Page 25 of The Mermaid’s Bubble Lounge (Sam Quinn #8)

TWENTY-FIVE

If at First You Don’t Succeed…

A pair of vampires move like shadows around the piers.

The hunter watches, wondering why they haven’t returned to their crypt yet.

His nose twitches. The coppery stench of old blood nauseates him.

He keeps to the deepest shadows, far from the weak streetlights, prowling the water’s edge on silent cat feet.

He sees movement, a flash of light, and then a human is carrying boxes down a gangplank toward a small fishing boat. The fisherman begins the process of readying to set sail as the hunter ghosts down the pier toward him.

The hunter is patient. He knows how to wait for his moment. When the fisherman finally notices the still cat watching him, he waves his hand and stomps a foot.

“Shoo!” he whisper-shouts. “I don’t have any fish yet and I don’t like cats.”

The hunter doesn’t move. The man looks annoyed for a moment and then shakes his head and continues his work.

More headlights flash in the parking lot. The hunter knows his time has come. Bunching his muscles, he prepares to jump onto the boat, but then catches that grimy, coppery stench again. When he turns, he sees two black blurs racing toward him.

Quick as a thought, he transforms into a seagull, skimming the water. He bats the air, his wings pounding, as he flies high over the wharf, leaving the bloodsuckers far behind, lost in the gloom.

Another small boat is already heading out to sea, so the gull keeps pace before landing on top of the cabin. The fisherman is at the wheel, checking his digital map and talking to himself.

The hunter understands how to adjust in the moment. This one will do just as well. In fact, the hunter decides he can stage this kill even more dramatically. Yes. This change of plans worked out just fine for him.

He drops to the deck wearing a new guise. Looming over the fisherman, he anticipates what will soon come. The hunter spins the captain’s chair. The fisherman grunts in surprise, his hand trailing off the wheel, inadvertently sending the boat in circles.

The man’s shock transforms almost immediately into anger. It’s too late, though. The hunter has sprung forward and latched onto the fisherman’s neck.

The hunter almost smiles as he feeds. The new mustache tickles his lip. He decides he rather likes it.

He drinks down the blood, along with the fisherman’s rage and fear. It’s a heady concoction.

When he’s drained the fisherman dry, he lets the body fall at an unnatural angle. It will make more of an impact for whoever finds him. The sheer volume of blood makes the hunter queasy, so he shifts back into a seagull and the discomfort disappears.

At the risk of getting dizzy, he waits until other boats arrive and then the shock-horror-fear feast will begin in earnest. His laughing caws cut through the sound of the engine as he waits.