'Til Undeath Do Us Part

'Til Undeath Do Us Part

Volume I of the Cryptid Series

Jessica Alter

www.cryptidseries.com

'Til Undeath Do Us Part Copyright © 2014 Jessica Alter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-311-25180-0

This book is dedicated to the readers of the Dome Trilogy.

I'm your biggest fan.

Thank you.

Also by Jessica Alter

The Dome Trilogy

Beneath a Sunless Sky (Book 1 of the Dome Trilogy)

Nightmare Specters (Book 2 of the Dome Trilogy)

Solaray Dawn (Book 3 of the Dome Trilogy)

Chapter One

Doctor Glass, thank you again for driving to Bellevue and consulting on no notice, the psychiatrist at Northwest Psychiatric Hospital said to the dark-haired, olive-skinned woman who walked the wide hallway beside him. She looked up from her tablet device, surprised. Her wide, brown eyes crinkled at their edges as she smiled at him, and her full lips parted to reveal her even teeth.

I was already in town for a book signing, because of Halloween and that movie coming out in November, she replied genially. Well, this particular patient clearly took his inspiration from Francis Ford Coppola's 1992 film—not Bram Stoker's literary work. While I appreciate seeing the homage to Gary Oldman's performance, it's curious a millennial didn't grab at the newer film series. What in his personality made him gravitate to a twenty-year-old film's vampiric anti-hero over the current film series' anti-hero?

As they strolled to the patient intake and reception counter, he mused, You'd think he'd not be so derivative, if he were so committed to being one.

Well, she said, nodding, he's a cinephile, not a bibliophile. However, his choice of vampiric anti-hero is hopeful news. The film has a tag line about love never dying, that it is eternal. He's seeking redemption, Dr. Marks, and I believe he can recover with intensive treatment. She winced. At least he's not a glitter-loving pedophile.

The psychiatrist grimaced. Forks is not on your itinerary, I take it.

And be mobbed by angry fans? She turned her right hand palm up. Fans of her books, not mine. Well, if you ever get a classical literary vampire in, give me a call. I've never seen one.

The psychiatrist laughed and nodded. Will do.

She stopped at the counter and turned toward him, holding her tablet device to her chest. Doctor Marks, how many patients have you had through here who genuinely believed they were cryptids of some sort or another?

He arched an eyebrow. Cryptids?

Yes, she replied, nodding. You know, creatures who exist in the greater mytho-historical record yet aren't scientifically proved to exist? You live so close to the last American rain forest, I'm surprised you haven't had people claiming to be Sasquatch brought in by park rangers for observation.

You know, he said, leaning on the patient check-in counter, we do have Bigfoot's bride here, if you're interested.

She cocked her head and nodded slowly, contemplative. Before she responded, her mobile phone rang. She set her tablet computer on the counter and removed her mobile phone from the inside pocket of her tailored wool coat. Frowning as she read the caller's identity, she put up her index finger and turned away from the psychiatrist.

Yeah, it's Maggie. She paced with her head bowed, resting her left palm on her forehead. And she actually thought this was a good idea. She huffed. Yes. Fine. I will see you in Phoenix. She ended the conversation, switching her mobile phone to her left hand before she extended her right hand to the psychiatrist. She leaned forward, and they clasped hands. Pumping his hand, she said, Next time. Thank you, doctor. I've got to board a flight to Phoenix.

Phoenix?

Vampire, she replied, shaking her head. Well, serial killer with supposedly vampiric traits.

Oh, wow, he said, concerned.

She released his hand and slipped her arms through the sleeves of her navy-blue woolen coat before she shrugged it on. She picked up her tablet from the counter and held it to her chest. This is why I warn other professionals away from publishing pop-psychiatry or pop-psychology. It interferes with the real work. Keep me updated, please, through my office.

As the dark-haired psychologist passed through the entrance to Northwest Psychiatric Hospital, the intake nurse looked up at the psychiatrist, curious. Was that . . . ?

Dr. Margot Glass, the psychiatrist replied, nodding. The Vampire Psychiatrist.

* * *

Maggie Glass stood by the luggage carrel for a flight arriving into Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport from San Francisco International Airport. Her own black rolling cases and suit bag were set on the floor beside her.

A tall, balding man with messy, sandy-blond hair and sallow skin reached the midpoint of the escalator. His rumpled brown suit and askew tie were as misfit as he was. He leaned away from others on the escalator as they passed him, drawing his brown carry-on bag to his body as he pressed himself to the moving black handrail. His hazel eyes darted around as he muttered quietly. Maggie waved her arm over her head in a broad, slow sweep. He noticed her and tripped as he stepped off the escalator. Clenching his jaw, the man lumbered toward her. He stopped in front of her. The gangway was like a chimney.

It's the desert, she said, looking up the two-story escalators which connected the terminal level to the baggage claim area. Did you see Kali?

I didn't look.

She eyed the brown carry-on duffel he dropped on the floor at his feet. Is that your only bag?

Yes.

Edward, we're going to be here a while.

Women pack too much.

Maggie pointed up the escalator. There she is.

A curvaceous Indian woman in her mid-twenties rode down the long escalator, chatting merrily to other travelers. Her jeans were covered with hand-painted paisley designs in bright colors; her snug, tie-dye tee shirt had a dancing Durga printed on it. Under the glittering multi-armed goddess were two words: BOLLYWOOD DEVI.

Maggie smiled broadly and told Edward to watch the luggage. She walked to the base of the down escalator. The Indian woman shrieked in delight, shifted her carry-on bag and her brightly-colored laptop bag, and eased past people to descend faster. She bounded from the escalator, and the two women hugged and rocked together. I am so excited! It's our first real field work!

Maggie released her. How was your flight, Kalyani?

For-ev-urr! New Delhi to SFO was, like, the nightmare of all nightmares. I decided to talk myself into a first class upgrade SFO to here, said Kalyani. Maggie eyed her, and she laughed. I bought the upgrade when they offered it at the gate, Mags.

They neared Edward, and Kalyani opened her arms to him. Reluctant, he hugged her and winced when she laughed loudly. How was India?

Ugh, do not get me started, Edward, said Kalyani. Just get me to a laundromat.

Thank you, God, he muttered.

So, field work? Kalyani looked between Maggie and Edward.

We're here for her. Edward lifted a brightly-colored, soft-sided suitcase from the turning luggage carousel. He grunted as he moved it among the brown and black luggage. Is this it?

Kalyani scoffed. You wish. Men just never pack enough.

* * *

Maggie returned to the extended stay hotel suite after visiting the police station. The two-bedroom suite had one bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a second with two twin-sized beds. A kitchenette with a microwave, a refrigerator, a toaster oven, and a two-burner electric stove top was installed along the wall near a sliding glass door. Beyond the glass door was a narrow patio which looked out onto the hotel's rear parking lot. On the counter top near the toaster sat a drip coffee maker. Beside it, a small plastic tray held a stack of four-ounce foam coffee cups and packets of powdered creamer and sugar. Near the tiny kitchenette, a small round table with four chairs was set. Farther away, a couch and a coffee table faced the sliding glass door.

Kalyani sat at the small round table, her laptop open in front of her. She reviewed her research as she typed a report for Sanctuary Initiative. Edward sat on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. He read a dog-eared paperback of Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula. Maggie dropped her purse near Edward's feet on the coffee table, and she flopped beside him on the couch. I felt really stupid there in that room with those FBI profilers, Edward. This is federal, not local. The string of murders stretches from NYC to here, on a winding path. The Midwest and South were hit the hardest. Why would you get me involved in a serial murder investigation?

It's the real thing, Maggie, he replied.

Too feral, she said, shaking her head. Exsanguination is present, yes, but the victims' throats are ripped out just afterward.

Kalyani looked up from her laptop screen. You said that they do that in—

I said they do it when they are feral, yes, but I have not yet seen one which hasn't been made feral by torture. This one is in the wild, not just coming out of the dungeon headed for the arena. Maggie covered her eyes with her hands. They think I'm a crackpot pop psychologist, guys. I heard them laughing at me.

It is, Edward insisted, stern, the real thing. He stood and walked to his bedroom door. Get some sleep, Maggie. We're visiting psychics all day tomorrow.

Maggie uncovered her eyes. Kalyani looked at Edward, bewildered. Psychics? Why psychics?

Because it's a lesser-known myth that they're superstitious, Kali, said Maggie.

It's not a myth, Edward rejoined. Go to sleep, Maggie. We have a lot of city to cover, and I'm not looking forward to talking to the hundred frauds before we find the one, real psychic.

She paused before saying, Edward, you know my opinion on psychic phenomena. Just because—

Don't. He entered his bedroom and closed the door.

So unfair he gets the bathtub and we get the stupid shower stall, Kalyani grumbled. She sighed. So, would now be the time to tell you we got a hit on that last cryptidhunter-dot-org specimen?

Maggie stood slowly. What do you mean by hit?

Kalyani waved toward the report she was compiling on her computer. Every test I was able to do on it tells me it's not a dog. Well, okay. Mostly not a dog. It's canid . . . ish. Closest to canines but it's definitely not a dog. She looked up at Maggie. It's been two years. We were bound to get a real one at some point. So, I was going to tell the group who found it—

Maggie looked over Kalyani's shoulder. Are you one-hundred percent sure this isn't an inbred dog? Overbred? Cross-bred?

Okay. Without access to genome mapping, I am not one-hundred percent. I am, however, ninety-nine point ninety-nine. This isn't a dog, Maggie. Yes, it is dog-like, but it is off. Kaylani frowned up at her. I thought you'd be happy. I just confirmed what you saw in that place. In that arena.

Maggie turned away. Tell them it's a dog.

You said—

I know what I said. Maggie turned back to Kalyani. We have nowhere to put a live one, even if we caught a live one. There is no way we can finance even going to look for a live one. If you confirm, they will be hunted to extinction.

Sighing, Kalyani returned her attention to her laptop screen. Can I call it unconfirmed, at least?

Sure, yes. Say it's waiting on genetic testing. Maggie paced between the table and the kitchenette. This . . . right now is not the time for all of this all at once.

I'll hold back my findings from the website, then, said Kalyani, and send the unconfirmed result to the group who sent the chupacabra. But I'm telling you right now that this is an undiscovered species, Maggie, which needs to be presented to the scientific community. It could get protection from nature conservancy groups.

Poachers get around them, Kali. You know this. The world is not ready for chupacabras to be real. People will hunt them to extinction if they learn where the remains of that one were found. We just don't have the resources. Not yet, anyway.

Kalyani nodded, somber. Unconfirmed, then.

Thank you.

* * *

Dressed in a poly-blend brown skirt and a white-and-tan striped collared blouse, Michelle straightened her tan apron and brown name tag pin. Her orthopedic tan shoes matched the tan stripes of her uniform blouse and of her apron. Her long, blond hair was braided neatly and hung just past her shoulder blades. The tail end of her French braid was bound by an elastic which matched her skirt. Her co-worker, Belinda, pushed open the women's room door. The car just pulled up, Mickey.

Michelle looked at herself in the mirror, anxious. She washed her hands and looked down and away. I'm so fat.

Honey, you are not fat. Your customers need you out on the floor, so scoot, said Belinda. She moved aside as a female patron entered the restroom. C'mon, Mickey. He's probably already seated. It's nine.

Michelle eased past the customer and left the women's restroom. She smiled broadly as she passed the cashier station. As she walked past several booths in her section, Michelle asked patrons how their meals were or if they needed drink refills or if they had opportunity to look over the dessert menu. She reached a booth where a dark-haired, brown-eyed, clean-shaven, pale man sat. She stopped at the edge of the table, and he looked up at her. He smiled broadly. She crouched at the edge of his table and smiled up at him. Eating tonight or coffee as usual, sir?

He rested his cheek on his fist and smiled at her, shaking his head. How many times must I ask you to call me Henri before you do, Michelle?

She pointed at her name tag. As many as it takes to get you to call me Mickey?

"Mickey does not suit you well. You are la belle Michelle. I cannot speak this Mickey and think of anything but a rat."

A rat? she asked, tittering nervously.

The rat in the films, he replied. He lifted his hands and bobbed his head left-to-right. The comedy rat. It has the big ears and the child's voice.

She laughed and stood. He's a mouse, Henri.

He smiled broadly. It is not you to be the mouse, either. And I shall have the, euh, the pie. With the coffee.

What kind?

He leaned forward. In a seductive purr, Henri asked, What is your favorite?

Michelle winced. Cherry pie with vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce. It, um, well, it's good.

Henri nodded and patted the tabletop with both of his hands. Then it is what I will have.

Okay. Michelle left the table and walked to the waitress station. She filled fresh soda glasses for her other customers from the fountain dispenser. Belinda walked quickly to her as Michelle set the filled drink glasses on a large tray. Don't say it.

He was watching you walk away again, whispered Belinda. Is he just drinking coffee all night again?

Pie this time, said Michelle. Cherry à la mode with hot fudge.

Ooh, said Belinda as she prepared the coffee maker to brew a new pot of coffee. That man likes you, Mickey. I have never seen anyone but you eat it that way. I'll handle the coffees and his pie. You take care of your other customers.

Michelle walked the dining room. Many of her customers were late-night regulars who requested her personally; she chatted with an older couple as she cleared a table and wiped it clean. Carrying a tray filled with dirty plates, she looked up as Belinda delivered the pie to Henri and refilled his coffee. He took a bite and winced, setting his fork aside on the plate.

Blushing, Michelle resumed her work. She cleared dishes, delivered checks, and escorted patrons to the register. When she returned to Henri, he sat with his arm stretched across the back of the booth seat. The molded glass dessert plate was empty, save for scattered pie crust crumbs, creamy melted ice cream, and scrapings of hot fudge sauce. She removed the plate from his table as he sipped his black coffee. She turned away. He asked, Will you not ask if I enjoyed it?

She turned back, avoiding looking at him. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have suggested it.

Michelle, he said calmly, I did enjoy it. Do not be sad.

She looked at him in despair. Henri, you're so worldly. I haven't even gone to the Grand Canyon. Or, or Tombstone. It . . . you keep coming back night after night, stay all night to talk to me.

He sat up, alarmed. You do not like this?

Michelle looked around the mostly-empty restaurant; then, she sat on the padded bench across from him, still holding his dessert plate. I love it, Henri. I love hearing about where you've gone, what you've done, what you've seen. I just don't understand why you keep coming back here. This place isn't fancy or special. Our coffee is honestly terrible.

But the company, he said, leaning forward to rest his hand on her free hand, is not. They sat in silence, looking into each other's eyes. I wish to take you to dine elsewhere, Michelle. A date. When are you able?

Her hazel eyes focused steadily on Henri's dark brown eyes, Michelle whispered, I'm off Mondays and Tuesdays. Uh, nights. The nights.

Henri patted her hand and reached into his inside coat pocket. Then we meet here on Monday night, at eight in the evening. We will find for you a place both fancy and special. Setting several folded bills into Michelle's hand, Henri curled her fingers around the cash. He stood and looked down at her as she stared up at him, dazed. "Until Monday night, cherie."

Mickey, she whispered, mesmerized by his dark eyes.

Henri smiled broadly and chuckled. He released her hand and walked out the diner's front door. Belinda strode quickly and stiffly to her. Do not tell me that lothario sweet-talked his way into a dine-and-dash, Mickey.

Michelle shivered out of her stupor and uncurled her fingers. Belinda leaned forward and examined the wadded bills in Michelle's hand. She counted out the twenty dollar bill and whistled slowly as she counted five hundred-dollar bills behind it. Leaning close, Belinda said, I won't tell the IRS if you don't.

Michelle nodded slowly. She looked up at Belinda, uneasy. He wants to take me out Monday night. Somewhere fancy and special.

Belinda crouched by the table. You didn't tell him where you live, right?

We're meeting here, Michelle said, contemplating the money in her hand. She balled her fist around the cash. Looking at Belinda, she grinned then giggled. Oh, my God! I'm going on a real date!

Belinda rested her hand on Michelle's shoulder. Mickey, he's a world business traveler, and you're only twenty. You be careful, understand?

Michelle slid from the padded, brown vinyl booth seat. I will. I'll have my phone on me. I'll call. Text you where I am. Don't worry. It's just dinner. I'll be okay, Bee.

Good girl, said Belinda.

* * *

Edward sat beside Maggie in the dimly lit room, across from a middle-aged woman wearing heavy night make-up. He looked at his wristwatch and sighed, impatient. Maggie leaned forward as the woman swayed, her eyes closed. Edward bounced his leg, shaking the table. The woman stopped swaying and opened one eye. I need—

Let's go, Maggie, he said, standing.

Sir, I need—

You need to stop. Edward scowled at Maggie. He wasn't here. He wasn't here just like he wasn't at the last half-dozen places. She's a fraud.

Maggie sat back and rested her hands in her lap. The offended psychic reader stood. I am not a fraud!

He picked up a tall votive candle in a glass and turned its bottom toward her. Edward tapped the grocery store price tag on the bottom of the glass. Let me guess. Twenty for the reading which, of course, you have trouble with until another twenty gets those psychic vibrations right. Then? Bad news and fifty bucks for a candle you bought at a grocery store for five. He slammed down the candle back onto the shelf. You are a lazy fraud, a cheat, a conniving bi—

Edward, Maggie said calmly. She stood and lifted her purse from the floor beside her chair. Pay her, please.

Pay her? he asked, offended. Maggie nodded. Edward looked around. She can't see anything but dead presidents. I suggest you follow us.

The psychic recoiled. Me?

He snorted. No, the dozen desperate family members of people you've bilked! You should be ashamed. This one woman's grandmother is crying because you lied and took that poor woman's food money. The woman went without, and she has no idea what's buried in her grandmother's backyard. He pointed at the shocked psychic reader. Find a useful career, or just read palms or toss down cards. You don't need talent for that, and if you continue on this path? Someone's dead granny will have the strength to tear up your little shop for the damage you caused her grieving family member.

He followed Maggie to the door. She stopped him and asked, Aren't you going to pay her, Edward?

He glared at the fraud psychic and threw down two ten dollar bills on the floor. Edward pointed at the over made-up woman as he shook his head ominously. All those earthbound spirits are mad and want you to make amends. You lied to their loved ones, fed them feel-good bull—

Edward? Maggie asked. We have more to visit today.

He shook his index finger at the psychic reader. Earthbound and here and pissed off at you.

Maggie walked to the front of the store and exited out to the bright daylight. Edward stalked past her to the car and stood at the front passenger door of the taupe rental sedan. She stopped at the driver's side door and unlocked all four doors with the key fob. He flung his door open and sat, yanking his seat belt across himself. With a loud click, the buckle was shoved firmly into the latch. Bouncing his leg, Edward clenched his jaw. Maggie sat in the car and closed her door gently. You're sure you—?

Yes, he said through gritted teeth.

Edward, we don't—

They won't stop nagging until we do. Turn on the car. This city is an oven.

Ah. Maggie looked at Edward. Have 'they' decided to guide you to the right one?

Turn. On. The. Car, he said slowly as he stared forward, seething. She did, and warm air flowed from the vents, slowly cooling as the air conditioner chilled the car's cabin. She says you know, Maggie.

I do not know. She looked over her shoulder as she backed the car out of the parking space. She put the vehicle in drive and turned it toward the thoroughfare. As cars passed the driveway, she said, You understand why I'm skeptical, Edward.

You wouldn't be if you were in my place, he muttered. Covering his ears, Edward shouted, Will you both shut up, already? We are looking! We are driving around in a million degrees, and we are looking!

Maggie glanced toward him and turned right to enter traffic. Let's get you some lunch. We'll phone Kali from there. I think we should hit the bars tonight.

Bars? He frowned at her. You don't drink, and I don't socialize.

Dance clubs, more specifically. This . . . madman will strike again tonight or tomorrow. It's the perfect place to hunt. He's done it before.

And you think it's a good idea to put Kali out there to be killed by a vampire.

Edward, he is a serial killer who strikes at night, exsanguinates his victims, and mauls the throat to do it. Kali is intelligent and perceptive, and she's read my damned book. It doesn't matter what this monster associates with. She'll be able to spot him as a predator, normal or cryptid. When she does, she can call the police. So can we.

Your bunica says you know why you, especially, can't go out tonight.

Shut up, Maggie said irritably. We're still going.

* * *

At dawn, Kalyani returned to the hotel suite. She tossed her key card beside her laptop on the small, round dining table. Maggie walked the main room, picking up trash. You didn't have to wait up for me, Mags.

I didn't. Where did you go after the bars closed?

I went with a bunch of people to an afterparty. This guy named Riley invited me and some other girls from the bar.

Edward left his bedroom in a brown striped dress shirt and brown slacks. He stopped and looked at Kalyani. Where were you?

I went to an afterparty 'cause I thought the VSK might show up there, Edward. It was real mellow, I had sodas, and I didn't drink out of anything I didn't open myself. I also carried my drinks the whole time, okay? At sunrise, I got a cab back here. I was really hoping he'd show at the party. Lots of people from clubs and bars all over the city were there. A ton of girls. More than guys, actually.

No one hit on you? asked Maggie. You're exotic and fit the romantic profile for a pseudo-vampire.

Kalyani laughed. A couple guys hit on me. A couple girls did, too.

Did they violate you? asked Edward.

Scoffing in disgust, Kalyani rolled her eyes. No. No one violated me, Edward.

Hm. That psychopath must be planning to strike tonight, said Maggie. Well, Edward needs breakfast, and he and I need to hunt down his white crow.

Kalyani leaned over her laptop, entered a search term, and clicked on the image search link. She moved her mouse, clicked on a thumbnail image, and a digital picture of two albino crows dominated the screen. There you go. I'm going to bed.

Wait until we leave, and set the privacy bolt, Edward said.

I was planning to. The vampires may be all tucked into their coffins, but the housekeepers are hunting in packs, replied Kalyani. Maggie smiled as Edward scowled. Kalyani laughed merrily and entered the bedroom she shared with Maggie.

As Edward and Maggie left the suite, her mobile phone rang. She answered it as they walked the hotel corridor toward the stairwell exit to the rear parking lot. He eyed her as she nodded and made noises of assent. I'll come in after breakfast. Thanks. 'Bye.

Police find a body?

Not yet. She stared forward as she set her mobile phone into her purse. They just want me to stand behind someone standing in front of a camera this morning. A police spokesperson is warning people to be vigilant tonight. She looked at Edward. I think we three should stay together tonight. I have a really uneasy feeling.

Your bunica says you know why.

Please stop using that word, Maggie said, turning forward to descend the flight of stairs to the parking lot.

Your grandmother Anica, then.

She stopped. Anna. Her name was Anna.

Edward passed her on the stairs. Not what she says.

Her lips pursed tightly, Maggie followed him down the stairs.

* * *

After the press conference, Maggie sat in a downtown lunch restaurant drinking black coffee from a paper cup. Edward sat across from her. A red plastic basket lined with a square of butcher paper was set in front of him, and he held a napkin-wrapped cheeseburger in his hands. He took another bite as Maggie's mobile phone alerted her that it received a new text message. She read the message and sighed. The press conference went national. My agent is going nuts because I got face time on the cable news channels.

Edward swallowed the bite of burger and nodded. Going to write another self-help book?

Are you?

Never.

Same here.

He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded toward the restaurant's front door. She looked over her shoulder in the direction he had nodded. Two women stared at them. One held a trade paperback. Not mine.

Maggie whimpered and turned forward, miserable as she covered her eyes with her left hand. She took a deep breath, smiled, and waited. Edward smirked as he chewed. The two women reached the table. Dr. Glass?

Yes, I am.

The second woman covered her mouth and pointed at Edward. Oh, my gosh. It's Edgar Case.

Maggie chuckled as Edward stopped chewing and winced. He swallowed and nodded. Edgar Cayce is dead and has been for a while. No, I didn't pick a sound-alike pseudonym. No, my name is not Edgar; it's Edward. No, I have never talked to him nor any of your relatives.

Taking the copy