Watch for THE KEEPERS
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
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eHeatherGraham.comTALL, DARK AND DEADLYby Heather GrahamThe swamp was deadly. But the swamp could hide a million sins. He steered his small boat through the water, watching the woman as she lay in the rear of the boat. So fragile and beautiful, smiling at him, eyes glued on him. He smiled in return. It was dark and lonely, and here they were, together in a solitude that was rare to find. He had chosen to come here. And so they had come. His whim, his love, his night. Because the night, like the swamp, could hide so many sins. He loved the swamp, and he loved her, and she had learned at length that she loved him as well. "Not long now," he told her. "Not long now." She never wanted to come here with him. Yet tonight, she had silently agreed. She never wanted to give him the things that he needed. Tonight, he had given her no choice. And he felt the greatest elation, a sense of power and pleasure, for there she lay, beautiful lips curled, smiling at him. It was his night. He had made this decision. She was here, with him, and he was ready to see it through to the end. The sky was strange. Only a few stars dotted the heavens, sometimes covered by clouds, sometimes crystal clear. The moon, a beautiful, gibbous curve, appeared and disappeared, touched by dusky clouds. One minute it was entrancing, touching the surface of the water, illuminating them both as they moved through the silent wilderness. Then a cloud would cover the moon, and the shadows would descend again. He felt an odd sense of peace and power because he knew the night, and he knew the swamp. Knowledge was survival here. Knowledge that all which was so beautiful could also be so deadly. It was still, barely a breath of air stirring now and then. The quiet around them was haunting, compelling, and yet he knew ... they were watched. The denizens of the night, of the darkness, tracked their passage. He knew, because he liked to watch himself, to study those around him. He tried to make each stroke with his oar a powerful one, for the sound of it seemed loud, like a strange drum- beat in the night. A savage beat, he thought, for a savage place. Even in the dim light he could make out what appeared to be stonelike fixtures in the water. But they weren't stone. Given the right incentive, they would sink the bulk of their bodies beneath the water. With only eyes and nostrils seen at the water's surface, they would glide in silence, zeroing in for the kill ... Gators. Wondrous creatures. There were just a few here, though. Farther along the canal, there were more. Just as there were moccasins. Strangely beautiful creatures, so sleek and smooth, elegant in their movement, able to master land and water. There were other dangerous creatures in the swamp as well. Coral snakes, Eastern diamondback rattlers, and the little pygmy rattlers. The rattlers liked the hammocks. The moccasins haunted the waterways. And still, despite the dangerous creatures, there was so much beauty. Orchids that grew wild, birds with colors no artist could ever reproduce. And the sunsets and the nights ... Nights like this one. "Cold?" he asked her. Cold, how strange. The temperatures here could be suffocating, but night brought a cooling; he imagined that she shivered. "Of course you're cold," he said, then realized he had left his jacket back at the car. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry ... I forgot my jacket, and you're in practically nothing at all. I should have thought ... I'm so sorry. But it won't be long now." His oar touched the water. They shot along through the night. And there, ahead of him, lay the area he was seeking. There was an air of expectancy to the darkness and the silence of the night. The stillness. But beneath the stillness ... They'd suffered a dry spell this year. Common enough. But this was one area where the water had remained deep, where the foliage had remained heavy. The birds came here, hundreds of them. They came to drink, to build nests, to seek fish, insects. Small animals came, too. Possums, squirrels, foxes, even an occasional cougar, though hunters had made the fabulous cats all but extinct. And where they came ... Life was, after all, just one big food chain. "My love, look, we're here!" he told her. He set down his oar and moved carefully, coming before her hunkered down, and staring out at the water by her side. "They're fantastic," he breathed with reverence. "Nature created them as such incredible machines, don't you see? They're old as the dinosaurs, millions of years upon the earth." He sighed, enraptured by the scene. Then he remembered himself, and his purpose. "Oh, well," he said flatly. The sense of poignancy was over. He looked at her again. Yes, for once in her life she was smiling at him. He'd made her smile before, but this time he'd taken her lipstick and drawn that damned smile on her haughty features, features that had, too often until recently, expressed the fact that she was too good for him. She was just a tramp, who took her clothes off in front of strange men. He touched her flesh. He'd been right. She sure was cold. Stone cold. Stone-cold dead. Too bad. There were enough gators here, maybe even enough really hungry gators to have ripped her right to shreds if she'd been alive. What an event that would have been. He smiled, thinking of the way she would have screamed. But that was all right. He'd played long enough, and he'd waited long enough. And when it came to a point of danger... Well, he'd learned from the gators. Make the kill. Just make the kill, be certain that the victim can't fight back. She'd been so haughty ... Until she had learned to listen. To obey him. It was almost too bad that he'd had to let her go. She'd just been getting good, whimpering all the time. Actually, she'd become far too pathetic. Killing her had been easy. All that pride, all that arrogance ... And she hadn't even fought. He was smart. He didn't want to get caught. Always, he'd waited, he'd been careful, he'd taken his time. He'd watched the forensics shows on the cable station. Autopsies could point straight to a killer. But a consumed body was damn hard to autopsy. "Out with you, bitch!" he said impatiently. He'd had enough of the night, and the swamp. He started to laugh. "It was wonderful while it lasted, but it's all over now." He pushed her overboard. She didn't start to sink right away. He made her arm waggle in the water. At first the gators didn't move. "Come on, you bastards!" he cried. He swore, soaking his good shirt, as he leaned over, making her body move more vigorously in the water. He heard a splash ... one of the creatures slipping into the water. Another splash ... another gator. The body was viciously wrenched from his hold. He smiled. And he watched. There was a tremendous frenzy in the water. Giant, powerful tails whipped about. Jaws snapped, huge heads swung back and forth. Then she was dragged down. Gators were excellent at the work of survival. They dragged their victims down into the water, drowning them, to keep them from fighting back. Not that gators had many vulnerabilities. Their hides were tough, their jaws could exert more pressure than most steel traps. But like all good predators, they dealt with their adversaries' defenses before they could become dangerous. So ... She was gone. Given time, the creatures would consume her. What would be left? Pieces of flesh, tom away in a frenzy? Nah, the little fish would see to that. Bone ... bone that was consumed, then eliminated? Maybe, but would it ever be found? He doubted it. Would there be a snatch of fabric, a tuft of hair? Would even that remain? Maybe. What could it prove? Nothing-except that she was gone. Simply gone. Oh, yes. The swamp was deadly. And the swamp could hide a million sins. And there were so many more women out there to pay the wages of sin.
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Bone Island Trilogy June 29, 2010
First time in Print! April 2010
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