The Blood Thief Chronicles

[Fletcher]

With the window raised, the breeze carried snowflakes into the room, the fluffy flakes dancing in the air, fluttering to the ground. The old radiator in the room had kicked on ten minutes ago, knocking and groaning before finally coming to life. Somehow, the heat never quite warmed the room, even with the window closed. But Harry had a thing about smoking indoors, especially in his back room, where he enjoyed smoking half of the product he was supposed to move. He'd lost fingers to drug lords for making the mistake -- three of them -- but Harry was an addict. Dealers should never use their products; it started a cycle. How could a dealer push drugs and make money when he tore through the product before it ever had the chance to hit the street? While Harry drove his life into the ground, Fletcher didn't. She considered herself a businesswoman, because she ran her own show. She was higher up on the food chain, and she wasn't a junkie. She'd done a lot of partying, tried a variety of drugs, but none of it had been for her. She chose nicotine, going through two packs a day. That was her kind of ****.

Buried in a white, puffy coat, hood lined in faux fur, Fletcher brought her bare hands together and blew into her palms, warm breath easing the chill. She brought her cigarette to her lips, part of the filter pinched between her index finger and thumb, and took a long drag. She'd cleared a grand in a few hours, easily meeting her quota, so she didn't need to drag her *** back into the cold. She'd mocked Harry, reminding him, clapping her hands at him, because he'd spent all day checking in on his dealers. He had five guys and still didn't make a grand, while she only ran two. She called her two boys moneymakers; Harry called his cronies useless pieces of ****. And he wondered why they didn't bust their asses for him. Fletcher thought they were skimming, but she had no proof, and even if she did, she'd never tell the guy. He deserved what he got.

She took quick hits of her cigarette, until the burning edge nearly met the filter, then she ground it out on the windowsill, adding another burn mark to the wood, and tossed the remains out the window. Getting to her feet, Bearpaw grey boots leaving footprints in the snow that had gathered on the floor, Fletcher pressed both hands down on the window, fighting with the old thing until it slammed down and rattled the glass. She turned the metal lock on the window, forcing it to move, then closed the thin, stained curtains. The streetlight filtered through the curtains, lighting up tiny apples on the yellow fabric. At one time, the curtains had been white, a time before Fletcher, maybe before Harry.

They were gangsters, embroiled in a fight for survival. They ran the slums and owned a few cops, and they ventured out, spreading violence, extortion, and drugs throughout the city. They fought vampires; they fought monsters. Sometimes they fought themselves. Crime always came with betrayal, so maybe it wasn't so different from the law-abiding world. Fletcher hadn't aspired to be a gangster, not some drug trafficker, a peddler bound to ruin lives. She'd wanted to be a cop, actually. She'd wanted to make the city a better place. That changed when she realized most cops were crooked, trigger-happy morons, their only concern money. Even though she'd passed on being a police officer, she still found herself on the same damn road. Money made the world go round.

Fletcher grabbed her backpack from off a closed cardboard box. In chicken scratch handwriting, someone had marked it kitchen. Somehow, the box never quite made it there. She nudged the box with the toe of her right boot and heard the clatter of glass on glass. Maybe it was for the lab. She didn't want to investigate, so she slipped her arms through the straps of her bag and pulled it on, adjusting the grey polyester and leather bag before she headed for the door. The room, situated in the back of the building, didn't have a working lock, but the door still liked to jam. She had to wrestle it open and it creaked the entire way.

"Nice of you to get the hell out of my office."

"It's not your office, **** for brains. This isn't your place."

"I'm not in the mood for your **** today, Beatrix."

"Fine, Harold."

Fletcher made a point to bump shoulders with him as she passed, and she took joy in the way he stumbled back two steps before planting his feet. She hated her first name with a passion. Her parents were clearly demons, or at least delusional. Nothing about her screamed Beatrix. Some kids used to call her Bellatrix, and she'd had just about enough of that mess. As she made her way down the short hall, she heard the door slam shut. The man was digging his own grave. Fletcher bypassed the living room for the kitchen, easily ignoring the two gangsters tying off dime bags for tomorrow's runs. Fletcher moved dime bags easier than crystal meth or cocaine.

One by one, she opened kitchen cabinets, focusing on the upper cabinets, as the lower ones were filled with chemicals and paraphernalia. She'd bought a box of twinkies two days ago, but she pulled out an empty box and shook the cardboard box once, empty wrappers falling onto the kitchen counter. Sighing, Fletcher crushed the box and tossed it into the garbage can. She opened a kitchen drawer and found that her stash of lollipops hadn't been touched, so she rifled through the bag, searching for a mystery flavor; when she found one, she unwrapped the sucker and slipped it between her lips. Raspberry. Not bad at all. Fletcher balled up the wrapper and tossed it into the trash too.

"Who's the dick that ate all my twinkies and left the empty box?"

Fletcher looked over the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room. One of the guys glanced over his shoulder and blew her a kiss. She didn't know his name; he was a new guy, definitely a wiseguy. Seth? David? Randy. That was the guy's name. Fletcher smiled at him, then grabbed a kitchen knife and threw it at him. The blade flew past his head and stuck in the wall, barely missing him and the television. He let out a string of curses and got up, as if to intimidate her, so she stood up tall, knowing her 5'10" frame easily beat him by a solid five inches. The guy was short, and she internally mocked him for it.

"Sit down, Randy. She'll **** you up, bro."

"Listen to the nice man, Randy."

Steven chuckled, glancing back at her before he resumed cutting and weighing. Randy looked like he wanted to vault over the couch and take a shot at beating the **** out of her, so she gestured for him to come at her. He scowled, then returned to his seat. Steven patted Randy's shoulder, as if to reassure the man that he'd done the right thing. Fletcher knew all about ******* people up. She was known for killing fellow traffickers and dealers for less. She didn't like people taking her things. She didn't have much, so everything she owned meant a lot to her -- yes, even a box of twinkies. Fletcher stuffed one hand into the pocket of her winter coat, then called out a brief goodbye to Steven.

Fletcher slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her, then let the screen door slam shut behind her. The grass outside had a very fine dusting of snow, the flakes just beginning to stick to the sidewalk and street. She didn't read the paper or bother with the news. Every few minutes, more people died from the virus; every few minutes, vampires took humans by surprise. She didn't give a flying **** about that Whatever Act that had been passed. She'd dealt to vampires just the same as humans, and their money spent.

People in the city knew what the slums meant; the slums contained a supply of drugs and drug paraphernalia. Sometimes, people didn't mind driving through, popping into a den, and forking over a wad of cash; sometimes, people avoided the area like a plague. Fletcher preferred the malls or casinos or clubs, places where people gathered, some looking for a good time, others just jonesing for a fix. Other drug dealers had been moving onto her turf, and she thought it best to reach out to a few associates, buy a little extra protection. Harry hated the idea of working with blood thieves because they were dirty, and they fought dirty, but Fletcher didn't mind them. They had their own vices, and they didn't mind shaking some people down. They preferred vampires, for obvious reasons, but they still needed cash and places to lay low after feedings or dealings gone wrong.

She never met them in the open. They liked avoiding attention at all costs. So when she left the slums, she headed east, checking the first of many buildings on her list. Blood thieves always promised that they would find her, but she kept dragging their asses to the table, time and time again. Fletcher twirled the sucker in her mouth, sweet raspberry coating her tongue, then she exchanged a bland greeting with a bought cop. They were out patrolling again, and just so happened to gather outside of The Handle Bar, her first destination. She made a note to check the sports bar next.

"Staying out of trouble, beautiful?" Officer Howell -- Brian, to be exact -- constantly flirted with her. She tolerated him because he liked to look the other way. They were opposites, her hair blonde, short, swept to one side, while his hair was black and spiked with way too much hair gel.

"Always. What's up with the donut convention? I saw a soldier a block back, looked kind of nervous." She'd moved the sucker to one side of her mouth to speak, and when she was finished, she bit down on it, a satisfying crunch following.

"He says he saw one of them feeding. The guy just attacked. Lady said she can't remember a thing."

"This side of the city isn't that great, so I can't say I'm surprised. I've got places to go. Stay safe, officer."

Fletcher waved at him, then turned into the parking lot for the bar. As usual, bikes were lined up outside, and a few of the bikers mingled in the parking lot, taking refuge under a streetlight. One nodded to Fletcher, so she waved, remembering the man from previous visits. He was tall, hulking, but he was a sweet guy. Not her type, but sweet. A man exited the bar, door already closing behind him, but he snagged it and held it open for her. She expected him to make an attempt at flirting, but he let her inside and went to a blue motorcycle near the end of the lot.

The bar smelled like booze, cigarette smoke, and leather, but it was nothing new. Fletcher finished off her sucker, took the stick, and dropped it into an ashtray on the first open table she saw. Most of the patrons looked ordinary, and they congregated near the bar and around the pool table. In the back, four guys were in the midst of what was likely a poker game. A small pile of crumpled bills, loose change, and a watch made a centerpiece for the table. Fletcher wasn't one for beer, so when she made her way over to the bar, the bartender took one look at her and poured her a scotch on the rocks. She always started with the drink, the ice cube slowly melting with each refill. A man came up on her left side and patted her shoulder. She fought her instincts, deciding not to break the man's fingers or wrist. When she glanced over at him, she saw a familiar face. It was a good call, after all. And her luck was up for the evening. Andrew had a way about him, a don't **** with me vibe that Fletcher could appreciate. He was the leader of Fletcher's circle of blood thieves. When he didn't want to be found, he didn't want to be found.

"I'll have what she's having," Andrew said, pointing with his thumb at Fletcher's scotch. The bartender knew not to bother them, so he got a shot glass, filled it with scotch, and left the two alone. "Must be another cold day in hell. I wasn't expecting you until Thursday."

"**** happens, y'know. I guess one of your cronies delivered the message." She raised her glass to her lips, took a drink, and swallowed, their conversation starting off easy. Andrew clicked his tongue and eyed her in the mirror behind the bar. At the pool table, someone sunk another shot. "The boys and I are getting another shipment and we're looking for assistance during the, ah, delivery process. I've been seeing vampires in the area and I don't appreciate outsiders encroaching. You know that."

"We have dealings with vampires. Two hundred a pop. Why would I go back on the old agreement we've had in place for years just for you, darling?"

"Five grand."

"Hm. I didn't quite catch that."

"Eight grand."

"Speak up."

"Ten grand," Fletcher said, cutting the negotiation off. Andrew ran his tongue over his teeth and she saw the flash of fangs in the mirror. The man on her right saw the same image and decided to take his beer and relocate. "They've been robbing and killing gangsters and trying to make it look like police crackdowns. I don't want them interfering in this. It's my livelihood."

"You don't sound scared of them," Andrew noted. He finally turned to face her. Left forearm resting atop the bar, hand loose around his tumbler, he smirked at her. "You're ******* crazy, woman. You should be." Andrew used his right hand to lift up his grey t-shirt and show off the ugly scar on his stomach and side. The whole thing was discolored and puckered, as it had never healed quite right. Someone had been trying to take his liver. "This is bigger than drugs."

"They hate you because you're a leech, 'drew, and I'm not afraid of monsters."

"Ten grand."

"Ten grand."

"Be careful out there, sweetheart. It'd be a shame if someone messed up that pretty face." Andrew tipped his glass to her, then finished off his scotch. He sat the empty glass down on the bar, pushed it back toward the bartender, and left her there, rejoining a booth with two other men. Fletcher snorted at him. Andrew had watched too many of those foreign horror movies.

Fletcher feared God. That was about it.

[Fletcher]

Punctuality meant everything to her, so when the two members of her tiny crew didn't report in by five o'clock, she knew something was wrong. They'd worked together for years -- she trusted them with her life -- so the least she could do was investigate. And if it turned out that that time had simply gotten away from them, that they had deals they hadn't finished, she'd let the misstep slide and everyone would leave happy, her with seventy of the profit, them with thirty. That was the deal. Dressed in black slacks and a partially unbuttoned white dress shirt, Fletcher had dressed up well for the meeting, since they met in a parking garage and she didn't want to look suspicious. And if she was being honest, she looked intimidating as hell. Right hand in her right front pocket, she drummed the fingers of her left hand on her thigh. When she grew tired of waiting, she dug through her left pocket for her smartphone and sent a seventh text message. No one responded, so she tried calling again, intent on leaving a threatening voicemail; instead, someone picked up.

"Hello, Miss Fletcher." A man answered the phone, his accent thick, though she understood him just fine. Oddly enough, he sounded familiar. Still, she frowned, biting down on the inside of her right cheek. She listened to him breathing for a few seconds, unsure of whether or not she wanted to speak. She knew when to cut losses, even if it meant sacrificing men she considered friends, almost family. "I believe I have some friends of yours. Say hello, gentlemen," the man spoke, obviously putting the phone on speaker.

"Don't listen to him!" Danny. Fletcher shifted to nibbling on her lower lip, teasing flesh until it began to ache. Danny was the best of the two, the original from her first crew. She'd lost everyone else to the criminal justice system.

"I'm sorry, man. Please." James. He was eighteen, finally; they'd celebrated his eighteenth birthday by getting completely wasted and shooting the breeze in the basement of Danny's house. He was too young to die. He was a smart kid looking for extra cash to pay his mom's bills.

"As you can tell, they're alive."

"Who are you?"

"A friend of yours owes me thirty thousand, and I want my money. Word around town is that you run with him. You have two options: one, get me my money; two, bring me his head. I'd prefer option one, for obvious reasons, but if you choose two, I want his whole family, children included. Let's make an example out of him, right, Fletcher?"

"You mean Harry. What that guy does has nothing to do with me. He dug his own grave when he decided to be a junkie." Fletcher stopped biting her lower lip when she tasted blood, then she switched to licking the blood and soothing the burn. Harry meant nothing to her, but she wasn't a child killer. She had to draw the line somewhere. That wasn't her thing. "When do you want the money?"

"Tomorrow night, eight o'clock."

He sounded almost bored, but Fletcher knew better -- he was driven and ruthless. She had a feeling it was Alejo, since his crew had been spotted on the line from Cleveland and Buffalo, putting them around the area. He typically hired locals. He was a distributor, a big-time distributor. He'd started out slinging E and moved on up to the big time. He went from small fry to big time in eleven months. Fletcher sighed through her nose. Her warm breath became a puff of white in the cool evening. She didn't have thirty thousand, didn't think she could pull off thirty thousand, not when she'd already made payment to Alejo for her own jobs. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and sighed again, stalling for time. He asked for the impossible. She had ten thousand. That was it for her. She had a feeling Harry was in hiding; otherwise, Alejo wouldn't have bothered with her.

"Tick tock, dear."

"Alright, alright. Thirty thousand. Eight o'clock. Slums?"

"Sounds like a date. I'll take care of your friends while I'm waiting. Disappoint me and I'll make you watch me kill them. Have a good night, Fletcher."

The dial tone greeted her. He'd hung up without giving her a chance to respond. She knocked the phone against her forehead a few times and began pacing back and forth, first short strides, then long ones, feeling completely blindsided and at the end of her limit. She needed a smoke. She grabbed the pack and lighter from her right pocket. Hopping up onto the trunk of a silver Honda Civic, she rested her forearms atop her thighs and stared at the row of cars before her, eyes scanning over license plates to keep her distracted. Numbers and letters blurred together into colorful messes. Her hands shook as she tugged a cigarette from her pack and set the filter between her lips. The flame of her lighter swayed in time with her shaky motions. After she lit her cigarette, she did nothing but take puff after puff, seeking comfort in the nicotine. She wanted hard liquor, but it wasn't the time or place for that. She had a little over a day to pull twenty grand out of her ***, and she planned on killing Harry. That too. He'd dragged her into a shitstorm and she had yet to reach the eye. When her *** went numb, she slid off the car and went toward the stairs leading down to the first floor of the parking garage.

A woman on a mission, she finished off her cigarette and dropped the smoking end down onto the asphalt. As she stepped past it, she ground it out with the bottom of her boot, then continued on her route to the slums. Two blocks away from the den, she broke into a jog, her anxiety getting the best of her. She needed to wrap up her plans as soon as possible, if she ever wanted to get rid of the panic creeping along her spine. She blew through the front door, the screen door slamming behind her, the front door bouncing off the wall and swinging back to close itself. Fletcher slapped a hand on the door to fully close it and turned her attention to the shocked man on the sofa. Randy's expression shifted from shock to irritation and Fletcher pounced on the opportunity. She slammed her boot into the coffee table, sending it sliding to the left. Randy had no time to defend himself. She grabbed the front of his shirt and drew him in toward her face.

"Where is Harold? And don't you lie to me. I'll ******* end you."

"Get your hands off of me, dude! I don't know where that guy is!"

They both heard footsteps coming from the back of the home, so she took a step back, released her hold on the man's shirt, and slapped the back of his head. His head flew forward and he nearly toppled off the couch. Fletcher drew the gun she had at her lower back and checked it for bullets. Four. Perfect. Randy opened his mouth to shout for the person, but Fletcher put her finger to her lips, shushing him. She left the man there, his wide eyes following her as she circled around the couch and went toward Harry's office. As she moved in, she heard boxes and papers being shifted around, someone clearly in a hurry to get things moving. The door was closed and the heater was knocking, struggling to work, struggling to keep the room warm, so the person likely hadn't heard the door slam open or closed. Fletcher knocked the butt of her gun against the door and the guy started cursing. The door was jammed, so she waited for the moron to let her inside.

"I told you not to bother me, you useless son of a *****!"

The door opened and Fletcher jammed her boot in the doorway, preventing him from closing it. She used her shoulder to force her way into the room and completely threw the man off balance. He stumbled back into a cardboard box that overturned, revealing porcelain dolls. Eyes narrowed, Fletcher kept her gun on Harry and stepped down on one of the dolls. Small baggies of crystal meth emerged from the shattered remains. He meant to take the drugs and run. He made a move for the door, so she shot him in the knee, sending him falling to the floor. A quick search of the other cardboard boxes revealed more drugs. The very last box contained a lockbox.

"What's in the box, buddy? No, stay on the floor. What's in the box, Harold?" Fletcher removed the lockbox and dropped it on the ground in front of Harry. The box made a loud thud that easily sounded over the heater. Harry started sliding away from the box, dragging his left leg along, so she shot his right hand. "Open the box." Randy appeared at the door, so she shifted and turned the gun on him. "Leave. Now."

Randy threw his hands up and left the room. Minutes later, she heard the front door open and close. Alone with Harry, she approached him, grabbed the front of his shirt, and dragged him back to the box, where she dropped him like trash. Harry started turning the combination. Right hand cradled to his chest, he struggled to get the combination correct, so she hit him over the back of the head. He had to give her the combination and she turned and stopped according to his directions. She lifted the lid and took in the rolls of cash, hundreds bound together with rubber bands. She stepped down on his injured knee and he screamed in pain, begging and cursing until she removed her foot.

"I'm going to take this money. It's not yours. It belongs to Alejo. You and I are going to take a little ride. Don't you like rides?"

"No. No, no, no. You can't do this to me! I took you in. I took you in when nobody else wanted you! I fed you. I clothed you. I helped you get to where you are!"

"And now you're holding me back. Get up. I'll drag your ***, if I have to."

"You're going to kill me and dump my body!"

"Tick tock, dear."