RAYMOND CRUZ VAMPIRE DEN Part 2

Raymond Cruz Vampire Den Part 2

Chapter 85

4:28 AM. The hospital parking lot exhales its last breath—a dying thing choking on gasoline and forgotten prayers. Vehicles slump beneath the bleeding sky like sacrificial offerings: a Ford pickup with bones of rust, a black Mercedes with Belgian plates polished to funeral-shine, and the Guild van, its metal jaws pried wide. Perched on the van’s edge, a massive silhouette in wraparound sunglasses observes everything and nothing, its stillness more terrible for being ignored.  

At the top of the steps, the Belgian Guild representative named Gaspard consults a platinum watch. His irritation radiates in visible waves, distorting the air like heat over a fresh kill.  

"Ah, enfin."  

His voice slithers across the pavement, each syllable a scalpel tracing Raymond’s spine. The accent drips with the quiet horror of cathedral sacristies at midnight. "The famous Raymond Cruz. We were beginning to think you’d gone rogue. Or—" his gloved hand flutters—"developed a conscience."  

Raymond says nothing. The other hunters shift in the gloom—Rivas, a landslide of violence barely contained by a trench coat; the Kovac twins, their blades whispering secrets in perfect syncopation; Thompson, whose twitching fingers write last rites against his thigh. Assorted helpers linger in the shadows.

Gaspard checks his watch again. "One hour and five minutes past the arranged time. Did you all receive the same invitation? Or are we simply blessed with your collective disregard for punctuality?"  

Rivas spits. The sound is a butcher’s cleaver biting into a block of flesh. "Got the call same as you. Didn’t realize we were on Euro-time."  

One of the Kovacs—the grim-faced woman—snorts. "We got rerouted. GPS took us through a goddamn wildfire zone." Her blade glints as she points to the horizon, where an orange glow pulses like an infected wound.  

Raymond’s gaze lingers on the silhouette at the van’s edge. The red sky glides off its shoulders—not like light, but like liquid running off something impervious.  The figure doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just observes with the patience of a guillotine's blade.  

Gaspard follows his stare and stiffens. Just for a second. Then the smirk is back.  

Even the Guild rep fears him.

The wind howls. The hospital groans.  

The others continue arguing, their voices dissolving into the wind.  

And the silhouette keeps watching.  

Thompson shifts from foot to foot. "I—I thought it was a test. Guild’s always testing, right? Then the sirens started—"  

"Sirens?" The male Kovac twin cocks his head. "We didn’t hear any sirens."  

A gust of wind sends a shiver through the construction plastic shrouding the hospital. The sound is a chorus of dead children sighing.  

Raymond exhales, smoke curling from his cigarette. "Doesn’t matter why we’re late. We’re here now."  

Gaspard’s smile is a razor dragged lightly across skin. "Spoken like a man who’s already decided how this ends."  

Above them, the sky throbs—a raw, exposed nerve convulsing against the bones of the world.  

Gaspard checks his watch with theatrical precision. "We remain incomplete," he announces, the words dripping with continental disdain. "Mendoza's retinue has yet to grace us with their presence."  

The Kovac twins exchange identical eye rolls. One tests the edge of her blade against her thumb, drawing a bead of blood that she flicks into the dust.  

Rivas cracks his knuckles. "Since when do we wait on flunkies?"  

"Since the flunkies carry the blessed mortar rounds," Gaspard counters. His smile is all veneer, no warmth. "Unless you'd prefer to breach a den and face a master of one hundred vampires without antipossession artillery?"  

From the van's shadowed interior comes Mendoza's rumbling chuckle. "Patience, children. The cavalry's got GPS just like you."  

Raymond watches a moth batter itself against a flickering streetlight. Somewhere in the distance, a smoke alarm begins its dying wail. The night holds its breath.  

The female Kovac produces a small tin from her vest. The snick of its opening draws glances. Her brother accepts a pinch of crystalline powder between thumb and forefinger with ritual precision. Their assistant—a gaunt man with jumpy fingers—leans in like an acolyte receiving sacrament.  

Thompson’s pupils dilate. "Is that—"  

"Focus enhancer," she says, rubbing her gums. "Guild-approved."  

Rivas’s men exchange glances. One shrugs, producing a dented flask. Liquid sloshes, too thick for water.  

Raymond rolls his cigarette between his fingers. "Real subtle, kids."  

Gaspard’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "We all have our...preparations."  

The second twin offers the tin to Rivas. He hesitates, then dips two fingers with grudging familiarity.  

The hospital’s plastic shroud billows like a lung taking its first breath.  

Rivas expels another wad of phlegm onto the cracked asphalt like he is making a collection. "Eleven grand to storm a nest? Either the Guild’s getting generous, or they’re desperate."  

The male Kovac twin smirks, polishing his blade with a cloth. "Heard they cut another deal with the Vatican last week. Sold three relics to private collectors first."  

Thompson’s fingers twitch toward his flask. "What’s it matter? Money spends the same."  

"Does it?" The female Kovac doesn’t look up from her whetstone. "When Rome starts auctioning ancient holy weapons to hedge-fund vampires, maybe the Apocalypse isn’t coming." She tests the edge with her thumb. "Maybe it’s here."  

Rivas’ assistant chuckles, his wooden rosary clacking. "Guild’s always been a whore. Just now she’s forgetting to charge."  

Raymond watches Gaspard tap his phone screen, the blue light reflecting in his dead-fish eyes. "They’re not paying us to win," he mutters. "They’re paying us to die quiet."  

A beat of silence. Then Rivas grins, all yellowed canines. "Then let’s make it expensive."  

As Raymond watches them—Rivas laughing at some war story, the Kovacs passing their tin, Thompson giggling nervously, the camaraderie feels like a play where everyone knows their lines except him.  

Alone isn’t the same as lonely. Alone is a condition. Lonely is a confession.  

Italian loafers crunch on the gravel toward the hunters. Gaspard claps his hands, aiming them at Raymond Cruz’s face like a sharpshooter. “Your tracker disappears for forty-seven minutes. Care to explain?"  

Raymond spins an unlit joint. "Took the scenic route. Apocalypse makes for great sightseeing."  

A dry chuckle ripples through the group.  

"Your antidote unit," Gaspard presses. "We find it in a liquor store dumpster three days ago."  

"Early Christmas gift. Homeless guy looked like he could use a drink."  

This time the laughter is louder. From the van’s shadows comes a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrates in everyone’s bones.  

"Third question," Gaspard says, his smile razor-thin. "Why no assistant? No team? Just you against the darkness?"  

The night air goes still.  

"He’s Raymond goddamn Cruz."  

The voice booms as Mendoza emerges—a mountain of muscle and ink, his bulk making the van’s suspension creak. The red light glints off his mirrored sunglasses as he loads his custom crossbow.  

"When the Reaper comes calling," Mendoza rumbles, "this crazy bastard invites him in for coffee and asks about his grandkids."  

Raymond approaches, boots scraping on broken asphalt. Up close, Mendoza is even more imposing—six-foot-five, biceps thicker than most men’s thighs. His prison tattoos tell stories Raymond can read like a roadmap.  

"Church was fun. Didn’t mean to almost kill ya—twice.” Mendoza flashes teeth white enough to glow in the dark. "My bad about the holy water grenade. Got a little carried away."  

Raymond lights his joint, the match-flare illuminating the scar bisecting Mendoza’s left eyebrow—a souvenir from their last violent reunion among the pews.  

"'Getting carried away'. Almost only counts in horseshoes," Raymond exhales smoke. "And apparently grenade throws."  

Mendoza’s laughter shakes the ground. "Same old Cruz." He extends a hand the size of a dinner plate. "Truce? That demon inside’s bigger than both our egos combined."  

Raymond studies the offered hand. The eleven grand flashes through his mind. The memory of Isabella’s tiny fingers clutching Karina’s shirt.  

He grips Mendoza’s forearm. "Til sunrise."  

"Amen to that." Mendoza hefts his crossbow. "Now let’s go bag us an apocalypse."  

The Kovacs drop to their knees, blades crossed before them like a sacred barrier. Their lips move in silent prayer. Rivas hesitates, then joins them, knuckles white.  

Thompson lets out a nervous giggle. "Yeah, sure. Pray the demons away. Meanwhile, science cooks up vampire antidotes in test tubes. Maybe we should just sing the bastards our surrender?"  

Raymond exhales smoke. "Funny thing about tech—build a better mousetrap, the mice get smarter. Build a god, it asks questions you can’t answer."  

Thompson kicks a pebble, his laugh too loud. "Pray all you want. Vatican’s got drones now. Hell, I heard the Pope’s got social media."  

The Kovacs’ chanting falters. The woman glares. "And what’s your God? An app that delivers plasma to your door?"  

Rivas’s hulking companion—the one who never spoke—touches the flask at his belt, etched with faded Cyrillic. "Man makes the devil," he rumbles. "Then blames him for the mess."  

The male Kovac twin snorts. "Money’s the real antichrist. Try buying salvation with a credit card."  

Raymond’s thumb brushes his wedding ring under his glove. Karina had hated that joke. “If the devil’s so clever," he’d whispered to her, “why’d he give the Church money to pay the hunters?"

Mendoza leans against the van, arms crossed. "Funny thing about evil—it don’t need a pitchfork. Just a quiet yes when you oughta scream no."  

Thompson opens his mouth, but the female Kovac cut him off with a slash of her hand. "Enough. The only thing worse than a heretic is a bored one."  

The wind carries the scent of charred flesh from the distant fires. Raymond exhales. The devil had taken many forms in his life. None wore horns.  

From the van’s shadows, Mendoza’s voice rolls out like thunder over a burial ground:  

"Once, we were prey."  

The Kovacs’ chanting stutters.  

"Hunted through the dark by teeth and shadow," Mendoza continues. "Now the beasts live deeper. Coiled in blood. Whispered in bone."  

One twin snaps, "We’re not here for a damn campfire story—"  

"The demons never left," Mendoza rumbles. "They remember us. Before fire. Before gods. We ran. The hunt never ended."  

The male Kovac makes a strangled noise. "That’s blasphemy—you can’t just—"  

"It sleeps now." Mendoza taps his temple. "Some memories are written in screams."  

Thomson barks a laugh. "Evolution’s first truth: mankind was meat.”

A sudden birdsong cuts through the tension—clear and bright from the hospital’s dead oaks. Raymond turns toward it. For a hundred thousand years, that chirping meant safety. Meant sunrise. Meant the things that stalk the night had retreated.  

His body remembers before his antidote injection does.  

4:36 AM. The rumble of engines cuts through the night before the headlights appear—two black SUVs with tinted windows swallowing the lamplight whole. Doors open in perfect sync.  

Mendoza’s assistants step out.  

Four figures, each more unsettling than the last. An Albino with a rosary of human teeth. A predator with cat-reflective eyes. A hooded man counting something unseen. A woman with a cloth-wrapped bundle weeping dark stains onto the asphalt.  

The Kovacs go still. Rivas takes an unconscious step back.  

"Took you long enough," Mendoza growls.  

The Albino grunts. "Had to stop for gas."  

Gaspard claps his hands once again. "Now that we’re all here—"  

The hooded figure interrupts, producing a silver pocket watch. The pendulum inside swings wildly despite the lack of wind.  

"—we should begin," Gaspard finishes, his smugness dulled.  

The woman with the bundle catches Raymond’s gaze and smiles, revealing teeth filed to points. The stain on her package spreads slowly, forming what might be wings.  

Mendoza hefts his crossbow. "Orientation time, kids. Try not to wet yourselves."  

The assistants fall into formation behind him, their shadows merging into one monstrous shape. The hospital doors groan open—invitation or warning.  

Mendoza’s teeth flash. "Tick-tock. Either we go in now..." He racks his crossbow. "...or we wait for them to come out."  

Gaspard's clap cracks the night open. "Orientation, mes amis. This is not some back-alley operation where you shoot first and invoice later." He gestures to the abandoned ambulances, their lights spasming in postmortem throes. "The entity inside has been turning paramedics into... let's say, marionettes. Their sirens still sing sometimes. Charming, non?"  

Rivas spits. "Cut the crap. What’s the goddamn payout?"  

"Eleven thousand. Each." Gaspard’s smile could flay skin. "Assuming we can identify what’s left of you."  

The Kovacs exchange a glance written in bloodstains. Raymond’s eyes map exits—shattered doors, broken chains.  

A gust of wind makes the hospital shiver. Somewhere inside, metal screams as it hits the floor. Then the wet sound of something being dismantled.  

Thompson jerks. "Did you hear—"  

"Oui," Gaspard murmurs. "We all heard."  

The hunters cluster near the doors, breath fogging in the chill.  

"How many vamps we talking?" one of Rivas’ men asks.  

Gaspard adjusts his cufflinks. "Estimates suggest several dozen. Perhaps more."  

The male Kovac scoffs. "That’s not a number, that’s a fucking guess."  

"The contract specifies an infestation," Gaspard replies smoothly. "Our employer prefers discretion over precision."  

Raymond leans against a pillar. Mendoza chuckles beside him.  

"Tell you what," Mendoza rumbles. "Let’s lodge a complaint to The Pope. Demand a million bucks and a Vatican yacht." He flashes his teeth. "I call shotgun."  

Gaspard ignores him, swiping a tablet to display a grainy blueprint. "Antidote reserves are here, here, and here. Enough to reverse a small army of turns."  

Thompson swallows. "And the demon?"  

"Likely nested deep. But the turned are layered—fresh converts near the entrance, older ones further in." Gaspard’s voice drops. "Some humans may still be salvageable."  

Mendoza snorts. "Nice word for ‘not quite fucked yet.’"  

Gaspard ignores him. "This facility was quietly shuttered six days ago after an... incident. Official story was a gas leak. Reality?" He taps the tablet again. Security footage plays—a blur of screaming nurses, gurneys overturned, something pale and fast darting between shadows. "An ER full of patients became an all-you-can-eat buffet."  

The footage cuts to black.  

Silence.  

"So we’re the cleanup crew," Raymond mutters.  

"We’re the solution," Gaspard corrects. "The client wants this contained before sunrise. The Guild wants it quiet. And the Vatican wants proof of termination."  

Mendoza cracks his knuckles. "Another nice word."  

"Rules of engagement?" Rivas growls.  

"Holy arms preferred. Don’t shoot the half-turned unless they’re actively chewing on you, please."  

The group shifts, checking weapons. Raymond watches the hospital doors sway on broken hinges. Somewhere inside, something scrapes against metal—long, slow, deliberate.  

Mendoza leans in, his whisper gravelly. "Bet you ten grand the Vatican’s the ‘employer.’"  

Raymond doesn’t take the bet.  

The birds have stopped singing. Flakes of ash get caught in his eyelashes.

The group moves past the hospital doors, the dynamic shifting. Gaspard watches from the periphery, the silence of all he left unsaid ringing in their ears. The Kovacs exchange glances, their usual twin telepathy momentarily disrupted. Even Rivas seems to stand a little straighter.  

As they cross the threshold into the decaying hospital, Raymond can't help but glance back at the van. The massive silhouette of Mendoza stands there, watching. Waiting.  

Clutching his holy bow.  

And smiling.  

Gaspard catches Raymond's arm as the others are swallowed whole by the darkness. With a subtle tilt of his head, he directs him to an abandoned ambulance parked in the shadows. The rear doors creak open to reveal a lanky young man in a rumpled tweed jacket, his British accent crisp despite the tension in his voice.  

"Well, well. Stop the presses. You can tell your mates—the fabled lone warrior Raymond Cruz finally needs a helper."   

Raymond freezes. That voice—booming in the Charger. The headache. The confusion.  

"It’s you."  

Shane exhales sharply, pushing up his wire-rimmed glasses. "I know you can barely remember. Neither can I. But I remember that I know you." His fingers tap an erratic rhythm—three quick, two slow.  

"That job in Budapest. The church basement. We weren’t just hunting. We were—"  

"Infected," Shane finishes. "By something that wants to be forgotten." He glances toward the hospital. "There was never any monetary interest in saving vampires. Guild and Vatican were planning to blow this place sky-high at dawn. But the employer isn’t the Church—it’s a businessman named Ferrante. Had them put a stop to it. The TNT’s already wired inside."  

Raymond's jaw tightens. "Then why send us in?"  

"Because the prize isn't saving vampires." Shane leans in. "It's—"  

"The master demon," Raymond interrupts.  

Shane blinks. "Yeah, he's in there. Except he ain't walking around." He pinches his thumb and index finger four inches apart. "You'll find him in a crystal 'bout yay big. Stolen from a Boston reliquary. We need it back."  

Raymond stares. "So there's no demon to kill?"  

"Oh, there's a demon," Shane mutters. "Just not the kind the others can handle. Between the crystal and a hundred pissed-off vamps? Their plates are full." He shoves a folded schematic into Raymond's hand. "Third-floor chapel. Red tile floor. Don't trust the shadows."  

A shout echoes from the hospital—Rivas cursing at something moving in the dark.  

Shane’s voice drops to a breath. "That crystal’s not a prison. It’s a door."  

Raymond’s brow furrows. "How’s a rock smaller than my fist hold a demon strong enough to turn a hospital?"  

"Same way a whisper can start a war." Shane tapped the schematic. "Boston reliquary wasn’t just storing it. They were hiding it. Someone stole it. Ferrante is paying us to steal it back."  

A shriek echoes from the hospital—human, then not.  

Shane vanishes into the ambulance’s shadows. "Demons don’t shrink, Cruz. They fold. And that thing’s been unfolding for centuries."  

Gaspard's voice cuts through the night: "Cruz! You're late to your own funeral."  

Raymond tucks the schematic away, the paper burning like a secret against his chest.  

—-ATILA—-