Bloodstone d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  I wrapped the length of chain around my waist, like a belt, the perfect accessory for my ruined dress. My kind of fashion statement: Mess with me and you’re dead.

  Juliet scooted forward to the edge of the cot. “I’m a bit better now,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  I checked her leg. It didn’t look better. If anything, it looked worse: foul-smelling, greenish pus mixed with the blood that ran toward her ankle. I cut a strip of cloth from the fallen Old One’s robe and used it to bind up the wound.

  I looked at Juliet’s bright orange prison outfit, PRISONER stenciled in bold letters across the back. Not exactly subtle. “Would you wear that thing’s robe?” I asked. “We could pull the hood forward to hide your face.”

  She wrinkled her nose with distaste, but she nodded. I stripped the robe off the Old One, revealing an emaciated body. Yellow, leathery skin clung to elongated bones.

  Juliet shuddered. “And to think I once wanted to join them.”

  It was the first piece of information she’d given me about the Old Ones. But we didn’t have time for more questions now. Black Robe had been about a foot taller than Juliet, so I had to cut more fabric from the bottom of the robe. But once the garment was on her and the hood pulled up, she was impossible to recognize. You almost couldn’t tell there was anyone inside the robe at all.

  Juliet stood and took a step. Immediately her injured leg gave way, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor. She howled with frustration and pounded the Old One’s corpse with her fists.

  “Hold these.” I handed her the bottles of blood and then scooped her up in my arms like a child. I tucked Brown Robe’s sword under my arm. As I carried Juliet out of the cell, she twisted around to stare at the headless, dried-out yellow corpse that lay on the floor. Then we were down the hall, up the stairs, and breathing the frosty air of a cold March night.

  6

  THE ALLEY BEHIND CREATURE COMFORTS, A MONSTER BAR in the New Combat Zone, is narrow and dark, piled high with trash and reeking with the scents of urine and vomit. Not the kind of place where you want to hang out at one o’clock in the morning.

  Lucky for us. I was planning to hide Juliet here until I could talk to Axel, the bar’s owner, about giving her refuge. The scarier and more deserted the alley, the better.

  After we’d slipped out of the Goon Squad building, I headed straight for this alley, hugging the buildings and staying in the shadows. I was pretty sure no one had seen us. Now, I looked up and down the deserted alley. Certainly no one had followed us.

  I set Juliet down gently, but her leg buckled and she collapsed on the sidewalk. She lay on her side, her face hidden by the robe’s hood.

  I checked her injured leg, unwinding the blood-and-pussoaked bandage. The silver burn looked better—the blisters were gone, and taut, shiny skin covered the burned-raw places—but the gash looked worse than it had before. The stench of it made me gag, though I tried not to let Juliet see. The skin at the edges of the cut, a sickly shade of purplishgreen, was ragged, like something had been eating at the wound. This wasn’t right. Juliet should be healing. Had the Old One’s blade been poisoned? What could poison a vampire?

  Juliet struggled to sit up. I slid my hands beneath her arms and lifted her to a seated position. The hood fell back as she rested her head against the brick wall. Sweat plastered her tangled hair to her face. I wouldn’t have guessed vampires could sweat—but when they did, it obviously wasn’t good.

  “Juliet, I’m going to go inside and ask Axel if he’ll let you stay here.” Creature Comforts was her best hope for a hiding place. The New Combat Zone was like Boston’s version of the Wild West. Although the Goon Squad patrolled here, the Zone operated by its own rules. And nobody messed with Axel, the owner of Creature Comforts. Or if they tried to mess with him, they never tried a second time. Axel wasn’t human—seven feet tall and solidly built, he looked more like a mountain than a man. Nobody knew what he was. There was a story that when government workers came to get a blood sample to analyze his DNA and determine his species—something everyone was subjected to in the months after the plague that had created Boston’s zombies—one scowl from Axel’s shaggy brow had sent the workers scurrying away, their vials empty.

  Juliet needed protection, and I couldn’t think of anyone better than Axel to give it.

  Juliet was shaking her head. “Axel lets no one into his lair.”

  True. I’d seen him win a standoff with the Goon Squad when they’d threatened to break down his door. Yet that was precisely why Creature Comforts was the safest place in Boston for Juliet right now.

  “Let me talk to him. He likes you.” At the very least, he’d set up a cot for her in the storage room until I could come up with a plan B. I tried the back door, the one that led into Creature Comforts’ storage room. Damn. It was locked. Well, I’d look at that as more evidence of Axel’s first-rate security.

  “I’m going to hide you behind some boxes here,” I said. “Just for a few minutes, while I go talk to Axel.” I couldn’t risk carrying Juliet through the bar. Business throughout the Zone had been slow lately, with the code-red restrictions on zombies and fears of the Reaper keeping norms home at night, but once the story of her escape hit the news, even one witness could threaten Juliet’s safety.

  Juliet’s face clenched with pain, and she didn’t say anything else. I assumed she was okay with my plan.

  But I wasn’t—not quite. A pile of boxes wasn’t exactly armor, and I couldn’t leave her alone and vulnerable with the Old Ones after her. We hadn’t been followed, but I couldn’t be sure she was safe. For all I knew, her enemies could track her by smell.

  I thought about leaving her Brown Robe’s sword but decided against it. If the Old Ones arrived, it’d be too easy for one of them to use it against her.

  I unwrapped the silver chain from my waist. The Old Ones wouldn’t get within lashing distance of it. As long as it didn’t come into direct contact with Juliet’s skin, she could use it to fend off Brown Robe. Unless he arrived with an army.

  The robe’s sleeves were too long for Juliet’s arms. I knotted the right sleeve at its opening so it couldn’t slip up her arm and expose her skin. Then, feeling through the cloth, I closed her fingers around the chain’s shackle end. “If that Old One comes, whip the chain at him. Show me you can do it.”

  “If an Old One comes, you’ll never see me again.” But she flailed the chain a few times. There was more strength and energy in her movements than I’d expected. Good. And I’d get her out of here in a couple of minutes.

  Working quickly, I surrounded Juliet with a stack of empty boxes. I checked from several angles, rearranged some boxes, added a few more. Then I hurried to the end of the alley and down the street to Creature Comforts.

  AS SOON AS I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR, ANY HOPE THAT Axel was having a slow night fled. Laughter and music blasted out. Creature Comforts was packed with women, dressed for a night of partying. They filled all the tables and spilled out of the booths. As I stepped inside, I was hit by the bar’s characteristic perfume of beer, tobacco, and a slight whiff of human blood—shot through tonight with a strong scent of musk. On tables at the back, two half-naked, human male dancers performed an athletic bump-and-grind routine.

  Oh, great. I’d walked into a werewolf bachelorette party.

  Massachusetts was one of a handful of states that recognized marriages between paranormals. Other states had passed laws restricting marriage to humans only. Although some norms in “Monsterchusetts” objected to paranormal marriage, no one seemed to mind the money it brought the state. It had become fashionable among werewolves to have a norm-style wedding in addition to whatever ritual they performed at the full moon. In Boston, a whole industry had sprung up offering destination weddings to werewolves.

  I scanned the crowd but didn’t see a face I recognized. I knew most of Deadtown’s werewolves through Kane. These were definitely tourists.

  “Hey!” A woman pointed at me. She wore a tight,
supershort, low-cut black dress and a crooked tiara sparkling with pink and white rhinestones. She flipped her glossy blond hair over her shoulder, managing to make the gesture an act of aggression. “This is a private party. The bar’s closed.”

  Damn territorial werewolves. When they traveled in a pack, even out-of-towners acted like they owned the place.

  I ignored her and walked toward the bar.

  She was in front of me before I got halfway across the room. Her nostrils flared as she sized me up in a few sniffs. She bared her teeth—not a very impressive gesture in her human form—and growled. “I said it’s a private party.”

  “Do I look like I’m here to crash your party?” I gestured at my ruined dress.

  She didn’t look at my outfit. She stared at the sword in my hand, the one I’d taken from the Old Ones.

  Oh, that. Well, yeah, I could see how that might be interpreted as a threat.

  I didn’t have a sheath for it, so I stuck it under my arm, where I hoped it seemed less dangerous. I stepped to the left, intent on getting around her. “I need to talk to Axel.”

  She growled again and dropped into a fighting crouch. Jesus, the full moon was still three weeks away and she was going into feral overdrive.

  “You want to challenge me? Fine.” I dropped my purse on the floor and shifted the sword to my right hand, ready to use it. I wouldn’t have minded two blades in a fight with a werewolf, but I wanted to teach her some manners, not kill her. Besides, it’s bad form to rummage through your purse for a dagger at the start of a fight.

  We circled each other. Someone cut the music. All I could hear was my heart thumping in my ears and the raspy breathing of my opponent—until Axel stomped over and got between us.

  Axel isn’t a guy you can easily ignore. Especially when he’s wearing his pissed-off expression.

  “No fighting.” The werewolf tried to dodge around him, but his massive arm blocked her. “You fight, you’re out. No refunds.”

  She pushed against his arm with both hands, snarling at me. Axel turned fully toward her, clamping his hands on her shoulders. A low, threatening sound issued from his throat. All at once, the werewolf relaxed. She dropped her arms, looked at the ground, and backed away.

  Axel’s not a werewolf, and he may not say much, but no one can beat him in a display of dominance.

  The room remained silent for a few seconds. Then someone called out, “A toast to Kiana!” Other voices joined in: “To Kiana!” “To Kiana!” “To the bride!”

  The werewolf who’d challenged me stood in the center of the room as everyone raised glasses to her. She lifted her gaze from the floor, broke into a wide grin, and grabbed a glass. “Let’s have some music!” she shouted, adjusting her tiara. Something started up, loud, with a heavy bass line I could feel through the floor. The male dancers gyrated, the female werewolves howled, and everyone went back to having a good time.

  I’d almost gotten into a bar brawl with a werewolf bride on the eve of her wedding. Another day in the life.

  Axel was back behind the bar, filling a row of plastic flutes with champagne.

  “Axel, I need to talk to you. It’s important.” I had to shout to be heard over the music.

  He kept pouring but nodded.

  “Juliet—”

  A redheaded werewolf in a green halter dress glared at me as she grabbed a glass of champagne from the bar. I didn’t want to shout. Wolves have sharp hearing. Even with the music blasting, I’d be broadcasting a bulletin about Juliet’s escape to everyone in the room. They might be out-of-towners, but they didn’t need to know Juliet’s business.

  I climbed onto the bar and, kneeling there, cupped both hands around Axel’s ear. He popped another champagne cork and poured as I spoke. I tried to sum up the situation as quickly and clearly as possible.

  “Juliet’s in trouble. The Goon Squad had her in custody in connection with that murder in D.C. A couple of powerful super-vampires killed some cops trying to kidnap her. She was chained to her cell with a silver shackle, and they almost cut off her leg trying to grab her. She’s hurt, and she’s not healing like she should. She needs a place to hide.”

  Axel stopped pouring. “Here?”

  “I couldn’t think of anywhere safer.”

  Axel pursed his lips behind his beard. He poured champagne into a flute, waited for the foam to die down, then topped it off. He filled three more flutes that way before he nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Relief flooded me. “She’s in the alley behind a pile of boxes, by your back door.”

  “Bartender! We need more champagne.” The redheaded werewolf was back, waving two glasses and looking impatient.

  He looked at the werewolf, then at me. At her, and then back at me.

  “You want me to tend bar.” A nod. “But Axel, I don’t know anything about bartending.” My taste ran to club soda and lite beer—the kind that comes in a bottle. They both taste about the same.

  He opened a fridge stocked with green bottles topped with gold foil. “Champagne.” He pointed at a cardboard box stashed under the bar. “Flutes.” He grinned. Apparently he’d just taught me the secrets of his trade.

  Axel patted me on the shoulder. He went to the back of the room and pushed a button on the portable stereo, cutting off the music. A few howls of protest went up but faded when they caught the look on Axel’s face. Thirty female werewolves cringed under his gaze. “Going out. She’s in charge,” he said, gesturing toward me. “No fighting.” He stalked down the back hallway, toward the storeroom.

  Thirty glittering pairs of eyes turned toward me, and thirty werewolves straightened. You could almost hear the hackles rising.

  The last thing you want to do when staring down a pack of werewolves is act intimidated. Even the norms know that. The best approach would be to emulate Axel’s nonchalance. Just pour. It’d be nice if I could also emulate his height and muscle mass, but I’d work with what I had. Besides, I’d stashed the short sword within easy reach on a shelf below the counter.

  Intimated? Not me.

  I wished they’d turn the music back on, so they could ogle their beefcake dancers instead of stare at me.

  I picked up a champagne bottle and peeled off the foil. The hairs on the backs of my arms stood up, making me all too conscious of my audience’s intense gaze as I fumbled with the wire cage around the cork.

  Why the hell didn’t this stuff come with screw tops?

  “I’m thirsty. Hurry up.”

  The bride-to-be stood at the bar, her tiara crooked again, her lips pulled back in an expression halfway between a sneer and a snarl. Oh, goody. More dominance games.

  The wire came off. I grabbed the cork and yanked. It exploded from the bottle and flew from my fingers, missing the bride’s head by a quarter-inch. Champagne sprayed out—and the champagne didn’t miss. It hit the bride squarely in the face, soaking her hair, dripping from her nose and chin.

  I righted the bottle and set it on the bar, foam flowing like lava over my fingers. In any other situation, I’d apologize. But you just don’t say sorry to a soaking wet, angry werewolf. I gave her a hard stare and groped for my sword under the bar.

  She grabbed the bottle, shook it hard, and blasted me with cold, wet spray. Sputtering, I snatched the bottle and emptied it over her head.

  A roar went up. Werewolves rushed at me from all sides—running, vaulting over the bar. I went down. What a ridiculous way to die, I thought. Stomped to death by two dozen tipsy werewolves in stilettos.

  A French-manicured hand reached toward me. I looked up. The bride, still dripping, smiled at me. What the hell? I grabbed her hand, and she pulled me to my feet. She offered me an open bottle of champagne.

  The werewolves had raided the fridge behind the bar. Throughout the room, they sprayed each other with champagne. The poor dancers seemed to be getting more than their share. The wet look suited them, I had to say.

  I shook the bottle and sprayed the bride, who laughed with delight. />
  Someone started the music, and the dancers resumed their gyrations. Drops of champagne flew from their bodies, catching the light. The werewolves started dancing, too, pushing aside tables to clear the floor.

  The fridge stood open, empty. I shut the door. Then I found a recycling bin and started picking up the champagne bottles that littered the room.

  “Don’t do that.” The bride put a hand on my arm, but her touch was tentative, not aggressive. “Please. My girls will take care of it.” She cupped her hands and shouted over the music. “Listen up, ladies! Everyone pick up two bottles and put them in the bin.” She sat me down in her former seat, telling me to relax, and went behind the bar to find more recycling bins.

  “Thanks.” A werewolf with chin-length black hair sat down across from me. “You saved the party.”

  “You’re welcome.” I tried to look as though I knew exactly what I’d done, then gave up. “Um, how?”

  “Ever since her engagement, Kiana has been a total bridezilla. Her mother stopped speaking to her weeks ago. She reduced her dressmaker to tears. She actually bit the caterer—the poor guy needed stitches.” She shook her head. “The trouble is, she’s not really all that dominant. Not by nature. It was stressing her out to be such a bitch.”

  Ah. The picture was becoming clearer.

  “Somebody needed to challenge her. But you just don’t do that to a mating female. She’s like . . . like a temporary queen. Everyone defers to her. But everyone also saves up their grudges and takes them out on the bride’s hide as soon as the honeymoon’s over. Kiana knew how much trouble she was headed for, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.”

  “So a challenge from me released the tension.”

  “Exactly.” She grinned, showing white, even teeth. “And you did it without spilling a drop of blood. Brilliant.”

  “Yeah, it always kinda sucks when a bachelorette party turns into a bloodbath.”