Immortal Rage

by Jax Garren

Cash squeezed the baby’s foot. “What’s to mind? Not like it’d keep me up in the mornings. We’ll hire a wet nurse. You and Vince teach the baby useful stuff, Emma teaches how to get along with people, and I teach how to kill things. The baby will have all the bases covered.” Then he straightened like the idea excited him. “Adopt a Valkyrie—they’re always orphans. I’ll have her ruling the playground with an iron sword by age six.”

  Javier tried to imagine what it would’ve been like to be fostered into that household—Vince the ex-stripper, Emma the ex-prostitute, Charlie the shy carpenter, and Cash with his room full of axes and swords next to his room full of fancy suits. It was a nuts environment to bring a kid into—CPS never would’ve approved. But Vince would make jokes and foster pride, Emma would bake cookies and bandage wounds, Charlie would listen and patiently teach the kid how to carve, and Cash would buy presents and scare the shit out of anyone who was mean. The kid would be surrounded by love. “You should consider a child instead of a baby,” he blurted out.

  The group stopped staring at Cash and turned to him. His ears warmed, but he pressed on. “Babies get adopted. Once a kid gets to elementary school, nobody wants him anymore—particularly if he’s a boy and he’s not white.” A house like Cash’s would’ve been heaven for a kid like him.

  Vince’s gaze softened in sympathy. He was the only one in the room who knew Javier was speaking from experience. “Like I said, we haven’t talked about it. But fostering a kid is a good consideration.” He bounced the infant again. “Now, come on, little man. We’re going to have fun before we have to turn you in. Do you know how high Uncle Charlie can throw you into the air?” With air kisses for Emma they left, and the room seemed bleaker for the absence.

  In front of the office, Dr. Thibeault had his nose in the air and his eyes narrowed at the men’s exit. Javier guessed his technological savvy wasn’t the only thing stuck in a previous century. Charlie had only come out a few months ago to vampire society. Without Cash’s staunch support, Javier wasn’t sure how well he and Vince would have fared with CoVIn.

  Cash’s expression turned serious, though not angry. “Don’t do that again.” Javier frowned, unsure what he was talking about. “What you did with Modron. I laud your courage, but don’t interfere.”

  “She shouldn’t—”

  “Anger comes out, one way or another. If I take it, nobody else has to.” Cash studied him for a moment, his gaze more penetrating than Javier liked. “You know what I mean.”

  Javier looked away, unwilling to respond to that—particularly not with Emma watching.

  A ghost of Cash’s usual grin lightened his demeanor, bringing the golden boy back as he whacked Javier on the shoulder a couple times, then left his hand there, propelling Javier forward. “Lying to Mama Mo already? Must say, I’m impressed.” He strode them both toward the doctor, his free hand out. “Mr. Tight-belt, you know who I am.”

  The man nodded, taking Cash’s hand in a grip that looked more like a nervous tick than a handshake. “Thibeault. Martin Thibeault. General Geirson, it is good to have you here.”

  Cash strode past him into the hallway, carting Javier with him. “Not in a chitchat mood. We’ve got approval to renovate the laboratory. Which way, Dr. Reyes?”

  Javier pointed to the laboratory door. Modron’s chastisement still hung in the air, but Cash was a prince among commoners, and he’d made clear who had the backing of authority. It was odd and uncomfortable and awesome. When they stepped into the near-empty space, Javier noted where everything would go if he could fit out a lab to his specifications.

  Cash spun him to face the other doctors. “My man Reyes has lead on the project. If he says buy it, have it here in an hour.”

  Dr. Thibeault cringed. “That may not be—”

  “He has my private cell number. He’s not giving it you. But if he calls me with an issue, I will handle it. Personally.” He nodded at the doctors in turn, eyes barely looking at them. “Dr. Tie-bow. Dr. Whatever-your-name-is. I hope to hear nothing about either of you.” He poked Javier in the chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. “I expect this place to look like the twenty-first century. Make it happen.”

  The doctors looked furious, jaws tight and spines stiff. Progress always pissed everyone off.

  No, scratch that. Progress pissed off people who thought their past should make them in charge regardless of what the present looked like—or what the future could be. When judged by his past, Javier would always come out on the bottom. But judged by what could be? He grinned, excited about the possibilities. “First, we’re going to need some computers.” They had a long way to go.

  Chapter Four

  Rhiannon’s birthday had arrived—the first social event Emma’s fledgling had ever asked her to attend. She was nervous as hell. Excited. But nervous. If she was going to make things right with Javier, this was where to start.

  It wasn’t starting at all like she’d expected, though. She, Cash, and Charlie stared at the faded yellow house that out-leaned the tower in Pisa and looked fragile enough to blow away in a breeze. The whole thing would fit in Cash’s living room. The walkway was cracked, the scrawny plants in anemic rows beside it near dead. But the grass smelled freshly mowed and there was one gleaming window installed in the front, obvious in its shiny newness. R & B played from the backyard, signaling a party was indeed on the premises. But there was no way in hell Dr. Got-It-All-Together had any family here—much less his mother.

  Vince hopped out of the car, assuring them they were in the right place. Charlie’s expression cleared as if by force of will, and he followed his fiancé to the back gate.

  Cash turned off the engine but didn’t move, a thoughtful frown on his face as they viewed the scraping-by poverty in front of them.

  “Did you know?” Emma asked. The house reminded her a little too much of the one she’d grown up in, although hers had been logs instead of clapboard, on acreage instead of an urban lot. The Grangers had also grown crops in the back—rows of corn, potatoes, and beans assuring that she, her parents, and her thirteen brothers and sisters had at least one meager meal every day. An old unease crept through her, filled with memories she didn’t want to relive, and the desire to bake and eat dozens of cookies made her wish they could turn the car around and go back to Cash’s nice kitchen.

  Cash flicked his fashionably tousled hair from his face so he could see her better. “I knew. But I’d never seen.” He shifted, unusually uncomfortable for his normally smooth self. It was obvious Cash and Rhi weren’t in love—if Cash was even capable of such a thing—but it was equally obvious he considered his most regular donor to be a friend, and Cash took good care of his friends. Or he did as much as they’d let him. “She’s told me a little about being fostered but clammed up after I told her I was happy to take out any assholes she wanted to name.”

  Most of Emma’s girls had been foster kids at some point. As far as Emma could tell, the system designed to save kids from trauma was so mismanaged it could do as much damage as it prevented. “Are they brother and sister because his happy, rich little family of brilliant people adopted her or something?” That would explain why they looked nothing alike—but not how his DNA donor, or whatever he’d called his mother, lived here with Rhiannon.

  That got a laugh. “No. They have the same biological mother, I know that. Different fathers, I’m pretty sure. Rhi’s—I looked him up—is a swastika-tatted piece of shit who’s been in and out of prison on drug and assault charges since she was two. I don’t think he has any contact with her, but if he does, I’ll deal with him.”

  Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  Emma tried to reconcile Cash’s information with what she knew—or had thought she knew—of Javier. He drove a BMW. Granted, it wasn’t new, but it was still a Beamer. He wore clothes with labels. Then again, you could get those for cheap at thrift stores if you were careful. He was a doctor, a brilliant man with an advanced degree and impeccable manners, and that wasn’t something you co
uld cheat.

  True, with motivation and the right luck at the right time, anyone could, theoretically, become a doctor. But there were financial and societal reasons most doctors came from wealthy families and not from… she looked at the peeling paint in front of her… they didn’t come from here. “You sure Javi was bouncing from home to home with her?”

  “Oh, they were together all right.” His voice turned wry. “Get Rhi talking about Javier when he’s not around, and you’d think a god walked among us by her description.”

  Emma took a deep breath and tried to shove away the stories of Jazmin and all the other girls she worked with. Javier didn’t fit that picture. It was like imagining herself as a CEO. She was poor compared to most vampires. It had been a long time, though, since she’d gone hungry. She remembered it. In her head, in her gut, in her bones. The stomachache of too many days without a proper meal. The ostracization that came from working a low job. The fear of constantly knowing that what little she had could be taken from her… and no one would care because she was one of them.

  And now she was looking in on someone else and feeling uncomfortable, just like people felt for her all those years ago, and damn, she’d hated that pity so much. “I’m such a snob.”

  Cash barked a laugh. “You? You clean toilets at a place you should be giving orders at.”

  She pointed at the house. “No, I am. I work with poor girls all the time, but it never bothers me like this. Why? Because it’s somebody I know. That’s a serious amount of nose in the air. Like my people can’t be living hand to mouth. Course they can.”

  “It always hurts more when it’s kith. You’re a better sentient than most because you still give a shit when it’s other people’s people. However”—he shot her one of his killer grins—“I’d be insulted if you cared more about strangers than me. And since we all know life is about pleasing me…”

  She smacked Cash’s shoulder, currently encased in a thousand-dollar suit. “You ain’t never been poor, have you, son of a chieftain, son of a queen?” Not only was Modron his sire, Cash’s father had ruled a city in pre-Norway back in the days of Vikings. He was about as upper-crust as it got, and somehow she still liked him anyway. She unbuckled her seat belt. They needed to get inside.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie. “A thousand years is enough to live a lot of lives. Forgive a man for choosing to only speak about the good ones.”

  With that enigmatic admonishment, he exited his Bentley and rolled up his sleeves, transforming from dinner suit to casual in a few deft moves.

  Emma stepped out too, and her red heel sank into the mix of mud and mowed weeds. The yard could be fixed with some patience and cheap seeds. Would Rhi take offense if she offered? It’d make a better birthday present than the stupid gewgaw wrapped in the trunk. Buying presents was always such a crapshoot. She smoothed her full skirt over the tulle that made it flare and yanked the neckline of her halter back into place.

  “Nice car.” A teenage punk with a dangerous gleam in his eyes headed toward them.

  Cash sized him up with a glance. Emma knew him well enough to watch the thought cross his mind that he could slaughter the kid and leave his body next to the trunk as a warning. But modern manners won out, and he grabbed a bill from his wallet instead. “I’d appreciate you keeping watch over it for me.” He reached for a handshake.

  The punk smiled and palmed the money. A quick glance at the bill, and he nodded his head. “No problem.”

  She and Cash turned toward the house, and she thought about Cash’s words. If a man only spoke of the good parts of his past, it boded no good that when it came to his own history, Javier was absolutely silent. Tonight she needed to show him that she was on his side no matter what.

  * * *

  Javier’s insides twisted in confusion as he swigged another beer that wouldn’t affect him—at least not without a few shots of blood in it—and watched the dancing. The music pounded, tugging at him to come join. The women crowding the backyard moved with sinuous grace in outfits designed to entice. More than one had given him eyes, and temptation curled inside of him. But the women didn’t know they weren’t just tempting the drives of a human.

  Do no harm. Growing up a man in a society where women were used up and discarded, he’d always been capable of so much harm. Now he was capable of far more.

  The party was an odd mix of people from the neighborhood, male strippers from LongHorns, where Rhiannon worked as stage manager, a few women she knew from the Austin Pagan scene, and wealthy CoVIn vampires from Rhi’s new circle of friends—not that anyone else knew they were vampires. Rhi handled the collide of worlds so smoothly, dressing like she wanted to, acting like she wanted to, being herself no matter who was watching. As much as he wished she’d get a real job that used more of her potential, he admired her so much.

  Emma was like that too, never worried about other people’s ideas of her.

  Another pang of nerves shot through him. It was the first time she’d see him in his native environment. He should’ve warned her.

  Constant change was the price of success, but he didn’t know which of the many people he’d had to become was the right one tonight.

  Rhi, in a black shirt she’d cut to shreds and equally destroyed jeans, careened into the table and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  He laughed, his tension easing at his sister’s drunken joy. “Somebody’s having fun.”

  “And soooooomebody’s sitting at a table watching like a creeper.” She pulled a flask from her waistband and poured some into his beer.

  It turned pink. His eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  She capped the flask and stuck it back into her jeans. “You look thirsty.” Just in case the innuendo in her tone wasn’t clear enough, she wagged her eyebrows up and down, solidifying the double entendre.

  He hadn’t meant to imbibe. He was thirsty, all right, for the edge-smoothing power of alcohol, the comfort of touch…and the satiation that only came from sinking his teeth into skin. He’d done it twice, both times into the elbow of a paid donor. Not exactly sexy. Still, the rush had been overwhelming. How Cash hadn’t accidentally murdered his sister was beyond him.

  At the disturbing thought, he took a gulp of his doctored beer. Fire ripped down his throat so hard he nearly spit it out. Determination and years of practice got it down.

  His sister crowed with laughter, and he caught her from falling off the table. “What did you put in there?

  “Everclear.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back a laugh that would just encourage her.

  But, like always, Rhi saw through him. “Just laugh, Jav. Laugh, and dance with me.” Her hands tugged on his, and he let her pull him into the crowd. “Look at all those tasty edibles eyeing you up and down. I think they like you even better with your fancy car.”

  He rolled his eyes as he found the rhythm of the song, jumping in time with the crowd. He was neither a terrible dancer nor a particularly adept one, but moving felt good. “Yeah, I’m particularly interested in anyone going out with me for my car.”

  “They use you for your ride, you use them for a pint, everybody gets laid. Win all around.”

  He scowled but stayed on the floor. It wasn’t the first time they’d argued about his unwillingness to bite people. I solemnly pledge to dedicate my life to the service of humanity. It was the first line of the Declaration of Geneva, which his med school used instead of the Hippocratic Oath. Living like a parasite was not in keeping with his oath, and that sort of thing mattered to him.

  “You’re getting cold again.”

  He set his jaw. A vampire could survive off of bottled blood indefinitely—or, at least, so it seemed. It hadn’t been a viable option long enough for the long-term effects to be studied, and immortal life had the potential to take “long-term consequences” to a new level. They did know that a vampire’s body temperature started to drop after a while. He’d taken to usin
g a heat lamp at work to warm his hands in case he needed to touch someone without gloves. It wasn’t an easy charade to keep up, but he’d spent most of his life pretending something—that he was tough enough to not care about pain, that he was educated enough to tackle college, that he was cultured enough to fit in. He’d never thought he’d have to fake being human.

  The coldness made no medical sense—not like vampirism in general made medical sense. Why did only half the people turned survive to become vampires? How did the body keep moving with a severely decelerated heart rate? How did a vampire’s corpse regenerate every day after he or she died at dawn?

  Most importantly, how could he use that to help people? Imagine if children with degenerative diseases could be cured with whatever science it was that would keep his body running long after everyone around him—including his sister—had degenerated and died.

  He hated that thought.

  Another gulp of beer-Everclear-blood, and this time he was ready for the burn.

  “Gay boys! Over here!” his sister screamed.

  He looked over to find Charlie blushing as Vince dragged him through the crowd to join them. Half the party looked askance at what was still too often considered an aberration in this part of town. In a show of support, Javier gave them both a hug, then looked around for Emma. She had come with them, right? He took another drink.

  “Vince!” A too friendly voice came from behind him, and Javier stiffened. “Give me sugar, sugar.”

  “Danielle.” Vince nodded and leaned in for a hug.

  Had she asked her son for a hug this evening when he’d come to mow the lawn and repair the window? No. But she asked Rhi’s best friend. So it was going to be that kind of night. He stretched his neck and tried not to take her erratic affection personally, even if the insult was as personal as it got. After a deep breath, he turned to face his mother.

  At forty-six years old, Danielle Carson wasn’t the oldest person at the party by a long shot. The whole block seemed to be pouring in to Rhi’s backyard, bringing more booze and adding more potluck to the spread that Rhi and Danielle had started while he was fixing up the house. Danielle was dressed casually in ill-fitting jeans and a top that showed a wide swath of cleavage. She was losing weight again, and that concerned him. Losing weight meant not eating. Not eating meant methamphetamine.