The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

“Well, wouldn’t her scent send them into a brawl, anyway?” Rider tilted his head to issue Carlos a sideline glance. “And you need to be more positive than ‘I think,’ dude.”

  Rider’s question and admonishment had validity, but the problem was, Damali wasn’t trailing Neteru any longer, now that she was already filled. Variables, variables, fucking variables. Carlos kept his gaze on Rider’s eyes, unable to glance at Damali.

  “Like me, they’re building up a tolerance for it. Plus they would never go against me, even if she was red-hot seven years from now, given the power I’ve just acquired.” He stood, needing space to give the lie air.

  “Then, if I’m not making them wig anymore,” Damali said, her voice cautious, “then . . . how are we going to create a diversion in that house of horrors on the cliffs off the barrier reef? It’s a two-hundred-foot drop, over a hundred-some-odd vamps and human staff ready to go down and take a bullet, Black Hawk choppers. Your Hell-hounds aren’t even a match for them in flight. The inside is like a labyrinth of corridors—”

  “I know, I know,” Carlos said fast. “Okay, always choose your battlefield. We don’t do the castle; it’s impenetrable. They’ve added staff for the extra diplomats. Damali’s right. I’ll bring a yacht down the harbor, a party boat that will make Hugh Hefner’s Playboy estate look like a convent—no offense, Fathers.”

  “Wait,” Father Patrick said, raking his frazzled gray hair as he spoke and looked at Carlos hard. “A boat? Vampires cannot cross large bodies of water without losing power, without their energy getting—”

  Carlos’s weary sigh stopped the elderly cleric’s words. “Father Pat, these are masters. Okay?” He looked at the man with a combination of respect and impatience. “Witches, seriously lower-level vampires, whatever, have that problem, but not at our level. It won’t even make their wives seasick, and I can bet any VIPs they invite from their camp will be above the watermark, too. Back in the day, travel by ship in a casket in the hull was the way to move between continents if you couldn’t get a subterranean pass. The old boys will love it, and it will take them back to the glory days of being out in the open when humans believed in monsters and demons, unlike today. That was when they were at their boldest and most arrogant . . . and we all know that arrogance is the best way to become sloppy.”

  Rider nodded and glanced at Shabazz, Marlene, and Mike. “Seems like we need to update our books while we’re at it. Right now I’m having a confidence crisis—like everything I thought I knew might be mythology, and the things I oughta know to keep me alive and human, I’m about to flunk the test on.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to school you, hombre,” Carlos said, his gaze locking with Rider’s for a moment before he released it.

  Rider sat back and rubbed his face, seeming temporarily dazed. “Dude is definitely stronger. Damn. Don’t do that again. Cool?”

  “My apologies, Force of habit.” Carlos smiled and gazed at the men in the room. “I want that boat rocking off the water, these boys seriously distracted, high, looped, off guard, and ready to party. Only one of them will be extra careful, which will be a dead giveaway. My dogs patrolling the rails. Yeah, that’s the ticket.” He glanced at Rider again. “I hope you’ve got your head right, man, because I’ma load the joint with female vamps from my territories in LA, the Caribbean, and blessed South America, so fine they’ll make you weep.”

  Rider’s smile broadened when Carlos looked at Big Mike. “Brother, there won’t be no ship doctor, so forewarned is forearmed—this ain’t New Orleans. Take a nick from one of these babes, your ass will turn, hear?”

  “We cool,” Big Mike said, smiling. “Later.”

  “Precisely.” Carlos studied the group. “Mike, you take the African master—he’s a big brother, and you’re the team’s strong man. Hell, I didn’t even want to tackle his ass, but if he’s under the influence, you’ve got a shot. Make it a good one.”

  Big Mike nodded. “Done. He goes down. Just point him out.”

  Carlos laughed. “Look in the mirror, you could be family.”

  “Mighta been, but what the fuck,” Mike chuckled. “He went dark.”

  “Rider, Shabazz, I want you guys on the Asian master—Rider’s a sharpshooter, Shabazz has got martial arts skills. Dude is ancient Samurai. Real shrewd, real fast, like lightning.” Carlos became still for a moment. “I’m going to see if I can draw the wives away, to me, separate out those two, maybe get the Transylvanian to rush the Asian—if the Transylvanian misses, you brothers take aim, and dust him. That will back off the count, make him feel like you had his back. He’ll spare you and move on, will come to me with a complaint, while Damali is in with the Aussie.”

  “Wait, hold up. This is the part that has me concerned,” Jose said, glancing at Damali. “She’s going into a room, alone, with the Aussie? I’m not feeling that part of the plan, hombre.”

  “Me neither,” Shabazz said, standing and pacing, but not angry, just worried.

  “It’s the only way,” Damali said, exasperated.

  “He’s got it bad for her, worse than the others,” Carlos said as calmly as possible. “He’d been promised a night alone with her, then had that snatched away after the hunt.” He could feel resistance gather and smolder within the group, and he looked at Damali for support. “You got it in you, baby? If you don’t feel like—”

  “I will smoke his ass,” she said, evenly. Conflicting emotions began to eat away at the insides of her brain. This was her team. She’d always been the one to come up with the plans without any outside help. This was her war room. Was this what being married was like—sharing everything . . . down to personal control? Was this what being pregnant meant, feeling like you didn’t even have control over your own body, and having people look at you like you were some kinda invalid? She didn’t like it one bit, and forced renewed authority into her tone.

  “Listen up,” she said, walking around the coffee table and couch to plop down in the chair facing Carlos. “I’ll sing the last song of the concert and aim it toward McGuire. I’ll hold his focus; like I’m singing directly to him. After we break down equipment, I won’t change—will keep on the sweaty, damp dress from the performance, with adrenaline in it and will go to Carlos. You hold me close, like you might renege on the barter when I go into the vamp VIP box with you. Then you lean in, make him a tender offer, and explain that you just want to get us all safely to the boat without the other masters in the room making a power-play. I’ll diddle around on top deck, talk to him, mess with his mind, and get him to go into his stateroom with me, while you draw away the wife. By then, he’ll be real manageable . . . and I’ll bring my Isis with me, just as he wanted . . . will straddle him and put it to his chest, ask him if he wants a double plunge, and then I’ll lean in like I’m going to kiss him, and gore him.”

  Carlos stood up and walked to the terrace windows. He knew what she had to do, but it sent a chill down his spine that detonated in fury. “No. Bad plan. You are not going to straddle him.” He was walking back and forth, shaking his head no, ignoring the sly smiles coming from the others in the room. “I don’t want his hands in your hair, telling you shit . . . no, fuck it. New plan for the Aussie.”

  “It’s the only way I can get close enough to—”

  “I’m not arguing with you, Damali. No!”

  “We talked about this, you were even the one—”

  “I know—but that was before . . .” Carlos paced away. “No.”

  A standoff with two worthy adversaries coiled the tension in the room. Marlene’s chuckle snapped it.

  “How about if I chaperone her in there, Carlos, as her handmaid,” Marlene said in a sheepish voice, and then winked at Shabazz.

  “No. That’s my final decision.”

  The group looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Dude, this is what she does for a living,” Rider said, standing and wiping his tired eyes with both fists. “Oh, my God . . . she married an old-fashioned kinda gu
y, a cold-blooded chauvinist from the Victorian era. Help me.”

  “This is between me and my wife!” Carlos shouted.

  Damali sighed. “I know you’re worried, but I’m no amateur. And this ain’t my first time around the block—sorry to say, but you didn’t marry a battle virgin, and we’re wasting time.”

  “Damali—”

  “Listen,” she snapped, both hands on her hips. “We are wasting time. I do the Aussie, we get the Transylvanian to whack the Asian—or have Rider and Shabazz put him down. Big Mike and you make sure that huge bastard from the Motherland doesn’t catch on to the fact that I’m in a stateroom alone.” She glanced at her team, ignoring Carlos. “That’s who I’m worried about rushing me or anybody else, comprendo?” She shot her gaze back to Carlos. “He is not to be played with.”

  She walked away, and studied her sword as it lay on the bar, speaking to the clerics. “No kids or innocent humans will be on the boat—councilman’s wife’s orders. The masters think I’m eccentric, and they love it. So, once our team is off the yacht, Big Mike can blow the sucker. We’ll need two speedboats to get us all off that ship and out of range as soon as possible. You guys trailing holy water and incense in your hair and skins won’t be able to get past vamp security.” She looked at Marlene. “I don’t want you on there, either. You’re female. The second- and third-level female vamps will rush you, and I can’t be by your side, the brothers can’t leave their posts—and if a hyped male master goes for you, looking for a new turn with a strong will to conquer and add to his harem . . . It’s just a variable we can’t afford right now.”

  Marlene nodded, but begrudgingly. “It’s true. I can keep my radar up and on you, baby. Me and the clerics can man the getaway boats and search for the key in the Opera House. If I see you in no-way-out danger, I’ll take out the side of the ship with one of Mike’s shoulder cannons.”

  “What do we do?” Jose said, glancing at J.L. and Dan.

  “You’re private security,” Carlos said. “Jose is point.”

  “What!” J.L. stepped back and laughed.

  “Now I know you’re nuts,” Dan said, shaking his head. “Us, alone, without Rider, and ’Bazz, and Mike?”

  “You said I’m point,” Jose said, lifting his chin high. “Talk to me.”

  “You’ve got my line in you from way back.” Carlos paused as the magnitude of what he was saying entered the groups’ collective conscious. “They know I would never allow Damali to be escorted in by a second- or third-level vamp lieutenant that might rush her. You leave a marker, Jose. So you stand by her side and bring her to me in the VIP box. There will be an international courier at the door. He’ll sniff you, then will let you pass with your band members, J.L., and Dan.”

  Carlos motioned toward the two younger guardians. “They can come fully armed with stakes, crossbows, whatever—because as human helpers, their orders are to take any vamp down that blinks at her wrong. The masters in the box will nod, fully appreciating my precautions, and will let you in the room and on the ship with the kinda stuff we need to nail any of them. That’s also what we’ll say when Rider, Mike, and Shabazz come locked and loaded—they’re guarding the councilman’s wife on a vampire pleasure vessel. Standard procedure.”

  “Smooth, brother,” Shabazz said, nodding. “I’m impressed. Owe you both an apology for the doubt.”

  “It’s cool,” Carlos said, unable to keep direct eye contact with Shabazz. “All right. Y’all do your thing on stage. I tell the vamps that she casts an image because I will it so, and we have a tape—right?”

  “Yeah, got it,” Jose said.

  “Cool. We roll that tape on the box monitors and on the big screens in the joint, and broadcast the real concert elsewhere. That keeps her cover. They know her image is coming from tape because of her reflection deficit syndrome, but think that’s what’s going out to the world.”

  “Works,” J.L. said.

  “But, what if they get distracted from the performance, and get hip?”

  “I won’t let them get distracted,” Damali said. “They won’t be there for all the libations pouring and stuff, but will come in for the part they want to see. Show ’em what I’m wearing for that final number.”

  Her smile was destabilizing, made him remember too much, and now was not the time. But as she stood there waiting, Damali and her team needing confidence, he closed his eyes and thought of what she looked like in the parlor the day she transformed and gave him the world. Magenta and deep purple smoke swirled at her feet, fanning out, creating a lit haze, the hotel room lights dimmed, and crimson spotlight fired on her.

  From within a very private place in his mind he added a backless purple-black iridescent gown, deep plunging neckline, ripped and shredded across the torso and hips, showing skin beneath it, her shapely legs sliding out of the outrageous slit as she walked slowly in it barefoot, one black ankle bracelet that looked like a bondage cuff, long sleeves trailing with ragged points that almost concealed her beautiful hands as she opened her arms and closed her eyes, leaning back offering her throat.

  He heard the music that was in her head, the pulse from the native instrument that had become his lifeline, Shabazz’s bass adding bottom, weight, density to what that tonal drone really meant to him—their last night together as lovers. Marlene’s shakers became a passion hiss and rattle that sent a shiver down his spine. Jose’s percussion was too much to tolerate with J.L.’s melodic keyboard pulling emotion to the surface in a lazy samba . . . not when she was humming about a bittersweet transition. He could see her in the kitchen doorway of his Beverly Hill lair giving him a private performance. Uh-uh.

  With a snap, he pulled out of the mind lock, walked away from her, evaporating the smoke and bringing back normal lights, but left the gown for her to wear. “They’ll be distracted,” he muttered, and found the far side of the room. He wasn’t trying to see her triumphant smile.

  “McGuire won’t bite me until I tell him he has my permission. Trust me.”

  Carlos kept his gaze on the bar. He couldn’t argue with her in that dress. But this shit was dangerous, and she was carrying!

  “Damn, man . . .” Big Mike said. “Now I understand why she was gone for two days. My bad.”

  Once again, she’d taken him somewhere in front of this team that he wasn’t prepared to go. Rather than answer Mike, or address the sideline smirks he received, he simply focused on the matter at hand—survival for the group.

  “After the performance, you three bring her to me, then Shabazz, Mike, and Rider follow and get in the limos I’m providing all VIPs—you’ll see a crest that looks like my ring. Be sure to only get in mine with me and Damali, so track us hard and stay sharp.” Carlos flashed his ring, his hand a tight fist, then walked to stand by the terrace doors. “Those are mine, don’t get in any others, and stay on my flank.”

  The group nodded.

  “When we get on the ship, brace yourselves. You’re gonna see some shit that’ll make you want to barf, but stay cool. Observe, and keep walking. The music is going to be loud, and you’re going to have to look alive, watch your back, and turn down any offers given. My dogs will be hungry, but given orders to only eat anything that tries to rush the onboard team, Damali, or me. When you see me come up on main deck from the Aussie’s stateroom with Damali, you’ll need to get near me, if possible, so I can jettison you in a fast transport to the ships.”

  He spoke slowly, trying to convey the severity of what could go down, hoping Damali wouldn’t balk. “I’ll be keeping four vamp second-level females occupied, and might have to drop a few bodies along the way. My energy could be compromised, and at some point, I’ll have to stop to feed.”

  “Wait,” Damali said, her tone brittle. “You are going to be where, with who?”

  “Oh, shit,” Rider murmured, and moved out of her way.

  “And you had a problem with what?”

  “D, listen, in my world—”

  “Find some other way to distr
act those heifers!”

  “Aw’ight,” Carlos shouted, walking away from her glare. Damn, what was a man supposed to do? His way was expedient, thoroughly efficient, and wouldn’t take a lot of time, given the state they’d already be in.

  “I heard that all the way across the room,” Damali said, heated. “New plan, brother.” She was drawing fast breaths, her arm was extended in his direction, and she was pointing at him so hard that her fist bounced from the strain.

  The teams glanced at each other; even Father Patrick’s crew chuckled to themselves and sighed.

  “Everything is peace,” Shabazz said, trying to break the standoff. He glanced at Damali, then looked back at Carlos, offering a shrug of support. “We gotchure back so you can maintain a chill factor here, man. Do what’chu gotta do to keep them females from rushing D, then dust them. Saves us ammo. But my main question is, what if we don’t see you, man?”

  Shabazz held Carlos’ gaze. His question a fair one, the concern in his eyes appreciated.

  “Like before, we all have one objective. Protect the package. Get D out of there and blow the ship.”

  “And if you’re still on it?” Damali could feel panic rise within her, eclipsing the anger. Something in her was registering an intent that chilled her. “This is not supposed to be a suicide mission, Carlos. The reason we’re going through all of this is so that all of us get off that boat before it blows.”

  Carlos stared at her, and came to her, then stopped. “Just like in Hell . . . you go on ahead of me, if I can’t keep up because I have to put a barrier between you and the team. If any variable comes up—you go. Then, you wait for me.”

  “Where?” Her voice wavered.

  “I’ll send you a transmission—”

  “What if you can’t?” she said, her voice escalating. “I want a word with you outside. Alone.”

  He shook his head, no. “I need to stay focused. So do you. Later.” He touched her cheek, the voice in his head soft. We’ll talk about this later, and please don’t kiss me. I’m not going to sleep with them, just play with their heads. Cool?