Slayers Inc.

by Brit Blaise

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  SLAYERS INC.

  by

  BRIT BLAISE

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

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  * * *

  Slayers Inc.

  An Amber Quill Press Book

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  http://www.amberquill.com

  http://www.amberheat.com

  http://www.amber-allure.com

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  Copyright © 2007 by Brit Blaise

  ISBN 978-1-60272-140-1

  Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber

  Layout and Formatting

  Provided by: Elemental Alchemy

  Published in the United States of America

  Also by Brit Blaise

  Another Cave Creek Cowboy

  Cave Creek Cowboy

  Cave Creek Cowboy Christmas

  Cave Creek Cowboy In Vegas

  Cave Creek Cowboy: Too Many Brides

  Fix This!

  Galaxy Gone Wild

  A Lady's Lessons

  Out Of Space

  Music Man

  Taking It Slow

  Two Weeks In Paradise

  The Virginia Model-Logues

  Wanton Warrior

  Wild And Wanton

  Dedication

  This is another big shout out to the BMGs, the butterscotch martini girls. Not only are they smart, and fun, and most of them mix a mean butterscotch martini, but they were helpful in getting Jenna and Coop to obey my will. The exploits of the BMGs can be found at www.butterscotchmartinigirls.com

  Chapter 1

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  Phoenix boasts many refined drinking establishments where a nice girl can chill with a fruity drink topped by a colorful little umbrella. She can lounge on a misted patio and enjoy tall palm trees swaying in the dry heat of the Santa Anna winds. A nice girl can count on the certainty that one or two preppie college boys will weave their way through the lush, tropical fauna to deliver their latest line.

  This isn't one of those bars. And I, Jenna Bradley, am not a fucking nice girl...not anymore. Not since a blood-sucking vampire sank his teeth into my neck, and that's not the worst of it. The bastard murdered my best friend, Rosa.

  I'm about to enter a dilapidated bar thirty miles from civilization in the hot Arizona desert. Under a cosmetic coat of chipped stucco, a million termites hold hands to keep the hovel upright. This place would give hellish nightmares to a nice girl.

  Not me.

  I took a second to enjoy a sense of elation, mixed with a stiff shot of adrenaline, zinging along my nerve endings. My first step into the bar would mean that after nearly a year of non-stop preparation, I'd finally get to start the kick-ass part of my quest. This is my chance to prove how much my best friend meant to me. And if I'm lucky, I'll get a chance to kill the vampire who made me.

  When I gave the rickety door a gentle push, it opened with a resounding whack against the wall. I pretended I meant to do it.

  Everyone would've stared at me anyway...they just do.

  I pushed my Hollywood shades into place because it bugs me when people comment about the unusual amber and green shade of my eyes. I'd tried to put "puked-up Skittles" in the color box on my driver's license, but the DMV wouldn't let me. Go figure.

  Besides, I wear them to hide my eyes. One little fit of temper and they start to glow. Nobody wants to see neon puked-up Skittles.

  On a good day, I carry a chip on my shoulder, although I don't think it's noticeable. The loss of my best friend, Rosa, turned the chip into a log. Becoming a vampire made it a fucking tree.

  I hadn't counted on how dark it would be inside, but at least I had an advantage. My fledgling vampire powers include super night vision.

  I'd planned exactly how I'd look on the day I officially started the gun-toting, stake-carrying, hell-raising part of my mission. My fringed leather vest hid my gun perfectly. It cradled nicely against my waist. For backup, I carry a four-inch, plain-edged knife hidden in a hot-molded sheath fitted to one of my custom boots. The other boot holds a pure silver stake.

  A long, low wolf-whistle from a dark corner of the room made my heart start to race. Yeah, right. My heart may be a shriveled raisin for all I know.

  "What can I do for you little lady?" the bartender asked once I reached the corner of the bar.

  Little lady? I'm four inches short of six feet. Jerk. "I'll have a shot of tequila and a Bud Light." No girlie umbrella drinks for me anymore. Besides, the closest thing to a novelty umbrella in this joint would be a cactus needle with a peanut husk attached.

  Only two stools were occupied, but if I sat at the bar I wouldn't be able to watch the room. Everything I've read about vampires tells me I should be lightning quick. Not.

  I should be able to zoom from one part of the room to the other in a blink of the eye. Can't.

  I should be able to disappear. Wrong.

  The only good I can find in all of this...I don't thirst for blood. I take supplements instead. Bunches of them.

  "I need to see proof you're legal." The bartender reached his hand toward me while I dug my license out of my back pocket.

  "Huh. Twenty-four. You look younger."

  "You can sit next to me, honey," one of two guys at the bar said.

  "You got balls, Sam," the guy sitting next to him said. "Looks like she could break you like a toothpick,"

  "My kind of gal," Sam said, winking at me before he patted the seat next to him as an invitation to sit.

  Touching the edge of my vest, I had an urge to flash him. One look at my gun and I bet he'd take back his sweet invitation. A woman accessorized with deadly weapons can have that effect on a man, a sane one anyway.

  The bartender slid a salt shaker across the bar toward me. "You want some lime with your tequila?"

  "Sure," I told him. I've got a way with words.

  "We get a bunch of guys in here every Saturday night--makes it worth my while to pull a few limes off my wife's tree."

  Bingo on the guys coming in for the limes. They were the men I'd planned to meet, the men of Slayers Inc.--vampire slayers. They'd set up a training compound not far from the bar.

  After the bartender delivered my drinks, I made my way slowly to the corner of the room and sat with my back to the wall.

  The waitress approached after I'd tossed back the cactus juice. "Can I get you another one?"

  I shoved the lime into my mouth and gave her the universal hold-your-damn-panties-on sign.

  She waited patiently.

  Maybe she wanted a reason to get a closer look, because the waitress critiqued every inch of me while she lingered. I returned the favor. Her hair looked like she'd just stepped out of the beauty parlor. She had the kind of 'do you could duck behind for cover if you weren't worried about the color making a good target. I guess you'd call it plain purple, so it wouldn't worry me. Besides, I don't have to worry about ducking for cover...I'm already sorta dead.

  "Another?" she repeated.

  "Sure," I managed to squeak after a couple of tries. I still hadn't gotten the hang of eating and drinking, but I need to do it to appear normal.

  "Be right back," she said and smiled.

  "Take your time," I told her and meant it. From behind my da
rk glasses, I surveyed the room without moving my head. Seven men, with ages varying from about twenty-five to fifty, nursed their drinks. Six of them took an interest in watching me. The seventh didn't look at all. Now that interested me.

  I peeled the damp label on my beer bottle and studied him. He had dark hair hidden under a red bandana and a neatly trimmed mustache with a popular, goatee-type tuft of hair under his bottom lip called a soul-patch. It made him appear street-wise and sexy. I decided he could easily be one of the vampire slayers I planned to meet, but not anyone I recognized. When he got up and headed toward the john, I had an epiphany. That's WASP speak for a sorry-ass idea. I grabbed my duffle bag and followed him.

  I stayed back far enough to enjoy the view. I made a bet he'd gone commando under his tight washed-out jeans. They hugged his shapely bottom and muscular thighs. A fitted white T-shirt took a sharp angle down from his wide shoulders into his belted waistband. I stopped outside the door to wait a couple of seconds before I trailed him inside.

  He stood with his legs apart in front of a urinal when I slipped inside. After pushing back against the door so nobody could join us, I said the first thing to come to mind. "Now I know why you didn't look at me. You must need tweezers to get that thing out of your pants."

  At the sound of my voice, he jerked in my direction. Until this point I really hadn't seen his cock. Sheesh! The joke was on me. Of course, with my eyes hidden by dark glasses he couldn't see me blinking rapidly.

  "Madre de Dios! Are you crazy, woman?" He turned his back and shook King Dong before he zipped his pants. While he walked to the sink, I pretended to inventory the paper towels. I'm good at pretending, especially in uncharted male territory accented in classic dirty porcelain.

  Even if he hadn't spoken Spanish to summon God's mother, I knew I hadn't been wrong about him. His ethnic machismo stood out in the close confines of the restroom. He had a heavy inflection in the delivery of his words that screamed Latino. I love a man with an accent. I pulled a paper towel from the dirty chrome holder and folded it neatly over my arm while he washed his hands.

  "What gave me away?" he asked finally.

  "I'm not egotistical, but I at least deserve a look."

  His sensuous eyes locked on mine, despite my dark glasses. "Believe me, I looked." He ignored the towel I held out to him and leaned into my space to pull one from the dispenser. He cocked his head to the side and gave me a sexy grin. "I could give you more than a look if you'd like." He spoke in a husky growl above the gurgle the ancient water pipes.

  I thought about what I'd seen moments earlier, even though I'd no intention of taking him up on his generous--and I mean generous--offer. Another side effect of my vampire curse is having the raging hots every waking moment. From the second my maker sank his teeth into my throat, I'd become undead-estrogen...walking.

  "I think I'll pass," I told him, even while in the throes of a female hard-on. If I were a man, my cock would be about twelve inches long and as big around as my wrist.

  "You know, Coop isn't going to be too happy with me, seein' how you made me so quick." In no hurry to leave the delightful ambiance of the men's room, he grabbed a second towel.

  Coop equals Marc Cooper, my nemesis and the man voted most likely to end my life, if I'm not extremely careful.

  His name was the magic word allowing me to speak openly. "When does Coop plan to be here?" My voice sounded normal. Not a hint of the turmoil I felt about Marc Cooper to betray me. He torments me, even though we'd never actually met. Yet.

  "Coop's running late. He sent me to keep an eye on you and make sure you didn't get in trouble with any of the locals. Name's Joe. Joe Mendez."

  He smiled widely after his introduction. Joe had the kind of smile that transforms a face. It made him go from attractive to knockout. His dark hair gleamed under the bare hundred-watt bulb perched high above the rust-colored sink. His deep, gunmetal gray eyes sparkled with a blend of mischievous cleverness, and other things--delightfully carnal things. Things I'd willing do. Any normal woman would find him totally irresistible. His face said so. I believed his face. Did that mean I wasn't normal? No surprise there.

  He reached his right hand toward me and flashed me another toothpaste commercial smile.

  "I can take care of myself," I said under my breath, before I locked onto his extended hand to shake, and firmly planted my feet apart, while he took a step closer--too close. Joe couldn't know, but I have superpowers I attribute to the sexy undies Rosa's mother makes for me. Today I'd picked black lace panties with cherry-red satin hearts appliquéd over both butt cheeks. Rosa would approve. And, of course, I may have gotten a little stronger since the bite of death.

  "You don't look much like your picture." Joe reached to squeeze my hard-earned bicep with his free hand. "I couldn't be sure it was you. It's your hair. That's an interesting color."

  "I think it's called strawberry parfait-olé." I'd dyed my blonde hair a light auburn color I thought might interest my mark. And besides, nobody questioned a redhead with icky pale skin. I'd always worn it in a tidy braid down my back, now I don't give a shit. I let it explode and fly.

  "It looks natural."

  "Let's say we go have a couple of drinks," I said, "and get to know one another." I flexed the muscle he held, while I tightened my already-firm grip on his hand as we continued to shake.

  I used to be a cop, but I quit after I died. Well, maybe quit isn't the right word. I'd been given a choice--stop acting weird or leave. I left. I figured sooner or later they'd discover my bloody little secret.

  Besides, I have plenty to keep me busy finding Rosa's murderer and my maker. Rosa and I had bonded over crayons in kindergarten, beheaded Barbies by the second grade and then advanced straight to boys--chasing, not beheading. Nobody had a better friend than Rosa. No way could I have predicted how hard I'd take losing her. I didn't have a clue how dependent I'd become on her...on how much my identity had melded with hers. I couldn't forget about the murdering, scum-sucking vampire who took her life any more than I could stop breathing. Technically incorrect, since I pretended to breathe--most of the time.

  "I've only got a couple of bucks to last until Coop gets here," Joe said.

  "I've got you covered," I told him. "You don't look like you could drink too much."

  "First, you question my manhood, but I know you lie," Joe said with his sexy accent and best smile yet. The temperature soared. "Now you question my ability to drink? This will be interesting, querida. Very interesting."

  I resisted the urge to tell him to stop calling me sweetheart. I didn't want to tip him off I spoke fluent ghetto Spanish with a couple of proper textbook phrases thrown in for good measure. "I'm nosy about Marc Cooper. I don't suppose I could get you to answer a couple of questions?"

  Joe pulled a cell phone from his waist and flipped it open. He hit speed dial and put it to his ear. "Bradley made me. I think I could be in trouble here, boss."

  Joe rolled his eyes and winked at me. "No, I didn't--she thinks she's going to get me drunk and learn all our secrets, then maybe fuck me, so maybe you'd better get over here fast. She just may succeed." Before he flipped the phone shut, I heard a loud, angry voice.

  "Coop?" I relaxed. I liked Joe. Damn! I didn't want to like any of the vampire hunters. My plan to stay detached was already in the crapper.

  "Coop may be the boss of Slayers Inc., but he's also my cousin, so he can't hurt me too badly." Joe leaned a fraction closer and chuckled.

  I stood my ground--the personal space I think of as lined with rusty barbed wire, in need of a good dusting and a pint or two of whole blood. What's worse, I needed a proper fucking and it seemed to show. "I'm betting you know everything there is to know about my personal life. So that means you know I'm not looking for love."

  He winked. "Who says we have to be in love?"

  I needed some space or hosed down with icy water. "That's enough, Romeo. Let's go have a drink before I lose my temper and we get off to a bad start."
<
br />   Joe opened the door and then stood off to the side. Sheesh! Didn't this guy know the bad-boy rules? I grabbed my duffle and walked ahead of him. I reached under my vest with my free hand to touch the handle of my semi-automatic, 9mm Mini Firestorm and gave it a quick caress.

  There are smaller guns I could have chosen, but the simplicity of the Firestorm drew me to it when I'd first decided to become a gun owner. And maybe the name. It's simple to break down for cleaning, has fixed sights and a grip which fits my hand perfectly. Of course, I know a lot more about guns now, yet I stubbornly stay with my first choice. When I form an attachment, it's forever. Period.

  Joe followed me out the door, where we bumped into the nosy waitress. "That was great, Joe," I said, for her ears only.

  The woman pressed her lips together and gave me a look telling me she'd relegated me to slut status. If she only knew.

  Joe didn't seem to mind what I'd said. "So, what do you want to know about Coop?" he asked once we were seated together at my table.

  "First, I need to know how Coop and I can avoid shooting each other two minutes after we meet in the flesh."

  "Before we speak of my cousin, I think you should tell me what you know about John Wilson," Joe said. "Not the image he gives the world as a famous movie producer. What kind of man is he?"

  "You probably know as much as I do."

  "I'm new to this operation," he said. "Humor me."

  I'd figured him for new, so I gave him the basics without giving away any secrets. "John Wilson has the bucks to fund several treks into Colombia to get the vampire who killed Rosa and John's brother, Brent. Big money he's willing to spend to make the Sandovals disappear forever."

  Joe frowned at my words, momentarily stopping me. Maybe my take on what happened didn't match what he'd heard. I continued, "Carlos and his brother Micos Sandoval were having a night on the town when Micos started getting rough with his date. We didn't have a clue we'd be dealing with vampires in downtown Phoenix. Rosa wanted to help the young girl, so the three of us followed them into an alley behind the club. It was over so fast I've a hard time remembering. In a matter of seconds, Rosa and Brent were dead."