The Family Man

"Yes," I answered, standing. "You're Detective Robertson." He nodded and signaled I should sit back down. I did, and he joined me.

"May I ask what business you had with Mr. Higgins?"

"What happened?" I asked, wanting some reference before I began answering.

"I'm sorry," Robertson said, "I should have told you right off. Mr. Higgins died last night." He watched me closely as if he was expecting a particular reaction. I steadied my one hand with the other and tried to relax my jaw.

"How...how did he die?" I stuttered. I felt a growing grief, not unlike when I watched Eric die, but not as powerful.

"By someone else's hand," Roberston said, again examining my reaction. I was horribly uncomfortable. I hadn't known Terance well, and the last time we spoke, I was less than cordial. My mind was already cluttered and was now adding grief driven guilt. "Your name was the only one in his appointment book, and it was circled twice."

"Personal business," I stammered, not wanting to tell the world of my vampire paranoia. "I'd rather not say."

"That is, of course, your right. But you have to look at it from my perspective. I have a job to do, and today that's finding out who murdered Terrance Higgins. I have a calendar with your name on it, circled twice. Without your help, I have to pursue the lead in other ways." It was a threat, and we both knew it. Guilty by appointment book.

"He was looking into someone for me," I said, looking at the floor.

"A romantic someone?"

"No," I sort of lied. At least not at the time I hired Terrance. "A man who was helping...it's hard to explain."

"Take your time."

"There's this guy who's been helping my ex, straightening him out. AA meetings and stuff like that." I paused a moment, then thought it best to be truthful. "I had a notion, I know it's false now, that he had a particular interest in my 11-year-old daughter. I had Terrance looking into his past. You know, criminal history and things."

"Did he find anything?"

"No," I answered emphatically, shaking my head. "There wasn't anything to find. Just a mother's paranoia."

"Does this man have a name?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"I'll be honest with you." Robertson sat back on the bench as if he meant the conversation would go longer than I desired."I saw your name on his calendar, and I tried to find your file. If anything, Mr. Higgins kept extensive records. I didn't find one. Why do you think that is?"

"I have no idea. Maybe, he left it at home." Robertson smiled.

"I was thinking the same thing. My partner is searching his house right now. I should know soon enough." Robertson shifted, lifting the red file and crossing one leg over the other. "I'm still interested in the man's name."

"It would be embarrassing if he found out I checked up on him," I said. "Might even affect my family."

"I can be discrete." I sighed and reluctantly gave the detective Eric's name and address, then my contact information. He wrote it down on the front of his folder.

"Is that it? I have to pick up my daughter." After I confess to Eric. Undead or not, it was better coming from me than the police. I couldn't have the detective undoing what Eric had done for Jake.

"One more thing, if you don't mind," Robertson said, then continued as if I didn't mind, which I did. He reached into the folder and pulled out a yellowed printed picture of a man sitting on a bench seemingly oblivious that the photo was taken. "Do you recognize this man?"

"It looks a little like Eric," I admitted. Exactly like him, though I had never seen him in a suit. His hair was longer, almost Beatles-like. The suit was out of date, large lapels and crossed stripped with a light colored pattern. Maybe the early seventies. "Could be his father," I said.

"Wrong name," Robertson said, sliding his finger off a hand written name; William Barkley. "What about this one?" He pulled out another printed page, this one was a soldier, probably from the first world war.

"You know it looks like the man in the first picture," I said, not appreciating Robertson's theatrics. He nodded and pulled out four more printed photos. Each looked like Eric, though from obviously different eras. A black and white civil war photo was the only one that was posed. The rest were of a more candid nature as if the subject didn't realize the shot was taken. The last was of Eric ripping down a Nazi flag in what looked like a filthy British uniform. His reanimation was becoming more real.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, shrugging my shoulders. "These don't make any sense to me."

"Obviously, these are fake," Robertson said, tucking the printouts back into the folder, "to me it looks like an elaborate con job. Mr. Papirius ever show you these, or maybe tried to solicit funds a different way?" I shook my head. We only got naked and shared some food. "Right now I'm thinking he may have upset the wrong people, took money or something, and it's coming back to bite. Hard."

"That's quite a leap in logic," I said. There was no reason I should have been sticking up for Eric. He died in my arms and had the tenacity to screw with my mind by undying. Terrance's research of Eric's past on and off business history did fit with Robertson's theory. But, for some reason, I didn't believe Eric capable of such things. Vampire or not, there was something honest about his dishonesty. "How do you know that Mr. Papirius is even aware of all this? He doesn't seem the type to take advantage of people."

"Con men rarely seem the type." Robertson sighed. "These pictures were strewn across the desk. Mr. Higgins did not die quickly. It is evident that he was questioned. Very harshly." My jaw tightened again. The photos were probably what Terrance wanted to show me. "This is not the time to withhold information, Ms. Livingston."

"I have nothing to withhold," I lied. Resurrection didn't seem a prudent fact to divulge. "I don't know why you're trying to scare me, but it's working. Are you sure this has something to do with me? I couldn't have been Mr. Higgins' only case."

"Actually, I'm not sure at all," Robertson said. He gave me a fake smile. "The bulk of his cases concentrated on infidelity. For all we know, it could be the retribution of a cheating spouse. But I'm paid to follow all the leads, and you showed up first. May I ask where you were last night?"

The conversation deteriorated from there. My alibi raised red flags. Explaining that I was in the hospital for passing out after I killed someone, increased Robertson's wariness. The fact that I had to admit Eric was present, further exasperated the issue. It was thirty minutes later, after Robertson made a few phone calls verifying my story and satisfying himself that the shooting most likely had nothing to do with the current investigation, that I was allowed to leave. I could tell it wasn't going to be the last conversation I had with the detective.

I paused before I started my car, a little time to close my eyes and remember Terrance. I prayed I wasn't the cause. Wiping my eyes, I started the car with a silent apology to my persistent PI.

Chapter 18

My anger was simmering just below a boil as I drove home. It always happens when I feel I was losing control of a situation. Jake could always rile me, and now Eric. It was the lack of information that pissed me off. The pieces wouldn't fit, and I was getting involved in things I couldn't understand. That night in his bed didn't help matters at all. It added to the confusion and muddled my thinking. I knew I should have been scared of Eric, pick up Maria, and move far away. There was just something about the man. An undead lover I couldn't get out of my mind.

I decided not to pick up Maria first. An argument was brewing in my mind. Eric needed to know what he was doing to me. A person can't be all loving one moment, then expect me to swallow a mass of unbelievable secrets. Especially, ones that involve people dying. How dare he fix my life and then screw up my mind.

The doorbell was too cordial. I pounded on Eric's door, soundly demanding entrance. I pounded again, even though I heard his steps approaching. No reason to hide my growing fury. Eric wasn't the least bit surprised when he opened the door. His face was a rock as he waved me inside.

"What are you?" I demanded. My arms crossed and I thrust out an angry hip. Those eyes of his weren't going to alter my interrogation.

"I'm not sure..."

"You died and came back," I said, adding the scowl I learned from him. His arms crossed with a stubbornness I expected.

"I'm not sure what you think you saw..."

"Go ahead," I challenged, "lie to me!" Eric dropped his arms, his eyes searching mine then finding something off to the right. Something less threatening I assumed. He let out a deep breath, turned, and walked into his living room. Now I was really pissed. Eric sat on the end of the couch and massaged his temples.

"Well!"

"I'm thinking," Eric announced loudly. Good, he was beginning to feel as angry as I did. When his suffering reached my level, I'd really let him have it.

"Thinking? I didn't know you were capable of such a thing," I said with venom. Men and their damn secrets.

"Damn it!" Eric stood quickly. His finger jutted out, pointing at me like it was a knife. "This is all your fault." His finger continued to jab the air in front of me as he attempted misdirection. "I didn't want any of it."

"Yeah, right," I exaggerated, "that's the impression I got when you were between my legs." I waved my arms to emphasize my anger.

"That was your doing," Eric said, turning away from me. Men always hide their eyes when the truth comes out.

"You set me up," I yelled at him, "you fixed Jake and played the perfect gentleman. Like I knew you were some kind of zombie." Vampire seemed to kind. "What's next, steal my money and ruin the rest of my life. Am I some kind of game." Eric turned back to me, anger boiling in his face. I may have gone too far.

"I tried to stay away," Eric insisted, his voice uncomfortably low, "The first time I saw you, I knew you'd be trouble." He was shaking his head as he moved forward. I moved back. "I was rude, and still you refused to dislike me. You used Maria to suck me in." He took another ominous step forward as I shrunk back, wondering how much room I had left.

"I thought, what's the harm. We could just be friends." Eric's voice rose as if his past thoughts were lighter than his current anger. "But no, you had to be more than friends. You pushed and pushed until I fell in love. And..." The tirade went on, but I heard none of it. I ceased my retreat and stared at my vampire man. The man who just admitted he loved me. The man who looked angry enough to strangle me, yet never raised his hand. The man who came running when a maniac was strangling the life out of me. The man I killed.

Eric paused in mid-sentence, the redness fading from his cheeks. My confusion confused him.

"I tried to tell you that night," Eric said. "You said you didn't..."

"Give a shit," I finished. For the second time in my life, I kissed the man I shouldn't. There were a million reasons to run. A million more to yell and scream at him. Instead, I kissed him. His surprise warmed me. I loved him off-balance. I think I loved him.

"What are you?" I asked again. This time with affection, my eyes inches from his.

"It's a long story," Eric answered, all the anger sucked from his body. The gentleness returned, a mirror of my own feelings. He fed off me, a vampire for sure.

"Tell me," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck to express my trust, and to get closer. He loved me.

"You won't like all of it," Eric admitted.

"Spill," I said, adding a smile. "It's not like you're a mass murderer," I added, remembering Cynthia's comment. The expression of sadness in Eric's eyes made me release him.

"You may want to sit down," Eric said. I did.

Chapter 19

Marcius Thracius rose slightly, his eyes breaking just over the boulder that hid him from view. The valley floor was silent. A slight haze had developed in the predawn hour. He smiled as he absently stroked his beard. The small Gallic tribe rested peacefully in their thick homes of rock and mud. They had no reason to suspect that half a cohort of Roman's finest had surrounded their village. A sane leader would have waited for the spring thaw. Marcius was ambitious, which for a centurion, meant insane. He could almost smell a promotion to Primus Pilus.

These Gauls had made a vital miscalculation. They had decided not to accept Roman rule, unlike their brethren. They ignored their loss in Alesia and pretended destiny still lay in their hands. Ignorant barbarian thinking. Marcius raised his hand and spun his finger in the air. A portion of his force moved quickly to cut off any possible retreat on the downslope side. He watched as they moved silently across the frozen stream ignoring the ankle deep snow. Well trained Romans with vengeance on their minds.

Caesar himself had sent the dictate. Marcius had jumped at the chance to lead the foray. Attacking a Roman estate, land gifted by Caesar, was the tribe's mistake. A conquered people should know their place. Killing a family favored by Caesar himself was the last mistake the tribe would make. Now all of Gaul would learn a hard lesson.

Marcius took a step forward, steadying himself with his hands. Footing was difficult in places where the trees failed to shelter the ground from the snow. Another hand signal and his main force moved to the treeline, not fifty paces from the first dwelling. Rudimental rock walls held in place with mud plaster. An arms thickness of thatch topped the roofs. He smiled and looked to the north. The archers were in place, small torches lit.

Marcius nodded to his bannerman. The banner rose from the ground, then dropped swiftly. A moment later, the sky brightened as fifty archers let loose a wave of burning arrows, the tar on the tips guaranteeing they would survive a little snow. Three flights were launched. The third brought the first sounds of alarm. Another nod, the banner swinging from side to side, and the death of the tribe began in a hundred war cries.

Not a soul was to survive. Not men, not women, not children, and not livestock. Everything was to be eradicated. A message for those who seek to thwart the will of Rome. A message from Caesar himself.

The first screams were for the fires; the next were for the blades that opened bellies of the victims who tried to escape their hovels. Marcius lead his troops from the front, never asking more than he was willing to give. A naked bear of a man ran from his home brandishing an ax, spouting some guttural curse. Marcius easily dodged the mighty swing and plunged his gladius into the man's stomach. Two more blades punchered either side, Roman's don't do solo. The ax dropped. Marcius withdrew his blade. The man fell into the trodden mud, and a red pool of his life began forming. His soldiers yelled their small victory and ran forth, slaying a child that the beast must have fathered.

Chaos ruled. The clan woke to fire and death, never having a chance to die like men. It wasn't war. It was a planned execution. At first, Marcius moved with purpose, flanked by his soldiers, cutting down anyone not wearing Roman red. Near the end, he slowed. Some had chosen to die screaming in flames, others to run into swords. The children huddled and waited crying as the swords came to them. What once sounded like curses hidden in a foul barbarian tongue, now changed to pleading. There was no mercy given.

"They pray," Atticus said, his blade dripping the same dark red as Marcius'. "They're asking their god for swift passage to paradise." Atticus spoke the language or at least he professed too. A young girl child screamed as two swords ended her life. She had pressed herself against her burning house, a short distance from what was left of her mother.

"This is not the glory I envisioned," Marcius said uncharacteristically. An old man hobbled from his home, clothes fully in flame. The gladius that met him was a mercy.

"No," Atticus said. And nothing more. The Roman war cries diminished as the grisliness of the task bore into the soldier's minds. Marcius had planned it too well. There was no strong defense brought to bear. Nothing that needed a great leader. Only the passing out of death to a surprised and outnumbered people. Babies speared in the snow.

Marcius closed his eyes when his men gathered after it was done. His orders were clear. A Roman soldier followed orders, and these came down from Caesar.

"Pile the bodies in the clearing," Marcius ordered, pointing toward a field at the edge of the village. "Remove the heads and pole them in the circle surrounding the pile." A sign for others of what happens when Rome's rule is questioned.

"The children?" A man asked, his voice trailing away at the end.

"All," Marcius replied. The work began, though none looked happy doing it. For the better part of the day, the soldiers became butchers. Marcius struggled to not look away from the ghastly ring that formed. The leader of the slaughter needed to face his orders. Marcius wondered if Caesar understood what he asked of his men. He swallowed bile and stood firm.

"Centurion!" Atticus called. Marcius' eyes followed Atticus' finger pointing back up the hill they had come down that morning. There was a thin trail of smoke escaping the trees. Someone had survived, possibly hidden in one of the crevices among the boulders. More death was necessary. Marcius looked around, about to order men up the hill. The faces were drawn, the will sucked out by the slaughter.

"Atticus, you and you five," Marcius ordered, pointing at a group of men taking a break. "Follow me." What was once a set of fine orders was now a curse. He drew his gladius, not looking back to see if he was being followed. They were Romans. He would lead, and they would follow.

The cave entrance was hidden behind an outcropping of rock. They had passed near it on the way to the village and would have missed it again as they left. The smoke was the only sign that pointed to its existence.

Marcius entered first, a cavern twice the size of any dwelling found in the valley below. Heavy furs, hanging a few paces in, blocked the worst of the weather creating a pocket of unexpected warmth. An old woman, the oldest Marcius had ever seen, sat before a fire, stirring a pot that lay on the edge. Beside her a small boy stood, shock clearly marking his face. The cavern was covered in firs, some bundled into furniture, others draping the walls.

The boy moved behind the woman, his fear evident. Without looking up, the woman dipped her finger in the pot and turned toward the boy. She uttered something and painted a triangle on his head with her finger.

"She's blessing the boy," Atticus said. Marcius halted the advance of the others.

"Let them prepare," Marcius said. It was all the mercy He could offer. It would never atone for the day, but it was more than nothing. The woman flicked her hand at the boy. He bowed his head in deference then ran to the back of the cave. He moved a fur exposing dark passage.

"Move!" Marcius shouted, flagging his men forward. He held Atticus back. The two approached the old women as the others went after the boy. She stood to meet them, smiling and speaking in her barbarian tongue.

"She's cursing you," Atticus summarized.

"I'm already cursed, old woman," Marcius said, then slid his sword into her belly to end the nightmare. There was no scream or even a groan. She finished her curse then brought her hand up and drew a symbol on Marcius forehead. He slapped the hand away, and the woman fell to the ground, the final breath leaving her lungs. Marcius wiped at his forehead, smearing the symbol.