The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2)

by Domino Finn

  Kayda's breath stopped along with her heart.

  On the bronze statue of a fist holding a silver full moon, a loose cloth hung, flapping in the wind. Only it wasn't a cloth. Its browned color was hardened and cracked. Thin in some places, black in others. A patch of dark brown hair hung from the top, and Kayda saw the deformed face of her older brother below it. The cloth was her older brother, Carlos. Only it wasn't him. It was just his skin, split along the back, all in one piece, strung up for display.

  A piercing scream rose through Kayda. It started deep in her belly, reverberating in her diaphragm and lungs. At her neck, tonsils vibrated until they were sore, and her wide open mouth projected the ghastly sound, somehow louder than all the other horrified shrieks combined. Kayda yelled more vehemently than she had ever remembered being able. Then she felt lightheaded.

  The world started to make sense again, as if she were waking from a dream. But she wasn't. She was nearly on the floor of the parking lot. The detective held her. She couldn't recall his name at the moment. He shook her shoulders and moved his mouth, saying something but not making much noise. Then she heard him ask if she was okay. Kayda weakly nodded. She stared past his face into the sky, but there were no birds to guide her.

  Kayda remembered that she wasn't supposed to be weak. She brushed the cop away and took to her feet. Everything came into focus. Her heart pounded. She took a step towards the statue and saw her brother standing there.

  Kelan. He ripped the skin down and threw it to the floor. He stood above it, tears streaming down his face. She needed to go to him. To be strong with him. But her steps were coming too slowly.

  "This..." Kelan cried out to the small crowd who lingered. The men. The mercenaries. "This is what remains of my brother. This is what remains of a great tribesman!" Kelan's stance was bottled energy. His legs were bent at the knees, ready to pounce yet still standing tall. He held out his arms to either side, enclosed fists flexing, wiry muscles threatening to explode from under his skin. The short hairs on his head rose like the hackles of a dog.

  "My brother was not a perfect man," he proclaimed. "He had his faults. He was no chief. But to his dying moments, he did what he did for the Yavapai people!"

  The young men surrounding Kelan roared in agreement and patted him on the shoulders. Hotah and Yas were with him. The initial scatter of tribe members slowed. Some pulled closer.

  Kelan hopped up onto the fountain wall and stood over his audience. He pointed to his brother's remains and spoke in a commanding voice. "This is what the Yavapai mean to the outside world! We are pushed away from the rivers and the highways. We are set aside as a nuisance. Then, when we build a casino, when we make it so that people want to come to us, they remind us of our place!"

  An uproar rolled through the crowd like a wave crashing on a rocky shore. It was sharp, final, and deadly. Kayda stopped. She was relieved not to see her broken brother anymore, but she was worried about the other one.

  Kelan Doka raised his hands into the air to silence the crowd. It took some time but a hushed whisper overtook the wind. The world itself quieted for what came next. Her half brother lowered his voice to a reverent tone.

  "We all know what my brother was. We all know what I am. And some of you, as well." Kelan traded a look with Hotah and put his hand on the full moon statue behind him. All Kayda could think about were her grandfather's words. The moon was a beacon for hunters. And then she thought of her dead brother. The moon lit the hunters as well as the prey. "There's only one group of people who could have taken down the great Doka," Kelan said, even more softly.

  "No," said Maxim. He strode forward with urgency, trying to put out the fuse before it was lit.

  Kayda blinked slowly. The world was in slow motion again, but somehow, crystal clear. In the distance, she thought she heard the flapping of a bird's wings, miles away. Then her brother's voice broke the silence, hitting everybody's ears as nothing more than a whisper.

  "The Seventh Sons."

  Day Two

  Chapter 16

  Fast as the Triumph Scrambler was, it couldn't beat the sun. Diego had ridden through the night, but by the time he arrived back at Sanctuary, it was the next morning. During the entire trip, the scene from the night before replayed in his mind.

  The New Mexico State Police had ended up detaining Diego. Even though there was no legal justification to do so, they had bent the rules to take him out of play along with the rest of the MC. The bikers had been separated. After his numerous requests to be released, Sergeant Cortez had complied. Not knowing how long his brothers would be detained, Diego sped west to familiar lands to carry out Gaston's wishes.

  The troopers had nothing on the Sons. It was all posturing, no doubt a message to the club, but the takedown had been well executed. Planned. The million dollar question was, why now?

  Diego parked his bike and ripped his helmet off. Heavy boots stomped towards Sycamore Lodge. He wasn't just upset at the turn of events, he was upset at himself. At what he had gotten himself into. It had never been his intention to be an outlaw. The Seventh Sons had entered his life through his sister's poor choice of company; she was the reason he was in Sanctuary at all.

  Staying, however, was on him.

  The biker scowled as he approached the front door. He slowed his steps; they mirrored the hesitation in his thoughts. The Seventh Sons didn't wear colors. They weren't a crime syndicate. Not really. But for Diego to remain convinced that they weren't a gang was a wild act of self-deception. It forced the biker to consider his true motivations for joining the Sons. After a stint as a CDC assassin, a hunter of wolves, was working with them penance?

  This period was a turning point in his life, he admitted. A wild card. Only he didn't know if it was worth aces or deuces.

  The biker flung the front door open. The roadhouse was empty at this time, as he expected. The single person in the front of the house was the bartender, owner, and the girl that Diego had come to see.

  Melody was a hot piece of work: dyed maroon hair, dark eyeliner, bright lipstick. She was naturally busty and squeezed her waist into a studded corset to exaggerate the effect. Pretty and deadly, but much the same as Diego. Moral. Weighed down by a conscience.

  "Hey cutie," said the biker, trying to draw her attention away from washing glasses behind the bar. She had seen him already, of course. The rumbling of his Triumph's engine had betrayed his arrival long before he stepped inside.

  Melody didn't raise her head. "Those charms don't work on me anymore."

  Diego eased onto a barstool. Collapsed might have been a better word. He was tired after the long night and the long ride. "Don't be so sure about that, Mel."

  His fatigue almost made him sentimental about the girl and the few months they had dated. It had always been a good match on paper. When Diego had broken it off, he was sure there was good reason, but the logic wasn't coming to him now.

  Melody's painted lips formed a crooked smile. "Don't overestimate yourself, hotshot. You're not as much fun as you think."

  Diego was called a lot of things by a lot of girls, but boring wasn't one of them. "You trying to call me some kind of buzzkill?"

  "Not if you're having a drink." Melody finally turned off the sink and grabbed two shot glasses and a flavored vodka. Diego stopped her before she poured the second.

  "You know I don't drink."

  "And you know I don't believe in straight-edge. Everybody needs a vice." She winked at him. She always did that.

  "You know a New Mexico state trooper named Cortez?"

  Melody pounded the shot and smacked her red lips together. The sourness prevented her from answering, but Diego enjoyed watching her work her cheeks together. It accentuated her high cheekbones.

  "He's friendly. Lets the boys run through his backyard. He gets a cut."

  Melody's honorary MC status proved her history with the club, but she had always been on the fringes. Like Diego. Uninvolved with the dirty business. Nowadays she focused on
running Sycamore Lodge, but she still knew a lot.

  "Well something's up," said Diego, spinning around on his stool and facing the room. "He busted the whole club last night." Melody widened her eyes. "We were on to it so he didn't get shit on us. It's nothing—not yet. But I need to contact that new lawyer. You know her?"

  "Sure do. After Clint was popped for trashing the laundromat, Gaston said we couldn't count on the police to watch our backs anymore. He hooked up with this woman out of Phoenix. He says she's a real cold bitch. She's like this soccer mom, you know? But she'll gut ya when you ain't looking."

  Diego nodded. He'd heard Gaston make the same boast. It seemed overkill for what they needed. "You got her number? We need to make sure the clubhouse isn't raided or searched. We need her there in case the police show up with a warrant."

  Melody paused and leaned over the bar in the way she did to show off her cleavage. "What about that cop friend of yours, Maxim? Why don't ya ask him?"

  "I'm not worried about Sanctuary PD. This isn't them or I would have known about it."

  She grabbed Diego's arm and spun him around to face her. "You sure you can trust that cop?"

  Diego looked deep into her eyes. "With my life."

  He could tell Melody was sizing him up. She was Deborah's daughter, and Maxim had killed her. It was an unfortunate connection in such a small town, but Melody had been strong. She'd hated her mother in the end, after she'd seen what the woman was capable of. She'd told Diego that blood wasn't thicker than water, that who she chose was more important than who fate dealt her. It was a grown-up way of looking at the world, and why not? At twenty-five, Melody wasn't a child anymore.

  "Melody, do you ever regret leaving the club?"

  Her eyes sized him up again, but this time with empathy. "Best decision I ever made in my life. Why? Now that things are heating up, you getting cold feet?"

  Diego took a measured breath. "I just don't know if that's me," he said finally.

  She pursed her lips but remained silent. Melody had never told Diego what to do one way or the other. She had never judged him. She probably figured that her life had been more than enough for one person to untangle.

  After a moment the two shot glasses clacked together as she picked them up in one hand. She dropped them by the sink and wiped down the bar. "You go to the clubhouse. I'll make the phone call."

  Diego nodded slowly. He wouldn't cut and run. The Sons were relying on him and he wouldn't let them down. But the drugs, the guns—Diego didn't want any of that. When the guys returned, he would set things straight with them.

  As Diego stood to leave, he remembered one last thing. "And can you call Omar? I don't know where he is and my phone's at the clubhouse."

  Melody nodded, another smile playing over her lips. "Why do you do that anyway?"

  Diego shrugged. "Maintains the drama."

  Chapter 17

  Marshal Boyd's crisp, blue eyes tracked Maxim as he made his way to his desk. The detective made it to work a bit late, still rough around the edges. Without a word of greeting, he slung his jacket over his chair, dropped his hat on his desk, and went for the coffeemaker.

  It was a new machine, or rather, an old machine that had been newly donated by one of the officers. Since there were nine desks in the station and eight personnel, the extra workspace was treated as a communal area. The desk was often used by visiting investigators and auditors. It was stocked with a computer, an empty filing cabinet, and now, a single drip coffee machine.

  Maxim poured himself some overcooked brew and sneered when he saw it was the last of the pot. Not only would he be forced to drink the sludge but office courtesy obliged him to prepare the next batch. As he set the filter in place, he considered dumping his cup out, but the anticipation of caffeine won out and he sipped it. It had a bit of a kick, and Maxim liked that.

  Maxim heard footsteps approaching and turned, casually leaning on the desk. "Good morning, Marshal."

  "Good morning, Detective. Since you were out at the reservation last night, I won't mention your tardiness."

  "I thought you just did."

  Boyd shook his head in a quick, spastic move. He jumped around too much. He was too eager. His sprite-like actions and boyish features were easy targets in the police station, but his last few years working the job had earned him some respect.

  "Let's talk about the Seventh Sons," he said.

  Maxim finally surveyed the room. The only other officer in the station was Kent. He sat at his desk typing a report, but his ears perked at the marshal's statement. The motorcycle club was the most notorious subject in town, and this new murder was the biggest event since the Paradise Killings.

  "I know the Seventh Sons need to be treated as suspects, but it doesn't hold for me so far."

  Boyd raised his eyebrows. "That would be great. The last thing we need is for the motorcycle club to be involved. I already have the FBI asking me questions."

  "About what? Why?"

  "Carlos Doka. The Civil Rights Program sees this as a possible hate crime."

  "Fuck that," spouted Maxim between sips of coffee.

  "A Native American skinned and strung up on a tree is not a simple act of passion. You said it yourself. There's a message here. After last night's development, it's clear the Yavapai are the target of that message."

  "I don't dispute that, Marshal, but this has to do with more than just race." The detective wondered if Boyd knew that already. Maybe he was just allowing the angle to play with the feds to keep away different lines of inquiry. The only thing worse than a race war for Sanctuary was a gang war. The Seventh Sons could have been eviscerated last year. The whole point of the deal Maxim had made with Gaston was so things like this didn't happen again. If it turned out that the MC was involved, there would be an outcry. People would wonder why changes didn't happen the year before. There would be a lot of blame to go around. Heads would roll.

  Maxim hoped he wasn't betting on the wrong people.

  "Detective, the FBI calls, I listen. We don't need them invading Sanctuary as long as we have a handle on things. The key is to prevent a war between the Yavapai and the Seventh Sons. There are two fronts to fight here. The immediate need is security. We are stepping up patrols and maintaining an active presence across town. I don't know why that body turned up in city limits but we're not getting another one."

  Maxim nodded. It was a good move, and it covered their asses if he was wrong about the Sons. Staying out of the limelight, especially hiding from federal eyes, was the driving motivation of a wolf pack. Killing Doka publicly, bringing the body into town—it didn't make sense for the club.

  But perception was a hell of a beast. If the public believed the Sons were guilty, the hammer would swing. The marshal's father was the mayor, and if Maxim was a betting man, that was the link to the Seventh Sons. It would explain why the department had protected them in the past. Why it didn't want them in trouble now. The political angle was something Maxim had stayed away from. It wasn't a game he liked to be involved in. Now, he began to wonder if it was a key to the murder.

  "What's the other front we need to fight?" asked the detective.

  The marshal smiled. "That's where you come in. We need to catch this killer. If you really believe the motorcycle club isn't responsible, then someone else's crime is about to get them, and us, into hot water. Announcing that we caught the murderer is the quickest way to appease the public."

  "You mean the Yavapai."

  As far as perception went, the opinion of the tribe was paramount. Kelan and the mercenaries had been judge and jury last night. They screamed for blood. As wolves, they'd be able to get it too. Boyd was right to take the oxygen out of that fire.

  "They're going to be trouble," admitted Maxim. "And the tribal police won't be any help. Have you talked to them about releasing the skin to us?"

  "They won't do it, but they've allowed Dr. Medina to examine it. The family has also demanded we return the body for cremation."
<
br />   "Well they can't get it. It's part of an investigation."

  "They won't, Detective. Not yet. But it might go a little way towards appeasing them."

  Maxim understood the sentiment but placed little stock in it. Then again, he figured they had all they were going to get from the body. The DNA had been collected, the lab tests initiated. The body had told them all it could say. It wouldn't help them catch a killer at this point, only confirm the killer once they nailed him.

  Maxim hesitated. He didn't want to ask but figured it was better to clear the air. "What about the CDC?" Boyd's eyes bore into him. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was tasked with containing werewolf outbreaks. They had not sent a replacement agent to the Flagstaff area since the Paradise Killings. It was only a matter of time.

  "A sick person dying is not their concern." The marshal spoke lightly, as the subject required. Kent was probably listening, but he was already in on the secret. Not all officers were, but seeing a prisoner transform before his eyes and nearly kill him had allowed him entry into the exclusive club. When Marshal Boyd referred to a sick person, he meant someone infected with late-stage rabies, otherwise known as lycanthropy. "When a sick person kills a healthy person, then we need to notify them. That's why I want this stitched up fast."

  Maxim understood. He wasn't so sure what to do next. The police had searched all day yesterday and had not found the pistol used in the murder. No witnesses had come forward. It was like the body had been dropped out of thin air.

  Chapter 18

  Wicasa sat at the kitchenette table. His tired eyes had the grim look of experience, as if the sad weight of truth was the inevitable burden of time. Kelan, representing the polar opposite, was too indignant to sit. His muscles were taut. Kayda wondered if he had gotten any rest the night before. She knew that she hadn't.