Bloodlust (Frailty Book 2) Read online

  FRAILTY

  BLOODLUST

  Thanks to Cynthia and Meredith. I appreciate your keen eyes and input.

  A special thank you to Chloe: photographer, designer, and all-around creative person. A more perfect picture I could not have found for the cover of this book. See more of her unique work on her website at chlojoceycom.deviantart.com.

  Copyright © 2015 by Alex D. T. Baker

  PART ONE – BORSCHT AND BEASTS

  1

  It was borscht. Roofy was sure of it. There was no questioning the all too familiar smell of beetroot. As he struggled to gain consciousness, it brought a wave of childhood memories flooding through his mind, most of which centered on his mother, ever present in the kitchen.

  The scent of pirozhki crept in, adding a sweetness to complement the strong root vegetable. It made sense, as mother never fixed soup without including his favorite stuffed pastries.

  Roofy inhaled long and hard, wanting one more reminder before he shook off the security of sleep. The whole experience had seemed so real, though, even by dream standards. Welcoming the feeling of comfort that the memories of the woman he had been so close to and missed so much brought on, he decided to lie in bed just a bit longer, skirting just outside of the realm of reality.

  The growing realization, though, of a cramp in one leg and a dull pain near the ankle on the other were enough to coax him into giving up and accept waking. Roofy opened his eyes lazily and froze when the world came into focus. He was home.

  Rybinsk to be exact. The house where he had grown up – just he and his mother; the one he had occupied right up until the time he signed with the UWA wrestling company and left for America.

  It explained the cramp and discomfort in his legs. Despite not recalling how he ended up there, he awoke in the same twin bed that had been passed down to his family, like most of the furniture they had owned - third and fourth generation items in various degrees of deterioration: chips in the wood, scratches here and there, mismatched colors, and pieces being held together loosely by glue, wire, or poorly placed nails and screws. Roofy’s mother had found a way to wring every last drop of usefulness out of them, though.

  Working hard to provide the best life she could for them was a burden she had always been willing to bear, and he could never recall her having complained about or shirked her motherly responsibilities. Despite his mother’s good nature and persistent smile, Roofy figured she would have been justified in feeling jaded about the situation, as there was no significant other to assist her with all the burdens life could bring.

  Not harboring any memories of who his father might have been, Roofy’s mother had shied away from speaking about the man and outwardly refused to answer any questions about him. Asking family members and friends had produced few details as well, leaving the existence of the man clouded in mystery, and without a name or address for the male to go on, there was little Roofy could do to attempt in tracking him down. Eventually he gave up even trying, and it was enough that he had a loving relationship with his mother.

  Throughout the years, it remained just the two of them, although he had reassured her that he would be okay with her entering into a relationship with someone; he certainly did not wish to see her grow old alone. His mother always acknowledged the gesture with a smile but spoke nothing of bringing it to fruition. The man that was his father must have been very impressionable to have left a scar that deep, Roofy had thought on many occasions.

  That impression did not prevent her from pushing forward each day with grace and care, always finding a way to provide for their family of two and making do with what little they had.

  That was just as true of the small bed. Roofy’s hulking body had dwarfed the frame of the sleeping space within a few years of having inherited it. His choices of positions were limited: curl up and endure cramping or stretch out, dangling his feet over the footboard, and tolerate the unyielding wood grinding into his ankles and shins. There had been attempts to curtail the latter by wrapping old rags and towels over the poorly conditioned oak. It had done little to help.

  A confused glance around confirmed the rest of his childhood adornments were in place. The small room was littered with old family pictures, cheaply made toys, and sporadically placed posters that displayed some of the Russian hockey greats and various wrestling legends.

  Humming carried in from the other room and drew his attention. The sound was as recognizable as the aroma of the food. It was his mother. How is this possible? He had woken up. Maybe he was dead? That did not seem right, though. His memories were hazy, but there was definitely the impression that he had been trying to accomplish something or get somewhere.

  The melody echoing through the small house grew louder.

  Roofy threw the thin, sweat spotted quilt aside and stood up, adjusting his boxers. The wood floor felt cool to the soles of his feet, with the draft carrying up his bare legs. Going out in front of his mother in his current wardrobe, or lack thereof, was not his first choice, and he assumed there would be a pile of clothes beside the bed. There was not. Oddly, there did not appear to be any clothes at all in the cramped room: nothing under the bed, nothing in the drawers, and nothing scattered about.

  Excitement over seeing his mother quickly overrode the need for explanation of the current situation, so he decided to forego any further searching and venture forth. Cautiously making his way out of the bedroom, the old wooden floor creaking under his heavy steps, Roofy walked down the hall where faded pictures hung in washed out frames on walls covered in pale green, peeling paint. The smell of the food grew stronger, the humming clearer, and his pulse quicker as he went.

  Roofy paused just outside of the kitchen, almost scared to enter. Almost. It was more like anxiousness, he thought, and despite having performed in many arenas in front of thousands of people, he could rarely recall his heart pounding with such intensity and his breathing being so rapid. With one final resolution, he squared up and rounded the corner.

  There, stationed in front of the oven was his mother, hard at work and naked.

  Well, not quite naked. She was draped in a simple cooking apron, the strap to it stretched as far as it could and still be tied. It pulled deep into the loose, fatty, blanched skin around the waist of her short, stocky frame, just above her butt. Roofy tried to avert his eyes, but it was too late. Not able to get the vision of her ample, sagging, pock-marked and dimpled bottom out of his mind, he fought back against the war his turning stomach was waging on him.

  “Mat’, chto ty delayesh?” he asked.

  There was no answer.

  Roofy looked back in her direction, grimacing at the view. He tried to concentrate on keeping his eyes locked on her hair, which had remained mostly a deep brown, almost black, in color despite her advanced years.

  “Mother, what are you doing?” he asked again, only in English.

  Her tune immediately stopped and body straightened. “Roofy, my son, is that you?” She turned to face him with open arms, a smile crossing her cheeky face and pendulous breasts bulging out from around the failing fabric of her cooking smock.

  Roofy feigned a smile, but he actually had a hard time disguising the reaction he felt overwhelming him. Something was not right, outside the obvious fact that his mother was wearing nothing but her good intentions. It itched at him just under the surface of his conscience. No, a sincere smile would not come, and there was no way he was hugging her.

  “What is wrong? Give your mother a hug,” she said and stepped closer to Roofy.

  The big Russian froze in place, his adrenaline pumping. Whatever was really happening, it was so close he could almost put his finger on it.

  His mother took another step forward and
tried to embrace him. “Come now. I’ve missed my boy.”

  Roofy took a half-step in retreat while putting out one of his large arms and giving her a light shove backwards, noticing a look of disappointment on her face. Disappointed, he thought; disappointed, not hurt or offended. What had been nagging him felt like it was going to explode into his head, like a shout coming from nowhere.

  The smile quickly returned to the rotund woman’s expression. “Mama knows what you need, my Roofy.” She untied the apron and let it drop to the floor, the folds of her skin rolling out. Her corpulent breasts hung down onto her stomach, nipples large and erect. “Let mother show you how much she loves you.”

  She stepped forward again, trying to wrap her stubby arms around him. The bubble that was building finally burst. “Niet!” Roofy yelled and shoved her hard this time, sending her back into the kitchen counter. “You are not my mother! She did not know me as Roofy! She called me her Krysna! And she could not speak the English! I do not know what you are – maybe some sort of fiend – but you are not my mother!”

  The woman feigned hurt. “What, no lovin’ for Mommy? And I was just getting good and wet.” A deep, evil laugh began to develop from her and bellow out.

  Shock rolled over Roofy; then fear; then anger. This was no dream. It was a nightmare. He knew the laugh. He knew what it meant. Everything came flooding back. Slowly, the figure in front of him morphed into one that had become all too familiar and unwanted. It was not just any fiend – it was a demon; his own personal demon, Mister Apocalypse. There was a hint of sulfur and the creature’s eyes seemed almost alight with a purplish-black flame, set deep in their dark sockets.

  “Did you honestly think it would stop with just the voices you have been hearing in your head, my symbiotic friend?” the demon asked. “I am a part of you – at least for now.”

  “Niet. I will find a way to destroy you once and for all,” Roofy retorted defiantly.

  “Niet. Niet. Niet. Twit. You thought you did that when you burst that seed in your head. My demon seed, so carefully planted and growing, that had been passed on to you; Lucky little you,” Apocalypse chided as he stepped closer to Roofy. “That little stunt only delayed the inevitable. You managed to dilute my influence, but it’s still in you, flowing in your blood. I will only get stronger, and it won’t be long before I have total control over your body.”

  Roofy moved forward, closing the distance between the two. “Ya ne pozvolyu u vas yest’ kontrol’. Ya ne pozvolyu vam bol’no nikogo!”

  “You’re going to have to speak something other than that drivel if you want me to take you seriously,” Apocalypse snorted.

  Moving dangerously close to the dark creature, Roofy repeated himself with authority. “I will not let you have control! I will not let you harm anyone else! Do you understand that, demon?”

  “Won’t let me have control, you say,” Apocalypse snorted. “Won’t let me hurt anyone. Yeah, Doughboy, because you did such a great job saving that poor little girl and protecting that police slut, now didn’t you? You couldn’t even finish off Ambrose when he was down and reeling. You know he’s still hunting you, right? Hell, you wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t saved you. If it wasn’t for my spores running through your veins, your lame ass would still be lying on the slab. Tell me, how does it feel knowing you owe me your life - the life I will soon be consuming for my own?”

  Rage welling up and washing over Roofy, the two lunged for each other, grabbing and clawing like rabid animals. Locked in tight, standing face to face, Roofy screamed so hard that it seemed the world around him would tear apart.

  The sound engulfed him. It echoed all around. It woke him up.

  Roofy sat straight up in bed as the yell dwindled off into the back of his throat, the covers in disarray and damp. Wiping his forehead, he found it dripping with sweat, but a quick look around at least assured him that he was back in the real world, not that reality was much better. Much like the one from his childhood, the bedroom he now occupied was a small and unassuming niche, only this one was located in a small Catholic church in the outskirts of the Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada. It was where he had ended up after walking in a delirium, for what seemed like weeks, out of the morgue.

  No posters or cheap toys or hand-me-down furniture, just a lot of crucifixes, which had been originally placed as part of the décor but increased in numbers after his occupancy began. They had been a sign of hope, but now the sight of them worried Roofy. If the demon could build up its strength such a holy place then he was not sure how much time he would have to figure out how to rid himself of the unwelcomed guest.

  A creak from outside the bedroom door took his attention. He had company. It whipped open and a concerned priest appeared in the doorway brandishing a bible. “Roofy, my son, is everything okay?”

  Every time he heard the father speak, the Hispanic accent reminded Roofy of his old wrestling partner, El Angel. However, it was not just that similarity that played on his melancholy. The voice held feeling – warmth, trust, and sincerity, and it brought a feeling of comfort. Like the father, Miguel had been a great man and friend. “Niet, Father,” Roofy answered, “things are not okay. The demon is here.”

  2

  Red paint chips lay scattered all over her pajama pants. Deep cherry red to be exact, and it probably would have looked like a major mess if most of the flakes had not disappeared in the camouflaged flourish of colored streaks dyed into the soft cotton bottoms.

  She had been doing it again. Detective Laura Stenks became aware she had been staring off into space and picking the polish off her fingernails. That’s my life now, she thought, thinking about things, staring at walls, and speaking to a department ordered therapist about what she had been thinking about; one big, vicious circle.

  And making a mess. How appropriate and ironic, her mind continued taunting her. It’s just like the mess I made of my professional…and, well, personal life; a total loss of control.

  Laura decided to give herself a break. She did the mental exercises her therapist had trained her on, logging the damaging thoughts into mental folders and labeling them, while cupping one hand and wiping her pants with the other. Satisfied with the cleaning job, she headed off for the kitchen and dumped the red debris into the trash.

  Her nails were a mess. Uh-oh, there’s that word again. Open file. Insert. Close file.

  The procedure did not help as much as it was intended to. There had been a time when she was so particular and meticulous about how she kept and presented herself. Laura had felt pristine and powerful, not sterile and bland.

  Powerful like the Russian. Her mind wandered again, inadvertently connecting the dots in some Freudian puzzle. Roofy had walked right out of the morgue. That should have been a horrific thing. What was he anyway, some sort of zombie? Yet, all she felt was relief. Well, that was not the only feeling. There had been anxiousness, a desire to see him, and a desire to touch him, with the latter being so strong she often regretted tossing out the things that would have helped stem the tide – her adult toy collection.

  Laura took a deep breath and suppressed the images that were beginning to bubble up to the surface. Shaking her head, she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank heavily, acknowledging her weakness for the ex-wrestler had led her to giving in and ignoring her orders to leave the case alone by contacting Roofy’s neurologist a few weeks prior. The message he had left on the Russian’s cell phone had nagged at her to the point of once again pushing the boundaries on career suicide.

  In hindsight, though, there had been no doubt that something had been wrong with Roofy. There were the nose bleeds, the wild delusion in the Vegas hotel, Constance telling her about a tumor, and his actions during the fight with Ambrose; although unconscious for part of the altercation and fairly far away for the rest, Laura had seen enough to know what she was witnessing was not the man she had met.

  Citing doctor-patient privilege, the neurologist had first refused to
divulge the information, but she knew how to lean on people hard enough to get what she wanted. It was a trait she prided herself on and one that a flash of the badge helped add leverage to. Withholding part of the truth when she showed him the section of the police report that listed Roofy as deceased helped. There had been no reason to divulge that the Russian had apparently made a miraculous recovery, she had decided. Scraping up some dirt on the good doctor had been the pearl in the oyster, though. Most people had those nasty little secrets, and his had been being busted with a prostitute, something Laura was confident his wife would have taken offense to.

  The doctor had caved and spilled what he knew, explaining that Roofy had been suffering with headaches of increasing frequency and intensity. Delusion was also a reoccurring symptom. CT and PET scans had revealed what appeared to be a fast evolving tumor. Given the location of the growth, retrieving a biopsy would be difficult, so the initial plan was to run blood and urine tests.

  However, they had produced some strange results - changes in the blood on a microcellular level. It was as if there were a bacterial infection that was manifesting itself by taking over the body through the bloodstream. The doctor had run every test at his disposal, but they had been inconclusive, not matching anything on record. So, a few weeks before Roofy’s disappearance, they had moved forward with the needle biopsy.

  Small tissue samples were collected and analyzed. It was no cancer, though, the neurologist relayed. It was almost like a living organism was corrupting Roofy’s DNA and sending it back out into the body. While doing that, it was also feeding from nutrients retrieved from the blood system, as if it were seeding him to grow something from the inside-out.

  The samples were quarantined, and the doctor began trying to contact the Russian. He felt it necessary to try to remove the invasive organism as quickly as possible and begin radical chemotherapy and radiation treatment. More importantly, the symbiotic-like specimen needed to be studied and shared with the Centers for Disease Control.