Angelic Blood (#5): Alpha Warriors of the Blood (The Blood Series)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  But that method feels so detached to me. So my pen sits poised in my left hand above recycled ecru-colored notepaper.

  I'm fighting a lot of urges today. The urge to swing my foot as I listen to the hundredth same line out of a different mouth.

  I can't take my life.

  Counseling is unfortunately only rewarding when a client comes along who really wants to be happy. Who's willing to be dragged through the muck of their dysfunction sufficiently long enough to find themselves coming up for air on the other side—and discovering it to be fresh.

  Of course, it's a case of physician, heal thyself. Talyn Phisher isn't happy.

  I'm content.

  And that's a big-ass difference.

  “Dr. Phisher?”

  Oops. I jerk my head up, caught. “Yes, Beatrice?”

  “Bea,” she replies sullenly.

  God, where is my head? Clearly—up my ass, is my mind's immediate response.

  “Yes, Bea,” I duck my head in shame, take a deep calming breath then meet her eyes.

  They're large and dark, one of the unusual people where the black dot almost blends with the brown iris swimming around the island of their pupil.

  “I was discussing my argument with my foster dad.”

  I nod, dredging sympathy when what I really want to say is, pull up your big-girl panties and deal, for fuck's sake.

  But that's entirely un-counselor-like of me.

  I shut my mouth and purse my lips for a moment, desperately wishing for some lip gloss. Instead I say, “Well, let's address things in order of priority.”

  “Okay.” Bea crosses her skinny arms below fifteen-year-old breasts. Gaged ears wink at me like two additional mouths. A tattoo climbs the delicate column of her neck, the tail of a snake appearing to strangle her.

  I'm unmarked.

  Tattoos are the height of popularity. They lost their stigma in the beginning of the 21st century. It's actually more rare that someone doesn't have ink than those who do.

  I tamp down on my sudden compulsion to crack my knuckles.

  “This is what we have, Bea.”

  Her eyes dart around my office as though looking to escape another dry lecture.

  But I'm never dry. That's part of my problem. Sometimes, my unorthodox methods get results. “You have to make marked progress, or the courts will toss your ass straight back to juvie.”

  Her head whips back to me, shocked by my frankness—my use of language, I'm sure.

  Her black lipsticked mouth pulls into a smile. “You're cursing, doctor.”

  I smile back at her, old enough to be her mother, though God knows that'll never happen.

  “And you're listening,” I point out.

  She flops back against the couch. “Okay, lay it on me.” Bea's slim arms rest on the back of the sofa, her face carefully schooled into neutrality.

  Also a defense mechanism.

  “This is your tenth session, and you spew the same crap every time. Child Protective Enforcement suspects there's something wrong, and they have ordered counseling. I will get to the bottom of it, no matter how many layers you erect.”

  Bea doesn't look especially surprised at the gauntlet I've thrown down between us.

  My teeth begin their normal, midday throb and I apply pressure by clamping down. They don't hurt so bad that I'm ready to go in and get them checked, but the muted pain is a distraction I don't need.

  “You're asking me to get along with a guy who's not my dad.”

  I lean back, forcing a casual disinterest that is the opposite of what I feel. My limbs begin to tingle.

  I get that special feeling.

  Breakthrough, baby.

  Jesus, I thought it'd never happen.

  “Tell me a reason you can't get along. Besides him making you eat food from a certain shelf. Or a curfew of eleven at night.”

  Many foster families have assigned food shelves for non-biological children. It's a form of silent prejudice. But that's not enough to nail this guy. I need more. I suspect there is more. But ten sessions is a long damn time to hold out on my gut instinct. I do listen to my gut more than most.

  My instincts never let me down.

  The ticks from my archaic clock swallow our mutual silence.

  Bea leans forward, jagged short hair dyed an inky black sweeps forward to cover an eye.

  She rests her forearms on her thighs.

  I wait.

  A minute goes by. Two.

  “Tell me what he does to you, Bea.” I feel the compulsion in my voice, and let it thread its way to Bea with soft and deliberate insistence.

  My teeth ache a tiny bit less, and I release an almost silent but grateful sigh.

  Her face lifts, the pierced bottom lip trembling with the effort to keep that stoic expression glued in place.

  I sit up straight, pen and paper forgotten—breath held.

  Then she carefully unbuttons the cuffs of her unseasonably warm long-sleeved shirt.

  Healing lines of varying depths litter her skin.

  Cutter.

  Her sad eyes find mine. My heart is in my gaze, there for the taking. She reaches for it with such hesitation. Then crushes the pulsating mess of my feelings with, “What he does to me at night, or during the day?”

  At night.

  I don't plant my face in my hands but it's close. I know what happens at night.

  I've heard it before.

  2

  Being a councilor probably isn't a great career choice for me.

  Too empathetic.

  I carefully shut the door after Bea exits, leaning my forehead against the other side.

  She won't be going back to that foster family. Even now the cops are on their way to arrest that sick excuse of a human being. He's done enough to Bea to get an immediate lock up.

  I'm not going to cry, I tell myself as the first, hot tear worms its way down my face.

  I press my face against the expensive door inside the clinic I share with other doctors and bite my lip.

  Pain sears where my teeth touch and I yelp, immediately touching the tender spot with my finger.

  What the hell?

  I walk swiftly to the bathroom and gaze into the mirror, looking closely at my teeth.

  I don't like what I see.

  My canine teeth, as they're called, seem to be performing some kind of circus act and changing.

  Unbelievable.

  As if that twenty plus extra pounds I'm running around with isn't enough to worry about. Or my lack of A Man in the picture.

  Or my status of barren. Yup.

  Now I've got a case of skank mouth to top off the misery cake like a spoiling cherry. Swell.

  I step away from the mirror with a shaky laugh, tonguing off the bead of blood I put there. I'm sounding like some of my patients who have nothing wrong with them except a bad attitude.

  I dab at my sore lip with a bit of damp toilet paper and toss it in the commode.

  Blood and tissue flow down in a swirl of water as I flush. I watch it disappear as though transfixed.

  I need to get out of here.

  Bea's story of molestation isn't something that will be out of my system tonight. Or tomorrow night.

  Or the next.

  I'll head to the gym and burn off some steam.

  I use the bathroom and turn off the light. I walk silently around my small office, doing the shut-down routine by rote.

  I turn off the desk lamp.

  I upend the ashtray into the separator. The illegal cigarette smell puffs up the nauseating after-odor.

  I waft a palm. God, gross.

  Another horrible habit. But one I've found is not something people can give up while also being challenged with obtaining emotional wellness.

  Nope, they need the cigs. So I write the prescription that waives the legality part of it. The lesser of the two evils.

  I work my jaw back and forth, notice I'm doing it and stop. My joints protest as I bend to pick up some fallen threads and
I sigh.

  More working out, I'm only thirty-seven—not seventy-seven.

  Lastly, I scoot around the coffee table and squeeze behind my couch for patients.

  The slatted blinds are already tilted up to allow in light but offer a feeling of privacy for clients.

  My fingers wrap the little knobs. I'm a flick away from closure.

  My gaze sweeps the narrow slivers of the outside I can see.

  The bluest eyes I've ever seen blink back at me from paces away.

  I scream, falling backward over the couch and hitting my head on the coffee table.

  Stars burst in front of my vision and I groan.

  I roll over on all fours.

  Somebody's out there, Talyn! Get your ass moving!

  I shake my head to clear it. I lurch and clutch the material of the couch, heaving myself to my knees. My heart feels like it's trying for escape but I'm not some sissy.

  Except for the scream.

  I lean my torso against the back of the couch, and peer out of the still half-open slats.

  A semi-underground flight of concrete stairs leads up to a busy metropolitan sidewalk where walking legs greet me. Pant legs, bare legs and many different kind of legs flow past.

  There are no eyes.

  I want to lie to myself. Shake it off as though I was just seeing things.

  But I'm not like that. In reality, I'm a scientist. I study the brain. I study people.

  I like it—self-delusion isn't my game.

  I yank the blinds shut, releasing the cord with a flip. The plastic knobs at the end of the cord slap against the dark walnut-colored faux wood slats.

  The knot on my head begins to throb in time with my dumb teeth.

  Shit.

  I slide out my new pulse, and place my thumb on the dock pad. It's the approximate size of the old credit cards before everything allowed a thumb swipe as payment.

  Green characters swirl on the dark screen as though moving to the surface of inky water.

  The time glows softly. 7:40 PM.

  “Shit,” I repeat softly and with feeling. Can't I just ever get out of here on time?

  Clearly not.

  I grab my gear bag and move through the office door, locking it behind me.

  I swing my keys (eschewing the locksmith his five hundred credits for revamping my security bolt to pulse) and dump them in my handbag.

  I trot up the concrete stairs, vaguely thinking it's time for a power wash. Slimy mildew is getting a foothold.

  I reach the top, grabbing a lungful of fresh midwestern air. Heat, farm and the vague smells of prairie without the blood vats of the nearby meat plant assail me in the comfort of having always lived here in Sioux Falls. My comfort scent combo lasts for the blink of an eye.

  My ears perk.

  Not for noise, but for the quiet. The throbbing of my teeth and head—the funky squawk of my joints—recede as I scan my surroundings.

  I don't admit I'm searching for blue eyes.

  The small hairs at my nape lift.

  I see nothing, but remain disquieted. Finally, I walk out into a day that is fast losing its claim to night.

  My footsteps take me the mile to the gym. My thoughts stay in the office and with the revelations Bea shared.

  Blue eyes haunt me.

  3

  Merck

  I watch the change, enjoying her wariness as her soft gray eyes pierce the shadows, searching out my presence. Her slightly reflective irises don't make me out in the gloom.

  She's old for a hybrid. It's a mystery to me why a rare female would change so late.

  My nostrils flare.

  I smell a small wound and a recent injury. An involuntary low growl seeps from between the tight line of my lips.

  Did someone cause the injury?

  No, I immediately soothe my beast. Probably that tumble she took over the couch.

  I chuckle. Wasn't sure if I'd have to wade in there, and save her from herself before it was too late. I had been a little sloppy with my presence. But Talyn Phisher is very practical. She's probably already talked herself right out of very good instincts.

  Talyn walks off, and I take a second to lust after her.

  The practice of coveting the changes is strictly forbidden, of course.

  Our job's now doubly hard. Vamps and Turners have been outed, and now they're cruising the same hunting grounds we do.

  The Lanarre, as the Lycan royalty is named, doesn't want a vulnerable hybrid Lycan running into a vamp that likes their tasty werewolf blood.

  Nor do the Lycan want a war. But a war they shall have, if they fuck with our females.

  This one especially.

  My eyes follow her rounded backside. A more scrumptious ass I have never beheld. Oh for the days when a little extra flesh was considered a mark of wealth, health and attractiveness.

  I like my women with ass cheeks that overflow the hands—tits as well. A waist I can span with my hands.

  I lick my lips, turning away from the enticing sight.

  Women are fine for carnal pleasures, but that's not the job of a Changer—Lycan warriors—who seek female hybrids hiding among humans. Like their vampire counterparts, hybrid females will die without a strong male to see them through their transition to full Lycan.

  Unlike the vampires and their blood exchange, the Lycan must sex it out of the hybrids.

  I smirk. I can't say I hate the process.

  Though that is all that is allowed. A transition, and then Changers find the next target for transitioning. Any Lycan should be proud to change a female.

  I find it lonely. Tasting of their lush bodies, only to never share in their lives. It's a form of torture. But the Lanarre is deaf to their own warriors.

  It's a numbers game.

  And the possibility of a human female of royal lycan blood hiding in plain sight.

  I roll my eyes at the unlikelihood of that. It's a wonderful bit of werewolf lore. But I don't know that I've ever met a Changer who has encountered a hybrid with that unique Lanarre component.

  I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

  But I do.

  Just being thorough.

  Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I feed myself every day.

  *

  Talyn puts herself through the same laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to the gym.

  The elliptical.

  The hand weights.

  It's the squats that get my full attention. Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

  I watch every repetition.

  She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully acute.

  My eyes narrow as a human male approaches her.

  Growling begins from deep inside me, humming through my chest like my very own motor.

  Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

  I watch the mundane human try to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future females.

  Move on, douche.

  I tap my pulse to activate with my thumb.

  Charles: status.

  Status? Status is: Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit that's just on the cusp of ripening.

  But not yet.

  Me: negative. Still under surveillance.

  Charles: maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false read?

  No! I calm my shit, and prepare to think my response. But first, I set my pulse to low emotive transference.

  Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

  Fuck no.

  Me: possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might not apply to her
.

  Charles: can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

  Talyn is no dud.

  Me: give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation, I'll move in.

  The wait of almost a minute is an uneasy one. What if Charles terminates the mission? That Talyn doesn't deserve the time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly to waste time on?

  Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away in irritation.

  I glance at Talyn.

  The human has his hand on her forearm.

  Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan at the pain of the partial change.

  The high hertz frequency buzz alerts me to Charlesʼ reply.

  Charles: two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting and too few Changers.

  My breath leaks out of me in relief.

  I don't even realize I'm across the street and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

  If I could wish that human to death with my stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

  I think into my pulse device with the side of my thumb.

  Me: Roger that.

  I palm the slim communicator, sliding it into my pants pocket.

  Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside the workout room and walks away.

  Her look of mild and dismissive disgust makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure lust. And something else.

  My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his emotion.

  Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

  Violence.

  Violence is mixed with his lust.

  My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning nonetheless.

  He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

  But the small creatures of the nearby forest halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've made.

  They heed the danger with their communal silence.

  4

  Talyn

  Jerk.

  I rub my arm where he touched me. Do I have a sign that says, desperate tattooed across my forehead?

  Why can't the decent guys that I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-no, it's got to be the pudwacker types.