Quicksilver (The Bloodline Series Book 2)

by Gabriella Messina

  That’s enough of that… Sam jerked her head back, catching Franco in the nose. As he stumbled back grabbing his nose in pain, he released his grip on her and Sam scrambled away from the fencing toward the railing. She gripped the railing, catching her breath as she caught a good view of the ground four stories below. It was a long way down, and the thought had no sooner passed through her head when she heard the yell of rage and the sounds of scrambling behind her. Sam turned just in time to see Franco coming at her. Blood was smeared across his face, making him look more like Darth Maul than a two-bit druggie.

  He slammed into Sam, pinning her against the railing. She could feel herself beginning to lose her balance as he bent her backwards, her back screaming as the metal railing dug into her. Franco leaned over her, his weight pressing her down against the railing even harder, and Sam let out a yelp of pain as the last bit of her breath was pushed out of her lungs.

  “You shouldn’t have done that… Bitch.”

  Sam felt his hand on her thigh and prepared herself to fend off the assault that was coming. Then she felt her feet come off the ground. The lights of the Bridge arced before her eyes as she began to fall. She felt her breath catch, the sinking pressure in her stomach just like the feeling she got riding the Cyclone at Coney Island. Everything around her was a blur of darkness and light, everything… except the Moon. Silent and still, she hung upon the cheek of night… a beauty too rich for use…

  The ground was near… she could sense it even without turning her head. She knew it would be the ground that she hit, because the East River, though decidedly gross, would be survivable. This probably would not.

  Sam started to close her eyes, the familiar words of the Act of Contrition beginning to run through her mind, when she thought she saw another movement from the Bridge above.

  A dark shadowy… figure…

  The smell of peppermint…

  The shattering pain…

  Blackness.

  Chapter 2

  March 17, 2016

  Fifth Avenue and 51st Street

  St. Patrick’s Cathedral

  Sam fiddled with the lid of her Styrofoam coffee cup as she bobbed and weaved on the corner, her gun belt rubbing against the edge of her heavy leather jacket. The gun belt was heavy, too, and she honestly hated wearing it… But it was better than being suspended, and if being back to work meant being back to work and on the street in uniform, then so be it… For now.

  Light snow flurries had begun to fall this morning, as was often the case when it was parade day, and the weather report was not encouraging as the start time quickly approached. The fall was, in fact, increasing, and the size of the flakes was getting larger, heavier. Looked like the annual snowstorm might fall on Saint Patrick’s Day this year after all.

  Sam took another sip of her coffee, the steam rising from the small opening and briefly obscuring her lips, adjusted her sunglasses as she looked around at the crowds gathering. The Saint Patrick’s Day Parade was major, to be sure, and always required extra personnel to keep an eye out for the rowdy who had started their drinking way to early in the day, which also unfortunately included some parade marchers at times. Sam had worked the parade before, in the past, a light day’s work compared to her usual assignments, but this time was different… This time she hadn’t volunteered.

  When the lieutenant approached her this morning, Sam dared to hope it was good news… That she was finally out of the proverbial “dog house” after the events of last October and it was time for her to move back out into the streets. And the streets were bad… Since October, there had been a surge in drug-related activities… violence, attacks, back alley overdoses… It was almost pre-Giuliani bad out there, and getting worse every week.

  There were also whispers of… other things. Whispers that the violence was animalistic… tales of body parts, internal organs being found in dumpsters and in remote areas of north Central Park… talk about the Eastern cougar making a come back… or so they hoped. Sam had caught some of the talk in the locker room one afternoon, listening for quite a while before the speakers realized she was there… and immediately went silent. Since October that had happened a lot… the silences as soon as she entered a room, as soon as her presence was known. Some of it was to be expected. After all, everyone knew about Lenny… they had entered the hospital together, and he had been found, broken and bleeding, alone in the parking ramp while Sam was nowhere to be found. There had been question after question about it, and Sam had done her best to answer them… and to lead the assholes from Internal Affairs as far away from “him” as possible.

  Him. Sam felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up at the very thought of him… She hadn’t seen him in months, and yet she knew he was here, knew he was still in the city. It was odd to say, but she could sense him… sense his presence among the tall buildings and buses and busyness of Manhattan. Oh yes, he was still here…

  Vincent Kremer.

  Sam’s sense of him had become stronger lately, and she wondered if that meant something had changed in her condition, that some how the Lycanthropic Virus she had become infected with six months ago was altering her body in yet another way. Heightened senses had been a part of the package right from the beginning, at least, as soon as the nausea and overall pain and discomfort had passed. After she had “converted,” as Vincent had so delicately put it at the time. This was different, though. It started two moon phases ago, and had gotten stronger and stronger with each passing day. Sometimes it was so intense, Sam swore she could smell him, taste him in the air, feel his presence only steps away. She inhaled deeply through her mouth, allowing the cold air to wash over her tongue and down into her lungs, her brain analyzing the flavor of that breath of air… cigarettes, peppermint, Jameson, pheromones… Sam’s head snapped up, scanning the crowds gathered on either side of Fifth Avenue. There was no mistaking it… Vincent was here.

  Sam tossed her half-empty coffee cup into one of the trash bins the streets department had set up on the corner, then turned in the direction where the scent had come from. She inhaled again, the cold air rushing in along with his scent. He was close. Sam scanned the crowd, struggling to see over the heads of parade viewers, hoping to get a visual on the tall Irishman in his ubiquitous worn leather duster. No such luck. Moments later, a gust of wind swept down Fifth Avenue, taking several leprechaun hats, and the scent, with it.

  Ugh! Sam pushed through the crowd, heading for the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. She needed elevation, at least a little, if she would have any chance of spotting Vincent before he disappeared, or catching his scent again. Reaching the top, she turned and quickly began scanning the crowds again, searching for any sign of him...

  “Good morning, officer.”

  Sam turned to the source of the greeting and her eyes met those of a fresh-faced young priest. Lanky, with auburn hair and large green eyes, he smiled back at her with a look of expectation.

  “Good morning, Father.” Sam smiled briefly before returning to her crowd assessment. She wasn’t catching Vincent’s scent again, which meant he was either downwind of her, or completely gone from the area.

  “Everything alright?”

  Sam sighed and turned toward the priest, a wan smile crossing her lips. “So far so good. I think the cold will keep the rowdy types from making too much trouble.”

  The priest sighed with relief. “Ah, good.” He rubbed his bare hands together, obviously attempting to warm the rosy color out of them. “It certainly is a chilly morning, isn’t it?”

  “Very.” Sam went back to scanning the crowd for Vincent… and that’s when she saw him. Unfortunately, this “him” was not Vincent Kremer. He was, however, werewolf, and his military-issue flack jacket looked suspiciously bulky, particularly around the middle. Sam sniffed the air carefully so as not to draw the priest’s attention. Yep, definitely a werewolf… and judging by his shifty behavior, whatever WAS under that jacket was not good. Not. Good. At. All.

&n
bsp; Sam turned her head slightly, just enough to keep the “him” in view, and locate Ronne… Since her demotion down to uniform, Sam had been paired with Officer Francois Ronne. Originally from Quebec, “Frank,” as everyone called him, had been a New York resident since he was twelve, and was one of the youngest ever to attend the Police Academy at seventeen. Sam had heard about him, knew him on sight, but hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to him until that day three months ago when the Lieutenant called them both into his office and, without any preliminaries, partnered them up. So far it had gone well… Ronne’s no nonsense style suited her just as Lenny’s had, and he’d made the monotony of neighborhood patrols a bit less monotonous with his educated conversation and dry wit.

  She spotted him leaning against one of the marked police vehicles parked just off the parade route, sipping his coffee and glaring over his sunglasses at a couple of teens roughhousing nearby. Sam had to admit the dark-haired Ronne was certainly attractive, but she made it a policy long ago never to play in her own backyard, no matter how good-looking the prospective playmate. Keeping “Camo Wolf” in view, she made her way down the stairs and toward Ronne. Camo Wolf was making his way toward the head of the parade… where the Emerald Society cops were gathering, along with a group of children clad in traditional Irish costume. Sam couldn’t help but smile as she watched the children silently step through the movements of the Irish dance they would soon be leading the parade with. She tried to calm her breathing, cool her blood, because the wind was picking up and if Camo Wolf caught her scent, smelled her pheromones and the fear causing her adrenaline to start racing, he might decide to rush his time table and do something really stupid.

  Ronne stood up as she approached, his ice blue gaze over the top of his sunglasses searching her face, a frown creasing his brow. “What’s wrong?”

  Sam glanced carefully, noting Camo’s position, before she answered. “Camo jacket. Over there.” She moved her eyes to the right in the direction of Camo, then back to Ronne.

  Ronne adjusted his sunglasses, the dark lenses hiding his eyes as he shifted nonchalantly, leaning back against the car and looking over toward the gathering of uniforms and Irish kids… and Camo.

  “You think it’s a pipe?” Ronne kept his voice low and his words purposely vague, but Sam knew what he was referring to, and the thought made her stomach twist in knots. A pipe bomb, Middle East-style, most likely loaded with body-maiming shrapnel and God knows what else. Ronne looked back to her, his gaze still obscured by his sunglasses, but his uniquely expressive blend of concern and intensity was clearly visible. “Okay, what do you want to do? Call it in? Get the squad up here?”

  Sam shook her head, glancing around the other direction while Ronne had Camo in his sights. “No good. Those vehicles start pulling in, everyone’s going to panic… HE’S going to panic… and then…” Sam trailed off, still scanning the crowd as she turned back. As her eyes drifted over the many heads and shoulders filling the space, she thought she saw the flash of a familiar pair of eyes, deep brown and, at the moment, looking quite fierce. Sam felt herself stepping forward, stepping toward those eyes, and the man attached to them. It was like a strong magnet was pulling her, and part of her brain was still fighting to maintain control of her body, shouting at her to stop... no, that was Ronne shouting at her. Too late, Sam realized why. She felt the rough texture of the camouflage flack jacket as her hand bumped into Camo. She pulled her eyes away, turning to face the wearer, meeting his furious gaze.

  Oh. Shit.

  Camo’s eyes blazed and his lips pulled into what could only be called a snarl. Sam saw the flash of black cross his eyes, a momentary darkening she was well familiar with. Sam moved her hand toward her belt, going for the Glock she carried there, when a sudden blur of black pushed her back against Ronne and the car before returning to Camo.

  Sam watched Camo’s face, watched his eyes go wide with fear as he realized who was confronting him, he tried to fumble with the detonation switch, but Vincent quickly reached out, grabbing it and pulling it free. Sam felt herself flinch as he did it, expecting the blast to come swiftly afterward, but there was nothing.

  There was a lull of silence, stillness… the children nearby were wide-eyed, staring at Camo and Vincent. Then everyone started moving at once. The children started running every which way, screaming… the Emerald Society officers scrambled as well, some herding the children away from the area, others running toward side streets where the police vehicles were parked. Camo pulled himself free from Vincent, his expression incredulous as he kept pushing the detonator to no avail. He backed a few steps away before turning and running up Fifth Avenue. Vincent took off after him with barely a glance at Sam.

  Sam quickly slipped off her heavy jacket and pushed it into Ronne’s arms.

  “Sam? What the hell!”

  “I’ll explain later.” Sam took off running before Ronne could say another word, the cold air burning into her nose and throat as she sprinted up Fifth Avenue in pursuit of the two men. Ahead, she saw Camo and then Vincent turn right onto 57th Street and disappear behind Trump Tower. Mentally Sam began running through the buildings that would be there, searching for possible alleyways they might take their impending fight into out of sight of others. She rounded the corner soon after…

  Camo and Vincent… were gone.

  “Dammit!” Sam gasped for breath as her eyes scanned the area, looking for any sign of them. She focused her hearing, always good but infection with the Lycanthropic Virus had made it even keener and she’d acquired the ability to focus it when she wanted to. She tasted the air, looking for any trace of Vincent, knowing where he was Camo would be, too. Calming her breathing, Sam parted her lips, the tip of her tongue touching the bottom lip. It looked ridiculous, like a dog caught mid-pant, but she’d found in the months since her first change it was the quickest way to hone in on someone’s scent, to get the greatest olfactory exposure.

  There you are, she thought as the strong, masculine scent of Vincent poured over her. He wasn’t far. Sam turned in a slow circle, inhaling as she did to find what direction the scent was coming from. Then she stopped… It was there, ahead of her maybe fifty feet or so. There was an alleyway up ahead on the right, a sizable one meant for larger delivery trucks to easily back in and leave their cargo, freeing the street from the clutter that made difficult driving on the streets even more complicated. One more inhalation to be sure – and to bask in the scent of the Irishman – then Sam hurried forward.

  As she neared the alleyway entrance, Sam slowed and drew her gun. She didn’t have the hi-tech mercury-filled bullets loaded that Vincent would most likely have, but her standard-issue bullets would slow Camo down, to be sure. She stepped forward quickly and quietly, both hands holding the gun in a lowered and ready position in front of her. She paused to peek around the corner of the alleyway, and frowned.

  They were nowhere in sight. There were several dumpsters lining the dark passage, and a medium-sized delivery truck parked close to the loading area of one of the adjacent businesses, but beyond that, nothing.

  No, not nothing… They were still here somewhere, both of them. Sam could smell them, even over the garbagy smells emanating from the dumpsters. And she could hear them now, the sounds of a scuffle coming from somewhere…

  The truck. Sam heard the vibrations of impact, something large and heavy slamming against the inside walls of the vehicle’s cargo area. She couldn’t see the rear of the truck from where she was, but she presumed it must be open and the pair had somehow made their way inside. She scooted forward, her gun still at ready, prepared for anything. Or so she thought. Moments later, there was another heavy impact on the inside of the truck, followed by another, and another. Suddenly, the side of the truck quite literally blew out and Camo came hurtling across the alleyway, hitting the wall of the opposite building… hard. He skittered down the wall, landing in a heap on the ground. Even from her position, a good fifty feet away, Sam could see he was bloodied and b
eaten thoroughly. She slowed slightly, keeping her gun trained on the unmoving form ahead of her.

  She felt the bullet whiz by her before she heard it, before she saw the impact into the crumpled form on the ground. Sam jerked back, instinctively turning her gun in the direction the round had come from, turning towards the truck.

  Vincent Kremer stood in the opening formed when he hurled Camo through the side of the truck. His hood was pushed back off his head, revealing his head and face. His hair was damply curling into tendrils… Clearly the exertion of beating Camo to a pulp had caused him to break a sweat. His eyebrows, heavy and with a slight arch to them, were currently furrowed as he scowled. His eyes were intensely focused on the body that was beginning to shake, the anaphylactic effects of the mercury ravaging the werewolf’s body from the inside out.

  Vincent jumped through the hole, landing lightly on the ground, his gun still in hand. He eyes flicked toward Sam briefly, but there was no warm greeting or flirty smile. Only the scowl. He stepped over to Camo’s body, watching for a moment as the slight tremors coursing through the body changed into full-on convulsions.

  Sam holstered her gun, and stepped forward toward the tall Irishman. She could feel the extreme tension waves rolling off him, and was understandably puzzled by his cold reaction. She decided not to address it, though, opting instead for her characteristic flippant style. “We always seem to meet like this, don’t we?”

  He didn’t even look at her, and to Sam it really seemed as if he didn’t even want to. Something was definitely up. I mean, sure… it had been six months since she’d last seen him, six months since they’d spoken…

  “Vincent?”

  Vincent sighed, a soft almost-growl emanating from his throat, as he holstered his gun, pulled the hood up over his head, and turned to leave. He brushed past Sam in silence, stalking away.