The Vampire's Wolf

by Jenna Kernan

  “But if they knew, then why wait?”

  “Because now I’m in charge of the unit that studies vampires.”

  She didn’t understand. “You’re what?”

  “The brass had no idea what Lewis was doing, which isn’t really surprising considering the stupidity of those rear-echelon motherfuckers.”

  She glanced about to check if they were really alone. Something about him was very different than when they had parted, and it wasn’t just the shiny shoes and new badges on his chest. There were circles under his eyes and a weariness that clung to him like a heavy cloak.

  “Bri, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

  She absorbed the sharp thrust of pain in her heart at his words. She didn’t respond in kind. What was the use?

  “I want to take you back with me. Major Scofield has a position for you.”

  She stiffened. “Who?”

  “My commanding officer. He’s a good man. I trust him, Bri. What’s more, Johnny trusts him.”

  Johnny didn’t trust anyone but Mac and with good reason. Her heart tugged at her and she wanted so much to believe everything he said.

  “Johnny trusts him?”

  Mac touched his tongue to his upper lip and nodded. His eyes earnest and his expression hopeful. “The whole operation has changed. They court-martialed that rat fuck Sarr and six others.”

  That was welcome news. Still, it changed nothing.

  “Do you remember saying that I couldn’t have the life I deserved if you stayed?”

  She flushed.

  “And you were right. Because if you stay, my life will be more than I deserve.”

  She opened her mouth to object but he lifted a hand and she fell silent.

  “It won’t be the life I envisioned. That’s true. But it will be different only because it will be so much better. I can’t picture a future that doesn’t include you. Bri, I’m miserable without you. If you want to protect me from loss and sorrow, you have to stay with me.”

  Had the last few months been as terrible for him as they had been for her? Yes, she realized, seeing the truth in his sad, tired eyes. And she knew he was right. They needed to be together.

  “What about your family?” she asked.

  “I told my parents everything, about me, about you, about us.”

  “You what?” Astonishment rolled through her. Was he even allowed to tell them this?

  “They are waiting to meet you in Taos. I flew them out.”

  “But it’s dangerous. I—”

  He held up a hand. “Princess, you keep thinking of what I’ll give up, but the only thing I can’t give up is you. It’s time to forgive ourselves. It’s time to take what life offers—the love and loving.” He removed his cap and tossed it to the ground before capturing her hand. Then he dropped to one knee in the dust beside his cap and fished in his pocket, then drew out a black velvet box, which he flicked open and extended to her.

  “Brianna Vittori, I love you. Please, be my wife.”

  Inside the folds of ivory fabric nestled a pale green ring. The band had been inset with diamonds.

  “Yes,” she whispered, extending her hand, accepting the forgiveness he offered with the love.

  Her hand trembled as Mac slipped the ring over her knuckle. She waited for it to burn. But it never came.

  “It’s jade and diamonds. No metal.”

  Bri stared down at the beautiful ring. “It feels just right.”

  She cradled her left hand over her heart and then extended her arms to her fiancé. He pulled her close. She rose on her tiptoes to hug him, pressing her cheek against his. Bri locked her hands about his neck as Mac swept her off her feet and carried her in a slow circle. She was breathless with joy and dizzy with hope when he set her back on solid ground and gave her a long, languid kiss.

  Mac laced his fingers through her thick hair, gazing down at her. “I love you, Bri. And I always will.”

  She wiped the tears away and gave him a trembling smile. The lump in her throat was so big she didn’t know how she spoke past it.

  “I was terrified that I’d keep you from happiness.”

  “That can only happen if you leave me.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t ever do that again, Bri. Promise me.”

  “No, never again,” she promised.

  He kissed her again. When they broke apart he was grinning and looked years younger. “Ready to meet my parents?”

  “Is any woman ever ready for that? What do they think about me?”

  “Curious, of course. Bri, I showed them what I am. They know I will not be leading an ordinary life.”

  “You...”

  He nodded.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Taos first. They’re waiting there. Then on to Oahu.”

  “Hawaii?”

  “Yes. Deep cover for Johnny, a defensible position and a specialized research facility for us.”

  “Hawaii?”

  They exchanged grins.

  She clung to his elbow. “I’m ready.”

  Bri stooped and retrieved Mac’s hat, dusted it off and offered it to him. He set it expertly on his head, then lifted a phone from his pocket and spoke into the unit. A moment later she heard a loud womp-womp-womp that vibrated through her chest.

  “What’s that?” she asked, covering her ears as she turned toward the sound to see a large military helicopter sweep in from the east.

  “Our ride,” he shouted. “Unless you’d rather run?”

  She shook her head as the dust rose all around her. “No. No more running for me.”

  The helicopter touched down and Mac assisted her into the compartment. As she took her seat beside Mac, she felt her grandmother smiling down on her for Bri knew that she had found forgiveness and love. That was the best way to keep one’s humanity.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE RESURRECTIONIST by Sierra Woods.

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  Chapter 1

  “I’m not going to have to walk around with a bullet wound in my forehead forever, am I?” Betsy Capella looked at me, her eyes not quite focused. After being deceased and in cold storage for nearly a year, it was understandable. The senses take a little while to warm up and remember what they’re supposed to do.

  “I don’t think so. It should fade as you recover more fully. These things take a little time.” Not exactly a lie, not exactly the truth, and I hope I interjected enough sympathy into my voice. I don’t know the answer to her question, as I’ve been performing resurrections for only a year or so. Not long enough to come up with a stat sheet. Each resurrection is different, just as each death is different. The state and success of recovery depends on how long the deceased has been gone, and on whether we’ve stored the body or it was buried in a traditional manner. Embalming is not a good thing if you intend to return to a living state. Yeah. Cremation is a bad idea, too. Way bad.

  Betsy sat more upright and smiled, the corners of her mouth a little tight and dry. “I’ll bet some makeup will help.”

  Yeah, and a spackling trowel to slap it on with. “Give it a go. I hear there are sales on this week.” Looking down at th
e contract she signed, I added the date. Having been dead and on ice, she wasn’t up on current events. “Do you want to go with us to the ’yard? You don’t have to, but if you’d like to, someone can drive you and follow us to the site.”

  “The yard? What’s that?” A frown of confusion made the bullet wound between her eyes pucker. S-o-o not attractive.

  “Graveyard.” Where the life-swap rituals are completed, sending killers where they belong. A one-way ticket to the nebula. Looking away, I tried not to focus on her wound, like a deadly zit on her forehead.

  Before answering, Betsy put away the compact someone had given her. Most newly resurrected have a difficult transition at first, which is why I don’t keep mirrors around the office. Let ’em get used to the idea of being awake and alive again before they wonder what they look like. Sometimes it ain’t pretty.

  “No. I just want to go home, see the kids and take a shower.” Rubbing her hands on her arms, she shivered. You go a year without a shower and see how you feel. I’d recommend a good exfoliant, like steel wool. Maybe I could come up with a gift bag for the newly resurrected. Steel wool and a mild bleach solution. That would be good PR, wouldn’t it? I should write that down.

  Betsy looked at her ex-husband across the room and dismissed him as if he meant nothing to her. I suppose that’s the best attitude. He’s the one who put her in the ground, so she obviously meant nothing to him. In my book, turnaround is simply justice, served neat.

  She rose from the chair and wobbled a little, then got her land legs again. I don’t know quite what to call it when they’ve been in containment. Grave legs? Jeez. This job just gets freakier all the time. Every day is Halloween around here. We just need some candy; we’ve already got the nuts.

  Betsy’s family was weepy and gathered around her, then pulled away. A few wiped their hands on their pants, grateful for, but at the same time repulsed by, her condition. If her body hadn’t been found and put in containment quickly, none of this would have been possible.

  Without my death and the death of my child, it wouldn’t have been possible either. The cramp in my chest that I refuse to acknowledge surfaced, but I shoved it back as I always had. This was not the time to renew the grief of my past. This was the time to kick the ass of the guy responsible for putting my client in the grave.

  Some newly resurrected have a hard time remembering what happened to them, and that’s probably for the best.

  I, however, will never forget.

  Three years ago my husband’s lover stuck a butcher knife in my belly and cut my child out of me, leaving me to die in the desert. Fortunately for me, there were forces at work in the universe that took exception to that act of atrocity and rescued me. It’s made me what I am now, and I can never go back to my previous life as a nurse, a wife and almost a mother.

  That debt of honor can never be repaid.

  Returning from the dead definitely has had some unforeseen consequences. Like the other-siders wanting something in return. Like learning how to raise the dead and performing life-swaps. Simple stuff like that.

  Many of my resurrections involve women who, like me, married the wrong man and didn’t live to tell about it. Other life-swap cases I handle include cops killed in the line of duty, and kids murdered by their mothers’ new boyfriend, who just happens to be a pedophile. Fortunately, I was sent back to right the wrongs done to others just like me. It’s a living as well as a mission. There are other resurrectionists out there, but we are a small force trying to bring our abilities to the public without getting ourselves killed. Our country has already had one giant witch hunt. We don’t need another.

  It was my turn to stand, and I got up from behind the desk. I’m tall, but I usually wear cowboy boots with heels. Gives me the height to look down on these assholes so they know a woman is the one putting them in the grave for good. I have long black hair I wear straight, past my shoulders, and skin that appears perfectly tanned year-round. Not my choice, but my mixed ethnicity. It’s my eyes, though, which are an odd shade of muddy green with yellow flecks, that give me the advantage over the nut jobs I deal with. Some say it’s like looking into hell when I give them the right stare. Frankly, I don’t believe in hell anymore, so I don’t know what they are talking about.

  “How you doin’, Rufus? You ready for all this?” He was a weasel of a man, not much to look at. Dark brown eyes too closely set, a short, wiry frame and the disposition of a rabid coyote. Probably has a dick the size of a baby dill, too. I’ve discovered the meaner a man’s disposition, the smaller his dick. Hmm. Wonder why?

  “Fuck you,” he said and spat at me.

  “Sorry. I don’t fuck dead guys.” As if.

  “You’re gonna pay for what you do. Someone’s going to take you down.” He made the sign of the cross as well as he could in shackles. Kinda tough, though.

  The guards on each side of him just laughed, and that makes me smile. As close to a warm fuzzy as I’ll ever get. I’m not warm, and if I’m fuzzy I need to shave my legs.

  “Really? Well, it ain’t gonna be you.” I let my eyes wander over his hot pink jumpsuit. I took a cue from that sheriff in Arizona who makes the inmates wear pink underwear and live in tents outside no matter how freakin’ hot it is. Unfortunately, pink is not a good color for most men, unless they’re gay or less than three years old, and Rufus was neither. “Let’s go, boys. We don’t have all night.”

  The guards are equipped with a bulletproof, four-wheel-drive van. One drives, one rides with a shotgun trained on the life-swapper, and I mentally prepare for what I’m about to do. My main man, Sam Lopez, is unavailable tonight, and I actually miss his strong, hunky presence at the ’yard. He has secrets I can’t penetrate even if I wanted to, and I suppose he’s entitled to them. I don’t own him, and he isn’t obligated to have share-time with me, but his presence at the graveyard gives me strength I didn’t know I needed until he said he couldn’t be here. Each ritual takes a lot of energy, and I’m usually too wasted to drive safely back from the ’yard. Maybe it’ll get better the more resurrections I perform, but for the time being, I have guards. Men like to drive anyway, so I don’t mind having them cart my ass around once in a while.

  * * *

  The next morning, I felt as if someone beat the hell out of me when I wasn’t looking. Obviously, I hadn’t had enough meat yesterday. This girl needs loads of protein just to function in a normal manner. Well, my normal anyway. My stomach roars to life the second my eyes open. Dammit. I am so ruled by my appetite.

  The life-swap had taken way longer than it should have last night, and as a result I was more ragged out than usual this morning. Having Sam present for the rituals obviously makes a difference, so I’m going to have to make sure he’s not out dancing naked under the full moon for the next one. My energy stores last only so long and must be replenished frequently.

  After a shower I put on some jeans and a black T-shirt. The crystal amulet on a chain never leaves my neck (a little gift from the other-siders), so I tucked it inside the shirt. They didn’t give me direction on the crystal, but just said it was a source of power. Maybe it wards off bacteria, too, ’cause I haven’t been sick since I began wearing it. I tugged on scarred black cowboy boots I wouldn’t give up for anything and shoved a pair of sunglasses over my burning eyes. When I’m depleted of nutrients, my eyes turn funny colors. Scared a waitress half to death the first time that happened, hence the shades.

  Coffee sustains me in my hour of need, which is every bloody hour of the day, so I swing by the coffee shop for a couple of those gallon-size coffee boxes. I keep one and share the other with the cops in the office.

  They love me.

  And I love ’em right back. They’re the good guys in blue. Entirely too many of them have lain down their lives for others and not been returned to this plane. My never-ending project is getting a few of them back on the for
ce and sending their killers to the nebula instead of a cushy jail cell for twenty-to-life. Two good cops had been killed a few years back by a psych patient, and it’s been a high-profile case ever since. The venue for the trial had to be changed several times because there was such a public outcry on both sides. Fortunately, the cops have been on ice in my cryo lab since their deaths in anticipation of future resurrection, but I don’t know when, if ever, it’s going to get straightened out. Figuring out the legalities of this case still gives me a headache.

  Can the mentally ill who murder be considered for life-swaps? Do they have real quality of life as they exist now? If not, then I’d like to play swap-a-cop for this particular bad boy. But how is one to know?

  That’s the part that has always given me pause and a lump in my gut that won’t go away with an antacid. Truly mentally ill people may or may not be held responsible for their actions, no matter how heinous. If that’s the case, then I could not in good conscience perform a life-swap with this afflicted man and the two cops, no matter how much people begged. My personal moral code wouldn’t allow me to proceed. As far as I know, there are no Resurrectionists Guidelines to refer to in this kind of case.

  Psychiatrists will fight to the death to defend either side of the fence, which leaves me sitting in the middle of it with splinters up my ass. So that’s where we sit until someone more important than me makes a decision. I’ve been trying to get the court to pass some new legislation that will speed up the decision, but so far I’m having no luck getting them even to look at it.

  These are the issues we resurrectionists ponder every day. They may never be solved in my lifetime, however long that is, but I’ve got to try. Something won’t allow me to walk away from a situation I might be able to help with. Maybe it’s the way I’m made or part of being a resurrectionist. Others in my situation have few answers, either. Those of us who have heard the battle cry for resurrections always feel alone, even though there is a small group of support available.