Chapter 4

It's not long before Parrish's small kitchen table can't hold the files they need, and they migrate to the floor. They've got three piles now.

Deaths by vampire attack. A single bite, body drained of blood and dumped or buried in the woods.

Missing persons with a connection to Anton's bar. They could be human or vampire, because if there's no body, there's no way to know.

Finally, there's a pile of cases they've decided are unrelated. One of them was an incident with a barbecue fork that shouldn't have been filed under unsolved cases at all.

The sheriff places another unrelated case file on the coffee table, and reaches for his beer. He watches Parrish as he crawls on hands and knees over the carpet, brow furrowed in concentration.

There's a dozen files spread out, and Parrish's attention flicks from one to another. He pulls one out, casts it aside, and returns his focus to those that remain.

"What've you got, Parrish?" the sheriff asks, leaning back against the coffee table and resting his beer bottle on his thigh. It leaves a damp ring on his pants.

"It might be nothing." Parrish pulls two files out of formation, hands them over. "Bar on the edge of town. A guy says the victim was supposed to meet him there. We found the body in a dumpster on the other side of town. The other victim told a friend he was going there, never turned up for work the next morning. Found a week later in the lake." He pulls up another. "This guy worked late at his office, half a block from the bar, the night he was killed. He was found in a shallow grave in the preserve." He waves his hand over the rest of the files. "All these have got a connection to that bar. Not Anton's."

The sheriff lifts his beer to his lips. It's gone warm, but he swallows it back anyway. "What is it with these vampires and bars? Shouldn't they be hanging out in graveyards or something?"

Parrish's lips twitch in a brief smile. He drops his eyes. "None of the murders have got any connection with Anton. But the missing persons?" He lifts the pile and hands it over. "Every single one of them either worked there, or was a regular." He shakes his head. "And if they're vampires, all the stereotypes are out the window. The chef, and the security guard, for a start. Then there's the woman. Two adult kids. But check out the photo. She looks like she's still in her twenties."

The sheriff flicks through the pile, pulls out the one with the photo of a young, attractive blonde attached. "Forty-four years old?" He scans down the page, turns it to the page stapled behind. "Hang on." Something tightens in his chest as he sees the photocopied page with the logo of Beacon County Hospital at the top. "She was diagnosed with cancer sixteen years ago. Terminal." He flicks back to the first page. "Her kids would have been six and...and eight." He looks up. "He saved her life. He made sure her kids didn't have to grow up without a mom."

Parrish picks up the rest of the pile, looks through the files. Eventually he puts them all down. "Security guard was a car accident. The chef was cancer, too. The vet was right, our vampire isn't a bad guy."

The sheriff is still reeling, knowing that there was something that could have saved Claudia. Stiles didn't have to grow up without his mother. "Right." He shakes his head to clear it. It doesn't work, doesn't stop his heart from beating hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

Parrish gets up off the floor and steps over the piles of papers, drops into a crouch beside him. He tugs the woman's file from the sheriff's shaking fingers. "Are you okay?"

The sheriff looks up. "Why her?" he asks. "Why not my wife? My kid? How is that fair?"

Parrish shakes his head. "It's not." He puts the file behind him on the floor, then turns back around. He balls his hands into fists and bites at his lower lip. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." The sheriff shakes his head, drops his eyes. "I shouldn't be laying this on you." He looks up, almost drowns in Parrish's eyes.

"It's fine." Parrish's eyes flick over the sheriff's face. He opens his mouth, as if he's about to speak, then closes it as if he's changed his mind. He looks away.

"Jordan," the sheriff says. "Come here." He reaches out with his free hand, wraps it around the back of Parrish's neck and pulls him down.

This time, there's no one watching. The tiny grunt Parrish lets out as he leans into the kiss shoots straight to the sheriff's groin, twisting his stomach into knots on the way.

John hasn't kissed someone like this in years. Like he's starving for air, and Parrish is the only one who can make him breathe. He savors every one of the small, desperate sounds that Parrish makes before he pushes him away.

It's hard, but he does it, one hand on Parrish's chest so he can feel the quick beat of his heart. "We can't do this," he says.

Parrish's eyes are wide, pupils dilated. His lips are slick and red. "What?"

John closes his eyes, takes deep breaths. "We have to get out of here and finish the job."

Parrish whines and drops his head, searches for John's lips again. The kiss is hot and quick. "I don't want to. Vampires can wait till tomorrow."

John shakes his head. "Vampires in daylight. No. We've got to do this now."

---

"I thought you might be back," Anton says. "You'll forgive me if I was half afraid you might bring company. I sent my friends home."

The sheriff scanned the bar as they entered, noted the lack of any faces that had been there before. There's a couple eating at a table up the front, demonstrating none of the behaviors they noticed earlier. Other than that, the bar is empty.

"The chef," John says. "He's still here?"

"He left." Anton wipes down the spotless bar with a clean towel. "Closed the kitchen after..." He waves a hand toward the couple eating. "I'm the only one here."

The sheriff clears his throat. "I'm going to need names," he says. "Your staff, your regulars. Human and otherwise."

Anton's head jerks up. "I can't do that."

"It's not an official case," the sheriff says. He leans on the bar, tries to seem unthreatening. "Who would believe us anyway? I swear to you, those names will go no further than the two of us."

Anton shakes his head. "They trust me with their privacy. I can't betray that."

The sheriff sighs and pulls himself up. "We're trying to help you. Someone's killing your people. Leaving them nothing more than a pile of dust. Unless..."

"Unless you're the one killing them," Parrish says. "You keep them on a tight leash, don't you, Anton. They get hungry, go looking for all-you-can-eat and people die. Real people. And you clean up the mess. You've got a good thing going here, you don't want that disturbed."

"What?" Anton's expression is pure shock, as if the thought of killing his own is unfathomable. "I would never— I couldn't. Even if it were true. It's not. I would know." He drops his towel, leans across the bar. "I swear to you, Sheriff. My vampires are not killing people in this town."

John glances up at Parrish, who lifts an eyebrow. He turns back to Anton. "Someone or something is. Clean bites, draining them of blood. Dumping the bodies. Sounds like a vampire to me."

"It's not mine," Anton says, shaking his head. He swallows, takes deep, heaving breaths. "There must be another one here." He looks up, and there's fear in his eyes. "I thought... I thought it was a hunter. There are hunters here. If a hunter catches one of mine alone..."

"The hunters I know aren't interested in vampires," John says. "This guy was in your kitchen. He killed your chef. Couldn't you smell him or something?"

"No," Anton says. "I know the scent of my own bloodline, and this place is thick with it. I wouldn't know another one if I passed him on the street. Not until he revealed himself to me."

"Great." The sheriff sighs. "There's a vampire killing people and we've got no way of finding him or knowing it's even him when we do."

"That's not true," Parrish says. "The other bar. It's a start."

The sheriff nods. He crosses his arms and leans on the bar. "Anton," he says. "If I wanted to kill you, how would I do it?"

Anton stares back at him, doesn't even flinch. "Wooden stake through the heart."

"Are you kidding me?"

Anton shakes his head. "You'll want to be sure he's a vampire, Sheriff. I imagine it could get a little messy if you try that on a human."

---

The contrast between Anton's place and the dive at the edge of town is stark. The floor is sticky and the only food here is a few faded bags of chips on a shelf and stale looking nuts on the bar.

The bartender recognised the sheriff immediately. He gave him the whiskey he ordered on the house, then watches him from the corner of his eye as he serves further down.

John turns, scans the room. Parrish leans over the pool table, lines up a shot, shoots a cocky smile at the bearded guy in ripped, faded jeans looming over him. John's eyes keep moving, never lingering long enough to indicate he knows Parrish at all. As he takes in the rest of the space and the people in it, he's left with a single thought. Parrish looks so incredibly young.

It shouldn't make his heart twist like it does. Stiles is a lot younger, and he's been involved in this stuff for far longer than John's known about it. Stiles has supernatural creatures on his side, though. Parrish doesn't.

He starts to wonder if he should have let Deaton call Scott. With a few werewolves on the case, they'd have this wrapped up in no time, they might even be able to sniff the vampire out. He makes a decision. Once they check this place out, he'll talk to Scott.

He feigns disinterest when Parrish appears at the bar a few feet away. There's a girl with him, small, blonde, wearing a short skirt and long boots. "Lets get out of here," she says, leaning up with her palm pressed to Parrish's chest.

"Sure," he says, and rests his cue against the bar. As he pulls away, he looks over the girls head, gives the sheriff an almost imperceptible nod.

"That girl," the sheriff says to the bartender after they leave. "She a regular?"

The man shrugs. "Comes in a couple times a week. Always leaves with a different guy—or girl." He grins. "She's not picky. That guy's about the prettiest I've ever seen her with."

John throws back the trickle of whiskey in the bottom of his glass. "Thanks," he says, and slips out after them.

The street light above the bar flickers at random intervals. There's a pair of tail lights growing smaller up the street, and the sound of distant traffic. There's no sign of Parrish or the girl.

Then there's a shout. The sheriff takes off running in the direction of the sound.

He almost runs right past the alley. He catches the glow of pale skin from the corner of his eye, and skids to a stop.

There, just visible in the shadows, Parrish sits on his heels. Half of Anton's broken broomstick hangs loose in his hand. It's tipped with blood. There's blood on his collar, and he sways as if he's about to fall.

John gets down there, crouches in front of him, grips him by the shoulders. "Where is she?" he asks.

Parrish, glassy eyed, drops his gaze to John's feet. "You're standing on her. What's left of her." He lifts his eyes, locks them to the sheriff's face. "She kind of exploded."

The sheriff turns Parrish's head to the side. There are two puncture wounds in his throat, blood trickling. "You let her bite you? Are you insane?"

"I had to be sure." Parrish huffs out a laugh and lifts his makeshift stake. "Still messy."

John takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Are you okay?" He pulls Parrish to his feet. "We should get you to the hospital."

Parrish shakes his head. "Nah. She'd only just got her fangs in me. I'm just..." He grins. "I just killed a vampire."

"I wish I'd been here," John says. He fishes a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and presses it to the side of Parrish's throat. He runs his hands over Parrish's chest and arms, just to reassure himself that there are no other injuries.

"Come home with me," Parrish says, his voice thick and breathless. "I mean it, this time." He leans into John's touch, searches out his lips, and kisses him, wet and filthy.

John's mind skips forward to tugging Parrish's clothes off him, to skin moving against skin between clean sheets.

"Come on," Parrish says, pulling away, tugging him toward the mouth of the alley. Then he pulls up short.

John turns to see what's stopped him. Silhouetted in the bright space between walls is the figure of a young man. The street light flickers and he disappears.

The hair on the back of John's neck stands on end.

"You killed my sister." The words are a hiss from behind, then Parrish is ripped from his grasp, dragged backwards into the darkness.