The Dead Wolves: An Ashwood Novel (Cursed and Damned Book 1)

by Lee Dignam

  “Why would he ask for your help?” Cyanide asked.

  “Because, to a certain extent, Daniel anticipated something terrible would happen tonight, and he wanted to make sure your organization had an ace in the hole.”

  Cyanide looked at Neo, Pixi, and Jessica in turn before bringing her attention to Angel again. “You’re expecting us to believe that you just… asked him… and he not only told you the truth about me, but he also brought you into the fold?”

  “There are many things about Daniel you don’t know, Grace. Your child knew how to play the game, and he played it well—right until the last—only, no one could have truly predicted the events that transpired tonight. The Count has overplayed his influence and broken several of our traditions. He has revealed himself as the tyrant that we knew he was, and now he must be stopped. That is why Ashwood, now more than ever, needs the Dead Wolves. It needs your clan, the swords in the night, to lead them through the dark as Crimson once did. Otherwise, no one will be safe.”

  “I’m not Grace… not anymore. And I’m not Daniel, either. I’m not a Knight—I’m just a bastard.”

  “Maybe, if that’s how you view yourself, but she is a Knight. The last one.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened. “Me?” she asked, “No, no, no. I hadn’t even been presented.”

  “Not yet, but you are a Knight—you have his name, and you’ll have the resources you need. The rest, we can teach you.”

  Cyanide stepped in front of Jessica, taking up a defensive posture and putting herself between Jessica and Angel. “We?” she asked, “I don’t remember saying I believe you. For all I know, you’re the one who sold him out.”

  “I understand you want to hold onto that,” she said, approaching, “Really I do. You have a right to be angry, to be furious. You have a right to want vengeance. You have a right to distrust me. But I promise you, I want the same thing you do.”

  “You want to rip the Count to pieces for what he did?”

  “That would please me greatly. But what I want most of all is to serve this city and make it a better place, so that we may be a beacon for all of vampire-kind. Vampires like Rufus who wish to bring back the dark ages are everywhere. Crimson wanted to stand up for everyone who condemned those old-world ideals. He wanted them to take his example and rise up against the tyrants in our global society. What I want is to help you achieve that vision and light that beacon for all to see.”

  Neo came up beside Cyanide. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” he said, “And you’re going to have to accept that. But you’re here, and you know things about us you couldn’t have known unless Daniel had told you, so I’ll accept the story you’re giving us.”

  “I appreciate that,” Angel said.

  “But the decision isn’t mine to make; it’s hers,” she said, pointing over at Jessica.

  “Mine?” Jessica asked.

  Neo nodded. “We can leave,” he said, “We can take that car I have outside and get out of here. The four of us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere!” Pixi put in. “I was born in the Heights, and you can bet your ass that I’ll die fighting for the Heights if I have to. I get that you’re hurting; I know you’ve lost someone really close to you, but you can stay here and fight.”

  Cyanide’s emotions came bubbling up again, raw and painful, and it took all she had to keep it bottled up inside, but she had to shut her eyes to do so. When she opened them again, she noticed everyone was looking at her, including Jessica, her eyes searching for the answer to the question she had been asked. No, that isn’t it. She wanted Cyanide to answer for her, to take the burden of responsibility off of her shoulders. But she couldn’t do that anymore than she could pretend to be Grace Knight. As true as that may have been, the truth—the real truth—was that she didn’t feel like Grace.

  She felt like Cyanide.

  “I can’t make this decision for you,” Cyanide said after a time. “I just can’t. I’m hurt too… that pain I felt when the stake… when they killed him… I didn’t know a person could feel that kind of pain and survive, but I guess that’s why we’re cursed and damned—cursed to feel pain more strongly than anyone, and damned to never die of it.”

  “I can’t, Cyanide. I can’t do it. I’m not him.”

  “None of us are. I wish I had known him better than I do, maybe then I’d have a clue what to do next,” Cyanide said. She sat down on the only chair in the room now, and her shoulders sank. She was tired. Empty. Done.

  “Do you want to?” Neo asked.

  Cyanide searched his eyes, and in them she saw something she thought she wouldn’t see again—not after what had happened in her apartment. She saw him in them; she saw the part of him that felt, and wanted, and cared.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You heard me. Do you want to know him like you used to?”

  “I… I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “It is, but you’re the only one who can make that happen.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you’re the one responsible for losing your memories.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Neo glanced at Angel and Pixi, both of whom were transfixed by the conversation. “This—blocking your memories—was your idea. No one else did this to you.”

  “But I—how?”

  “The Sanguine Scrolls. They’re the real reason you did it. You wanted them hidden, so you broke them apart and hid them, and then you used some kind of ritual to fall asleep for a long time and bury your memories. When you woke up, you had forgotten everything.”

  “I did this?”

  Neo nodded. “You made Daniel and I swear we would never tell you the truth, and we swore that oath for you. But now that you’ve started piecing the truth together, and now that Daniel is dead… you’re the only one who knows where the scrolls are, and you’re the only one who can make yourself remember.”

  Cyanide stepped up to Neo, unsure whether she should be feeling anger or confusion, but allowing both to uneven her footing all the same. “You… knew all of this, and you didn’t tell me because you swore an oath?”

  “I had no choice. An oath is an oath, and you taught me to always keep my word.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she examined him carefully. “What are you saying?”

  Neo didn’t answer the question. The moment to vocalize what he had implied ticked by until it was gone.

  “I’ll do it,” Jessica said, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. “If you all want to fight, then I’ll fight with you. For Daniel.”

  Pixi stepped forward and clasped Jessica’s hand. “For Daniel,” she said.

  Neo stared at her hand, then clasped it. “For Daniel,” he said.

  Cyanide stared at the cluster of hands, and for a moment wasn’t sure what to do. Leaving Ashwood behind, and putting as many miles between it and literally anywhere else, was the safest bet. But the thought that if she left, then Daniel would have died—been murdered—in vain left a bitter taste in her mouth. The Count had to pay, and not just for what he did to Daniel. He would pay for what he and his people had planned to do with the girls they stole, and for what he had done to Kaitlyn, who didn’t seem to be able to understand the gravity of the situation.

  She threw her hand into the pile, nodding. “For Daniel,” she said.

  “And for Crimson, and the Dead Wolves,” Angel said, “I pledge to you tonight to do everything within my power to further your cause. And I know there are others like me out there, others who bore witness to tonight’s brutality but were unable to stand up and do something about it.”

  “We’ll find them,” Cyanide said, “And then we’re going to burn this whole thing to the ground.”

  Author's Note

  Thank you for reading the Dead Wolves. This is a book almost 6 years in the making, with some characters we feel like we know inside and out, and others who have gone through some extensive changes over the years. It was great fun to write,
and we’re looking forward to keeping the series going with the next book, the Sanguine Scrolls, releasing just as soon as we can get the book written… unless you’re reading this anytime after June/ July of 2017, in which case the book should already be out there, so go and grab it!

  Thank you, and don’t forget to sign up to my mailing list to receive email updates, invitations to great giveaways, and exclusive content nobody else gets to see such as the companion novella to this book, Pixi Poison! Sign-up now, or if you need a little convincing, turn the page and read the first chapter of that novella right now!

  … and then sign up! :)

  Sign up: http://subscribe.supernalpublishing.net/deadwolves_back

  PIXI POISON

  Chapter One

  The tattoo machine buzzed like a fat, winged insect. There was no mistaking it for what it was; a vibrating brick with a needle on it. But in Pixi Poison’s hand, this monstrosity became an instrument of artistry the likes of which weren’t common in the Crow Heights Projects of Ashwood. She shifted in her squeaky, rolling stool and arched her head to examine her work, pulling Fang away from Darryl’s large, square back and wiping the skin down with a damp paper towel.

  She stared at the dark, detailed landscape shot of the Ashwood skyline, a crescent moon rising up from behind the Venture Tower, and decided the moon needed more work. Darryl didn’t flinch when she put the needle down on his already inflamed skin again. The man was a beast. Four hours he’d been sitting on the chair, leaning his chest against the backrest.

  Overhead, a train rumbled by, causing the small tattoo parlor to shake on its foundations. Carefully stacked bottles rattled on the shelves, and the windowed door separating the tattoo room from the small waiting area trembled on its hinges. If this had been any other place, paint or dust may have fallen from the ceiling. But not here. Pixi made sure of that.

  When the rumbling stopped, Darryl asked, “Gets annoying, doesn’t it?”

  “Used to,” Pixi said, “I don’t much mind it anymore.”

  “Can get used to most anything these days.”

  Pixi added a little shading to the moon, bringing it to life on Darryl’s dark skin. Tattooing the inside of a bullet wound scar wasn’t easy, but it made for a great natural, texturized crater; just the right size and depth.

  “You got kids?” she asked.

  “Three.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Samarah, Yasmin, and Shemar.”

  “Nice names.”

  “They’re nice kids.”

  “Wife?”

  Darryl nodded. “In prison.”

  Again, Pixi arched her head to inspect her work. She ran another paper towel down his back to wipe away the excess ink. His skin glistened, making the city skyline seem to almost sparkle. Before she got to work finishing off the lettering on the back piece, her eyes caught the time on her laptop. 1am. It was well past the witching hour and he was here, getting a tattoo instead of sleeping with a gun under his pillow and a baseball bat leaning next to his nightstand.

  “That’s a shame. Who’s watching the kids?” she asked.

  “My brother.”

  “Who’s watching your brother?”

  Darryl turned his head around to try and catch Pixi’s eye but, she planted her gloved palm on his ropy shoulder and shoved him back against the chair. “Keep still,” she said.

  “What’s with all the questions?” he said, in a tone suggesting she had asked one too many.

  “Just being friendly.”

  Her nose detected the hint of blood in the air before her eyes did. There was a trickle of it on his back, tracing a jagged, crimson line across the cityscape. She must have nicked him with the needle when he turned around. Pixi’s jaw began to throb dully, and a sharp, fine pain stuck her right temple. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to press he tongue against his skin and lick the blood clean. He wouldn’t notice.

  He also wouldn’t notice if she sank her fangs into his collar and drank deeply from his veins, but he’d been sitting here for four hours already. She didn’t doubt his constitution would hold for another four hours if it had to, but it wouldn’t survive her drinking from him, and then she’d have to carry his unconscious ass back to his place.

  Good luck explaining that one to his brother and kids.

  “I think we should call it,” she said. “Just gotta finish the lettering, maybe a couple little details, but you’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “You can finish,” he said.

  “Nah, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Pixi ignored him, shut the tattoo machine off, wiped Darryl’s back clean again, and rubbed petroleum jelly into the inflamed skin. When she was done, she removed her black, latex gloves, tossed them in the trash, and cracked her neck and her knuckles, shaking the stiffness off. Her joints wouldn’t have been stiff if she had gone for a drink before opening the shop, but she’d woken up later than normal tonight and hadn’t wanted to be late for her only client, and she was the kind of vampire who didn’t drink every night.

  It kept her focus sharp and deadly.

  Darryl stood up for the first time in four hours and stretched, his back clicking loudly a number of times. He approached the tall mirror and turned his torso around to check out his new tattoo. She had highlighted windows, peaks, and the moon using lighter ink which would stand in stark contrast against the deep brown of Darryl’s skin, but this wasn’t the only tattoo on him. Among others, a large skull grinned from his shoulder. Beneath the skull were the names of his children in a cursive script. Sitting between his pectorals was a large, ornate crucifix, with Christ stretched on it staring longingly at the floor.

  The letters RRR sat curved along the base of his neck. They stood for respect, reputation, revenge; code among gang members.

  She caught herself in the mirror’s surface— her skin was starting to take on a grey from her lack of feeding. It was something that was only noticeable to her, but give it another night or so and people would start to ask unwanted questions. She had narrow, angular features to her face and her black hair, streaked through with bright purple dye, was caught up in a high ponytail which allowed it to stay out of her face whilst she worked. If it weren’t for her long legs, she really would look like a pixie next to this freight-train of a man.

  “Come back to finish it tomorrow,” Pixi said.

  “Why couldn’t you finish it tonight?” he asked.

  “Because I got someplace to be, and you’ve gotta be with your kids.”

  Truth was, Pixi didn’t trust herself around him. She had smelled blood, had seen it, and now it was all she could think about; an itch she couldn’t scratch. If he didn’t leave, and she lost control, his six feet of tough muscle wouldn’t save him from meeting the reaper and then those kids would be left without a dad.

  In the Heights, that was a death-sentence for most kids.

  She stood from her stool and started cleaning down her workspace. Darryl approached with a wad of notes; four hundred dollars in tens, fives, and previously crumpled up ones that in their lifetimes had probably been stuffed in more than one G-string. Though not by his hand. He didn’t seem the type.

  Pixi stared at the money, then back at Darryl. “Keep it,” she said.

  “Naw, man, take it.”

  “Keep it. Buy your kids food and toys or some shit, okay?”

  “You sure?”

  I’m undead—what do I need money for? Rent. Bribes. Weapons. Vehicles. Stuff. All these things came to mind, but the one thing that didn’t was food, and learning he had three kids to feed had tugged on her heartstrings. Especially since she had almost taken payment of a different kind from him.

  Pixi pushed his hand away. “Owe me a favor instead.”

  Darryl nodded. “Alright,” he said, “A favor.” He waited until Pixi tacked a strip of cellophane to his back. Then he put his shirt on and slipped a puffy jacket over his shoulders. “Peace out, Pix,” he sa
id.

  “You too,” she said.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She gave him a smile, because it was the human thing to do. “Can’t wait to finish it.”

  He left, and the front door jingled as he opened and closed it. Pixi turned to her tools again and finished cleaning them, throwing the tattoo gun into the sterilizer she had bought second hand from a dentist who had lost his license and packing the ink bottles back into their corresponding boxes. When she was done packing, she pulled the plastic sheet off the chair Darryl had been sitting on, grabbed disinfectant spray, and sprayed every surface anyone had touched.

  The building rumbled again as she was cleaning. This time, the lights flickered lightly. Picture frames on the walls, with Pixi’s various certificates of health and sanitation in them, rattled on their hooks. A bottle of black ink slipped off one of the shelves and fell on a table. She picked it up and put it back on the shelf next to the other ink bottles.

  The train passed, the rumbling stopped, and Pixi shut her laptop down before locking the door to the back studio and heading for the front door. She spotted Darryl outside, crossing the street with his hoody up, rushing to get home to his family. Hopefully she’d see him again tomorrow. Out in Crow’s Heights, you just didn’t know.

  She stepped into the cold, frigid night and dropped the metal shutters that would protect her place of work from at least the casual burglars. Then she turned into the street and looked up into the dark, overcast sky. The full moon peeked out between gaps in the clouds. It would rain again tonight. More than once. That meant the best bet for her to find someone to drink from would be at a dive bar; the last place she wanted to go to. The worst part was, even at a busted old watering hole like Jimmy’s, one of the only places she would even consider hunting in at this hour, pickings would be slim.