NYC Vamps: Roman: Vampire Romance Read online

   Copyright 2017 by Sky Winters- All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  NYC Vamps Book 3

  Roman

  (The Ukranians)

  Vampire Romance

  By: Sky Winters

  Click to Receive Wolf Babies from Paranormal Romance Publishers After You Sign-Up for their Email List

  Table of Contents

  NYC Vamps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Alien Romances

  Highland Shifters

  M/M Shifter Romances

  Bear Shifter Romances

  Werewolf Romances

  About The Author

  NYC Vamps

  Chapter 1

  Detective Miranda Walker looked over the murder scene, paying special attention to the amount of blood. She stepped back from the crimson streaks that crisscrossed along the floor and walls of the Upper West Side apartment and she slipped a notepad out of the back pocket of her black slacks. She wanted to jot down a few pieces of information that she thought might come in handy later.

  “What a fuckin’ mess,” said her partner, Detective Michael Adelson, his words delivered in his usual rough, Brooklyn accent.

  “No kidding,” said Miranda, her eyes on the corpse of the middle-aged man who was crumpled up, crushing the middle of a black bookshelf with his weight.

  Miranda Walker was one of the newest detectives at her Upper West Side precinct. After a three-year stint working a beat in Queens, she aced the exams and became one of the youngest detectives in NYPD history. And with her slim physique, chestnut-colored hair, and face of piercing green eyes and full lips set amongst high cheekbones, she had been attracting the attention of several higher-ups in the department in more ways than one.

  The flash from a crime scene unit photographer’s camera filled her vision for a brief moment then dissipated. Miranda looked around the apartment, still in awe at the sheer size of the place.

  “We got the details of the vic?” she asked, resting her hands on her hips and turning her eyes to one of the uniformed cops on the scene.

  “Yeah,” said the young man with red hair and waxy skin, who couldn’t have been older than 22. “Name’s Richard Thoroughgood. Advertising director at Stoakly & Hamell. No wife, no kids.”

  “Lotta room all for one guy,” said Michael, looking around at the expanse of the living room where they stood, his eyes drifting over to the massive window that looked over Central Park.

  Michael Adelson was an old-hat detective at the precinct, and Miranda’s partner of a few months. He was an old-school Brooklyn native with a head of hair as thin as his belly wasn’t. He quickly formed a protective instinct towards Miranda. Being a family man, his careful, methodical ways often came into conflict with Miranda’s eager insistence to get to the bottom of whatever crimes they were investigating. And her attitude towards this string of murders was no different.

  “How old was he: 50, 55?” Miranda asked, looking over the body, noting his slim physique, salt-and-pepper hair, and his elegant suit that she estimated cost for the same as a month’s rent for her studio in Queens.

  “53,” said the officer.

  “No signs of forced entry,” added Michael before taking a sip from his Styrofoam coffee cup.

  Miranda stepped back, standing out of the way of the crime scene unit workers who were bustling around the apartment.

  “And aside from being thrown into this bookshelf, no signs of a struggle,” she said, her eyes gliding along the exposed brick of the wall in front of her.

  “That’s what’s killin’ me,” Michael said, scratching his stubble with his index finger. “Whoever did this got invited in, joined the vic for a nice little round of drinks, and then threw him into the bookshelf easy as a kid throwin’ a rock into a damn lake.”

  “And that’s not even getting into the neck wound,” said Miranda, walking back up to the body.

  Squatting down a few feet from it, she looked at the corpse up close. He was a handsome man despite the expression of horror that he was wearing as a death mask. Miranda looked down at the man’s neck, at the two small holes right where his jugular was. The holes were clean and even, situated right next to one another, and ringed with a light, red crusting of dried blood.

  “Yeah. Same marks as all the other corpses we’ve been seeing,” said Michael.

  “Right.” Miranda stood up and stepped back from the body. “Everything about these killings points to the same perp. All with no signs of forced entry, all looking like a date night in progress, all the victims upper-class, single professionals.”

  “And the blood- it’s…it’s bizarre,” Michael said, first gesturing to the corpse, then to the streaks of blood around them. “Blood all over the place, but not a goddamned drop in the vic. It’s like it’s coming out like a fire hose but then stops all of a sudden.”

  “And there’s no way what we’re seeing is enough to account for all of the blood in a human body,” added Miranda, taking her pen out from its usual place behind her ear and jotting something down in her notebook.

  Michael shook his head. “No one person could be killing this many people like this; don’t make a damn bit of sense.”

  Miranda drummed her fingers on her thigh, considering the scene before her. It had only been a few months since she made detective, and being immediately thrown into a bizarre string of murders was shaping up to be a hell of a crash-course in detective work.

  “I need some fresh air,” she said, stepping away from the crime scene.

  She walked across living room and onto the balcony, the evening air of the early spring was cool against her skin. Shoving her hand into her coat pocket, she fumbled around until a cigarette and a lighter were in her hands. Taking them out, she set the cigarette between her lips, sparked the lighter, and brought the wavering flame to the tip of the cigarette. She brought the smoke down deep into her lungs, letting it hang there before releasing it with a soft exhalation through her nose. She watched as the grey smoke floated up into the night air against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, before dissipating into nothingness.

  With nothing to occupy her mind other than the view before her, she found herself thinking of Tyler. His handsome face appeared in her thoughts with total clarity. She was only able to hold his image still like that for a moment before the picture of him began to move again, like a film unpaused. The last time she saw him began to play in her head against her will.

  She shook her head, as though she could toss the thought of her ex-husband out with a hard enough motion. Taking another drag, the need for a glass of straight whiskey appeared in her, first as a pinprick of want, and over the course of the cigarette, it became a desire.

  The whooshing open of the sliding patio door snapped Miranda out of her reverie. She took another drag and turned. It was Michael.

  “Nice night, huh?” he asked, stepping out on the patio next to her and folding his hands across h
is considerable paunch.

  “Yeah, aside from the brutal murder,” Miranda said.

  “Ha, yeah, aside from that. You got an extra one ‘a them?” he asked, pointing with a stubby finger at the half-finished cigarette between Miranda’s fingers.

  “You know, it doesn’t count as quitting if you keep bumming them,” she said, slipping a cigarette out of her pack and handing it over.

  “It counts for somethin’,” he replied, sticking the cigarette between his plump, chapped lips and lighting the thing with almost frantic intensity. Once lit, he took a long drag, his eyes closed in total pleasure. “Jesus H., that’s the goddamn stuff.”

  A moment passed with each of them taking slow drags from their cigarettes, their eyes on the orange-and-white twinkling of the traffic on the roads that bordered Central Park.

  “I wonder how long it takes to get used to a view like this,” he said, leaning forward and resting his hands against the wrought-iron railing of the balcony. “I mean, you’re paying probably an extra grand a month to look at this. I bet it’s amazing for, I dunno, the first week, then you’re just used to it. Like when you really gotta go to the bathroom, and when you finally get to go, it’s the best goddamn feeling in the world, but then as soon as you’re done, you just start thinking about the next thing you gotta do.”

  “You’ve got a weird goddamned way of looking at the world, Mike,” said Miranda, allowing herself a smile.

  “Well, here, how ‘bout this for a non-weird thing to say- let’s go get a drink when we’re done here.”

  Relief washed over Miranda; she was worried she was going to have to make the suggestion.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

  They stubbed out their cigarettes, tossed them over the balcony, and headed back inside.

  Chapter 2

  Miranda regarded the whiskey in her glass, swirling it around for a moment before tossing it back in a swift motion, wincing as she swallowed the bitter drink.

  “Easy there, kiddo,” said Michael, giving Miranda a quick pat on the back as she sputtered down the last dregs of her whiskey.

  “Easy yourself,” she said, extending a slim finger to the bartender, signaling for another drink.

  “I mean, I like to get as shitty drunk as the rest of ‘em, but I can’t help but think you’re working through some issues with that stuff,” he pointed to the fresh glass of neat whiskey that had just been placed in front of Miranda.

  “Two months today,” she said, looking forward taking a small sip of her drink.

  Michael closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and leaned his head back, the overall impression being that he was just reminded of something very, very, important.

  “Jesus,” he said, placing the palm of his hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry, I forgot all about Tyler.”

  Miranda shook her head.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, her fingers still wrapped around the glass of whiskey. “I’ve been trying not to make a thing about it. But it’s hard when, it’s the exact day, you know.”

  Michael nodded.

  “I still can’t believe that cocksucker,” he said, his lips tensing in anger. “Banging random floozies behind his wife’s back while she’s out cleaning up the goddamn streets.”

  Miranda’s touched with the bare spot on her finger where her wedding ring once was. Looking down, she noticed in the low light of the dive bar that the pale strip of skin from where the ring blocked the sun had tanned over.

  “It’s those artsy-types? You know?” he said, taking a sip of his dark brown, foamy beer. “I don’t trust ‘em, not a bit. My daughter’s dating this guy, says he’s a ‘graffiti artist,’ whatever the hell that means, and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw ‘em. Goin’ out to spray paint the train tunnels, what a goddamn lunatic. And another thing he ke-“

  “Mike,” said Miranda, cutting him off.

  “I know, I know,” he said putting up his palms in mock defeat, caught in another ramble.

  A moment passed.

  “Listen, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing, catching your husband cheating on you and then him just, what, telling you it’s over before even giving you the chance to work it out?”

  “Then moving to Prague with some Airbnb tramp; don’t forget about that part.”

  Michael shook his head in disbelief.

  “Marriage don’t mean nothin’ to no one anymore. They hear ‘till death do us part’ and, I dunno, I guess they think that means ‘or until I get bored.’ Who knows?”

  He took a deep swig of his dark beer, and Miranda sipped her drink. She wanted another, then another, until her brain was booze-addled enough to not even be able to formulate Tyler’s face in her mind. But she kept coming back to the murders.

  “So what do you make of these killings?” she asked, turning on her backless barstool towards Michael, the passing cars on the street in front of the bar rushing behind Michael’s head.

  “Christ,” he said. “Where to start with these fuckin’ things?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I just don’t even know what to be more freaked out about, how fuckin’ brutal they are, or the fact that they all seemed to start at the same time.”

  Miranda considered this and spoke.

  “I can’t stop thinking about the lack of forced entry. These people are letting their killers into their homes, spending time with them, then getting killed. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” said Michael, his eyes turning to Miranda as she threw back the rest of her whiskey.

  “Woah, there kiddo. I know you’re young, but geez.”

  At this, Miranda pushed the stool back and stood up, considering the four whiskeys she drank in the last hour.

  “OK, Mike. Daddying me about my booze intake means it’s time for me to head out.”

  Michael opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

  “At least call an Uber or somethin’. You don’t need to be walking home all liquored-up like that.”

  “There you go again,” Miranda said, giving a playful wag of her finger.

  “Hey, I’m a dad; I can’t help it,” he said, smiling.

  “Night, Mike,” she said, steadying herself before taking her card back from the bartender and heading out, slapping Mike on the shoulder as she walked past him.

  “Night, kiddo,” he said, turning back to his beer.

  Miranda made her way through the smattering of people in the bar and stepped into the cool of the night air. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag, the thoughts of her husband and the murder swirling in her head into a strange, surreal image.

  She pulled her phone out, and checked the route to the seven train that would take her back to Queens. The station was only a few blocks from where she was, and she started off in that direction.

  Miranda walked down the city blocks, the path taking her from the well-lit city streets of the more affluent parts of the Upper West Side to one that was lit by nothing more than a row of dim lights. The street had an eerie calmness to it, and was away from the bustling traffic of the larger roads.

  Something seemed off to Miranda as she walked, and, out of instinct, her hand drifted towards the pistol holstered beneath her jacket. Nearly all of the lights in the walk-up buildings that were on both sides of the street were out. Only one window of a building up ahead was illuminated. Miranda’s walk slowed, as though her body were preparing her for something unexpected.

  And just at that moment, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She jolted in surprise, and pulled the phone out. The message was from the NYPD dispatch system.

  All units the Upper West Side area, please be advised we have reports of a domestic dispute in the area of 89th and Broadway.

  The address followed. Miranda’s eyes shot to the nearby street signs- it was her exact location. Speeding up her walk to a trot, she looked at the number of the building with the illumi
nated light. Sure enough, it was the address. Knowing that it would be impossible that any other officer would be closer than she was, she approached the red front door of the darkened entry of the walk-up.

  She looked in through the window, and saw no signs of any movement, not even a footstep. She knew she should wait for backup, but the swirling mixture in her blood of adrenaline and whiskey, coupled with the sense that something wasn’t right at all about the situation, compelled her to investigate. She looked around for a buzzer, and realized that it was a single-unit home.

  Another rich fucker, she thought, looking up the grey brick façade of what was undoubtedly a multi-million-dollar home. Balling her hand into a tight fist, she rapped her knuckles on the door.

  “NYPD!” she called out.

  Not a sound from inside could be heard.

  She repeated her knock, this time with more force. But still nothing.

  Miranda stepped away from the door and looked around the area. In the small patch of plants next to the door she spotted the unmistakable sight of a rock made of plastic. She picked it up, flipped it over, and pulled a key out from the hidden compartment. Slipping the key into the lock and turning it, the door opened with a click.

  No forced entry, she thought, remembering back to the other murder.

  She pushed the door open, and through the crack of light she could see a well-appointed, spacious home.

  “NYPD!” she called out once more. Again, nothing in response.

  The sense of danger that she had been feeling was now even more pronounced. She slipped her hand into her jacket, undid the fastening of her holster, and took her pistol into her hands. The pumping adrenaline sharpened her senses and overcame the slowness from the whiskey.

  Her steps creaked on the wood floor as she moved through the living room. The single light on was in the kitchen, and she made her way in that direction. But when she reached it, she saw that the room was just like the rest of the first floor: empty and quiet.

  She slipped her pistol back into her holster, and prepared to call in to dispatch to let them know she had arrived. But before she could do so, a panicked voice cut through the silence of the townhouse.