Bite the Bullet

by L. A. Banks

  She took up his hand again, squeezed it, and brought the wide expanse of knuckles to her lips. “So am I.”

  “They’ll be all right,” Hunter said quietly, his eyes on the desolate road.

  “I want you to be all right,” she confessed, saying it out loud for the first time.

  “I can’t promise that.” He gave her hand a short squeeze before gently extracting it from her hold.

  “I know.” She stroked his jaw with her knuckles and then sent her blurry gaze out the window.

  “You did real good back there with the clan. Earned respect. The clan needed a strong alpha she-Shadow to build cohesion . . . one with true professional training. None of the others have a weapons background, none are as adept as you with technology, or have been in tense diplomatic negotiations with other species . . . I daresay none have ever blown up bridges or set C-4 detonators. I think you chipped Barbara’s front tooth, and a lot of the she-Shadows will follow you for that one gracious act alone. As you may have guessed by now, she’s been a pain in everyone’s ass for a long time. Her tribal name was Shadow Hawk, elder sister of Shadow Falcon, but when she moved to Florida she became Barbara—go figure.”

  “Yeah.” Sasha’s voice was flat and monotone. His compliment and his attempt at small talk to make her smile fell on deaf ears.

  What could she say? She didn’t care about pack or clan politics. None of that mattered to her in the least right now. It was a hollow win if she had to drop the one person in the world that’d clued her in to who she really was. Didn’t he get it? If it weren’t for him, she would have still been shooting up with antiviral meds that suppressed her Shadow Wolf ability, because even Doc didn’t know how to refine the formula for different strains of the species.

  And then there was the not-so-small matter of what his grandfather and Doc may have done to create her, as well as Woods and Fisher, in some very crazy plan . . . old men playing God. She just prayed this was all coincidence, a confluence of unnatural events that looked suspicious but weren’t orchestrated. However, years of being a realist told her such was probably not the case.

  Sasha swallowed hard, unable to even look in Hunter’s direction. This was the same man who’d shown her how to Shadow dance, had released her spirit to the complete freedom of merging with nature in all its wondrous forms . . . of being able to catch the edge of the shadows that passing birds cast and literally fly to the next shadow, only to emerge from a tree line or side of a building, temporarily retaining the properties of the shadow she’d borrowed.

  Watching the shadows loom long in the late-afternoon sun, she remembered it all, everything good and honorable that he’d done. He’d brought her back to herself, had even taken her on a spirit walk back to her dead mother . . . had made her Shadow quiver from a Shadow caress until her body had no longer been her own. They’d gone through demon doors together to emerge champions of the hunt. Now she was supposed to just snuff out the man who had transformed the taste of fear into a righteous howl of the Shadow Wolf?

  It would be like pulling the trigger on Rod all over again, but so much worse. Rod was her friend, a comrade in arms, a mentor, a crush . . . but she’d never fallen in love with him. This was something wholly different, something so rooted to her core that its very existence frightened her. She froze. Did she just quietly admit that this thing with Hunter was possibly deeper than the physical? Oh, shit . . .

  Still, she was a soldier. She’d never argue that soldier versus warrior point again. Hunter had even been right about that. Warriors had choices; she didn’t. If Hunter turned into the unimaginable, she’d simply have to kill him. She had no other option.

  “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” the MC called out from the stage, making his smooth tenor voice carry above the Zydeco music. He was glad to see Fae peacekeeping forces in the house. They raised their glasses from the bar to salute him in thanks for the free drinks, their opalescent auras flowing over their clothes like northern lights.

  “I agree, let the good times roll, Ethan,” a burly Elf shouted, lifting his ale.

  Ethan jumped down from the stage and smoothed out his navy blue suit and red silk shirt before attempting to wade through the crowd to get to Dugan’s side. He was proud of his French Quarter establishment, had worked hard to build it and then rebuild it to its original historic luster after the flood. The Fair Lady, named for his pretty Gaelic wife, Margaret, had a solid reputation in the supernatural community for being a safe, fun place. No human tragedies were allowed on the premises, either, and it had taken quite a bit of bargaining to get the Vampires to agree to that house rule.

  Keeping his ear to the ground and plying customers for information helped ensure that everything remained peaceful. His mole would know what was about on Bourbon Street and beyond. This was the primo hour, dusk. Happy hour in more ways than one. It was still too early for the Vampires to arrive and have their pick of the most attractive clientele, but the other entities that patronized his establishment had begun to filter in.

  As he pushed through to the far side of the bar, he was careful not to collide with lithe Phoenixes that were delivering succulent crawfish, Cajun-spiced meats, red beans and rice, and aromatic bouillabaisses to diners. He only employed the best magical chefs that could literally put an ecstasy charm over the food his patrons consumed.

  Shamefully, though, his secret crush was Suzette, a redheaded, alabaster-skinned belle that teased him mercilessly. As he brushed past her his stomach did a little flip-flop of excitement just from the sensual near miss.

  But he was thoroughly, irrevocably married and didn’t mess around. For that, Suzette tortured him every chance she got. Theirs was a sexy private game of look but don’t touch. She gave him a slight pout and let him see the fire burning in her eyes before turning away to set down plates on the customers’ table. One day maybe she’d allow him to hold her while she went up in flames. For now, he was happy when she’d caramelize the crème brûlée in the kitchen while he watched.

  “To Ethan,” several archers said as he passed and slapped their backs.

  “Stay as long as you like, ladies and gentlemen. Soon, the dancers will be on.”

  “From the Order of the Dragon?” A bright smile crested on a handsome Fae’s face, causing dimples to form small divots in his ruddy cheeks. He knocked his glass of ale against his friend’s, swept his long, auburn hair over his shoulder, and then turned up his glass to his mouth. “And before the Vamps come with their ungodly charm—we might get lucky tonight, old boy.”

  “Just for you, Monte,” Ethan said, forcing a smile and picking up his pace. What had Dugan learned?

  Peace. That’s all he wanted was peace. Ethan patted shoulders and ordered more free rounds on the house as he passed clusters of Fae infantrymen. If everyone just stayed calm, then his newly rebuilt establishment wouldn’t receive any additional damage. How many insurance claims could one man turn in without drawing unwarranted attention?

  Ethan blotted the perspiration from his forehead and then away from the balding horseshoe on his scalp, and continued to appraise the crowd as he made his way over to Dugan. Tall, lean, athletically built Fae had arrived with silver-tipped arrows in their quivers. That was a good thing. No matter what hue of skin they owned, from the bluest black to the most porcelain white, if their opalescent auras flowed like a multicolored, easy stream and their hue-changing eyes continued their slow, kaleidoscope color prisms, then all was well.

  He reached Dugan just as the sound of motorcycles roared outside. A general cheer went up from the bar, and Dugan pulled him against his barrel chest in a friendly bear hug.

  “A sight for sore eyes, you are!” Dugan said, laughing, lifting Ethan off his feet and crushing him against his Fae fatigues.

  Ethan twisted in his friend’s grip, trying to get out of the way of his itchy beard. “You, too, but put me down.”

  They laughed as Dugan dropped him gently, and all eyes went to the door. Long-legged, buxom beauties sash
ayed in to cheers and hoots, each donning brilliant-colored leather outfits that seemed like various stages of undress. Red, yellow, electric blue, black. The guys at the bar were practically foaming at the mouth, and even Ethan had to admit to himself that it had been a coup to get them to agree to arrive before dark.

  “I love how ya work, Ethan,” Dugan said, shaking his head. “You know those big bruisers they generally travel with are surely on their way, yes?”

  “Absolutely,” Ethan said with a smile. “But they said they’d attend once the sun set. They’re being paid for the fireworks displays.”

  “Fantastic . . . that should be hours, and they left these ladies all alone for so long?”

  “They’re only worried about Vampires and Werewolves. Sorry to say, the Dragon brothers aren’t really that concerned about us.”

  “Ah, but they should be,” Dugan murmured, leaning forward with a leer as he stroked his beard. “We and the Dragons, like the Order of the Unicorns and other Mythics, have long forest histories, yes? A little elfin magic . . . a brownie spell or a gnome curse could coax one of these flippin’ gorgeous—”

  “Could have my establishment burned to the ground by a fire-breather,” Ethan warned with a tense smile. “The ladies are professional entertainers and just for show. You know I don’t dabble in the flesh-peddling trade. I want no parts of owing the Vampire Cartel. I don’t even allow succubae or incubi on the premises without a Vampire escort.”

  “Don’t be so touchy,” Dugan said, still watching the Dragons line up to ascend the stage. “I know, I know—no spells or charms.”

  “Well, good, as long as we have that clear.” Ethan sat back and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. Now he’d have to wait. Dugan always wanted a little extra courtesy for sharing information. “After the Dragons dance the poles, the Phoenixes will be doing a little strip and burn,” he said in a soft voice, trying to mollify his friend.

  Dugan said nothing but simply sipped his ale with a lopsided smile tugging at his thick cheek as he watched the dancers line up. Gorgeous ladies from the Order of the Dragon flanked the restaurant still wearing their helmets that had black shields, and as one, they removed them, allowing red, blond, black, platinum, auburn, and every hue of hair one could imagine to spill out in varying textured tresses. Silken hair, long dreadlocks, curls, each Dragon was as different as her tight leather outfit, and their variety drew loud applause as they blew fire kisses and mounted the stage.

  “I can see why those big bastards with the spiked leather jackets usually escort them,” Dugan said with appreciation, watching intently as the music changed and the dancers took to poles that lowered from the ceiling. “But it is so unfair that you have to fight a damned male Dragon to get one to even look your way.”

  “Ah, leave it for the Vamps who deal in sleight of hand and mind raptures . . . or the Weres who can simply muscle their way through.” Seeing an in to the conversation he really wanted to have, Ethan landed a supportive hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “I might have some influence with a very pretty Serpentine who works at a friend’s bar . . . where the rules are a little more relaxed, though . . . I wouldn’t know by personal testimony, but I have seen them work the poles better than the Dragons.”

  Dugan almost spit out his beer, laughing. “Your attempt at a bribe is so subtle, Ethan. That is what I love about you—you’re as innocent as a newborn lamb. So, what has you worried?”

  Ethan looked around and leaned in. “There are rumors that some bad blood—demon-infected Werewolf—got out into the human population. Not like one escaped as they do from time to time, but this was human-made toxin in vials. Shadow Wolves are involved somehow, they say. Could be Werewolves . . . I don’t know. The other Were-clans, like the Big Cat Federation and others, aren’t in it because it’s wolf-based DNA this time . . . but . . . I was wondering if you’d heard?”

  “Talking to Vampires again, or did they whisper this in your ear?”

  Ethan looked away and then looked down into his Scotch. “I take no sides, especially at UCE Conference time. I try to stay neutral and out of things . . . but when I hear things that could affect my livelihood, thus my family . . .”

  Dugan looked at Ethan over the rim of his glass and set his ale down carefully. “I guess in the bar business you hear a lot.”

  Ethan nodded, his eyes nervously darting around as Dugan smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket for him.

  “Dugan, don’t think ill of me for remaining neutral. I have a wife who’s working over in the hospital to consider—you know Margaret is a healer, and we’ve both tried to blend into the human population without incident. Our children . . . they’re not even in kindergarten yet. If a war starts, my family could be at risk, my establishment trashed again after I just rebuilt . . . and I would so worry about Margaret contracting any contagion as bodies started coming into Emergency. I just want—”

  “Peace,” Dugan said, landing a reassuring hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend, that’s why we’re all here. But, you know, sometimes peace has a price and you have to take a stand.”

  “There’ve been so many rumors, how do you know who to trust, or if they’re even real?” Ethan’s gaze searched Dugan’s for an answer.

  “The rumors are true, insofar as something that shouldn’t have gotten out of human hands did. We were all sent down here by the Fae Parliament and we got down here well in advance of the big meeting to scout out potential problems. Before we take sides, we have to unfurl the truth—and that is a nasty, wicked knot, from what I can tell. But,” Dugan added with a wide grin, “how could I allow a man’s establishment to go up in flames . . . especially when he has the number for a sexy Serpentine for me?”

  Any minute now, the sun would go down, and his contact could meet him. Between what he’d sold, what had been destroyed by Hunter and his bitch, and what he’d used, the product was almost gone.

  Even at a premium price, there wasn’t enough left to be sold to individuals to produce the necessary profit to pay black market scientists to try to duplicate the formula. There was only one way to get more of it, assuming that the U.S. military had gone back into the labs to refine or stockpile it.

  Getting into NORAD had initially seemed impossible, but he’d been the one to come up with the genius plan to get into the maximum security facility that was two thousand feet beneath a mountain of granite and behind twenty-five-ton steel doors. It was about having the right tools for the job—Vampires that could assume any human form or travel as mist. They just had to be convinced it was in their best interest. Then, retina scans notwithstanding, and every other conceivable security precaution be damned, he’d done it.

  A strange alliance had been formed once between his kind and theirs. As long as the Vampires thought their human blood supplies were in jeopardy from a vaccine against the Werewolf virus, they had agreed to a partnership. It had helped his ruthless but useful allies decide to assassinate the general who’d suddenly grown a conscience, shifted gears, and then mandated the rushed vaccine development. Fool. Wilkerson didn’t have to worry about Werewolves as much as he needed to worry about Vampires that hated the vaccine-tainted blood almost as badly as the actual Werewolf virus that they detested. Vampires were such purists—and duplicitous motherfuckers.

  But that was the thing that was making his hands tremble as he waited in the graveyard for them to show themselves. There could be no way to know what a Vampire might do just for sport.

  He needed another hit.

  “Look at him.” Francois sniffed behind a lace handkerchief with disgust. He tossed his long flaxen hair over his broad shoulders and stared at the broken Shadow Wolf that had just put a needle in his arm. “Positively pathetic. They can’t even control their shifts after it begins to deteriorate their systems. Sometimes they try and only a part of them transforms, leaving a half-human, half-naked growling, slobbering mess.”

  “And they’re eating bear meat and derivations of their own species
. . . timber wolves?” the elder Vampire said with a cool sneer.

  “It is unbelievable, Etienne. They do it for the adrenaline rush to help the drug last longer. Next they’ll be eating their own kind.”

  “And this poor bastard wants to form another alliance, after betraying us once already?” Etienne smiled, his dark eyes alight with excitement within his agelessly handsome face. “He must be high.”

  The two male Vampires laughed quietly, sending their voices on the wind as mere vapors.

  “How quaint,” a seductive blonde murmured, giving Francois a light peck on his cheek as she materialized. Her catlike green eyes dilated as she stared at the oblivious Shadow Wolf that had slumped against the mausoleums.

  “Desperate,” Francois said seductively with a chuckle, stroking Etienne’s lush onyx curls.

  “Ah . . . desperation. How completely delicious,” the young woman said on a sultry breath, twirling her golden tresses around one delicate porcelain finger as her fangs crested.

  “Shall we indulge this fool, Etienne?” Francois waited, anticipation dancing in his dreamy hazel eyes. “What say you?”

  Etienne pursed his lips for a moment, placing a graceful index finger against them. “It presents a bit of a conundrum,” he said after a moment, watching the fallen Shadow Wolf from his hiding place amid the broken tombs. “For the longest, the Shadow Wolves hunted our worst enemy, the Werewolves. But there was always a visceral love-hate relationship with the Shadow species, which would just as well hunt our kind when we feed, too. The Shadows are more insidious, I believe, because they are not directed by the phases of the moon . . . and to see one like this, so completely devastated, gives me pause. If they begin eating their own, hmmm . . . might they begin to actually also hunt and eat Werewolves?”

  Francois drew back from Etienne with his palm flattened to his chest, feigning shock. “Appalling,” he whispered, making the female Vampire giggle. “Mon Dieu. I am aghast at the insinuation of outright cannibalism. Even among Werewolves, they draw the line at that bestial behavior.”