 
Fuck, when things went bad, they always did it in a huge fucking way.

  Chapter Four

  VANCE WAS going to tear off the Colonel’s head and shit down his neck. After he found that fucking Cadillac and burned it to the ground. Shit, he fucking hurt. Good thing the third goddamn day was the worst. Good thing the three-day wait period for a firearm was up too.

  Vance hobbled out of the liquor store, bottle in hand, and headed for the hotel room. Another day, maybe two, and he’d beat that motherfucking bloodsucker into a pulp.

  Something, a flash of movement, caught his eye. A cry, cut off abruptly, reached his ears. That didn’t remind him of your average bayou mating call.

  Goddamn it.

  He tucked his bottle under one arm and headed into what he fucking knew was going to be a ball of trouble. The shadows behind the liquor store lengthened to run behind the bar next door, and that was where his alarm was going off; that was where the bad was. And damned if there wasn’t a long black Cadillac idling back there.

  Well, well. The pain eased up a little—even though the fucking bruises wouldn’t—and he pulled his lighter out. One bottle of whiskey. One lighter. One car. Could be fun.

  That plan would have worked great until the sound of running feet distracted him. And until a hard hand landed on his shoulder, twirling him around. Tall. Broad. Eyes like fucking holes in a blanket. That was his guy.

  “You know, you’re starting to really put a cramp in my style.”

  “It’s my job. Nothing personal.” Vance refused to back down, to give an inch. He was like a fucking bloodsucker magnet. Made his work easier and harder, all at once.

  “Uh-huh. Well, see, I’m not doing a job. I’m following a biological imperative.” That hand clenched on his shoulder, fingers digging in, sending shooting pain down his arm.

  Oh, fuck him. He was too fucking sore to play games. He grabbed the pistol, jammed it into the bloodsucker’s belly. “All you have to do is move into the bayou, man. Gnaw on an alligator.”

  “You gonna blow a hole through me, honey? Right here?” The man had a voice like warm sand. It was easy to see how he could charm folks into becoming his fucking food.