by Jax Garren
The man’s hair was slicked back and his five-o’clock shadow the kind of perfection that only comes from effort. His button-down and pressed khakis were high dollar. Even his walk, a confident prowl, declared his status. This wasn’t a disposable rung on the cartel ladder. Javier would bet his medical license the boss’s son had come for a visit.
Despite the powerful lineage his gait and clothes proclaimed, he was ill—his skin yellowing and his eyes bloodshot with the roving intensity of a fever.
He growled in that way only a were with its part-animal biology could manage, sending the hair on the back of Javier’s neck standing up. “Who let vampires in?”
“Sergio Diaz,” Cash said, his easy smile in place and his Spanish accent suddenly very good. “So good to see you. I’d shake hands, but I’m holding a zombie at the moment.”
Sergio’s eye twitched as he glanced over the scene, then back to Miguel.
Miguel looked from his feet to Cash, then back to his boss’s son. “It’s Cash Geirson. He’s a brother. We kept the traitor and her French boy toy out.”
Cash winked. “That’s right. Family, baby. I’m family. Wanna see my tattoo?”
Javier had no idea what that was about, and Miguel shot Cash a level glare as if to say, “Not helping.”
As the representative PoC from the bad side of the highway—vampires were so freaking white—Javier decided to step in. “We’ve encountered two others. Just over an hour ago, one changed at my sister’s birthday party and attacked the guests. We’re trying to figure out what’s happening before it becomes a serious problem.”
Sergio looked him up and down, assessing. “Do I know you?”
Thank God, no. “Javier Reyes. I’m a doctor at East Side Medical.” And now I’m making friends with gang members. He’d worked hard to avoid doing just that in high school. “I’m here to examine him.”
“You don’t think we have our own doctors doing that?” Sergio snapped. “We’ve solved the problem. It’s being taken care of.”
Miguel looked up, confusion on his face. Either Sergio was lying, or… “What do you know?” Javier asked.
Sergio took a threatening step forward. “Enough to take care of it. You vampires go back to the west side and worry about something else. We take care of our own.” He turned sideways, like he was a gracious host escorting them out.
Javier laughed bitterly. “No, you don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m from the east side. Don’t give me some bullshit line about gangs protecting their hood.” Anger surged through him, but he kept it down, keeping his voice light even as his feet took him closer to the boy who claimed a barrio heritage he didn’t have. He could understand Miguel, dealing to make ends meet. But this punk with his near-lily-white skin grew up in Westlake, not here with those he claimed were his own. “You’re looking out for the best interests of your dad in his mansion. How many boats do you own? How much did that suit cost? How many years does it take for the other men in this room to make the money that can slide through your fingers in a day?” The other vampires stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and maybe he had. But this pompous asshat was full of shit, and it pissed him off. At least Cash admitted his privilege. “You’re making millions off other people’s misery, so don’t tell me you’re protecting your own, because I grew up surrounded by the hell you wrecked.”
Sergio met him toe to toe, and Javier could feel the other men in the room stiffening for a fight. “How dare you?” His bloodshot eyes narrowed, and despite his obvious infirmity, a were-jag was nothing to sneeze at in a fight.
Shifting shadows caught Javier’s eye. Black lines climbed up the man’s face. Javier had thought they were tattoos, but they moved, pulsing upward along veins, like they reached for his brain.
Black lines had issued from the mark on Ramsey’s arm.
Javier took a step back. Sergio knew about the problem all right. He had it. The man grinned, thinking he’d won the staring match, but Javier ignored his gloating. “He’s got the disease.” He took another large step backward. “He’s going to—”
Sergio lurched forward, hands elongating into claws.
Time slowed as the man swung with lethal grace.
Don’t fight. But if you have to, make sure the man won’t come back for more. His dad had taught him how to fight. He might not have claws, but vampires were fast. He stepped to the side, let the swing miss him by millimeters. The air passed by in a gentle brush. Sweat dripped from the burning-up man’s forehead. Unnatural heat emanated from his body. The fetid stink of a deadly sickness permeated the air around him.
Javier grabbed Sergio’s wrist as it continued to swing. Using the man’s own momentum, he twisted it behind the guy’s back and shoved him facedown onto the cement floor. A pop, a spray of blood, and Sergio’s face sank farther.
The other jaguars tensed, closing in to protect their boss. Javier kept loose, trying to sense who would jump him first—and how he was going to get out of a mass beating.
“Mm-mm,” Cash said, his tone warning. “Diaz swung first. Reyes had every right to defend himself. You join the party, I will too.”
“And me,” Emma added. “That’s my fledgling.”
“And my brother,” Rhiannon added, a threat to her voice as the lights blinked dramatically. My sister the witch.
Everyone froze. Javier blinked slowly. He’d just taken somebody to the floor. It hadn’t even been a decision. He’d just reacted—and broken the man’s nose. He needed to get up and help Sergio to his feet. Be civilized.
Embarrassed by his overzealous reaction, he loosened his grip, ready to help him up.
Sergio’s breath came out in rasping gurgles, a sound Javier knew too well from the hospital. Terminal respiratory secretions—the death rattle.
Yeah, Javier had broken his nose, but he hadn’t hit him that hard. Sergio was dying. Flip him over. Analyze what’s wrong. Solve the problem. Save the patient.
No, wait. Think. He has the disease. “He’s dying,” Javier announced.
Sergio’s fingers twitched against the ground as his breathing turned erratic in the classic Cheyne-Stokes pattern—quick, quick, quick, then nothing.
“What?” Miguel asked. “From that tap? No way. Get off him, man. He’ll pop back up and beat your ass.”
The fingers quit scrabbling as the man’s muscles relaxed to softness. Everything was happening at an accelerated pace. What should have taken hours was taking minutes. “He’s turning into a zombie.”
Miguel huffed. “There’s no such thing as…”
The bowels released, sending the stench of fresh urine and excrement to overpower the already present foulness. Noises of disgust surrounded them as the others stepped back.
More used to it, Javier moved to the side, keeping one knee dug into the patient’s back and a firm grip on his wrist. No movement, not even breath issued from the man. Javier kept his voice calm, just like in surgery. “He’s going to wake up and try to kill us. I’m on top of a zombie.” Again. At least this one was facedown.
Emma pulled her Colt from the thigh holster and held it low. So far, no one had noticed the pistol. Well, except Cash, who winked at her before scanning the rows of prisoners—all looking down on them with hungry fascination—then turning his attention back to the dead man on the floor. Always scanning, that one. She’d already had her hand on her gun when the fight started—not that she’d have pulled it until necessary. Never finish a fight for a friend if they could handle it themselves, and her fledgling had handled himself admirably.
She had to smile, even if the tension in the room was wicked thick. Before tonight, she couldn’t have pictured the good doctor taking someone down so easily. Things might be awkward between them, but she was still proud.
“Any suggestions for what we do?” Javier asked lightly. “Get him in a cell?”
“Dude,” one of the jaguars butted in, like the reasonable suggestion offended him on a bone level, “you c
an’t put Diaz in a cell.”
Cash laughed, the chuckle low and cutting as he jerked Oscar’s arm tighter, bringing attention to the snarling thing behind the bars. “You think that’s still Sergio? You think this is Oscar? Why don’t I let him out and see how friendly he is to his familia.”
Miguel held a hand up between them, silencing the room. “Let me think a minute.”
“You don’t have a minute,” Javier said. “The last guy blew in seconds. And he didn’t have claws.”
“Shoot him,” Cash suggested. “Before it’s a problem.”
Miguel pointed angrily. “Don’t you dare fucking shoot Cortez’s son. That will cause a problem between us.”
“We still don’t know how it spreads,” Javier said. “I say we lock him up and work on a cure.”
“It’ll also cause a problem between us,” Cash growled, ignoring Javi, “if the thing wakes up and eviscerates our latest baby bat—”
“Can we use another term,” Javier grumbled.
“—then goes on a killing spree making zombies of all of us.” Cash smiled, showing off his pointed canines. “Including Queen Modron’s favorite son.” Diplomacy drove Cash crazy, but he also knew that any action performed by him would be considered an act of CoVIn. If he killed Cortez’s bastard without permission—even if the guy was already dead—it would be considered an act of war between vampires and jaguars.
“There are no zombies,” Miguel yelled, sweat dripping from his brow. “That’s fiction!”
“Watch out!” Javier yelled. The thing underneath him jerked, then rolled. Javier tried to keep his grip, but it swung for him with elongated claws. He dodged, releasing the hand, and the thing sprung up, too fast for the living dead from a Romero movie.
It charged for Rhiannon, the only human in the room. Javier dove for it, taking its legs out. The thing collapsed but didn’t stop, scrambling forward on hands and knees as it kicked Javier in the jaw, intent on getting to the human.
“You don’t want me to re-kill the already-dead guy?” Cash roared, pissed as hell. “Then keep him off my witch.”
The jaguars remained frozen in indecision as Javier fought the thing alone, doing everything he could to keep it off his sister.
Emma’s heart stuttered and her breath picked up, something that only happened when a vampire was fighting or feeding or fucking—the three Fs of the undead. She let her teeth drop in, feeling the monster come out. Her vision cleared and the room slowed down as every smack and clap of the fight rang clearly in her head. How did the zombie disease transfer? What if Javier got it?
Cash dropped Oscar’s arm and flashed to the side, where he’d have a good angle to engage. He was going to strike, creating a political scandal. She couldn’t let him.
“Javi!” she yelled.
Javier glanced up at her, and recognition passed his eyes, like that sire-to-fledgling mind meld she’d heard could happen.
He knew what she needed him to do.
She lunged forward. He flung the thing to the ground at her feet. She didn’t even have to raise the gun, just pointed down for the headshot. Two blasts and the head exploded onto the concrete, sending blood and brain tissue splattering across the ground. The thing twitched once and stopped.
She put her hands up and dangled the gun by her fingers. “I ain’t no representative of CoVIn. That there’s my fledgling, and it is my duty and my right to protect him from all what tries to do him harm.” She shot Miguel a steady glare. “Including your boss’s son.”
Miguel looked away, swearing under his breath.
Cash frowned at the thing. “A headshot killed it too.”
“A headshot kills most things,” Javier said.
“Not us,” Cash returned. “Silver?” he asked.
Emma shook her head no and looked from one man in denial to another. “Regular bullet—you can check my weapon if you don’t believe me—and that ain’t gonna kill you jaguars, neither. But headshots kill zombies. Least they do in movies. You can say it ain’t one all you want, but if it walks like a duck and dies like a duck, well, why don’t we call it a peacock so you fellas can stick your dicks in the sand a little longer.” This was getting ridiculous. Using her vampire speed, she pointed the gun at Oscar’s heart and pulled the trigger. Then his throat.
The room shouted in anger as she put her hands up again. Two men disarmed her none too gently. Javier stepped forward like he’d get involved, but she was used to being mishandled. “Look, you fur-brained idjits!”
Oscar had two new holes dripping a thick, dark blood. He completely ignored them, still staring with hungry eyes, hands still reaching like he could slice them open and feed.
The furor died around them.
“Heart and throat and it’s still ticking along. What creature needs a headshot to kill it?” She yanked her arms out of the jaguars’ grips and swiped her gun back. “Fucking Night of the Living Dead, George Romero zombies. Now we need to figure out what started it, and how this shit spreads, afore we all gotta start putting our zom-pocalypse plans into action.”
“Out. All of you, out!” Miguel shouted.
Emma gritted her teeth. Denial, yeah, that would help. Hopefully he just needed time to think it over before he came to his senses.
Cash motioned with his chin, and his entourage headed for the door. Javier zipped his medical kit up with the alacrity of the undead, and she took his arm as he passed her. He stiffened and shot her a look of surprise, like the touch was somehow shocking. Why was that? But he didn’t shake her off, just plowed forward after the other vampires, like he couldn’t wait to get out. She didn’t let him, though, lingering to hear what transpired behind them.
Not one to exit on command, Cash strolled to Miguel. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to give CoVIn’s official regrets to Cortez. Let me know by midnight if there’s an alternative story line I should be aware of. We’ll stand behind Emma’s decision—it was her right. But I’ll listen to other ideas that won’t hurt CoVIn. Meanwhile, send my secretary a list of Sergio’s whereabouts for the past twenty-four hours, and we’ll look into it.”
Miguel’s shoulder stiffened and he shook his head, his eyes glued to the corpse. “This isn’t your problem.”
“As Emma pointed out, if that’s a zombie,” Cash said, voice solemn, “it’s about to be everyone’s problem.” Pivoting with lazy grace, he put a protective hand on Rhiannon as they headed for the door. As they walked, his eyes roved the cells, and he pointed at a werewolf on the third floor. “I’ll be back for Kristoff later.”
Chapter Eight
The car was quiet on the way back into town. Emma had gotten into his car again, like that was the thing to do, and Javier didn’t get it. Back at the jaguars’ place, all she’d needed to do was look at him and he’d known what she wanted him to do. It was the kind of teamwork he’d seen at the hospital between nurses and surgeons who’d worked together for years. The kind other students at med school shared with each other after too many hours on a project.
He’d never had that with anyone, not even Rhi, really. Communication was always an awkward thing.
Kind of like the tension in the car right now. Even with all the crazy shit that had just happened, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“You okay?” she muttered, her voice as strained as he felt. “It didn’t scratch you or nothing?”
“No. Thanks for shooting it. I owe you my life. Again.”
“That first time ain’t much to thank me for.” She blew out a fierce breath. “And what I did was nothing. You was the only one fighting that sonuvabitch. All I did was pull a trigger.” She shook her head and swore under her breath. “Cash’s knickers were so twisted up he was about to do something stupid. That boy can only keep it in check for so long afore he’s springing into action, consequences be damned. The queen’d have him in a noose if he’d broken truce with the jaguars.”
Her voice was calm in the darkness as they passed through low-rent housing on the way back to
CoVIn and the half-finished lab. They had enough equipment that he could get started researching this now, and the new samples would help. He forced his shoulders to relax, hopefully taking his posture from angry and amped to tired. Vampires might not get sleepy—come daybreak his body just shut down, and at about four thirty in the afternoon turned back on—but they could get mentally or physically exhausted. He just wished he could think of something to say, but he glanced at Emma out of the corner of his eyes, her petite frame and determined gaze, and all he could think was, You’re beautiful. And now that he knew where they stood, that was about as inappropriate as he could get.
Emma’s eyes narrowed as she saw something outside. “Pull over.” She nudged him.
He did as she asked, slowing down behind a girl walking the streets.
Rosalie.
“She’s back out already?”
“Course. Got any cash on you?”
He pulled out his wallet, then held it in his hand without opening his fingers. “What? Why?”
“We gotta hire her, and I ain’t got no cash.”
She reached over and lowered his window. Rosalie leaned in, squeezing her arms together to shove teenage breasts into his face. He jerked back in embarrassment.
“Looking for a—oh.” Her sultry smile disappeared, and her nostrils widened in irritation. “Don’t tell me you’re here for no lecture, miss. Girl’s gotta make a living.”
Javier frowned at Emma. “I’m not hiring a sex worker. And if I were—which I don’t do—she wouldn’t be twelve.”
Said hooker leaned in, her expression moving from irritation to anger. “I ain’t twelve. And you got a problem with hookers?”
Emma leaned over him, placing a placating hand on his chest. The contact soothed his embarrassment. “I thought maybe we could talk again about what happened. He’ll pay for your time so Charming don’t give you no problems.”
“I don’t buy hookers.” The whole system was an exercise in oppression. The money would go to her pimp—he supposed that was the stupidly named Charming—while she would be handed around, abused by anyone who’d pay for her until she was too old to turn a profit, at which point she’d be kicked out and drugged into an OD. His money was not going to that.
