The Renfield Syndrome
Page 8
“Miss she-bitch.”
“Oh, her. No, they don’t. She must have been changed before she started to display any outward symptoms. The only way they will know is if you tell them. You can’t trust her. I’ve listened to her and the bitch she plots with. She wants all of the new females brought here destroyed.” Marianne placed a hand on my shoulder, and I jerked, ripping my concentration from the glowing amber pendant. “Including you.”
That got my attention.
“What? Why?” I questioned. “What the hell did I ever do to her?”
“If human females are not available, the males will be forced to mate within the pack. You’re next on the short list she’s prepared. She can’t risk you taking Carter away as a prospective mate. He’s alpha, and that’s a rarity in a Lycae that’s been created and not born. His children will lead the pack when he passes. That means you’ve got to go before she has the chance to bite and change you. She’s willing to risk the wrath of the pack to see it done.”
“Okay, listen up.” I moved away from her touch and reached for the amulet. I passed the tiny stone between my hands while trying to get a grip on the thin leather string around my neck. “I’m not sticking around this hellhole. Whoever you’re talking about can have Carter. I don’t want him. I just want to get home and pretend this has been one terrible fucking nightmare.”
“If Carter chose you, that means you share some level of attraction. I know it’s hard at first, but it does get easier.”
I shoved a palm into her face, stonewalling her completely. “Trust me. I am so not interested.”
“Then help me,” Marianne pleaded, her entire demeanor desperate as she grasped my shoulders. “She’ll have another female vying to take my place soon. Quinn has been alone for two years, but he won’t remain that way forever. My son deserves a mother who will love him. Not some bitch who wants to get knocked up as quickly as possible to replace my son entirely.”
Distracted and playing hot potato with the charm, I asked, “Who exactly is ‘she’? I can’t help you if I don’t know who in the hell you’re talking about.”
“You’ve met her, I heard her tell Delores about your encounter in Carter’s penthouse. She said when the pack had another meeting, she was going to make sure you weren’t a problem anymore.”
I tried to focus on what Marianne was saying as she prattled on about a devised plan to see me gone. I tried to block out the agonizing burn of the charm that blazed white hot. It was like the amulet was attempting to warn me of something, determined to break my concentration.
The connection between Marianne and me began to sever, the reality of her past becoming the reality of my present. But the words she wanted me to hear most—although bunny-rabbit soft—were clear as I zoned back into the dismal apartment with cheap dark furniture, a terrified young boy, and the woman whose name and face were just as familiar as the ghost insisted it would be.
“Jackson,” Marianne answered and her voice fading. “Her name is Jackson Montgomery.”
Chapter Six
“I told you to go to your fucking room!” Jackson snarled at Joshua, lifted an imposing hand, and pointed to the hallway. Her short caramel hair was messy, her toned and muscular back flexing as she motioned to the empty hall. “Don’t fuck with me, you little shit.”
“N-no,” he stammered, his entire body quaking.
“Don’t make me tell you again. Go to your room.”
Marianne—no longer solid but airy—rushed between her son and the enraged woman, as if her ghostly body could somehow shield him from harm. Jackson moved toward Joshua, passing through the spirit like a person would a dense New York winter fog.
This was not good. Not fucking good at all.
I glanced around.
The entire apartment was stripped, with none of the essential necessities to engage in diligent combat. The porcelain lamps would shatter upon one good use, and the television and entertainment center would be impossible to lift. My gaze settled on the old oak coffee table—the dark wood stain matching the somber furniture and gloomy atmosphere.
God certainly had a warped sense of humor.
My only chance was the enormous bible situated on the end. The good Lord Jesus Christ beamed up at me from the center of pristine white leather, flaming heart aglow.
Better make it count.
I didn’t hesitate and rushed for the object. I snagged the thick, heavy book in my hands and brought it around, building momentum as I slugged the good word across the side of Jackson’s face like a sacred baseball bat full of deliverance. Her head snapped around with a rip-roaring slap. She spun around upon impact. The blow sent her staggering to the floor on her unworthy knees.
The sidearm latched in the holster at her waist was just the meal ticket I was looking for. I dove to the ground, snagged the butt of the gun in one hand and unlatched the metal snap closure with the other. The barrel slid free just as Jackson turned and clocked me in the chin with a balled fist. I managed to work the gun from the holster but lost my grip. The Beretta thudded across the carpet to rest at Joshua’s feet.
I rolled onto my back and did a kick up, again thanking my lucky stars my knee had miraculously healed after the visit to the library. Jackson might be stronger and faster, but making a living as a bartender in a dangerous city meant I knew how to defend myself well enough to survive. When she charged, I crouched low to the ground and dodged to the left. The instant she barreled past me, I made a rush for the gun, lunging for the end of the couch. I extended my arm and my fingers brushed the hard edge of steel.
“Not so fast, bitch,” Jackson snarled, snatching my ankle. She pulled my fingers out of reach of the weapon.
One minute my stomach was flush against cushiony synthetic carpet, the next I was soaring through the air. My shoulders and cranium made contact with the solid wall across the room first. I would have groaned if I had any of the breath necessary to do so, but as luck would have it, I had a difficult enough time wheezing.
My legs were weak but steady when I rose to face the incoming were-bitch.
Her irises glowed white, the pupils narrowed to pinpoints. The short brown hair on her head was scattered in multiple directions, and a nasty set of claws were visible from each of her long fingers. Twin fangs that were thicker and longer than any vampire’s I’d ever seen shoved her full lips back, giving her the visage of an acid-trippy saber-toothed cave chick.
“Fuck me,” I groaned, bracing myself.
Bitch might just kick my ass.
The loud crack of gunfire echoed through the room. Jackson jerked when she was struck. The bullet must have lodged somewhere inside her, because it didn’t pass through and continue on a path to me. The shocked look on her face was priceless, but I didn’t have a decent opportunity to enjoy it. She whipped around and faced the boy standing across the way with a gun leveled at her chest.
“Leave her alone.” Joshua’s pitiful voice cracked and he started crying.
Jackson snarled, “You little shit.”
Chick fighting is never attractive, especially when you’ve taken self-defense and know how to throw a decent punch or a jaw-dropping roundhouse. But as my instructor Mike is always so keen to remind his devoted followers—a smart fighter acclimates to their surroundings, takes what they’re offered, and gives thanks to Lady Luck. It was such a mindset that had me springing from the floor and launching onto Jackson’s back the moment she started for the boy.
I twined my legs around her slim waist and latched them together at the ankles. She spun in a circle, clawing at my arms as she tried to dislodge me. The sharp edge of the kitchen counter met the fleshy part of my lower back, sending a sharp spike of pain up my spine, and I cried out. I sent probing fingers across her face, searching for and finding the sponginess of eye tissue. I plunged the tips into the slippery orbs, making sure my fingernails pierced first.
“Don’t like that, do you?” I yelled, knowing the bitch had the lesson coming for a long-ass time. “It’s no fun when you’re on the receiving end of what you like to dish out, is it, Foo-Foo?”
Rubbing in my current victory was the wrong thing to do.
Jackson pounded my back against the counter, using all her strength—which was damn impressive. My thighs trembled and weakened, as did the muscles in my arms. The pain in my spine was dull and agonizing. Each blow I received felt stronger than the one before. My fingers slid from Jackson’s hollow eye sockets. When I was forced to place my hands somewhere on her body or risk busting my ass, I gripped the tips of her ears. She thrust me back and I flexed my muscles and yanked my hands down. Thin cartilage and skin detached from her skull, her ears ripping away from her face.
She screamed in a mixture of misery and outrage. The sound gave me a newfound strength. I tugged on her lobes, forcing them down, and ripped the skin and cartilage down to the bone. As she flailed and yelled, I flexed my thigh muscles again, holding on to her for dear life.
Unexpectedly, she stopped bashing me against the counter. She reached over her head and swiped her claws at my face. A couple of sweeps of her nails broke the surface of my skin, but the feeling was pleasurable compared to the misery of the ceramic counter I’d kissed multiple times with my kidneys.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” she roared, slashing at my shoulders and face.
I was beyond furious and exhausted, which made my snarky retort weaker than I’d have preferred. “Not if I kill you first.”
The cold hard truth was I was fed with up being clawed, mangled and constantly thrown for a loop. Being in this reality blew balls. I was tired, confused and just wanted to go home. I didn’t have my crucifix, my Ruger, or my beloved butterfly knife. There was only one saving grace, something that kept me going—a shitload of pent-up heartbreak and anguish that needed an outlet. I might regret my decision later. There was a chance I might infect myself with a disease. I figured if I didn’t kill the bitch, I was doomed to die either way.
I used the thighs manacled to Jackson’s waist as leverage when I leaned forward and buried my teeth into the nape of her neck. The skin gave way without the assistance of sharp incisors or canines, and her blood flowed into my mouth. The amulet went molten hot against my chest, burning like an open flame through the thin cotton, but I was numb to it.
Jackson’s roar of pain was the only thing I wanted to consider.
She whipped around and widened her stance.
The hands at my shoulders wound down, until her nails sank into the giving softness of my legs. Her razor-sharp claws slid easily past the thin camouflage and into the warm, pliable flesh beneath. I released her neck and bit my lip, tasting the metallic bitterness of her blood. Her talons went through my muscles and plunged into bone. I went slack, distracted by the torturous stabbing sensation. I started slipping from her back, and she chose to do something I never would have imagined, something I never saw coming.
She body slammed me.
The moment I made contact with the ground, I couldn’t breathe.
Pain—pure, raw and intense—speared through my body.
I let go of Jackson, terrified of the black spots that speckled my vision.
If I lost consciousness, it would all be over.
A clawed hand appeared—hazy but there—and I felt long fingers twine in my hair. A sharp tug ripped several strands from my scalp. I tried to alleviate the pressure, going onto my knees. I struggled to breathe, balancing my weight on the floor with shaking hands, and cursed the amulet that had somehow burned through my turtleneck and now brushed against my skin.
The loud crack of another gunshot buzzed in my ears and was immediately followed by another. Jackson shuddered before releasing the fistful of hair she’d chosen to clench. A horrific growl came from her as she forgot about me and rose. Her nostrils flared, she whipped around and barreled across the room toward Joshua.
Marianne’s horrified scream brought me to my feet, even though the room was spinning. I blinked and shook my head, trying to see clearly, attempting to regain the equilibrium necessary to stand upright. Jackson was a blur across the short distance, as was the body of the child trapped beneath her. From what I could see, he was squirming on top of the demolished coffee table, his small legs kicking out. I could hear him gurgling, as if he was choking on blood.
“Help him,” Marianne begged, rushing to me, and reached for my arm.
The ground shifted when her hand touched my shoulder, and an odd and profound trembling overtook my body. The aches and pains in my back and legs vanished, muscles and limbs suddenly strong despite my prior fatigue. The room came into focus, allowing me to see everything clearly, even those things in my peripheral vision. My spine went straight as I stood upright and lifted my head, nourished and guided by the unexpected surge of power.
Jackson’s free arm came back, rounding into a fist, and I didn’t hesitate.
In four steps, I stood directly behind the enraged werewolf and her prey.
I snagged the bitch by the wrist and brought it back, applying just the right amount of pressure. The bone broke easily, a portion of it tearing through the skin. Pink, ivory and vivid red created a macabre anatomical art display. I didn’t know where my newfound inhuman strength came from, and I didn’t really care. When I saw the blood pooling from Joshua’s mouth, I wanted to see the hairy werehound suffer.
Jackson removed the hand from around Joshua’s throat and dropped him. He went limp, brown eyes sliding closed as he hit the table. As she turned to face me, I wasn’t afraid. The amulet against my skin throbbed and pulsed, very much alive and aware. A strange beat and chorus sang in my ears, telling me I could kill this bitch if I wanted to. Each pulse suffused my muscles, eyes and limbs with an unexplained, yet undeniable, energy.
“What are you?” she questioned, staggering up on unsteady legs. Both of her eyes were in bloody tatters. Portions of flesh and egg-white tissue drifted to her cheekbones. I was certain she couldn’t see.
“A person you never should have fucked with.” I smiled as I said it, bleeding and hurt but in much better shape than the creature in front of me. “Bang, bang, fuck,” I whispered, “you’re as good as dead.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to predict Jackson’s next move.
She came at me like a brick shit house, balls-to-the-walling-it, wild and crazed. Her teeth shone in the light, large and bright, made all the more disturbing due to her hollowed-out eyes and the claws she tried to rip me apart with. I shouldn’t have been able to perceive the moment—it was too fast, too fucking quick. Yet I reacted instinctively, moving into a defensive position as I prepared for the attack soon to follow.
Each violent thrust and punch she aimed in my direction I evaded or blocked. I somehow saw what she intended to do before her blows found their mark. Each of her rage-enhanced roars goaded me, driving me on. As she lashed out with one hand, I encouraged her to try harder, to try again.
I wanted to watch this beastly woman crumble.
I wanted to see her on her fucking knees.
A hollow pain struck my chest—directly beneath Marigold Vesta’s amulet—and knocked me off balance. My incredible strength ebbed, and I heard Marianne making weak cries, pleading with me to stop. Through a heavy fog, I listened to her request. She wanted to return to her child once more before she crossed over. As I focused on her voice, Jackson butted my nose with her forehead, breaking the vessels and creating an unbridled flow of blood fro
m my nostrils. Blood poured down my lip and coated my chin.
Heavy punches rained down upon my shoulders and face, forcing me to collapse into a huddled ball at her feet. Her boots found the vulnerable hollow of my side, hard rubber soles leaving imprints behind as she kicked me repeatedly. I attempted to cough out the blood that collected in my mouth, forcing the bitter and warm liquid from the confines of my lips. The brutal blows continued, going on and on, until I realized this might be it.
I could very well die before Zagan had the opportunity to take my soul.
I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
A solid punch sent me on my ass, forcing my chin up and back. My back hit the couch, and the familiar and welcome coolness of metal flickered against my palm. Thank God for miracles. I grasped the gun as Jackson descended on me, her features half human and half wolf. I didn’t know squat about werewolves, but I figured the general rule of thumb applied.
When in doubt, aim for the heart or head.
The moment the gun slid into my hand, I lifted it. I placed the barrel directly beneath her chin and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. The rounds cannonballed out of the chamber and into her head, each bullet shattering teeth and obliterating bone. Bloody eye sockets oozed as tissue flowed freely from the serrated holes. When the last bullet in the chamber passed through what was left of her skull and lodged in the ceiling, I knew the bitch was dead.
She sagged against me. The heavy flow of blood from her face and what remained of her jaw coated my forehead. Her weight was unbearable, and I thrust her aside. I kicked at her legs and torso until she was clear of my body. When she was in an awkward heap, I took several calming breaths, getting my shit straight.
I pushed aside the remnants of the table and went to Joshua. He was so small and still. I cradled his head in my lap and brushed stray locks of hair away from his temples. My fingers were trembling as they crept to his throat. I prayed he had a pulse. I released a heavy sigh at the steady throb that greeted me. He was a brave and extremely resilient kid.