Blood and Silver - 04

by James R. Tuck

  “Follow me close. If we get tagged by the cops, don’t panic, just stay behind me.”

  His brow had a deep crease down the center. “Are you all right to drive?”

  My head was a throb of pain that made my vision shrink and expand with each pulse. My stomach was sour, threatening to spill at any moment. I turned, walking toward the driver’s side, my hand on the roof to keep me upright. “Probably not, but nobody else is driving my car.”

  My fingers curled under the door handle. Tugging up radiated a dull ache from my knuckles to my elbow. The door swung out, the weight of it nearly pulling me off balance.

  In the backseat, Ragnar lay against the side of the car. His leg was propped up. There was a burgundy smear under the place where his calf muscle used to be. His shirt made a filthy tourniquet just under the knee. Komodo dragon teeth marks showed white through the rusty blood covering his exposed shinbone. The pelt of hair on his chest was silver, blending in with the gray fur that covered Charlotte’s body.

  She lay against him looking dead. Her unblinking red eyes had clouded opaque. Long spider legs lay like wet ropes. They were supposed to be stiff and segmented, but the great white Were had crushed them. Every time they touched something, she would let out a moan and convulse. She shook while Ragnar tried to hold her.

  I fell into the driver’s seat. My feet were lead as I lifted them and pulled them inside. The slam of the car door reverberated up, bouncing through my bones, shaking my skull, rattling my brain. I fumbled with the key, trying to fit it in the ignition. Time stretched, moments felt like hours as I pecked at the ignition with the key.

  A hand closed on mine, steadying it. The key slipped into the slot.

  I looked over. Boothe was in the passenger seat. He had pulled his T-shirt halfway off and was using it to sling his right arm. Narrow shapes jutted up through the thin black cotton. It looked like a sack of broken sticks. Multiple compound fractures. His skin was pale and waxy. Fat droplets of oily sweat stood out on his face and chest. Slowly, he leaned back, careful of his arm.

  A twist of my wrist and the Comet roared to life. Blues guitar cried out from the speakers. Pain shot across the space behind my eyeballs, white and hot. I grabbed the MP3 player, tore it off the console, and threw it on the floor. Pushing myself back into the seat, I dropped the Comet into Drive. The welded chain links of the steering wheel were slick in my sweaty palms. My foot dropped heavily onto the accelerator. The car lurched forward, yanking my stomach into my throat. I leaned and pulled to the left, spinning the wheel and turning the car to the exit.

  Charlotte moaned in pain, the sound long and plaintive.

  We pulled out of the lot lights and the world went dark, staticky black crossing the windshield. I pulled on the headlights. Without stopping, I whipped left out of the motel’s lot, cutting the Comet across the road. The car straightened, rocking back and forth. I looked up into the rearview mirror. George’s little Mazda chirped out behind us.

  In the distance, just topping a hill about a half-mile down the strip of straight road, flashing blue lights split the night like spastic lightning. There were a dozen cop cars, if not more. I rammed my foot down on the gas pedal, the effort causing the pain shooting up my back and neck to blossom into fire and ache just behind my right ear.

  The Comet rocketed forward, motor roaring into the night air. I had to put distance between us and them. Enough distance that they wouldn’t think we just left the scene of the crime. Enough distance that they wouldn’t follow us. We pulled into the curve of the road that would take us out of sight, blue lights getting smaller and smaller behind us. In the rearview I watched the first cop car jerk into the motel parking lot.

  Tension I didn’t know I had washed out of my shoulders.

  A wave of dizziness followed right behind it.

  The road shimmered and the dashboard lights slid into a lazy revolution of color-filled light trails. I tightened my grip on the wheel, concentrating on pulling it together. Breathing slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Feeling the weight of the air in my lungs. Centering me. Exhale. Air leaving me more together.

  I had my vision cleared to just crackling lines on the edges when the first car passed in the opposite lane.

  Headlights blazed across the windshield, frying my optic nerves and blasting my vision to a white field of blindness. Pain slashed from my eyes to the back of my skull, like someone had hit me with a machete across the bridge of my nose. The Comet slewed to the side while I blinked back into seeing. I bounced in my seat as the hot rod chewed through the grass beside the road. Pain jolted up my spine with each bounce.

  Boothe slammed into the door with his broken arm. Within seconds he began to dry-heave violently; his body roiled as his stomach tried to toss out what was not there. The sound of his throat trying to pull his stomach out slapped through the car. I jerked the wheel to the left, pulling us back onto the road. The car lifted then settled back on the asphalt with a wub-wub sound.

  Charlotte moaned louder.

  “How is she?” My voice was hoarse, rubbing the sides of my throat like gravel as I shouted over the rumble of the engine.

  “Not good.” Ragnar’s voice was strange, a high-pitched wolf growl cutting through his words. “We better get her somewhere quick or I don’t think she will make it.”

  Fumbling around, I managed to pull out my phone. I flipped it open and held it. I fished around in my mind for the way to dial the numbers. It took a second to latch on to the information. My fingers pushed the buttons to dial the club. It answered on the first ring.

  “Polecats, this is Kathleen, how can I help you?”

  I held the phone in front of my face. The thought of pressing it to my ear made my head throb, so I yelled at it. “Kat, we’re on the way to Larson’s. Multiple severe injuries. Less than twenty till we get there.” Snapping the phone closed, I let it drop to the seat. Kat would call Larson and give him the heads-up. We wouldn’t walk in and catch him unprepared.

  Shutting one eye seemed to stabilize my vision a little. Things stopped swaying to and fro. Instead, my eyes only jittered when I looked at a new object. The signal ahead turned red. The light blared out in a halo around the fixture.

  “Deacon . . .”

  The halo around the red light was cut with blades of light that matched the ones around the taillights . . .

  “Deacon . . .”

  . . . of the cars stopped at the intersection.

  “DEACON!”

  My foot slammed on the brakes. Wheels locking. Car sliding. Tires screaming. The Comet skewed sideways as we skittered and shuddered to a stop. Boothe was braced against the dash with his good arm. Black acrid smoke boiled up around us where the tires had lost a layer on the asphalt. The nose of the Comet was so close to the car in front of us I couldn’t see the headlights shine.

  A scream ripped from the backseat. It rose, high and brittle, until it broke, cutting off with a wet, choking sound.

  Turning around, I saw something that made my heart drop.

  Charlotte was in the grips of a grand mal seizure.

  She and Ragnar had slid halfway off the seat. The old wolf held her, trying to keep her still, but she bucked and jerked in his arms. Her head flailed back and forth, every muscle she had pulled taut in relief under her short gray fur. A pink tongue lolled out of her mouth as greenish foam flecked her lips.

  I had to get her to Larson. My power flared up and I could feel her fading. Dying. I turned back to drive.

  “What the hell’s your problem, man?”

  Looking up, I saw a fat man at my window. His face was purple, sweat running from brow to jowl. T-shirt with some scribbled logo on it tented around him, dark blue shorts hanging off his fat ass. His hand held a short aluminum T-ball bat that extended out, pointing in my direction.

  I don’t have time for this.

  My voice was a hoarse snarl. “Get back in your car and drive away.”

  The bat thunked hollowly on the r
oof of the Comet. The noise made me grind my teeth. “Oh no, pal. I ain’t going anywhere until you get out of that car. You ’bout hit my ride, man, and I ain’t cool with dat.”

  My hand went under my right arm and came out with one of the Colt .45’s.

  The fat man went white and dropped his bat. His hands were up and waving. “Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . No harm done. Take it easy.”

  I kept the gun pointing at him. “Throw down your cell phone.”

  He reached into his baggy shorts and pulled out a black square. He dropped it on the asphalt with a sour look on his face. Those damn smartphones cost an arm and a leg.

  I motioned with the gun. “Get in your fucking car and get out of my way.”

  He jogged over and climbed into his car. It was a tricked-out, rice-grinding, four-cylinder piece of shit. A spoiler spread over the trunk like a gull wing, and a fiberglass skirt skimmed just an inch above the street.

  Douchebag.

  His car stalled once as he shifted it into gear and tried to pull away. I stomped the gas, making the Comet’s engine roar. The little car started again with a whine, moving off the road in a quick little jerk.

  Putting the gun in my lap, I pulled off, the Comet sliding by the five-speed like a shark in oily water.

  “We need to hurry if the spider’s going to survive,” Boothe said.

  I glanced back. Charlotte had stopped convulsing, but now she lay boneless across the old Werewolf. Turning forward, my hands tightened on the chain link. I closed my weird eye and pushed the accelerator to the floorboard.

  “We’ll get there. Just hold on.”

  16

  My gun was heavy in my hand. Hell, my hand was heavy. I was feeding bullets into Bessie, one eye closed so I could focus. If I opened both eyes, the world went all liquid and shimmery. Someone was talking, voice low and quiet. Looking up, I found it was George.

  He stood in the laboratory now, still a gorilla, holding Lucy in his big, furry arms. She was naked except for Marcus’s suit jacket; big patches of the chalk-striped fabric looked black where her blood had soaked through. Her head lolled on his shoulder. Dark smudges filled the area under her eyes, stark against her chalk-white skin. George had his lips close to her ear. He whispered for her to hold on, it would be her turn soon.

  Larson rolled around the exam table that held Charlotte, working frantically, hooking her up to IVs and machines. Kat was by his side, handing him things as he called them out. She was here when we arrived, waiting out front with a gurney as we slewed into the parking lot like a bat out of hell.

  Larson had given me a handful of pills, mostly painkillers and caffeine, and I could feel them working. Exhaustion still sat heavy inside me; my bones were made of lead, but the pull of sleep had receded into a small tug. The pain in my head had dulled to a low, buzzing ache that didn’t spike with movement. Or lights. Or sound.

  Or breathing.

  Speaking of breathing, my side was a giant scab of dried blood that stuck shirt to skin, pulling every time I moved, radiating hot pain across my side. It felt like sandpaper rubbing a sunburn. The bite by Cash, the dead Were-dog from earlier tonight, still throbbed on my forearm. I needed to wash it and apply ointment before it got infected.

  Switching the eye I had open shifted my view of the room slightly. The corner of my vision caught Marcus and Shani on the other side of the room. They stood against the wall. Staying out of the way. Staying away from the wounded.

  Wild, feral beauty radiated from both of them. They looked like models waiting for a photographer to wander by and capture their image of concern like some kind of absurd photo-op. Everyone else who had been at that motel tonight was injured and filthy.

  Or dead.

  They stood, perfectly coifed and tailored. Clean and whole. Anger tipped over in my chest like a cup of acid, pouring and running to settle deep in my gut. Climbing blood pressure drove the ache in my head to a throbbing pain.

  Larson rolled up to me as I stared across the room, dragging my attention away.

  “Charlotte’s stable.” He ran a hand through red hair, thin fingers cutting parts that fell back along his temple. “I don’t know for how long, though. She has multiple fractures, her spider appendages have been crushed, and I am sure there is internal hemorrhaging.”

  “If we can wake her up and get her to change, will it help?”

  “Probably, but I don’t know if we will be able to get her conscious.” His hand touched my arm. “I just wanted you to know that I’ve done all I can for her.” Those hollow blue eyes stared at me, looking for something.

  Understanding crashed into me. He wanted me to understand why he was moving on to another patient. He didn’t want me to think he hadn’t done enough for my friend Charlotte. He knew that of all the people in the room, the only one that truly mattered to me was Charlotte. She was my friend. She was mine to protect. Everyone else could be damned if it meant she would live.

  It wasn’t personal. They were new. I didn’t know them. I didn’t wish them harm, but they were not my friends. Something else dawned on me, rising up and spilling into me as understanding.

  Larson was scared of me still. He didn’t know what I would do if I thought he let Charlotte die.

  Neither did I.

  But he hadn’t. Because he was afraid of me, and his own affection for Charlotte, I knew he had done all he could. It was out of his hands now.

  My voice rang hollow in my own ears. “It’s okay. Go help somebody else, they need it too.”

  With a nod, he rolled away and went to George and Lucy. I watched as he led the Were-gorilla to an empty counter and pointed for him to lay Lucy on it. Kat came over with a tray full of bandages and medicine.

  Something cold touched my arm.

  I jumped up. My feet tangled together. I stumbled, almost crashing into Boothe. He sat on the floor, twisted arm padded in towels to protect it. Cursing loudly, he threw up his good hand to try and ward me away. I pulled myself upright. I swung around, Bessie hanging at the end of my hand.

  Tiff stood there, Sophia crouching behind her legs. The girl was still wearing her cowgirl outfit from earlier. The Were-dog trembled, spine bowed, tail curled underneath her. It had been her nose that touched my arm. My arm dropped, too heavy to hold up. I put Bessie back in her holster.

  It took three tries.

  Tiff stepped toward me when I was done, arms wide. Compassion rode her pretty features. Hard. “Sorry, baby. I should have warned her about sneaking up on you.”

  Tiny hands slipped softly across my shoulders as she moved against my chest. I pulled her close. Her warm girl presence felt good in my arms. My face touched the side of her neck softly. There, close to her skin was the warm scent of honeysuckle and Tiff. A small sound of contentment murmured from her near my ear. Voice soft, she spoke in my embrace. “At least you had clothes on this time.” I felt her smile against my shoulder.

  Soon after Tiff had rejoined my life she had surprised me in my sleep. I had put a gun to her head before I was awake. Then I tried to apologize, not realizing I was naked the whole time.

  Awkward.

  She never let me forget it either, bringing it up whenever the mood needed a little lightening.

  Leaning back, I smiled at her. “It’s good to see you. It has been a long, long fucking night.”

  Wide blue eyes looked up at me, framed by a fringe of dark lashes. Her hand was cool against the side of my face. “It’s good to see you, too, honey.” Full lips pulled into a sad smile. “You look like hell.”

  The chuckle it brought felt good and hurt at the same time. Tiff had a way of making me feel wonderful with her big-hearted sweetness. It lifted my heart to laugh, but it also sent an inferno of pain across my ravaged side, driving the air from my lungs. Pulling away, I doubled over and knelt down, trying to recover. Tiff rubbed small circles on my back in comfort. The pain subsided and breath came back to me slowly. I stayed leaned over for a moment.

  Sophia darted in and lick
ed my cheek. She sat wagging her tail. I reached my hand out and rubbed her along the muzzle. Her face leaned into my hand, a soft rumble of pleasure in her chest as my fingers scratched behind her ear.

  “It’s okay, girl. You didn’t mean to startle me. I am just a little jumpy.” It was hard not to talk to Sophia like a pet. I knew she was a human, but I had only interacted with her as a dog. It didn’t seem to bother her as she licked my hand in response. My hands roamed down her side, alternately smoothing and ruffling long russet fur.

  I heard them walk up behind me, expensive heels clicking on the tile floor of the lab. Tiff’s hand stopped moving on my shoulder and she took a small step to give me room. Sophia turned and darted behind her. A throat cleared behind me. The voice that spoke was smooth and melodic, a soothing purr in full effect throughout the words.

  “Deacon, I want to thank you for all you have done tonight.”

  Anger flared hot and seething in my chest. It flashed out from the well of rage I always carried with me, deep in the scar left from losing my family. Slowly, I stood. My head started throbbing. Hands clenched tight by my side to keep them off my weapons.

  This was going to get ugly.

  17

  “And what exactly did I do to earn your thanks?” My voice was low. I had to force the words out through clenched teeth.

  Marcus put both hands up in a deflecting manner. He didn’t bow his head. He was too alpha, too dominant, too predator for that, but both empty hands were raised. I stared at the smooth caramel skin of his palms.

  No calluses marred their surface. No blood dried in the creases of them. The cuffs of a rich linen shirt sat on his wrists. The cloth was a pale cream unstained with gore that contrasted nicely with his dark skin tone. Slick, shiny black onyx cufflinks held their edges together.

  Opening my fist, I looked down at the contrast. My hand was almost black with grime—a mix of dirt, gunpowder residue, and dried blood. It obscured the tattoo across the back of my hand, dulling the colors, making my daughter’s name unreadable. The knuckle of my thumb was split deep, not bleeding but glaring reddish pink as it opened up. When it healed, it would add to the web of scar tissue that spread across all my knuckles, building them thick and tough. There was a callus on the inside of my index finger, a rough patch built from thousands of bullets fired in the last five years.